literal-tv-menace

[literal-tv-menace]

your kidding me.

Glen filming Ghostwriter

[literal-tv-menace]

jake and reader are giving me anything but you vibes and i love it so much 😆😍

Your honor, he's not my type. (part three)

pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader

summary; Enemies with a deal: play the perfect couple for one week. But in the heart of Texas, under one roof and one lie too many… They forget where the act ends and the feelings begin.

word count; 5.4k

warnings; fake dating au, enemies to lovers, age gap (reader is in her late twenties, jake's in his late thirties) smut, oral (fem receiving), jake has a praise kink, reader has mommy issues (too self-indulgent haha), slight angst, happy ending

a/n; part 3!! this is soooo the proposal meets probably every single enemies to lovers romcom there is just because i'm actually obsessed with that movie and romcoms in general

series masterlist

masterlist

The second Jake pulled into the long gravel driveway and killed the engine, you knew something was… off.

It wasn’t the house — a wide, sun-bleached ranch-style home with a wraparound porch and hanging baskets of pink petunias swaying gently in the breeze. No, the house looked exactly like what you’d pictured.

It was the volume that gave you pause.

Voices. Dozens of them. Laughing. Shouting. Country music floated in the air, and was that the sizzle of a grill?

Jake frowned too, head tilted. “Did she—?”

The front door slammed open.

“Jacob Seresin, don’t you dare sit in that car another second and leave me waitin’!”

A woman in cropped jeans, a floral blouse, and pristine white sneakers was barreling down the porch steps, arms spread wide, her smile bright and unstoppable. Jake’s mother.

You barely had time to open the passenger door before she was there, wrapping Jake in a tight, no-nonsense Southern hug that made his six-foot frame look like a child’s.

“Hi, Mama,” he said, laughing into her shoulder.

“I told you I’d make peach cobbler and look at you, all late,” she scolded, squeezing him one more time before turning toward you.

And then—target acquired.

You barely had time to blink.

“Oh, you must be his sweetheart,” she beamed, and suddenly you were in her arms, her perfume (vanilla and something vaguely citrusy) enveloping you as she hugged like someone who had never once in her life done it halfway.

You tensed instinctively — not used to warmth so immediate, so unfiltered — but after a beat, your arms returned the gesture. Awkward. Soft. But real.

“I’m—hi,” you managed.

“You are darling, look at you,” she said, stepping back just enough to cradle your face in her hands like you were a lost puppy. “Jake’s been holding out on us.”

Jake coughed. “Mama.”

“Don’t you ‘Mama’ me, I had to hear about her through the phone!”

“Technically—” Jake tried.

But she was already waving him off and turning back toward the porch. “Now come on. Everyone’s waitin’. Don’t keep your cousins in suspense.”

You blinked. “Everyone?”

And then you heard it — more voices. Laughter. A child shrieking somewhere in the distance. Was that… lawn chairs clinking?

Jake winced, leaned close. “I think my mom threw a cookout.”

You turned to him, wide-eyed. “Like, a welcome party?”

He gave you a look that could only be described as deep, exhausted son energy. “She texted me last night and said something about ‘just the family stopping by.’ Which, for the record, means aunts, uncles, cousins, half the neighborhood, and probably the high school gym teacher who coached my JV football team.”

Your jaw dropped.

He tried to smile. “You can back out. I’ll say you got sick. Or jetlag. Or—”

You squared your shoulders, lifted your chin, and said through gritted teeth, “You owe me so much wine.”

Jake blinked.

Then smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”

—

You lost count of how many people hugged you within the first ten minutes. Some of them kissed your cheek. One woman brought deviled eggs and referred to you exclusively as “that pretty girl Jake’s been hiding in California.” Another cornered you by the sweet tea station and showed you Jake’s baby pictures. Naked baby pictures.

You were hot, slightly sunburned, and fully overwhelmed. But you were also, miraculously, holding your own.

Your lawyer instincts kicked in — charm, nod, mirror, distract — and you leaned on the backstory like a crutch, filling in blanks with little lies that sounded like truth. You laughed when Jake made jokes, slid your hand into his when someone looked too closely. You let his arm rest casually along your waist as people asked where you met and how long you’d been dating and when you were planning on giving his mama grandbabies.

Jake, for his part, was surprisingly… easy. Steady. Every time he touched you, it was warm but never forceful. And every time you stumbled — a name you couldn’t remember, a question you didn’t expect — he was right there to redirect, to draw attention back to himself like he was built for it.

You were trying to stay focused, to keep the walls up, but Jake… Jake was looking at you differently.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible — the way his eyes lingered for half a second longer when you pushed your sunglasses up your nose. The way his brow furrowed when you tugged at the hem of your blouse — that nervous twitch of your fingers he must’ve clocked somewhere in the last hour. The way his lips quirked every time your nose scrunched in confusion.

He was noticing things.

Little things.

And suddenly, so were you.

Like the way he lowered his voice when he spoke directly to you, just enough that it felt private, like a secret. Or the way he subtly stood closer when someone asked a personal question, like he was buffering you from too much scrutiny.

You cleared your throat and stepped away to refill your lemonade.

Jake watched you go, eyes narrowing — not with suspicion, but with something heavier. Something thoughtful.

“Boy,” his mother’s voice floated beside him. “You got a look on your face.”

Jake turned, startled. “Huh?”

She smiled, slipping a serving spoon into the coleslaw. “Just saying. You always get that squinty little forehead crease when you’re figuring something out.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s hot out.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, not looking up. “You're in love.”

He made a face. “You’ve known each other five minutes.”

His mother laughed. “Jake, I’ve watched you go twenty years without bringin’ home so much as a girl you kissed under the bleachers. This one’s different. I can tell.”

Jake opened his mouth to deflect — something witty, something smooth — but nothing came out.

His mother patted his shoulder and walked off, humming.

Across the yard, you were laughing with one of his younger cousins, crouched in the grass in your red-bottom loafers like it wasn’t completely impractical. You had grass on your trousers, lemonade in your hand, and your smile — genuine and rare — was breaking across your face like sunlight.

Jake blinked.

Yeah.

This was a problem.

At some point between your third glass of sweet tea and the sixth person asking if Jake had finally proposed yet, the crowd began to thin. Or at least, they stopped swarming you like you were the newest baby goat at a petting zoo.

You took a breath. A real one.

Jake was on the patio now, talking to someone in a sheriff’s department polo who, if you heard correctly, used to be his high school wrestling partner. You watched him from your perch near the porch railing, the sun dipping low enough to cast everything in that warm, peach-colored glow.

You finished your drink, set it down, and plastered on the softest smile you could manage. Time to turn this into a performance again.

You sauntered over to where Jake stood, touched his arm lightly, and pitched your voice just loud enough for anyone within twenty feet to hear.

“Honey,” you purred, lacing the word with the kind of sweetness that could send someone into a diabetic coma, “would you mind bringing my luggage inside? I want to change out of these city clothes and into something a little more… barbecue-appropriate.”

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Of course, sweetheart.”

You smiled. He smiled.

And in the exact same breath, under your teeth, you hissed, “You’re lucky I don’t stab you with one of your mom’s kebab skewers.”

Jake, ever unfazed, leaned in just slightly, that shit-eating smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. “You’d miss. You’ve got no upper body strength.”

You smiled wider, waved at a passing aunt, and said through clenched teeth, “That’s rich coming from the man who almost cried carrying my carry-on.”

“Almost,” he said smugly, turning toward the driveway. “Didn’t. Key word.”

You followed him across the grass and pretended not to hear the very audible chorus of “Awwww” from the lawn chairs as Jake opened the back of the rental SUV.

Your luggage spilled out like an overstuffed clown car.

Jake stopped and blinked at the lineup. “I still think this is a war crime.”

You crossed your arms. “I told you, some of us like to be prepared.”

“For what? The apocalypse? Did you pack a wetsuit? Is there a flamethrower in here?”

“Texas weather is unpredictable.”

Jake grunted, heaving the first suitcase out. “You’re unpredictable.”

You leaned casually against the SUV. “You know you love it.”

He hauled another bag out, muttering something about airline weight limits and chiropractors, and started rolling them toward the house. The wheels snagged on the gravel twice, and you pretended not to hear the quiet stream of curses under his breath.

Behind you, someone actually whistled.

Jake glanced over his shoulder.

Half the party — cousins, neighbors, some guy named Dale in cowboy boots — was watching the two of you with open grins, eyes tracking every movement like it was a Hallmark Channel live taping.

You leaned closer to Jake and whispered, “We’re being watched.”

“I know,” he whispered back. “Put your hand on my back. Make it look romantic.”

You pressed your hand to the small of his back and smiled sweetly at the crowd. “How’s that?”

Jake grunted under the weight of your last suitcase. “Perfect. Nothing says romance like minor spinal injury.”

You giggled, which startled you a little — the sound felt genuine, too real for something that was supposed to be pretend.

By the time you reached the porch steps, Jake had a sheen of sweat on his forehead and was muttering something about “city girls and their beauty products” as he lugged the last bag inside.

You stepped in behind him, the cool air of the house washing over your skin, and murmured, “You know, I do appreciate this.”

He turned, wiping a hand down his face. “What, me playing bellhop?”

You gave him a faux-innocent look. “You carrying all my emotional baggage too.”

Jake stared at you for a beat, then snorted. “Nah. That’s clearly a whole other checked bag.”

You grinned, brushing past him into the hallway, calling over your shoulder, “I’m changing into something cute. Tell your mom to save me a slice of that peach cobbler.”

Jake called back, “You better wear something comfortable, because she also made you a plate of ribs the size of your torso.”

You paused at the bottom of the stairs, turned back with a perfectly smug smile, and said, “Can’t wait to eat it… sweetheart.”

Jake groaned dramatically, turned toward the kitchen, and muttered, “Lord help me, this woman’s gonna be the death of me.”

From outside, through the still-cracked screen door, a voice called out from the lawn:

“Y’ALL ARE ADORABLE!”

Jake’s face went red.

You laughed all the way upstairs.

While you were upstairs navigating the jungle of your wardrobe options (and, let’s be honest, googling “what to wear to a Texas cookout without looking like a caricature”), Jake was in the kitchen, getting a drink and trying to remember which of his cousins had made that spicy jalapeño dip that nearly melted his esophagus.

His mom stood at the stove, humming along to a country song playing softly from a little Bluetooth speaker, her pink apron dusted with flour and barbecue sauce, like a battle-worn flag from a culinary war.

“Go on and bring your bags in too, Jacob,” she said casually, flipping something in the skillet.

Jake glanced up, mid-sip. “To where?”

She turned, eyebrows raised like it was the dumbest question she’d heard all week. “To the room.”

Jake blinked. “The room. As in… the other guest room?”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “No, sweetheart. The room. The one y’all’ll be sharing.”

He lowered his water bottle slowly. “You want us to share a room?”

“You’re grown adults in a committed relationship,” she said, turning back to stir. “Ain’t no reason to pretend you’re sleeping in different beds.”

Jake made a vaguely strangled noise. “You have two guest rooms.”

“Yes. And I turned the other one into my yoga space, thank you very much.” She shot him a look over her shoulder, and then — without mercy — added, “Besides, let’s not act like y’all don’t sleep in the same bed every night already. You’ve been together for what, six months? Your words, not mine.”

Jake coughed. “Technically.”

She smiled sweetly. “Exactly.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, but she cut him off with a warning glance, the kind only mothers — Southern mothers especially — could deliver with a wooden spoon in hand.

“Oh, and Jacob?”

“Yeah?”

She turned fully now, arms crossed over her apron. “I’m really proud of you for bringing her.”

Jake stilled. “You are?”

She nodded, something softer sneaking into her voice now. “You’ve been stuck for a long time, honey. We all saw it. Ever since Lila… well. I just want you to be happy. And she makes you smile.”

Jake’s jaw tightened just slightly at the name — Lila — the echo of an old chapter he thought he’d buried deeper. He shoved one hand into the pocket of his jeans and forced a crooked grin.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “She’s something.”

His mom patted his cheek affectionately. “You’re not foolin’ me, Jacob. That girl’s the real thing.”

Jake swallowed thickly and turned toward the hallway, lifting his keys off the counter with a clink. “I’ll go get my bag.”

As he walked out, his mother called after him, “Be sweet to her, Jacob — I want grandbabies before I’m fifty-five.”

“You’re sixty-two,” he called back over his shoulder.

“And yet my uterus still aches for them!”

Jake groaned so loud the front door rattled as he stepped out.

Upstairs, you had just finished reapplying lip gloss and pulling on a breezy button-down dress when you heard his heavy boots on the stairs. A moment later, his voice filtered in through your cracked door.

“You decent?”

“Define decent,” you replied, smoothing the front of your dress. “Do I look like someone who’s not dying inside?”

Jake pushed the door open, suitcase in hand, and paused just long enough to raise an eyebrow. “Honestly? You look hot.”

You blinked.

He blinked.

“Temperature-wise,” he added quickly, face deadpan. “Obviously. It's brutal out there.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping aside so he could drag his bag inside. He parked it beside the dresser — your dresser, apparently — and straightened up with a long sigh.

“Bad news,” he said.

You crossed your arms. “More bad news?”

“We’re sharing a room.”

You stared.

He gestured vaguely. “Apparently, your side of the bed is the one closest to the fan. You’re welcome.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wait. Hold on. What do you mean we’re sharing a room?”

“I mean there is one room. Singular. Uno. Mama Seresin said, and I quote, ‘Let’s not pretend y’all don’t sleep in the same bed already.’”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh my God.”

He shrugged helplessly. “She’s crafty.”

You turned away, pacing to the far end of the room like you were in a courtroom summation. “This is bad. This is so bad. I need a diagram of how bad this is.”

“She also wants grandkids,” Jake added.

You stopped pacing and turned to him, scandalized. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

You groaned and sat on the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands. “I’m going to have a stress-induced aneurysm.”

Jake walked over, crouched beside you with all the faux-seriousness of a man ready to be annoying on purpose. “I promise not to hog the covers.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Do you snore?”

“Like a lumberjack.”

“Oh, perfect.”

Jake smirked. “You say that now, but give it one night and you’ll be curled up against me like a koala.”

You stared at him.

He winked.

You tossed a throw pillow directly at his face.

Jake caught it one-handed. “See? This is exactly the kind of couple energy your firm would love.”

You groaned again and flopped back onto the bed, arms outstretched like you were ready to be taken by the Lord.

Jake laughed — actually laughed — and it wasn’t smug this time. Just light. Easy. It made your chest tighten for a reason you didn’t feel like examining yet.

Outside the window, laughter drifted up from the backyard. The sun was starting to dip lower, casting everything in honey-colored light.

Jake stood and offered you his hand. “Come on, koala. If we’re stuck sharing a bed, might as well get through dinner without anyone catching on.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I hate you.”

He pulled you up anyway, grinning. “Nah. You tolerate me. Aggressively.”

The sun had long since dipped below the hills, the cicadas now buzzing in sleepy rhythms while porch lights flickered on like fireflies across the neighborhood. The grill had gone cold, the paper plates stacked in the recycling, and at last — finally — the last aunt had waved her final goodbye with her arms wrapped around your shoulders and a wink that made you mildly uncomfortable.

Jake’s mom stood in the doorway, a dish towel over one shoulder, watching the dust trail of the last truck disappear down the drive.

“Well,” she sighed, satisfied. “That was lovely.”

You and Jake were elbow-deep in soapy water at the sink, handing off rinsed dishes like a well-oiled, overly attractive domestic machine. You were still trying to wrap your head around how many side dishes a single backyard barbecue required when she turned to you, grinning.

“Darlin’, you’ve been such a trooper. City girl, bless your heart.”

You smiled politely, managing not to flinch when she pressed another kiss to your cheek.

“But go on now,” she added, waving the towel. “Shoo. I’ve got the rest. You two lovebirds go get some rest before someone needs to wheel you both out of here.”

You opened your mouth to protest — maybe offer to dry something — but Jake’s hand was already on the small of your back, guiding you toward the hallway like he’d just been handed the keys to a prison gate.

“Wouldn’t wanna disrespect the head of the house,” he said smoothly, barely hiding the grin in his voice. “Thanks for everything, Mama.”

“Oh!” she called after you both as you reached the stairs. “And no funny business under my roof, y’hear?”

You froze.

Jake didn’t.

Without missing a beat, he raised his voice and called back, “Define funny!”

“I mean it, Jacob Seresin!” she replied, laughing.

You covered your burning face with one hand. “I’m going to die here.”

Jake just smirked. “Not before we establish bed boundaries.”

By the time you reached the room, your shoes were off, your back ached, and your face hurt from fake smiling. Jake kicked the door shut behind you, tossing a hoodie onto the corner chair and stretching like a cat with too many muscles.

“Well,” he said, glancing around. “Home sweet nightmare.”

You turned toward him with a hand raised like a traffic cop. “Turn around.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I need to change.”

He scoffed, already walking to the other side of the room. “Please. It’s nothing I haven’t seen in a dream sequence.”

“Jacob.”

He snorted, but turned around, raising both hands like a hostage. “Fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night. Or on the entire bed, apparently.”

You changed quickly — opting for your favorite oversized sleep tee and shorts — and when you cleared your throat, Jake glanced back, clearly fighting a smile.

“Cute,” he said, eyeing the cartoon on your shirt. “Real intimidating.”

“Your turn,” you said, plopping onto the mattress and immediately stacking pillows around yourself like a moody princess in a rom-com bunker.

Jake pulled off his t-shirt with a stretch that was frankly illegal, then yanked on an old Navy Academy tank and gym shorts. He flopped down dramatically — not on the bed, but on the floor — and used his backpack as a pillow.

You frowned. “You’re seriously sleeping on the floor?”

He stared up at the ceiling. “Yes.”

“…Why?”

Jake turned his head slightly toward you, eyebrow raised. “Because your honor, the defendant has clearly stated that any attempt to share the bed would result in litigation.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not like I’ll sue you. I’ll just smother you with a pillow.”

“Comforting.”

A beat passed.

Then—

“You can sleep on the bed,” you muttered.

Jake grinned at the ceiling. “Nah. I’m good. This floor’s got great character.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “One day, when I throw out my back and can no longer fly, I hope you think of this moment. This betrayal.”

You laughed despite yourself, the sound bouncing off the walls of the cozy little room.

Jake shifted slightly, settling in. “You know, for a fake girlfriend, you’re doing pretty well.”

You rested your head on your arm, facing him. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a professional headache.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

There was something comfortable about it — the teasing, the banter, the rhythm you’d fallen into like you hadn’t spent the last year arguing about everything from coffee orders to parking spots.

You watched him for a moment, just long enough to wonder if you were in over your head. If the fake was starting to blur. If Texas heat could get under your skin in more ways than one.

But instead, you said, “If you steal my blanket in the middle of the night, I will kick you.”

Jake smirked from the floor. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You tossed a pillow at his face. He caught it — again — and grinned, eyes glinting in the low light. “Goodnight, City Mouse.”

“Goodnight, Luggage Mule.”

Outside, the crickets chirped.

Inside, Jake lay on the floor with a stupid little smile on his face.

And you — well, you pretended you weren’t smiling into your pillow, too.

-

You didn’t wake up to an alarm. Or to a rooster, thank God. You woke up to the loud, masculine drone of a mower outside your window.

At first, you thought you were dreaming — some vaguely unsettling suburban nightmare where your exes mowed lawns shirtless in slow motion. But as your eyes adjusted and you peeled your cheek off the pillow, the hum continued.

And then you made the mistake of getting up to look.

The old farmhouse window framed the morning like a movie. Warm, golden light spilled across the lawn, and there — glistening with sweat, biceps flexing, baseball cap backwards — was Jake.

Shirtless.

Like, gloriously shirtless.

His back muscles moved with each push of the mower. His shorts hung just low enough on his hips to make you feel mildly unwell. He wiped sweat from his brow with the hem of a rag hanging from his pocket, and when he stretched to dump the bag of clippings, you nearly fainted.

“Has he always been this—” you whispered, then cut yourself off and darted back like a guilty Victorian widow caught staring at a stable boy.

Jake Seresin had no business looking like a GQ cover shoot before 9 a.m. on a Thursday.

You changed in record time — tugging on your most casual button-down shirt and a pair of fitted jeans. They were a little tight, but flattering, and fine, you’d admit it: you wanted to look good. You even tried to wear loafers, which turned out to be a rookie mistake.

Hair up. Gloss on. Not thinking about Jake’s abs. Not thinking about—

Okay, now you were just lying to yourself.

When you made it downstairs, the kitchen smelled like heaven. Bacon, cinnamon, and freshly brewed coffee wrapped around you like a cozy Southern hug.

Jake’s mom was already at the stove in a floral apron, flipping something golden in a cast-iron skillet. A full spread was laid out on the table — biscuits, jam, eggs, fruit, the works.

“Well, good mornin’, sugar,” she beamed when she spotted you. “You sleep alright? You need coffee?”

You nodded, offering a sheepish smile as you slid into a seat. “I’d sell my soul for coffee, actually.”

She chuckled and poured you a mug.

“So,” she said, sitting across from you with a mischievous sparkle in her eye, “what’s your story, sweetheart? Where’d you grow up?”

You smiled, relaxing slightly. “I’m from Boston originally. Born and raised.”

“Lord, no wonder you look like you’re allergic to humidity,” she teased. “What do you do in California?”

“I’m a lawyer,” you said, and at her impressed noise, you added, “Criminal defense.”

Her eyes sparkled with something between admiration and mischief. “A woman who knows her way around an argument. I like that.”

“I’ll try not to cross-examine you at breakfast.”

She laughed again, warm and genuine. “College?”

“NYU. I lived in the city for a while. I only moved to California a couple of years ago. Too many rats in New York.”

“I’ve always said rats should pay rent,” she nodded solemnly.

You laughed. “Exactly.”

The kitchen door creaked open just then, and in walked Jake — still sweaty, still shirtless, a towel slung around his neck like a war medal. You tried very hard not to stare.

He made a beeline for the fridge, snagging a water bottle, and offered a lazy grin. “Mornin’.”

His mom glanced over her shoulder. “Boy, don’t drip all over my clean floors.”

Jake just smirked at you. “Did she tell you yet?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Tell me what?”

Jake’s mom straightened up, pointing a spatula at your feet. “Those,” she said. “Are not shoes.”

You looked down at your—admittedly polished—loafers. “These are Ferragamo.”

“Sweetheart,” she said gently, “Texas doesn’t care what they cost. They’re city shoes. You’ll break an ankle trying to cross a dirt road.”

Jake nodded solemnly. “It’s true. You’ll be the first casualty of fashion this side of the Mississippi.”

You glared. “Thank you, Vogue and GQ.”

His mom clapped her hands. “Which is why we’re all going into town later.”

You blinked. “We are?”

Jake looked amused. “We are?”

She turned toward him. “Yes, we are. My son is not dragging his girlfriend across the entire state of Texas without proper footwear. We’re getting this girl some real boots.”

Jake's eyes glinted with mischief. “Can I pick them?”

“No,” you and his mother said at the same time.

She winked at you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll find you a pair that says ‘I fight for justice and look damn good doing it.’”

You smiled, suddenly charmed and overwhelmed all at once.

Jake finally pushed off the counter, tossing his towel in the laundry bin. “Alright, alright. I’ll go shower so I don’t scandalize the boot shop with my manly physique.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. They’ll think you’re doing a calendar shoot.”

He paused in the doorway, flexed dramatically, and shot you a wink.

You snorted into your coffee. “Someone needs to humble you.”

Jake pointed at you as he backed away. “And someone needs boots that won’t get them killed by a gopher hole.”

You leaned back in your chair, hiding a smile behind your mug.

Across the table, his mother just watched the two of you with an expression that could only be described as smug.

The drive into town was all blue skies and golden fields — postcard-perfect and offensively charming, like Texas itself had decided to play up the clichés just to mess with you.

You sat in the passenger seat of Jake’s dusty truck, the leather warm under your thighs despite the air conditioning on full blast. His mother rode in the backseat, humming something country and cheerful, her arm resting out the open window like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Jake, naturally, looked like he belonged in a commercial. Aviators. Henley rolled at the sleeves. That smug little half-smile that said he was very aware of how good he looked behind the wheel.

You hated how well he pulled off this whole aesthetic.

Worse, you hated that he was currently pulling off affectionate boyfriend like it was second nature.

His hand rested casually on your thigh — not too high, not too low, but perfectly placed — his thumb brushing slow circles against the seam of your jeans as he drove. He hadn’t asked. He’d just done it. You, flustered and dumb, hadn’t had the spine to move it.

And maybe you didn’t want to move it.

You cleared your throat, shifting a little. “You know you don’t actually have to touch me for the entire drive, right?”

He didn’t look at you. “I’m selling the fantasy, plus you know I can't keep my hands off you, honey.”

“Oh, is this the deluxe package?” you said, deadpan. “Does it come with thigh groping and excessive cologne?”

“That’s just my natural musk, sweetheart,” Jake said without missing a beat, turning to flash you the most infuriating smile known to man. “Be honest, you like it.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but his mother leaned forward from the backseat.

“I think it’s sweet,” she said, positively beaming. “I love how playful y’all are. So many couples forget how to have fun together.”

Your jaw snapped shut.

Jake squeezed your thigh like a punctuation mark. “We have tons of fun, don’t we, baby?”

You turned to him slowly, smile tight. “Oh, it’s a nonstop joyride. Just last week we fought over what color the living room throw pillows should be.”

Jake’s grin deepened. “And I was right, wasn’t I? The burnt orange really brought out your fiery temperament.”

You blinked at him. “You are so lucky your mom is in this truck.”

“Oh, I know.”

From the backseat, she laughed. “Honestly, I’ve never seen Jake like this. He’s practically glowing. You bring something out of him, sweetheart.”

You turned to the window to hide your blush. Jake just kept smiling — relaxed, easy, like he hadn’t just broken the Geneva Convention by flirting with you like that.

And then — to really commit to the role — he pulled into a spot on Main Street, killed the engine, and got out of the truck with an exaggerated stretch. You reached for the door handle, but he was already rounding the hood to open it for you like some cowboy Casanova.

You gave him a look as you stepped out. “You’re really leaning into this, huh?”

Jake leaned down, voice low. “You said I’d make a terrible actor. I’m just proving you wrong.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He closed the door behind you with a wink. “Too late.”

“Y’all are just precious,” his mother said from behind you, fanning herself slightly in the summer heat. “I swear, you should be in one of those Hallmark movies.”

Jake looked smug. You looked vaguely nauseous.

“Come on,” she added brightly. “Boots first, coffee later.”

Jake fell into step beside you, hand settling again on your lower back. You stiffened instinctively — not because you didn’t like it, but because you did.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered as the three of you walked down the street.

“Of course I am,” he said, brushing his fingers up your spine like a casual threat. “You’re letting me touch you in public and not slapping me for it. It’s the best day of my life.”

You glared at him. “Keep talking and I’ll ‘accidentally’ push you into a display of belt buckles.”

Jake leaned in, lips just near your ear. “Kinky.”

You elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Jesus.”

He laughed — genuine, loud, and a little too warm — and you hated that it made your stomach twist.

Back home, things were clean-cut, logical. Contracts, courtrooms, control. Here? In this sun-drenched, rodeo-hatted nightmare? Everything felt messy. You weren’t supposed to be flustered. You weren’t supposed to like the way Jake looked at you like he actually wanted to keep touching you.

You were supposed to be faking.

But from the way his mom sighed and smiled like her son had finally fallen in love — and from the way Jake squeezed your hand gently as you crossed the street — you couldn’t help but wonder:

Who exactly were you trying to fool?

-

taglist; @primadonnasdream @lunatygerqueen @bellarkeselection @dizzybee03 @mrsevans90 @untoldshortsofthefandoms @jackiehollanderr @literal-tv-menace @khouse712 @heartz4chucky @iefitzgerald-blog @myownevils @kmc1989 @pullmecloseman @kvmitchell @read-just-cant-stop @hipsternerd9 @fantasyfootballchampion @whatislovevavy @britt217

[literal-tv-menace]

obsessed with this story. these two are 😩😍

GUTS !

“god, love’s fucking embarrassing !„

steve harrington x fem!reader college au

masterlist ; playlist

cw: 18+ ONLY!! not canon compliant, alcohol mentions, swearing, smut & allusions to smut (*** indicated), no use of y/n, check individual chapter warnings

wc: 14.4k and counting

1: “ all-american bitch ! „ ***

2: “ bad idea, right ? „ ***

3: “ lacy ! „

4: “ ballad of a homeschooled girl ! „

5: “ get him back ! „

6: “ love is embarrassing ! „

(SPILLED !)

vol. #1 : “ we never dated ! „

vol. #2 : “ all my ghosts ! „

[literal-tv-menace]

pairing: dr. frank langdon x reader

sum.: a small beginning of frank and his nanny.

warnings: cheating/infidelity. non-explicit smut (unprotected piv, creampie), age gap (i am guessing frank is early-mid thirties, reader is mid twenties) idk i think that’s it, this is pretty short. as always, minors DNI

notes: drabble based off of this concept. i have a longer piece i am working on for this idea too, but drabbles are so fun. please keep in mind, i do not condone cheating in any way, shape, or form in real life. fiction is a fun place to explore different concepts🩷 unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

Frank would like to believe that the first time had been a genuine mistake. Something that had just come over him, that he would never do again.

He could remember it so vividly.

A huge thunderstorm had him driving you to your apartment one night after work. Abby had insisted he take you home instead of making you take the bus or call an uber.

It had been pouring, and you shivered the entire drive. Clothes and hair sticking to you like a second skin.

For whatever reason, you’d worn a thin t-shirt that day, and despite the bra, if Frank looked hard and long enough, which he did, he could still see your nipples pebbling through the fabric.

The rain had somehow gotten worse by the time he pulled up to your apartment. It was a nicer building than he expected for a grad student, he could only assume your parents were helping you out.

He saw your hesitation to get out of the vehicle to make your way to the entrance of the building, and with a heavy sigh, put the car in park.

“We can wait it out a few minutes. Let it lighten up.”

The grateful look in your eye isn’t something he’d forget for a long time.

It continued to pour down for over an hour.

One minute, he’s laughing at something one of your undergrad professors told you, the next, he’s (yes, he acknowledges he made the first move) pressing his mouth to yours.

It was inappropriate. Beyond.

But that didn’t stop him from yanking your shorts down and pulling you in to his lap, or pushing his pants down just enough to free his cock. Or yanking your panties to the side so he could shove himself inside you and fuck up into you.

It definitely should have stopped him from cumming inside you.

But he’s only a man.

If he was more of an awful man than he believed himself to be, he could blame Abby. For making him drive you home. Or he could blame you, for being so pretty and soft and alluring.

Don’t let his actions fool you, he loves his wife, loves his family. And in truth, he isn’t missing anything. Sure, their sex life got kind of stale, and there were things he wanted to try that Abby would never let him do. But he was content.

But you’re exciting. You’re different.

[literal-tv-menace]

ahhhh! jake is such a tease 🤣

. ᵒ .༄ DBF!JAKE x ARTIST!READER !  ࿔* ━━ ⋅⋆ ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🎨 possible trigger warnings .' mention of past and current masturbation, nude sketches, descriptions of male anatomy, lowkey sexting  ‧ 🛩️ ‧ ━━ WC 2.8k

series masterlist || inbox ━━━ request for dbfjake x artist!reader * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune + @dollywons + @bernardsbendystraws

⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · .  DRAFTED TO DEATH ━━ chapter nine ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary up all night and buried in discarded sketches, you spiral into horny delirium, beg jake for cock dimensions at 8am, and end up with a dick pic and a near-death experience when your dad almost opens one of the failed nudes.

you hadn’t slept.

not a wink. not a blink. not even the kind of power nap that accidentally ruins your rem cycle.

no. you’d spent the entire night surrounded by balled-up sketchbook pages, graphite smudges on your wrists, and a growing sense of artistic defeat.

jake seresin’s dick—his actual, real-life dick—was your white whale. and every time you thought you had it right, something was off.

too symmetrical. too clinical. too pornographic. too romantic. one version looked like a weapon. another looked like it needed medical attention. the worst one was shaped like a dolphin. you cried a little after that.

now you were down to your last page.

your. last. page.

there were literal paper shrapnel casualties all around you. the floor looked like an art student had a nervous breakdown in the middle of a figure study. ( which wasn’t far off. )

You stared at the blank page. You knew if you messed this up, you’d lose your mind completely. So you did the worst possible thing. You picked up your phone and texted him.

to jake 🐍 8:03 am

i need you to be so dead fucking serious with me for a second i need measurements like actual dimensions because i cannot for the fucking life of me get your cock right i’ve tried. i’ve really tried. i’m surrounded by sketchbook corpses and i’m on my last page

to jake 🐍 8:04 am

ok i think i’m sleep deprived ignore that last message

jake 🐍 8:07 am

well good mornin’ to you too, picassoyou gonna tell me where exactly you’re measuring from? base? tip? angle of elevation? curve radius? ...actually kinda flattered you ran outta pages before you got it right

you dropped your phone.

literally.

face-first onto your mattress with the kind of flinch that made your whole body recoil like you’d touched a live wire. you slapped a hand over your mouth to stop the feral noise trying to crawl out of your throat.

you were vibrating. actually vibrating. like your soul was trying to escape your flesh prison via shame-induced astral projection.

he was teasing you. mercilessly. flirtily. casually. like he hadn’t just confirmed that he knew—knew—you were still sketching him. like he wasn’t currently implying he’d be happy to give you detailed specs. possibly blueprints.

you hadn’t slept. hadn’t eaten. were drawing his dick like it was the sistine chapel. and now jake fucking seresin was offering to send over engineering-grade references like it was the most normal thing in the world.

you curled inward like a dying bug, sketchbook on your knees, surrounded by a graveyard of rejected cock drafts. your final page sat untouched, glowing like holy parchment beneath your lamp. you couldn’t even look at it right now.

your phone buzzed again.

jake 🐍 8:11 am

you still want the numbers?

you screamed into your blanket. actually screamed. then chucked your pencil across the room and dramatically collapsed into the pile of failed attempts.

you reached for your phone with trembling fingers.

to jake 🐍 8:12 am

jake. be serious.

jake 🐍 8:13 am

i am bein serious this feels like a medical consult at this point you want soft or hard?

you blacked out. flatlined. died and came back like lazarus with a graphite-stained hand and a kink-induced migraine.

he was still going. and the worst part? so were you. your fingers twitched toward your pencil. toward the final page. toward the haunting blankness of unfinished business and artistic torment.

you were going to respond. you had to respond. but what were the units? inches? centimeters? did you ask for girth?? was that too much?? was there a polite way to say do your balls hang or sit pretty?

you were going to combust

your thumbs hovered. your brain went static.

soft or hard??

what kind of psychosexual choose-your-own-adventure was this?? you stared at the message like it had fangs.

your jaw dropped. your spine melted. you were gripping your phone like it owed you money, pupils fully dilated, mouth open in a stunned little o as you slowly processed the magnitude of what he’d just asked you.

this was not flirting anymore. this was an offer. a choice. a fucking fork in the road of your life. and then, your phone buzzed again.

jake 🐍8:13 am

if you want hardyou’re gonna have to give me a minute

you let out a noise that wasn’t human. just a high-pitched wheeze like someone had stepped on a squeaky toy inside your lungs. you dropped your sketchbook. you fell back against the pillows like a victorian woman in a corset fainting over her embroidery.

you were going to explode. he was—

he was going to get hard for you.

for a drawing.

you’d made two objectively bad sketches of his dick and this man—this sinister blond menace—was about to commit a felony against your nervous system in return.

you scrambled back up. fingers flying.

you clutched the pillow to your chest. you were sweating. your heart was trying to hammer its way out of your ribcage. your thighs were pressed together on pure instinct. your brain was screaming

what does he mean give him a minute. what’s he doing with that minute. where is he. is he in bed. does he sleep shirtless. does he sleep in boxers. does he even sleep???

you fumbled to type again.

to jake 🐍 8:15 am

are you actually

no reply yet. you stared. the silence was too loud. you were frozen in the middle of your room, surrounded by ruined sketches, heart in your throat, phone in one hand, last blank page in the other.

was he actually—was he hard right now?

for you?

you stood then sat down again. and then you laid all the way back. and you waited. (and you maybe pressed your thighs together a little harder.)

you were actually losing your mind.

no reply. no blue check. just… nothing. except your own spiraling thoughts. you flopped back on your bed and stared at the ceiling, one hand gripping your phone and the other clutching the edge of your last clean sheet of sketch paper like it was a lifeline.

your legs kicked once. then again. you were vibrating. why wasn’t he answering?? was he joking?? were you being punk'd??

your phone buzzed.

jake 🐍 8:22 am

patience, angelit’s a little hard to measure while i’m like this

your mouth dropped open. you stared. you shrieked into your pillow. you scrambled to reply.

to jake 🐍 8:22 am

wtf does that mean??

no answer. not immediately. you stared. you waited. your legs were moving again. restless. kicking the air like it had wronged you.

jake 🐍 8:24 am

real stiff real warm real curious how bad you wanna know

you choked. you were lying on your back, legs bent, sketchbook abandoned, brain short-circuiting as your phone slipped down to your chest. you could barely type. your hands were shaking. you were shaking.

to jake 🐍 8:24 am

just put me outta my misery

his typing bubble appeared. then vanished. then came back. then vanished again. you were gonna combust. you were about to explode into fucking confetti.

jake 🐍 8:26 am

you want the truth, baby? gonna need you to say it a lil clearer what exactly are you askin me for?

you died. you fucking died. you were melting straight through the mattress, short of breath, eyes wide, lips parted, phone trembling in your hand. what exactly were you asking for?

you stared at the screen. you were—you were asking for . . . you licked your lips. sat up. tugged your blanket over your lap even though it did nothing.

you typed.

then backspaced. then typed again. then stared at your words like they might set themselves on fire. then, finally—

to jake 🐍 8:27 am

i want the hard dimensions width. length. curvature. vein placement. don’t make me beg again

he didn’t reply immediately.

but when he did—your phone lit up like a goddamn molotov cocktail.

jake 🐍 8:28 am

good girl sit tight i’m nearly there

you blacked out. you did black out, came back, and blacked out again.

you were clutching your phone like a rosary, whispering prayers to a god who had clearly left the chat, and waiting for a follow-up message that was going to ruin you for every man on the planet—

jake 🐍 8:33 am

7.8 inches just shy of eight little curve up thicker at the base two veins—left side’s more pronounced tip’s real flushed right now

you made an inhuman noise. like an injured animal. like a kettle boiling over. like the ghost of your soul trying to evacuate your body through your mouth. you were going to die on this hill. on the hill of jake seresin's dick specs.

your hand slapped over your mouth, eyes watering from the pressure. your thighs squeezed together like they were about to start a conference call. your sketchbook slid to the floor, forgotten. your phone buzzed again.

jake 🐍 8:33 am

need a cross section? happy to supply a diagram though you seemed to have one hell of an imagination already

you bit your knuckle. you couldn’t type. you physically could not respond. your brain had turned to hot mush. your fingertips had betrayed you. your knees were curled up like a goddamn victorian ghost fainting on a chaise lounge.

he was still typing.

jake 🐍8:34 am

gonna draw me again?or are your hands too busy right now

you froze.

absolutely, unequivocally short-circuited.

your legs twitched. your eyes blurred. you were sweating again—same as last night—only now it was morning and your sketchbook was hanging off the edge of your mattress, surrounded by torn-up failures, crumpled paper balls like battlefield casualties.

your fingers hovered above your screen.

another buzz.

jake 🐍8:35 am

need more inspiration, angel? i could send you something for reference, of course

your soul straight-up left the chat.

you clutched your phone like it was sacred scripture. your heart stuttered in your chest.

was he—? no. he wouldn’t.

would he?

you typed back before you could talk yourself out of it. before shame could catch up. before the rational part of your brain could slam the brakes.

to jake 🐍 8:37 am

don’t tease me

jake didn’t hesitate.

jake 🐍 8:37 am

oh i’m serioussay please

your breath caught. you blinked. once. twice. and then your thumbs moved like they had a mind of their own.

to jake 🐍 8:40 am

please.

it took exactly fourteen seconds. fourteen seconds for your phone to buzz again. for your screen to light up. for your life to change forever. there was no warning. no countdown. no playful teasing.

just—uncensored. unfiltered. taken from above, clearly handheld—jake’s tan thighs splayed in the frame, the worn hem of his gray boxer briefs shoved halfway down, waistband biting into muscle. and his cock—

jesus christ.

you stopped fucking breathing.

thick. heavy. hard as a fucking rock.

sloped against his abs with a curve that made your thighs clench on instinct. the head flushed dark and wet, swollen like he’d been edging for you, just waiting for the go-ahead. his shaft—veined and twitching—lay proud across a trail of happy trail scruff and carved muscle.

one hand cupped the base, fingers not even fully wrapping around.

just like he said. his cock was at least seven and a half inches ( and that was being conservative ), girthy enough to make your hand sore, veins fucking everywhere—but two prominent ones winding up the left side like highways, with smaller ones spidering outward, thick, honey-gold happy trail that just dared you to follow it with your tongue and skin flushed warm, a bit pink toward the tip—clear contrast against the tan of his lower abdomen.

jake 🐍 8:42 am

still need dimensions?or do you wanna measure it yourself?

you blacked out. you dropped your phone. you howled into your mattress. because what the fuck. what the fuck. jake seresin just sent you a dick pic at 8:40 in the morning, and it was frankly illegal how beautiful it was. golden skin, thick girth, proud arch, a damn poster child for sin. you were sweating. shaking. spiraling.

and then—you picked your phone back up.

because you were a artist. a woman of integrity. and if he was gonna send it, you were gonna study it. like your life depended on it.

jake 🐍 8:44 am

if that’s all… i think i gotta go take care of my problem i’ll be thinkin’ of you, darlin

your entire nervous system short-circuited.

that was it. you were done. game over. no saves. no respawn. jake seresin had just sent you the holy grail of dick pics at sunrise. told you, very casually, that he was about to jerk off. told you he’d be thinking of you while he did it.

you actually made a sound. some poor, breathless squeak of disbelief. your face buried itself in the pillow, your legs kicked like you were mid-exorcism, and your phone fell to the floor again, likely in self-defense.

you reached down to grab it, hand trembling, and just stared at the screen. because that message was now immortalized. burned into your corneas. etched into your spinal cord.

your brain short-circuited.

you couldn’t even bring yourself to type a response.

you just sat there in the glow of his glory—surrounded by sketchbook scraps, biting your lip, heart in your throat—knowing jake seresin was down the block, fisting his cock to the thought of you.

you whimpered.

you actually whimpered.

and for a split second—just one—you considered texting back : wait—show me.

but you didn’t. you were embarrassed enough for today. and now your hands? your hands were suddenly very busy. reaching for the hem of your nightshirt, just as you had done last night. toying with the edge of your panties—

knock knock.

you jumped so hard you nearly hit the ceiling. ( dramatic, i know, but that was the visceral reaction you had when you were about to finger yourself to a dick pic sent by jake seresin and you got interrupted. )

a pause. then a voice spoke through your door. “sweetheart?”

your father's voice.

your father’s voice.

oh my god.

you scrambled, phone screen still lit with evidence, and slammed it face-down under your pillow like it was contraband. you frantically pulled the blanket up to your chest as if modesty could erase what you’d just seen—what you were just about to do.

“y-yeah?” your voice cracked. “what’s up?”

another pause. "are you alright? heard a bang. thought maybe you fell.”

no. no no no. the only thing falling was your dignity.

you sprang up, fingers running through your hair as you tried to school your expression into something less . . . post-orgasmic. ( even though you hadn't even gotten to the orgasmic phase of your morning. )

“i’m fine!” you called. “just—uh. dropped my phone.”

“well, alright,” he said slowly. “can i come in for a sec?”

no. absolutely not. there was a dick on your phone and a hundred balled-up sketchbook pages littering the floor like you were mid mental breakdown.

but it was too late. he was already opening the door.

you lunged off the bed, trying to block his view. “watch the—paper,” you blurted, sweeping some crumpled pages behind your legs with one foot.

he blinked at you, then looked around at the chaos. “what happened in here? looks like a possum got into your recycling.”

you forced a laugh, pulse jackhammering. “oh, you know, just—uh, rough night. artist problems.” he stepped in, frowning, then bent to pick up one of the wadded-up pages.

you panicked. “no, wait—!”

too late. he turned it slightly, starting to open it. you snatched it from his hand with the reflexes of a navy seal. “it’s not ready,” you said quickly. “none of them are.”

he raised a brow. “alright. no need to tackle me, kiddo.”

you hugged the crumpled page to your chest like it might explode if he touched it again. “sorry. just—it’s kind of a personal piece. very, very early stages.”

his eyes softened. “well, i'm sure it’s great. you’re your worst critic, y’know.”

“mmhmm,” you squeaked.

then he looked around again. “can’t get it right?”

you swallowed. “something like that.”

he nodded like a wise sage. “sometimes walking away helps. clear your head.”

“right. yeah. totally. i’ll, uh—i’ll do that.”

he smiled, clearly oblivious, then patted your shoulder. “alright, well. i’m makin’ pancakes. want some?” you nodded, unable to speak. and then he was gone. door shut. silence. you collapsed onto the floor in a full-body oh my god cringe.

that man had almost unrolled a sketch of jake seresin’s cock.

you would never emotionally recover.

🔖  .   @spooky-librarian-ghost  @Soupie_MeowMeow  @gardeniarose13  @kmc1989  @Coldmuffinbanditshoe @nubecita040 @moonriseoverkyoto @alldaysdreamers @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @timeofmadness @writergirl28 @alldaysdreamers @khouse712 @nightmenotyou @hiireadstuff @beltzboys2015 @bobsbri

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚  want to join the artist!reader taglist??? click here!!!!

[literal-tv-menace]

incredible. so good. 100/100 would read again. honestly... probably will read again.

This Thing We've Started (Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader)

Summary: After losing your job and getting caught in a messy on-again/off-again situationship with your ex, your sister Natasha offers to let you stay with her, hoping the distance will help you move on for good. And it does - especially when you meet a charismatic stranger at a bar who’s supposed to be a simple fling. No strings attached. But things get complicated when you run into him again… and find out your sister knows him, too. With that revelation, you swear to stay away - determined not to get dragged into another mess of your own making. But that was easier said than done.

Words: 13.3

Warnings: nsfw, afab!reader, protected and unprotected sex, talks of birth control, p in v, oral f!receiving, fingering, slight praise kink, dirty talk, phone sex, slight erotic choking, creampie, talks of toxic/emotionally abusive/manipulative relationship, swearing, some physical violence, some threats

Other tags: no use of y/n, sibling dynamics, implied older sister!natasha trace but not specified, talking about the story of how phoenix got her callsign, hangmans dirty mouth, slowburn-ish, lots of dialogue (sorry not sorry), secret softie!jake, not really proofread.

a/n: this was the only thing on my mind for like a full week and I'm glad it's finally done and out of my head even though i'm not 100% sure i love the ending lol Comments, likes and reblogs are super greatly appreciated :)

Your sister was supposed to be home a while ago. Instead, only a text came through. 

something came up at work. will be a late one…

sorry :(

Huffing, you threw your phone to the side. 

It wasn’t her fault and you knew that. But Natasha had promised to show you around North Island today and you were looking forward to it. She had picked you up late last night from the airport and barely had time to talk. You hadn’t seen her in a while and phone calls and texts just weren’t the same as hanging out in person.

After losing your job, Nat had offered to let you stay with her for a while, just until you got back on your feet. And also to get you away from your shitty ex Dylan - who’s not really your ex, but definitely should be. It was a messy situation between you two. You had broken up, but somehow he had this strange hold over you that kept you coming back to him. It wasn’t even that you still had feelings for him. You were so over him and his bullshit, but just couldn’t get away. The last resort - distance. Physical distance. And blocking him everywhere. 

You took a week to mull Natasha’s offer over and a few more days to get things in order, booking a flight, packing the necessities and not looking back. 

Just sitting in her apartment now, felt strange. Familiar in a way that you could recognize it as your sister’s - the books, the pictures and pots of plants crammed in every corner and on every surface - but unfamiliar in the simple ways. You didn’t know which drawer held the cutlery or which cupboards kept glasses and plates. You couldn’t even figure out how to turn on the goddamn shower in your en-suite bathroom, having to use the one in hers that was easier to figure out instead. It didn’t feel like home yet. Weren’t sure it ever would or if you’d even stay long enough to get to that point.

Instead of sitting around, you decided to go for a walk down to the beach, to soak up some sun, maybe dip your toes into the sea. It was only May but an unusually sunny day, so you threw on a little flowy dress, leaving your legs bare in case you wanted to wade into the water. 

The walk there was a bit longer than expected. You hadn’t looked it up beforehand, just knew the general direction, but the view at the beach made it all worth it once you got there. The golden sun, the breaking waves, the scent of saltwater in the air. You walked along the water for a while - dipped your toes in once but then decided it was too cold - until you found a spot that invited you to sit down and relax for a while. The sun was setting by then and with it came a noticeable chill. You knew, you should probably get home soon, but you were absolutely parched from the walk and the sun and figured you’d grab a quick drink first.

A quick google told you there was a bar by the beach further back from where you came. You must’ve walked straight past it on your way here but not paid noticed it.

About ten minutes later, you spotted it. The Hard Deck. 

It had a warm, relaxing atmosphere, classic rock softly playing from a jukebox in the background. People were laughing, playing pool and darts - busy, but not overly so. 

Walking up to the bar, you ordered a beer, sat down and glanced around the room before absently scrolling through your phone.

You didn’t look up again until someone spoke.

“Hey there.”

Raising your head, you were met with the green eyes and a dazzling smile, belonging to a ridiculously good-looking guy. He leaned up against the bar, relaxed. 

“Hi,” was all you managed, caught off guard and a little intimidated by his looks. You gave him a quick - hopefully subtle - once over. He wore a plain white t-shirt, jeans and… cowboy boots. An odd choice, maybe, but somehow he made it work. 

“Mind if I sit?” He pointed to the empty seat beside you. 

“No, go for it,” you found your voice again, more confident now, even gave him a small smile. 

“I’m Jake.” He held out his hand and you shook it, giving your name in return. Jake held on to your hand a beat too long, his fingers slightly dragging over yours before he let go.

He was hitting on you, that much was clear. And while you came to stay with Natasha to get away from guys - or at least one specific guy - you decided it wouldn’t hurt to flirt back just a little. 

“I’ve never seen you around here before,” he stated matter-of-factly, as if he knew everyone who frequented this bar, but there was a question buried beneath. A small smirk still on his face as he took you in. 

“Just here visiting.” It wasn’t a lie. You were technically visiting, just for an undetermined amount of time and also sort of moving in with your sister. It was simply easier than to explain the whole ordeal with your ex and your job. 

Jake was undoubtedly military. You’d been to enough of Nat’s graduations and promotions to recognize the type. You could tell by the clean shave and in regs haircut, the way he held himself and that cocky attitude. It all gave him away. 

But then again, the entirety of North Island was basically one big Naval base. Running into military men was inevitable.

“Yet you’re here alone.” Again, a statement meant to be a question.

“My sister was busy.” You smiled and took the last sip from your glass, draining it. 

Placing the it back down on the bar, you were about to get up, start your way back home.

“Can I get you another one?” Jake asked before you could. There was something in his eyes that screamed trouble and that alone should’ve been your sign to decline and leave. However, you didn’t. You stayed. And said yes.

You kept on chatting easily, him asking you questions about yourself and where you were from, but barely revealing anything about himself. Those two beers helped loosening your tongue, making the words come out easier. Maybe it was the drinks, but something about Jake was so irresistible and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. He was charming, confident and cocky, teetering on the edge between infuriating and entertaining. And that slight southern drawl almost made him sound like a gentleman. 

As you kept looking at him, you decided he was exactly what you needed to jumpstart that new chapter of your life. A distraction. Someone to wipe away the traces of your ex-boyfriend off your body. Replace his touch with someone else’s. 

You decided to ask the question you knew would get you what you wanted. 

“So… what does one do for fun around here?” You leaned in closer, voice lower, and looking up at him through your lashes. For a split second he looked surprised, before a wolfish grin spread across his face. 

It all happened very quickly after that. 

Somehow you found yourself in a backroom of the bar, not really sure you were supposed to be there. But it didn’t really matter. Jake’s lips were on yours, hard and hungry. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer as he pushed you up against the wall. Kissing down your neck, fingers slipping under the dress strap and dragging it off your shoulder, exposing more of your breasts. You held on to his strong arms, his shirt, ran your fingers through his hair - whatever you could reach. 

Soft moans escaped your lips as arousal built in your body. His cock pressed hard against your belly and even through his jeans, he felt huge. 

You needed him. Now. 

Hands finding the buckle of his belt, undoing it quickly before moving to work on the button and fly. And when you pushed your hands down his boxers to grip his length, both of you moaned. He was big, just as you suspected, and you knew he would feel good inside of you. 

Stroking him for a few seconds, then pulling him out. 

“You got a condom?” you asked, breath shaky, biting your lip as you shamelessly ogled his cock. It was perfect. The girth, the length, that perfect pink color that got deeper at the tip. 

“Uh, yeah,” Jake replied, digging in his pockets until he found one. As he tore the wrapper and rolled it on, you quickly shimmied out of your panties and stepped out of them, leaving them discarded on the floor. 

Once finished he reached his right hand between your legs, fingers sliding through the folds of your pussy with ease, gathering up some of the wetness there. A shiver ran through you.

“Fuck, you’re wet.” 

He smirked and then used that same hand to spread your juices over his condom-wrapped cock. You leaned back against the wall, Jake hitched up one of your legs and hooked it around his waist, fingers digging into your thigh as he stepped in closer.

You felt the head of his cock nudging at your center, sliding through the folds once - twice - and then slowly pushing in. 

“God, you’re so tight.” His forehead rested against yours, looking down to where he disappeared inside of you, breath mingling with yours. 

He took his time. More time than you probably had being in the backroom of this bar, but it was necessary with his size. You held on to his shoulders, strong and steady, until he bottomed out. 

A moan shuddered out of you. His lips found yours again, kissing you deeply as he pulled out in a slow drag - then pushed back in. Faster now, harder, and that slight sting of the stretch disappeared, morphing into absolute pleasure. 

You couldn’t help the moans and whimpers that escaped you every time he pushed inside. 

“Shhh, quiet, baby,” he whispered against your lips, his other hand wrapping around your throat. Not squeezing, just settling there, warm and possessive. 

“Unless you want the whole bar to hear how good I’m fucking you.” You could just hear that grin as he spoke.

You bit your bottom lip in response, trying to keep quiet. 

Jake kept moving inside you and it felt incredible, but you needed more to reach your peak. 

Sneaking one hand between your bodies, you started rubbing circles on your clit. 

“That’s it. Touch yourself. Make yourself come on my cock.” His words sounded so deliciously filthy, pushing you closer to the edge.

You knew it wouldn’t take long, but it still surprised you how quickly you were about to come. Only a few more of his deep thrusts, hitting all the right spots inside of you and you fell apart. Your walls clenched around his cock with every wave of release. One final thrust, and he came too, stilling inside. 

His forehead rested against yours as you both caught your breath. Hearts beating fast and heavy. 

Leaning down again, he kissed you. Slower, deeper, languidly. 

Jake eventually pulled out, probably more out of necessity than really wanting to and discarded the condom somewhere as you brushed down your sundress again. He bent down to pick up something, probably the wrapper of the condom and shoved it into his pocket and then grabbing your hand to lead you out of the room. 

Together you walked out to the front, night air cool on your flushed and sweaty skin. He dropped your hand and instead grabbed your face in both of his hands, pulling you into another sweet kiss. 

“You need a ride home?” He offered and it was a nice gesture, but you wanted to walk back home. Cool down a little before being back in Nat’s apartment. 

“I don’t take rides from strangers.” You replied, half-joking. 

“Oh, but I think you just did.” Jake was quick with it and it made you laugh. He laughed too, and it was a warm, comforting sound.

“Can I at least get your number?” He asked and you thought about it for a moment. 

“I don’t think so.” You stepped back as you said it, his hands sliding from your face, a soft smile on your lips to soften the blow. This night was perfect. Uncomplicated and exactly what you needed. 

Swapping numbers would only complicate things and potentially ruin what would be a perfect memory. 

You expected him to push back, ask why. But instead he just nodded, smiled and said: 

“Alright, have a good night, then.” 

You really appreciated it, more than he could probably know.

“Good night,” you whispered, before returning around and starting the walk back to Natasha’s apartment. 

Halfway home you realized you left your panties at the bar. The cool night air drifting under your short dress reminding you of the wetness still lingering there, exposed. It was definitely too late to go back for them so you cut your losses. 

Opening the front door, you snuck inside, not expecting to see Natasha sitting there on the couch. 

A single brow arched as she looked at you in silence. 

"You're home!" You said, happy to see her. You thought she'd either still be at work or already in bed. 

"So are you," she replied in that perfect blend of amusement and scolding only a sibling could master.

"Uh yeah… I was down at the beach." You weren’t ready to tell her everything, at least not yet. Wanting to hold on to it a little longer and bask in the warmth of it. 

"And then?" She knew there was more, could read you like a book. 

"And then... I went to a bar..." you knew you were screwed. 

"Uh-huh..." she wanted you to keep talking.

"And then I met this guy… and we may or may not have fucked in the backroom," you spoke fast, trailing off at the end, hoping she didn’t quite catch it. 

"You did what?!" She looked at you, eyes wide, incredulously. 

"Okay listen, I didn't plan it and it just happened but it was incredible!" You then just went for it, telling her all about it.

"God, his dick was amazing." You sighed wistfully. 

“Long. Thick. Hitting spots I didn’t even know I had.”

Natasha laughed at that, hard, head thrown back. You joined her in it, laughing together for a while until tears blurred your vision. It reminded you of the time you told her about losing your virginity and the absolute disaster it had been - but when you laughed together, it didn’t seem quite so bad.

"Gonna see him again then?" She asked, still with a smirk.

"Nope! Didn't get his number. He asked but I declined.” You shrugged. 

“I just wanna keep it as it is. No strings attached, uncomplicated."  You explained and she nodded.

“Honestly though, it was the best sex I think I've ever had. Makes me wonder why I even bothered with Dylan... I always had to fake it with him. Otherwise he'd get insecure, upset - and tell me it was my fault I couldn't orgasm." 

"Damn, seems like I might actually have to thank that guy for making you see the light," she joked but you knew, a part of her was relieved and happy you were getting over your ex. Which is exactly what she wanted when she asked you to stay with her. 

She probably didn't expect it to be in the form of a bar hookup, but beggars couldn't be choosers. 

“We should go out and have a few drinks next weekend - celebrate your newfound freedom,” Nat suggested and you eagerly agreed. 

The weekend rolled around and you spent Saturday in various spots around North Island - breakfast at a cute cafe, lunch at the beach and dinner at home before you got ready to go out. And everywhere you went, you secretly hoped to run into Jake again. Thinking about your encounter - and him - most nights when you were alone in bed at night.

Natasha wanted to bring you to her favorite bar - the one her team always hung out at - and you were excited to see her usual stomping grounds. 

Driving down, the streets started to look familiar and as she pulled into the parking lot, you realized it was that bar. The one from a week ago. The one whose backroom you shouldn’t be so intimately familiar with. 

And also the very same bar that probably still held your panties in a lost and found box somewhere. 

"This is the bar I went to," you told Nat and you didn't have to elaborate, she knew exactly what you meant.

“Oh! Maybe your mystery man is also gonna be here again,” she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.  "But at least try and make it home this time before ripping each others clothes off." 

"Ha ha.” You fake laughed. Trying to hide the fact that you had been thinking about him an indecent amount. "I told you I don't want anything more from him."

Then you thought for a second.

"Okay, maybe one more time wouldn't hurt, but definitely nothing more than that!”

“If you say so.” She shrugged you off with a side-eye as she parked the car.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t scanning the crowd for a blonde head of hair and dazzling smile the second you stepped inside. You got a drink at the bar - the first sip of alcohol soothing your nerves a little - turning to look around more from a different vantage point.

And then… there he was. 

Jake.

You grabbed Nats arm, stopping her in her tracks.

"That's him!" You said under your breath, frozen to the spot. Somehow you hadn't expected to see him again and it caught you off guard. 

"Which one?" She whispered back, trying to scour the crowd for the mystery man with the perfect cock you had told her about. 

"That one standing by the pool table!"

Finger pointing subtly at the tall blonde who was talking to someone else.

She looked at you incredulous. ”Wait… Hangman?!"

“No, no, no!” You - of course - had heard stories of Hangman. But the guy you slept with couldn’t be him. 

"The one on the right!" You corrected.

"Yes, Hangman!"

A beat. Silence. 

Realization dawned on you

"No...". 

"Yes..." Natasha replied, with an exhausted sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

"But... he said his name was Jake!” Trying to make sense of it, even though you knew it was hopeless.

"Well Hangman is obviously not his real name!” 

You both went quiet, sitting with the weight of that realization.

Hangman. The cocky fighter pilot from Natasha’s team who knew exactly how to push everyone’s buttons, riling them up and smirking his way through it.

“Jesus, I can't believe you slept with him!” She whisper-yelled, gearing back up again and smacking your arm.

"Ouch!" You rubbed where she had hit.

"Why did you have to tell me about his dick? God, I need to get very, very drunk and kill off all the brain cells that remember what you told me about him.” Natasha genuinely looked like she was going to be sick.

"How was I supposed to know it was him?!” You tried shifting the blame.  “You always made him sound like the devil incarnate and that night... he definitely was not." Or maybe he was, the way he made you feel like pure sin and ecstasy.

"You should've just... known! Felt it, I don't know."

It was your turn to sigh now. In truth, you had felt something, but it had nothing to do with his identity - and a lot more with an orgasm. 

"Next time I'm gonna need pictures of all the people I'm not supposed to sleep with." You deadpanned.

"Next time, just don't sleep with people you barely know!” 

She got you there.

“Don’t slut shame me,” you said, half-joking. Nat just rolled her eyes.

In that moment you felt eyes boring into you, still frozen at the bar. 

His gaze landed on Natasha first, giving her a familiar, easy smile and then they shifted to you. For a split second it faltered. Recognition setting in as he put two and two together.

His smile returned, teeth on full display as he started walking over. Like a predator stalking its prey, poised to pounce.

His smirk only widened as he closed the distance.

Flashbacks of last night invading your mind, making your heart race. 

Natasha was the first one to speak up.

"Don't even fucking look at me right now, Hangman,” she said before walking away, holding up a warning finger to Jake, before storming off to the other side of the bar, shaking her head.

Jake turned his attention back to you, that smile still curling at the corners of his lips.

“Phoenix is your-“ He started, using Natasha’s callsign.  

“My sister,” you confirmed, finishing his sentence. “Yes.”

“And she…?” He trailed off, as if unsure what to say next.

“Yup. She knows.” You nodded, biting your lip, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish. 

He nodded slowly in return, taking it all in. 

“Well, she seemed thrilled.” He was clearly being sarcastic, but it earned a huff from you. 

“I might’ve described your cock to her. In vivid detail,” you admitted. That made him laugh. 

“All good, I hope?” Jake wanted to know, but you didn’t bother replying, your eyes probably said it all. So you just laughed. 

“I honestly didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he said, his gaze roaming your body, softening slightly when it landed on your face. 

“Me neither.” 

You didn’t know what to say. Part of you was thrilled to see him again, the other part heard alarm bells ring, loud and clear. 

And that tingling feeling low in your belly that almost felt like butterflies? That needed smothering immediately.

On one hand, you wanted a repeat of last week, throw caution to the wind and indulge in him, have fun. On the other hand… you knew it’d get complicated. Especially now that you knew he worked with Natasha and that as long as you were around her, he’d be around, too. 

You took a small sip from your drink, eyes never leaving his. The kind of eye contact some might even call glorified eye-fucking. That’s when he stepped closer, invading your space. His cologne hit you, waking a memory, pulling you right back into that backroom. 

He was tall and so close, you had to tilt your head further to look at him. 

“I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he said, face suddenly more serious. Voice dropping lower, quieter. The noise around you seemingly drowned out by his sheer presence and Jake being the only thing you could focus on. 

You nodded, swallowing hard. Agreeing before your brain could even weigh in. 

“Let me take you out,” he said, surprising you. You expected him to offer you another romp, but not an actual date.

“I can’t…” Those two words even shocked yourself a little, because you desperately wanted to say yes.

“Because of Phoenix?” He cocked an eyebrow and smirked again - clearly finding the situation amusing.

“It’s not just that,” you said.

“Bad break up?” 

Your whole face dropped. You couldn’t believe the way he just hit the nail squarely on the head. How on earth could he have possibly known that?

“Something like that,” you admitted quietly, shrugging lightly.

He leaned in, close enough that his chest brushed against you, reaching for something, grabbing a pen and napkin from behind the bar.

Quickly, he scribbled a few numbers down before sliding it closer to you.

“If you ever wanna talk. Not talk,” he smirked. “Or if you just want your panties back.”

You looked down on the napkin at a row of numbers that was clearly his phone number and then his words hit you. A blush spread across your face. Remembering when he had picked something up after you were done fucking against the wall, having believed it to be the condom wrapper, but it must’ve been your panties. 

He gave you a wink, another one of his smirks and walked off before you could say anything else. 

You found Natasha in the corner and slid onto a chair beside her. 

“Jake is holding my panties hostage,” you told her, that napkin with his number tightly clenched in your fist, hiding it from Nat. 

“I did not need to know that a guy on my team is a panty-stealing pervert,” she said flatly.

“But truly, I am not even surprised.” Her tone was bleak like she had accepted the fact that she’d be learning more about Hangman than she ever wanted. 

You sat in silence with Natasha for a while, drinking. Your eyes kept drifting across the bar and occasionally landing on Jake, even though you tried really hard not to look at him. But the few times he caught you staring, he gave you a knowing smirk, making your heart race. The napkin with his number burning a hole in the pocket you had shoved it in. 

"Okay," Nat sat up straighter in her seat. 

"All those guys over there—" she pointed to a group near Jake, then to a few more in a different corner playing darts. “—are on my team. Therefore I would greatly recommend, suggest and deeply appreciate if you didn't sleep with any more of them." 

You laughed. 

"Noted." You nodded.

Not a problem. 

Because the number of the only one who caught your attention was already in your pocket. 

More drinks were poured. 

At some point Nat introduced you to some of the others, still glaring daggers at Hangman though and very obviously avoiding bringing you anywhere near him. 

You and Jake were like two planets moving in each other’s orbit. Gravity keeping you tethered. He shifted a few feet to the right - so did you. 

Always keeping your distance, but never not aware of where he was. 

You ended up chatting with Rooster (which, you assumed, wasn’t his real name either) for quite a while. He and Natasha were quite close and you could see why - there was just something so effortlessly likable about him. He was funny, friendly and tried to integrate you into the group so you wouldn’t feel left out. 

“I just gotta ask,” Rooster said, lowering his voice conspiratorially - words slightly slurred.

“Is it true?”

You had a feeling you knew what he meant, but played dumb. Forcing him to say it out loud. If he wanted to get drunk and ask embarrassing questions, then he needs to have the balls to ask them outright. 

“Is what true?”

“You know…” He looked at you, then at Jake who was standing somewhere to your right, then back at you. You didn’t say anything but you couldn’t quite fight the smile creeping onto your lips.

“You and Hangman? The whole squad is talking about it,” he whispered, like it was some big, terrible secret that should never be said out loud. 

Your eyes flicked to Jake, who seemed to be following your conversation with Rooster with great interest, even though he tried not show it. 

“It’s true,” you confirmed, lips pressed together, nodding. 

“How?” He kept asking. 

“You know, when a boy and a girl really like each other-“ you were about to mess with him, but he cut you off.

“No, obviously I get that part, but just… I don’t know, he’s just… Hangman.” 

“And I didn’t know that.” You explained. “I just thought he was hot. Confident. Weirdly charming in that cocky way. Everything that my ex wasn’t.” 

You shrugged like it was the simplest thing on earth. And honestly, you couldn’t understand why Rooster didn’t get it.

The rest of the night went pretty smoothly, all things considered. You left the car behind and walked home, sobering both you and Nat up, while talking about everything and nothing. 

Once you were back at the apartment, ready for bed, you pulled that napkin from your pocket again. 

You made sure the door was shut, somehow nervous to get caught by your sister with Jake’s number, as you saved it in your phone. You could’ve thrown it away. But instead you slipped it into your nightstand. Not really sure why. It just felt right.

Staring at the new contact, simply labeled Jake, you contemplated texting him. 

Hovering your finger over it multiple times,. Again. And again. Then you finally just went for it.

I hope my panties safe while you’re holding them hostage. 

You reread the sentence a dozen times. Rewrote it. Scrapped it. Wrote it again. And then hit send.

Immediately you flipped your phone over, not wanting to see if its been delivered, if he’s read it or even typing already. 

You were just about to crawl under the covers when your phone vibrated. Just once. 

Waiting a full minute, you picked it up, not wanting to seem too eager. Not even to yourself.

Of course. They’re my most treasured item. 

He didn’t even ask who it was. Didn’t need to. Unless, of course, he had a secret stash of women’s underwear at home.

You thought for a second, then typed out your reply. 

Hope you’re not using them for any funny business. 

The three typing dots appeared instantly. 

Can’t promise that…

You let out a quiet laugh, but at the same time, you thighs shifted. Pressing together, trying to soothe the slow ache building there.

A mental picture invading your mind. Of Jake with his cock in one hand and your panties in the other. Wondering if he would use them to jerk off, rubbing them over his cock or hold them up to his face, inhaling the scent of your pussy soaked into the cotton.

Maybe you should keep them then, you sent back.

Suddenly the idea didn’t seem too bad. 

I’m willing to trade. 

Jake was baiting you, it was obvious. But you bit. 

For what?

He took longer to reply this time. 

A date. 

You sighed. Of course he would ask again. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to, it was simply for the fact that it felt wrong. Even just texting him felt like going behind your sister’s back.

Told you I can’t do that. 

Then I’ll just have to hold on to them a little longer, he answered.

You didn’t text back. Partly because you didn’t know what else to say, but mostly because you were conflicted. So turned on it almost hurt - and aching in a way you didn’t want to name.

This was exactly what you didn’t want. Complications. Feelings. 

And whatever this was turning into felt a lot like both. 

You knew, if you were smart, you’d cut this off right here, right now. Forget the backroom and his smirk. Forget all of him and delete his number. 

But you didn’t. 

You just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. 

Instead, you went to sleep. Horny. Frustrated. And aching with something deeper. 

Two weeks passed, which you spent focused on yourself, banishing any and all thoughts of certain off-limits aviators. Instead you were sending out job applications for back home but also around town - just trying to land something that would keep your head above water for a while.

Of course, Natasha didn't need you to pay rent but you also didn't want to be a complete freeloader and live off of her and your savings. 

During that time you also eyed your phone an awful lot, fingers twitching to text Jake, but every time you stopped yourself. Did it help with those pesky, budding, lingering feelings? Absolutely not. 

So it surprised you when your phone got a text on Friday afternoon.

You should come with Phoenix to the bonfire tonight.

He didn't ask, but it also wasn't an order. But there was a hidden plea in that invitation.

An I want you to come to the bonfire tonight or a please come to the bonfire.

In truth, you hadn’t known it was happening, Nat not having mentioned it, but she's been busy with work too. 

You didn't know how to bring it up to her without revealing that you've been texting with Jake. 

So when she came home from work that evening you subtly asked:

"Any plans tonight?"

She put down her bag and took off her boots.

"Uh, actually there's a bonfire down at the beach by the hard deck tonight. We should go, they're usually pretty fun." 

You tried to hide your excitement.

"Oh, cool yeah! That does sound fun."

You were surprised when she offered up the invitation so easily. It seems two weeks without any reminders of your sexual exploits with Jake have put her mind at ease and calmed her down. 

And now that you had the confirmation that you were going, you secretly sent Jake a text back. 

We'll be there.

You had a quick dinner with your sister and got ready after. You opted for a short skirt (for no particular reason) and a pretty low cut top (also for no particular reason). The fact that Jake would be there absolutely not being a deciding factor in what you wore. At least that's what you told yourself. 

You got there just as the sun was starting to set and the fire was already burning. People crowded around it, many of Nat's squad but also lots of other people. It didn't take long for you to spot Jake. Beer bottle in hand, wearing a pair of shorts and being completely shirtless - illuminated by the setting sun, making his skin look golden, accentuating every line of his abs. He looked like a fucking Greek god. 

Your mouth almost started to water. 

You and Nat made a round. Saying hi to Rooster who handed you beers and talking to some others, introducing you to new people. You and your sister took a few pictures together, smiling into the camera with the sunset in the background.

She even introduced you to Maverick, her team leader, and Penny who owns the bar. You really hoped she was oblivious to what you had done in her backroom or the blush dusting your cheeks as she was talking to you.

The sun had almost set and you and Jake seemed to fall into the same dance as before. Avoiding each other with practiced ease. 

You looked over at him at one point in the evening and saw he had his phone in his hand. Not two seconds later yours buzzed. 

Brows furrowed you pulled it out and saw the text was from Jake. 

Nice skirt. 

You glanced back at him and saw his eyes trail the entirety of your body before he started typing again.

If you wanted my attention, all you had to do was ask. 

Who says I wore it for you? You grinned down at your phone.

Either way… you got it, he quickly replied. And it’s making me think some very indecent things. 

You bit your lip and chanced another look at him as his eyes flicked up at you before he started typing against.

Reminds me of how pretty you looked in your dress that first night.  And even prettier with it bunched up around your waist when I was fucking you. 

Your smile dropped as arousal started building maddeningly fast, tugging low in your belly. You quickly looked around, checking to see if anyone noticed anything and angling your phone slightly away from Natasha standing next to you. But she seemed blissfully ignorant to what was going on and continued talking to some guy whose name you've already forgotten again. 

Careful..., you only answered, heart pounding. You were playing a dangerous game. 

Or what?

Jake was calling your bluff. He knew he had you hooked and all he had to do was reel you in. 

Another glance over at him told you everything you needed to know. Even from a distance you could see his eyes had darkened as he took you in. 

"Who are you texting?" Natasha ripped you out of the moment and you quickly put your phone away. 

"No one." You lied, badly. 

She eyed you intently, but dropped it. 

The night went on and there was a new electricity in the air. You had been aware of his presence and had felt his looks on you before, but it was dialed up to a new level now. 

As the bonfire died down and people started leaving, you decided to help with the clean up. It would help keep you distracted from Jake and it also felt like atonement for the sex in Penny's bar, at least a tiny bit.

Grabbing an empty crate and you started collecting empty glass bottles before carrying them inside to where Penny had shown you. 

You were on your second round, placing the crate down in the back of the bar, the glass bottles rattling loudly, when you turned around and bumped into someone. 

Instinctively you knew who it was - could feel it in the press of his body against yours, the smell of his cologne and the steadying hands on your hips.

Jake.

You looked up at him. 

At some point in the night he had put on a shirt, but it was so tight, you could still see every groove of his hard muscles.

"Were you following me?" You breathed out quietly.

"Maybe." He shrugged, a slight curve of a smile on his lips. "Had to get you alone somehow."

"To do what?" You asked, barely above a whisper.

"What I've been wanting to do all night." He whispered back, eyes dark and hungry.

Jake’s hands that had been resting on your hips started slowly sliding down and to your front, until they reached the hem of your short skirt. 

His fingertips grazing the skin of your bare thigh and running underneath it.

You tried to hide the breath hitching in your throat, but Jake noticed. 

Of course he noticed. 

His fingers pushed up higher under your skirt until they found the seam of your underwear in the crease of your thigh.

"I bet you're wet already," he muttered as he leaned down an inch, towering over you.

You shook your head, denying it even though you knew it was futile. 

One of his fingers pushed underneath the fabric, pulling it aside just enough to run a probing finger through your folds. Proven right by the wetness he found there.

A dark, knowing smile spread on his lips.

"Liar."

He leaned in closer, lips only mere inches away from yours when suddenly you heard footsteps approaching, followed by someone calling your name. Natasha. 

Jake and you seemed to realize it at the same time and jumped apart, quickly righting your skirt and trying to get your breathing back under control when she rounded the corner. 

She saw you first - then Jake. 

"Jesus Christ," she sighed exasperatedly. 

"Jake was just -" you said.

"I was only-" Jake started talking at the same time, both trying to pretend like nothing was happening and it was pure coincidence you were both back here alone. 

"Do you think I'm dumb?" She asked, cutting you both off, anger lacing her voice.

"Did you really think I didn't notice you texting and eye-fucking each other all night?" It was a rhetorical question and you remained silent. You couldn't even really look at her, feeling ashamed in a way. 

“You and I will talk after," she looked at you before turning to Jake. 

"And you..." she took a deep breath, trying to control herself as she stepped closer to him

"I swear to god, Hangman, if you're just fucking around with my sister and hurt her, I will cut off your dick and balls and feed ‘em to you." She underlined her words by stabbing him in his chest with her finger. She was furious, you could tell.

In her mind, it was probably one thing to sleep with you once when he didn't know who you were. But now - flirting, texting and continuing whatever this was behind her back... that's where she drew the line.

"She doesn't fucking deserve that.” Her voice got low, threatening, and Jake had the good sense to look scared. 

He held up his hands, not fighting it, just taking what she had to dish out.

"Got it." He said, jaw clenching.

Nat glared at him a little longer before backing away. 

"Let's go," she turned back to you, already walking out. 

You muttered a quick sorry to Jake before following her, head bowed.

Natasha kept walking - home - you realized and you stayed a few steps behind, waiting for her to talk first. But when she didn't, you knew you had to say something. 

"I'm sorry," you said and your sister stopped in her tracks. 

"I'm sorry for... sneaking around with him." You sighed. 

"I swear I tried to stay away."

Finally she turned around and looked at you. 

"Listen, Hangman is part of my squad and I trust him with my life, but I don't trust him not to break your heart," she said.

"I've known him for years now and I know he loves a challenge. The thrill of the chase. Winning. And I'm not saying that it's impossible he might feel more, I just want you to be careful." Her eyes softened and her shoulders sagged slightly. The fight leaving her body. 

"You finally got over and away from Dylan. You're doing better, and I don't want you to stumble into something else that might break you again."

You knew she was right and she had every reason to be upset. And you couldn't even blame her because you weren't even sure Jake wanted more than just sex. Yes, he had asked you out on a date - twice - but was it just a means to an end? Wine and dine you to get you into bed again?

You took her words to heart. Kept thinking about them the entire walk home and even after as you went to bed. Nat was a good judge of character, always had been, proven in the fact she hated your ex Dylan, even if she couldn’t put her finger on it at first. 

So maybe you should listen to her, when she told you that Jake’s motivation might not be any deeper feelings he might harbor for you, but simply the excitement of something forbidden. 

It didn’t even make you feel better when you woke up to a text from him he had sent last night after you’d gone to sleep. 

Everything alright between you and Phoenix?

You saw everything through a different lens now - couldn’t help but wonder if he asked because he was genuinely worried or just to check if he was going to be in more trouble with your sister.

For a minute, you genuinely considered not even texting back, but the thought it if made you feel bad. Instead you did something else. You pressed the call button, pressing the phone to your ear.

It was still early in the morning, but you hoped he was awake already. 

The phone rang for a while and you almost suspected he wasn’t going to pick up, until he did. 

Silence and shuffling on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” Jake’s voice came down the phone, deeper and a little rough. 

“Hey… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” you replied, suddenly feeling shy. This felt a lot more personal than texting. 

“No it’s okay. Is everything alright?” He sounded a little clearer, shaking off the tiredness. 

“Yeah, Nat and I had a talk last night,” you began explaining. “She’s just worried about me, you know.”

“I know, I get that.”

“It’s just after that whole thing with my ex…” Your voice trailed off. 

You’d never really spoken to him about it, except for the one time he correctly guessed that you’d been through a bad break up and you more or less confirmed it.

And maybe it was time to come clean. Actually talk about things - reveal your back story so he could understand - putting the ball back in his court that way. He could decide if he was still interested afterwards.

“You can tell me about it,” he said as if he knew what had been on your mind.

You took a deep breath.

“Dylan and I were in a weird, toxic and messy relationship for almost three years and in those three years, we broke up like five times.” you laughed a little at how absurd it sounded now.

“At first it was great, we were in love. Happy. But only a few months in, we started fighting. A lot. Mostly because he was jealous and insecure - accused me of cheating if I even so much as looked at another man.”

“Sounds like a great guy,” Jake spoke up, sarcasm dripping from his words with a bitter note. 

“Yeah… we broke up for the first time shortly after our first anniversary. I’d had enough of the incessant fighting. I knew it was bad then, but I still gave him another chance when he came crawling back the next day, a huge bouquet of red roses in his arms, promising he would change.” You let the words linger for a moment. 

“Fun fact: I hate red roses,” you said with a soft laugh and Jake scoffed. 

“But it was this big romantic gesture, so I ignored it. After all I knew he meant well. Even though it was glaringly obvious he didn’t know me at all. 

“Let me guess, things didn’t change?” he asked correctly. 

“No, they didn’t. They maybe even got worse. The cycle continued - Explosive fights, break ups, big gestures and begging for forgiveness.

“And I forgave him. Every time.”

For some reason, you started feeling tears prickle at your eyes. Laying out the full story made you feel exposed, embarrassed and even ashamed, but you kept going even with your voice shaky. 

And Jake just listened. 

“I honestly don’t even know why… I guess it still felt like love, every time he came back. Like I was worth fighting for. He still made me feel wanted. And there was also a dependability in that whole spiel, which turned into something familiar and almost comfortable in its discomfort.”

You blinked away some of the tears, wiping the one that fell off your cheek. 

“But you wanna know the best part?” You asked. 

“It get’s better?” Jake sounded skeptical. 

“In those three years, he’s never made me come. Not even once.”

You could practically hear Jake’s jaw drop. 

“You’re kidding,” he said. “Please tell me you’re joking.” 

He sounded like he genuinely didn’t believe something like this could be possible. It made you laugh, even with the tears in your eyes.

“Nope, I wish I was. He blamed me. Said something must be wrong with my body and he would get angry because of it. Eventually I just started faking it, trying to appease his small ego to avoid more fights.” 

“I’m sorry. For all of it,” Jake said quietly and you could hear he actually meant it. 

“Thanks.” You wiped away a few more tears, then took a deep breath before continuing. 

“But to top it all off, I lost my job and when I told Natasha about it, she offered to let me stay with her for a while. And I saw my chance to finally escape. I didn’t even say goodbye or tell him, I just left and blocked him everywhere, because I was scared that if I saw him, I’d give in again.

“So I came here and on my first night, I met you.” You finished the story, letting it come full circle. 

You were still nervous what he would do - now that he knew the whole story - but you felt almost relieved it was out of your hands. At peace.

“Thank you for telling me. For trusting me,” Jake said sincerely. 

“It makes sense now, why Phoenix is so protective over you.”

There was a heavy silence hanging between you now, tension thick, neither of you quite knowing what to say next. The quiet didn’t feel awkward, though, it was almost comforting. 

Something about Jake’s presence - even over the phone - felt so steady. Solid. 

“And if you’re wondering now,” you were the first to speak again. 

“I didn’t fake it with you.”

It was meant jokingly, to lighten the mood, but it came out a little huskier than intended. 

Jake chuckled on the other end of the line. 

“Oh, I know.” His voice was darker now as he spoke, but still a little smug.

“Unlike your loser-ex, I can actually tell when a woman is enjoying herself and when she’s coming.”

“Is that so?” You asked, trying not to give away that his words were already affecting you, suddenly glad he couldn’t see you. 

“I could see it in the way your skin flushed. Could feel your nails digging into my shoulder and your pussy clenching around my cock. You also made that sweet little sound, trying to be quiet and hold back a moan… you can’t fake that.” 

His words sent a shiver down your spine where it pooled into that dull ache at your core. 

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” you admitted quietly.

It was an almost involuntary action, but your free hand moved down your body and between your legs, slowly stroking over your clothed pussy.

“I've been replaying that moment in my head so many times. You looked so beautiful, absolutely perfect," Jake kept talking. And by now you had pushed your hand underneath the fabric of your underwear, craving more friction. Your fingers slid along the slit, landing on your clit - a moan slipping past your lips. 

"Fuck," Jake said, voice rough. "Are you-" he stopped himself, as if unsure whether he should even ask. You let out another quiet moan, almost goading him to do it. 

"Are you touching yourself right now?"

Your first instinct was still to lie and deny, embarrassed that just his voice could get you so turned on, but then again, you wanted him to know exactly that. 

"Yeah," you said, nodding even though he couldn't see it. 

You circled your clit, fingers gliding over it easily with the slickness there. 

"You like listening to me talk about how beautiful you looked taking my cock and how good it felt? And that I've been thinking about it every night since?"

Again you whimpered a quiet affirmation. 

"I could feel how wet you were and I've been imagining how it would feel like without the condom."

You started rubbing your clit harder as your desire built with every word Jake spoke. 

"Tell me how you're touching yourself. Are you rubbing your clit or are you fucking yourself with your fingers?" he asked and you could hear his breath coming a little faster, words more clipped. 

"Clit," you only ground out, unable to say much more as you chased your high. 

"Is it 'cause you know it won't feel as good as having me inside of you?"

You moaned in confirmation, but it wasn't enough for him. 

"Use your words, baby. I need to hear you say it."

You fought your way through the haze occupying your mind.

"Yes... felt so good."

"Good girl," he hummed in approval.  

"I bet you look real pretty right now, too."

Words should not have this much power, but coming from Jake's filthy mouth? Calling you a good girl? It had you nearly coming on the spot. 

"Jake, I-" you sighed between rapid breaths and with a pounding heart.

"I'm gonna come."

"Come for me, baby. I wanna hear it." 

And that's what pushed you over the edge, your orgasm releasing, pussy clenching around nothing as you kept rubbing your clit.

"Oh, Jake, fuck," falling from your lips as you came. 

You could also hear a moan on the other end of the line coming from Jake once the blood stopped rushing in your ears. After that it was quiet, only heavy breathing on both ends. 

Jake was the first one to break the silence.

"I think I could listen to you moan my name for the rest of my life." The absolute sincerity made you laugh, though you didn't dare linger on the implication behind his words.

"I can't remember the last time I had phone sex." You said instead, a breathless laugh escaping with it.

"Yeah, me neither. At least while not on deployment." 

Comfortable silence stretched on.

"Thanks, Jake - for listening." You said.

"To you coming? Any day, baby." He laughed and you knew he meant it as a joke. 

"But no, seriously... thank you for sharing your story with me. It means a lot." 

You could tell he was being earnest, all traces of sarcasm gone. 

Still a question was lingering - a what now? hanging over the conversation like a storm cloud. Looming. You kept talking a little longer. Jake asking you stuff about yourself and you needling him in return, wanting to know more about him, falling into easy conversation.

After a while you heard dishes clanking in the kitchen, a telltale sign that Natasha was awake and making breakfast. 

"I think I should go - Nat's awake," you said, not really wanting the call to end.

"Yeah, alright..." he replied, before adding, "are you coming to the Deck tonight?"

You weren't sure of Natasha's plans, but you decided you were going to go.

"Yeah." Past the point of playing it cool, you eagerly agreed. 

"Good." You could hear the grin in his voice.

"I'll see you there," you said.

You hung up the phone and stayed in bed for a moment longer, enjoying the last traces of your post-orgasmic bliss, before getting up and joining your sister in the kitchen. 

"Good morning," you greeted her.

"Morning." Nat was cracking some eggs in bowl, scrambling them when she glanced up.

"Were you talking on the phone?" She asked - must’ve heard you when she walked past your room to get to the kitchen. You hoped she didn't hear the tail end of that conversation, though.

“Yeah, with uhh… Jake." You needed to be honest with her. Sneaking around obviously didn't go well, so you might as well come clean. 

"Oh," she sounded surprised, but you couldn’t tell if it was at your confession or the fact it was Jake.

"I told him about Dylan." You let the words hang in the air, letting her decide what to make of it. 

“I know, you don’t approve…” you said as Natasha stayed silent. “But you can’t protect me from other men forever.” 

“It’s not about approval.” She sighed, about to say something more but you cut her off.

“He makes me feel alive again after I spent the last three years with my head underwater. Now I can finally breathe. And if that’s all he is and this is going to be - then I’m fine with that. With him it’s… easy and fun. Everything with Dylan was always so difficult.” You explained and something on her face made it look like she started to understand. Her eyes softened as she took you in. 

“I mean it obviously also doesn’t hurt that he’s hot as hell and pretty to look at.” You added with a smirk and that got her to laugh.

It took some convincing to get Natasha to come along to the Hard Deck, her telling you it might be weird between her and Jake now and she didn’t want to ‘disturb your night’. That was exactly why she had to go - so it wouldn’t get weirder. But it warmed your heart that she seemed to be starting to accept whatever it was you and Jake had.

Jake was waiting outside the bar, which was surprising, but definitely not unwelcome. 

You couldn’t hold back your smile as you walked up to him. For the first time approaching him directly, the gravity pulling you towards him instead of pushing you away along his line of orbit. 

It was that magnetism that went beyond just sex or physical attraction - it ran deeper - and you could no longer deny it.

He was grinning, a newfound softness in it. 

And God - you wanted to kiss him. Get on your tiptoes, wrap your arms around him and just kiss him. But you couldn’t do that. Not yet, at least - and not in front of your sister. 

You didn’t even trust yourself to hug him, scared any full-body contact would drive you mad with want.

“Hi,” you whispered as you looked up at him.

“Hey,” he smiled down at you, eyes flicking to Natasha behind you. 

He gently touched your hip, gave it a little squeeze before he stepped around you and directly in front of your sister. 

“Peace offering.” He held up a knotted plastic bag towards her, filled with… something. You had no idea what it was - hadn’t even noticed he was holding it. But by the annoyed smile on Nat’s face you could tell that she did. 

She kept him waiting, not immediately reaching for the mystery bag. When she finally did, Jake looked genuinely relieved. 

“I’ll give you guys a minute,” you said, slipping into the bar, greeting Penny as you passed, though you kept an eye on them through the windows. They talked and you wished you could hear what it was. Natasha laughed - a good sign. And then they hugged. Tension, you hadn’t even realized you were holding, slid off your body. You had worried, your presence - your thing with Jake - had damaged their relationship, something vital for their work. So it eased something deep in you to see it was at least on the mend, if not yet fully repaired. 

When they came back inside, Jake made a beeline for you and your sister drifted towards a group of others. 

“What on earth did you give her?” You asked with a curious grin. 

“Bag of ash,” he stated matter-of-factly as if it were the most normal thing to gift someone. 

“What?” You blinked at him, brows furrowing. 

“For her plants.” He shrugged. “That’s how she got her callsign. Because she’s always digging through the leftover ash after every bonfire, taking some home to use in the soil of her plants. And one particular time, the wind caught her off guard and she got absolutely covered in it. Looked like a phoenix rising from the ashes - hence, the name.”

You couldn’t believe you didn’t know that story - had never even bothered to ask how she got the name. 

“Huh, I always thought it was just a badass name,” you laughed. 

Jake knowing your sister so well made you realize how much of a family they really were - the whole squad was. And also how close you’d come to fracturing something important by not keeping it in your pants.

It wasn’t just Jake who needed to apologize. You’d have to apologize to her, too. 

“So now that I’m back in your sister’s good graces…” He smirked. 

“Will you let me take you out on a date?” 

You bit your lip, trying to contain your smile but failing spectacularly. 

“Yeah, I’d love that.”

“Good.” Jake leaned in closer. “And maybe I’ll take you home after… see how many times I can make you finish before you tap out.” His voice took on a sinful note, eyes darkening, as he said it, tightening that coil of desire in your belly. 

Your gaze flicking to his lips. 

“Am I interrupting something?” 

A voice suddenly spoke next to you. You knew that voice. 

“You are.” Jake didn’t take his eyes off you, but the annoyance was clear in his reply. 

You didn’t need to look up - knew exactly who it was - but you did anyway. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, rage simmering underneath. Eyes wide as you were staring at him. 

Dylan. 

Your reaction made Jake look up as well and his eyes narrowed as realization set in. 

“Isn’t it obvious? I came here for you.” Dylan had the audacity to sound amused. 

This couldn’t be happening. After everything. After you finally got away and things were turning out to be good - he showed up again.

Your heart was pounding, but not in the exciting way like when Jake looked at you. This was the opposite. 

“Dylan, is it?” Jake spoke up for you, guessing correctly who he was. 

“It’s none of your business,” Dylan replied, but he was solely focused on you, not even sparing Jake a glance. 

“Oh, I think it is.” Jake stepped closer to him, rising to his full height, back ramrod straight and chin high. But you put a hand up to his chest, stopping him. 

This was something you had to try and resolve yourself. 

“I don’t want you here, Dylan,” you told him, trying to keep your voice firm but you couldn’t help the slight waver in it. 

“Come on, don’t say that. I’ve missed you. I got on the first flight when I saw the picture your sister posted.” He came closer - just an inch - but you noticed. 

Hearing I’ve missed you and knowing that he’d flown out to find you would’ve cracked your resolve before.

But things were different now. 

You were different.

“I’m done with you. For good.”

“Why? Because of him? Is that it?” Dylan got a little louder and it drew eyes from people around you.

“He has nothing to do with it.”

“You’ve barely been here a month and you’re already fucking someone else. He’s probably just using you. Just a warm place to put his dick. Because he’ll never love you like I do - no one can - and we both know that.”

You felt Jake tense next to you, his fists clenched, but you still had your hand on him, making him stand down. 

“You’re nothing without me. That’s why you always come back, because you need me. I know you do.” Dylan closed the gap and reached to put his hands on your face. You tried to back away but were met with the bar behind you. That’s when you let Jake step in. 

He slid in front of you smoothly and pushed Dylan back a few staggering steps.

“Don’t fucking touch her.” His voice was low, threatening. 

“Or what?” Dylan asked through gritted teeth.

You saw the way Jake’s body tightened, ready to throw the first punch if needed. 

The bar had gone quiet. All eyes on the three of you and whatever was about to unfold. 

Movement caught your eye and you saw Natasha make her way towards you through the crowd.

“Hey Dylan!” She yelled as she closed in. He reluctantly turned away from Jake and towards your sister. 

He opened his mouth to say something when Natasha raised her fist and punched him square in the face. He didn’t even have time to react - just dropped to the ground, blood spurting from his nose. The whole crowd gasped, some cheered and you stood frozen. 

“God, I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” She said as she shook out her hand. 

“Jesus, Nat,” you breathed, still in shock. She gave you a crooked smile and a light shrug. 

She turned to Jake. “Take her home. I got this.”

He nodded, grabbed your wrist and pulled you out of the bar towards his car. 

“I can’t believe that just happened,” you said as Jake led you into his apartment after a quiet car ride. 

You couldn’t believe that Dylan had actually shown up here and that Natasha had punched him.

Jake had decided to take you to his place because he wasn’t sure if Dylan knew where your sister’s apartment was - or if he might try to show up there. 

You plopped down on the couch in his living room, Jake sitting down next to you. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, worried, reaching for one of your hands that was still trembling slightly and squeezing it. 

You took a deep steadying breath. 

“Yeah. I think I am.”

“That guy really is one manipulative asshole.” he said and you nodded in agreement. 

“He is. Thank you for letting me handle it and not stepping in right away. I needed that.”

That moment - standing you ground and ending it with Dylan - was the final part of a chapter you’d needed to finish for far too long.

“You handled it really well.”

He gave your hand another squeeze. 

“Thanks,” you smiled, turning his hand over and lacing his fingers with yours. 

There was one positive thing that came from it: you were finally well and truly over Dylan - and free from whatever hold he’d had on you.

You took a moment to look around the room. It was definitely a man’s apartment - dark monochrome colors, very tidy - but there were traces of Jake scattered throughout. 

Military patches and plaques hanging on the walls as well as propped up on shelves. A pair of longhorns mounted above the TV and cowboy boots by the door. 

It was so him - and you loved it - enjoyed getting to know more about him and his life. 

You turned back to him, finding he was already watching you.

His thumb rubbed slow circles into the back of your hand, his gaze dark and piercing. 

Electricity humming between your bodies and the tension was thick. 

“I know you said you want to take me on a date first…” you said quietly, trailing off. 

“Fuck the date,” he muttered, then surged forward, crashing his lips onto yours in a kiss you’d been waiting for for weeks. 

His hands found the back of your neck, pulling you closer against him, almost desperate. 

You opened your mouth and he wasted no time in sliding his tongue inside, claiming it. 

Claiming you. 

He kissed you hungrily, deeply and you felt a familiar ache start to build inside you. 

Grabbing onto his shoulders, you moved into his lap, straddling him and pressing your body closer against him, needing to feel all of him. 

His hands slid around your body, one up and between your shoulder blades, the other down to palm the curve of your ass. 

If kissing him at the bar was amazing - this was ecstasy. After weeks of build up and sexual tension it all finally came to a head. 

You raked your nails through his hair at the nape of his neck, tugging on whatever was long enough to grab and started moving your hips back and forth. 

Center dragging over his growing bulge, a moan slipped into his mouth at the contact. 

Hips bucking up in response, while his hand on your ass pulled your further down against him for more friction. 

His hands wandered under you shirt, pushing it up as he went, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head, then diving right back in to explore. It felt like he was trying to memorize every inch of your body by touch alone. 

And you loved the way they felt, warm and heavy - slightly calloused - but it only added another layer to the sensation.

Jake reached around to unhook your bra and you shrugged it off quickly. Leaving you topless in front of him. Palms immediately found your breasts, squeezing them roughly. Pinching the nipples into stiff peaks. 

You kept grinding down on him and if he let you - you could probably come from that alone. But Jake had other plans. He held you tight and flipped you around so your back was against the couch and he was above you between your open legs, moving your body with ease. Sitting up, he pulled his shirt over his head and while you loved seeing him like that, you whined at the loss of pressure, grabbing at him to pull him back down. 

He let out a little chuckle at that, clearly enjoying how desperate you were for him as you pulled his lips back onto yours. Your legs fell open further, giving him more space to get closer.

But it wasn’t enough, needed more, the ache between your legs growing exponentially.

You slid your hands between your bodies, unfastening the button and zipper of his pants with ease, then tried to shove them down his hips.

“Someone’s eager,” he teasingly whispered against your lips. 

“Please, Jake,” you whined - needing his cock, his hands, something. 

He sat up, hungry eyes tracing the lines of your body, then started working on your pants, tugging them down together with your underwear. You lifted your hips to make it easier until you were completely naked on the couch in front of him. 

Legs still spread indecently, everything on full display. Jake ran his hands up your thighs, fingers twitching, digging into your soft skin and making you spread your legs even more. 

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, eyes flicking from your face down to your glistening center. 

The way he looked right now - shirtless and pants undone, hair messy and his eyes dark - made you take in a shuddering breath.

You started squirming under his gaze, feeling exposed but also so needy. 

His right hand crept to the top of your thigh, thumb running along your slit, pressing down to glide easily between your folds until he reached your clit. 

The sudden contact made you twitch, your hips angling towards him as you bit back a moan.

“Always so wet for me.” His gaze was fixed to your pussy, watching his thumb rub around your clit, occasionally dipping back down to gather up more of your slickness.

Your hands were fisting the fabric of the couch, digging your nails into it.

“Please,” you tried again, almost begging, ripping him out of his trance.

He looked back up and licked his lips with a small smirk. “I got you.”

Jake moved - his face so close to your wet pussy now you could feel his breath against it - his broad shoulders wedged between your knees, demanding space.

His middle and index finger replaced his thumb, but he kept on rubbing your clit - until they drifted lower, teasingly circling your entrance, threatening to push in before pulling back. 

You looked down at him, his green eyes staring back - then his fingers entered you, one swift push in. 

Eyes fluttering shut, you threw your head back. A moan spilling from your lips at finally feeling him inside you again. His fingers fit perfectly, just a slight stretch as he started pumping them in and out, curling them up as he did. 

And because it wasn’t enough, his mouth then found your clit - latching on to it - sucking and flicking at it with his tongue. 

Your fingers gripped his hair, pushing his face deeper into your pussy as your back arched off the couch. 

“Oh, fuck,” you whimpered breathlessly. The onslaught of his tongue and his fingers was everything - too much and not enough - as the coil deep inside of you tightened. 

His left arm hooked under your leg, hand landing on your belly to keep you in place and hold you still as he continued his ministrations. 

Jake sped up slightly and your orgasm built relentlessly. More and more until it couldn’t any more and you came. Hips bucking, moaning his name through strangled sobs of pleasure. 

His fingers slowed to a stop, but he didn’t pull out just yet. He looked up at you, lips and chin glistening with your juices, giving you a wicked smirk as you tried to catch your breath. 

“That was…” you panted, but were lost for words. 

“I’m not done yet,” he said and your eyes widened. “I think you need to come again.”

“I- I don’t… think I can,” you stammered, excited but also intimidated by the idea. 

“We’ll see,” he smirked before he dove back in.

Your clit was hypersensitive and you jerked away, but he held you right where he needed you. 

No partner - especially not Dylan - had tried to make you come more than once. If they even cared about you coming at all.

The feeling of overstimulation slowly faded and turned back into pleasure. It seemed like your body was primed and ready to go from your first release, because the second one approached much faster. So fast, you hardly believe it was happening. 

It only took him pushing a third finger inside you to make you fall over the edge again, clenching around his digits as the waves of your orgasm crashed through you. 

Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst right out of your chest. 

This time Jake pulled his fingers out of you after slowing down to a stop and came up to hover above you. 

“I knew you could do it.” He looked smug - but rightly so. 

You laughed breathlessly. He leaned down, but not to kiss you, instead he wrapped his arms under and around your body and before you could react, he’d lifted you and tossed you over his shoulder. A yelp escaped you as you dangled upside down. 

“Jake!” you shrieked, half laughing, half scandalized. 

“I’m taking you to bed,” he said and gave your bare ass a playful slap.

You were still giggling when he dropped you on the bed, bouncing on the mattress. You watched as he got rid of the rest of his clothes, marveling at his naked body and his perfect cock - making your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation of him. 

He joined you back on the bed and you immediately went back to kissing, still eager for more, but a little slower this time, some of the desperation and need having dissipated with your previous orgasms. You could taste yourself on his lips and tongue.

You took his cock in your hand, wrapping your fingers around his thick shaft, and he groaned at the contact - at the feel of your hand stroking his velvet-soft and rock-hard length.

You gave him a few slow pumps, sliding your thumb over tip and feeling a drop of precum gathered there. 

You rolled Jake over so you were on top of him, straddling him once more, still kissing. Your center awfully close to his cock which seemed to be twitching in response. 

Jake moved, his hand reaching for something in his nightstand and you looked up to see him pull out a condom from the drawer. 

He looked at you and you shook your head, his brows raising. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. You started kissing him again. 

“Yes… want to feel you,” you muttered against his lips, “and I’m on the pill.”

“Fuck, okay. You don’t have to tell me twice.” You watched him toss the condom to the side with theatrical flair and his kisses turned more heated. Biting your bottom lip, tangling his tongue with yours. He grabbed your hips, guiding you until the head of his cock was nudging at your entrance.

You were so wet still that it would be no problem for him to slide inside with ease.

You sat up, bracing your hands on his chest and slowly sank down on him - feeling every inch - as his girth stretched you in a way that even three of his fingers hadn’t prepared you for.

Once fully seated inside, Jake let out a moan.

“Feels even better than I imagined.”

You let out a sigh, the feeling of being so filled was absolute bliss, even better than the first time.

After a few more seconds, you started to move, fucking yourself on his cock. 

Careful at first, then picking up speed, feeling him deep inside you every time you sank back down on him completely. Heat building in your body with each time. 

He was still gripping your hips tightly, letting you go at your own pace, but you could feel his restraint falter in the way his hips jerked up to meet yours. 

“Look so pretty riding me,” he said, his breathing slightly labored, looking at you intently.

His hand moved, thumb finding your clit again and rubbing it in messy circles. That, together with the way he filled you so perfectly, made another orgasm approach.

You weren’t sure you still had it in you, but the idea of coming with his cock buried deep inside was too enticing not to try

“I can feel you clenching around me already.” He began thrusting up shallowly, helping you ride hime while - his thumb never leaving your clit.

“Are you gonna come all over my cock, too?” he asked, his words had you nod and moan in return. 

The coil kept tightening and at some point you let him take over. Thrusting into you fully now, harder and even deeper. You were close, but couldn’t quite get there yet and Jake seemed to realize that. He pulled your body down on him and flipped you over so he was hovering above you, staying inside the entire time. 

This new angle allowing him to go even deeper and let him do all the work, so you could relax your body and focus more on your release. 

His fingers found your clit again as he built you back up to that edge, coil of pleasure so tight it was going to snap any second. Then his other hand wrapped around your throat and applied the lightest of pressure to the sides, and that’s when it happened. You clenched around him, back arching and moaning. Pleasure overwhelmed you completely and the noises that came from deep within you were genuine sobs. That incredible orgasmic feeling, coupled with the overwhelming, almost painful sensation of having been pushed over the edge multiple times.

Jake’s thrusts became faster in turn, more irregular, and you knew he was close too. But you’d let him fuck you in whatever way he needed to come, especially after giving you three incredible orgasms. 

After one final, deep thrust, he stilled. A strangled groan falling from his lips as he dropped his head to your shoulder. 

You let your fingertips lazily trace across his back as you both caught your breaths again, his body heavy atop yours. You felt absolutely spent and you weren’t sure you could ever get up out of this bed again. 

“I thought the sex we had at the bar was incredible…” you swallowed, still somewhat out of breath. “But this right here, might’ve been life changing.”

He laughed. And it was that deep, warm laugh that rumbled in his chest and gave you a strange sense of comfort. 

“Better get used to it.”

Jake dragged himself off of you eventually and cleaned you both up before he laid back down in bed next to you. You were turned towards each other, his fingers tracing patterns on your hip and lower back. 

“So what did you say to Nat earlier?” you asked him, curious.

“I told her the truth,” he simply said. 

“Which is?”

“That I have no intention of hurting you or breaking your heart.” A beat.  

“‘Cause I like you. A lot.” He confessed.

You smiled at him. 

“Good. Because I also like you a lot,” you whispered back. 

“She did also threaten to cut off my balls again, but that’s completely beside the point.” He waved it off with his hand.

“I didn’t expect anything less,” you laughed. Jake had a special talent for lightening the mood and taking the tension out of heavy moments.  

You leaned in to kiss him again and he pulled your body closer against his. 

“I still expect you to take me out on a date, though.” You grinned. "And I want my panties back."

He didn't reply, just smirked against your lips as he kissed you deeply.

You might not be one-hundred percent certain what this thing you’ve started was, but you definitely liked where it was going. And that was enough for now.

Tags: @trelaney

[literal-tv-menace]

Hey Tumblr Fam! If you have a second vote for my girl for Toddler of the Year!

[literal-tv-menace]

oh my god. need to read this asap!

Unleashed Desire

pairing; professor!jake seresin x fem!reader

summary; Professor Jake Seresin never expected to fixate on a student—until you. Quiet, brilliant, and untouched. The more he watches, the more possessive he becomes. You're his now. Whether you know it or not.

word count; 13.4k

warnings; AGE GAP (reader is twenty, jake is in his thirties), SMUT, daddy kink, corruption kink, innocence kink, dom!jake, dacryphilia, oral (fem receiving), overstimulation, READER IS A VIRGIN, obsessive thoughts, dumbification, spitting, cockwarming (kinda), spanking, size kink, this is lowkey dark, people are responsible for their own media consumption.

a/n; this is filthy and i apologize for horny dump on y'all. sorry if this sucks i'm still getting familiar with writing this kind of smut, so if you notice i over-described some things that was me being confused and word vomiting all over my word document. there were too many ideas i tried to fit them all, but will definitely do blurbs for these two

masterlist

Jake Seresin walked into the lecture hall like he owned it — because, in a way, he did.

Ten years in the department, full tenure, two books under his belt, and an entire building’s worth of undergrads who hung on every word that came out of his mouth. He knew what he looked like — tall, sharp, confident. He knew what the students whispered. Hot. Smart. Dangerous in a button-up.

And yeah, he liked it.

Most of them didn’t care about postwar American History, not really. But they filled the seats anyway, hoping for an easy grade or a reason to stare at his forearms when he rolled his sleeves past the elbows.

He smirked to himself as he adjusted the papers in his hand. Another semester, another group of over-eager girls and under-prepared essays.

He stepped into the lecture hall, already mid-sentence in his head, and—

Stopped.

Dead.

You were sitting in the front row.

Directly in front of him.

Plaid skirt. White button-up blouse. A ribbon tied neatly in your hair like you didn’t even realize what that did to a man with a functioning pulse. Your legs were crossed, your posture perfect, your desk already arranged — notebook laid flat, post-its stacked by color, pens uncapped and ready.

And your head was bowed.

Not in some coy, flirtatious way. You weren’t looking up at him through lashes or biting your lip to be seen.

You were just… focused. Calm. Present.

Everyone else in the room had turned to look at him the moment he walked in — eyes on his shoulders, his hands, his jaw.

But not you.

You didn’t even glance his way.

You were already writing the date in the top corner of your notes in tiny, perfect print.

And that?

That got him.

He cleared his throat and forced himself to keep walking, setting his materials down on the desk with a quiet thud. The usual whispers rippled through the room. He didn’t care. Not anymore. He only cared about the girl in the front row who hadn’t looked up once.

He started the lecture on instinct alone, the words rolling out smoothly, years of experience keeping his tone measured and confident. But his eyes kept flicking back to you — the curve of your jaw, the bow in your hair, the soft flutter of your lashes as you scribbled something in the margins of your notes.

You weren’t like the others.

You weren’t trying to impress him. You weren’t trying to flirt.

You were just… good. Sweet. Serious.

You didn’t even know how fucking adorable you looked, sitting there all buttoned-up and composed, legs crossed and lips slightly parted as you listened — not to him, but to the lecture.

And maybe that was what did it.

The restraint. The genuine interest.

Because by the time class ended, Jake couldn’t remember a single other face in the room.

Only yours.

And something deep in his chest — something he hadn’t felt in a long time — curled in quiet anticipation.

He needed to know your name.

And if he wasn’t careful, he’d need a hell of a lot more than that.

You were in the same seat.

Second row, third desk from the left.

Just like the day before.

Jake had tried to shake the way you lingered in his mind — tried to forget the way your skirt had tugged just slightly over your thighs when you crossed your legs, how your head had tilted as you wrote, like you were pulling something from memory — but it was pointless.

Because there you were again.

Same posture. Same calm energy. Same goddamn ribbon in your hair.

Today’s outfit was a pale pink blouse, collar neatly buttoned, a plaid skirt in navy and cream. Knee socks. Perfect posture. The kind of softness that didn’t feel designed to tempt, and somehow tempted even more because of it.

You still didn’t look at him when he walked in.

You were too busy underlining your notes with a pastel blue pen.

And that made something in him tighten.

You didn’t crave his attention like the others. You didn’t light up when he passed. You didn’t flash a smile or a low-cut neckline or flutter your lashes like a dozen other students had already done before class even began.

You didn’t care.

Or maybe you were just trying very, very hard not to show it.

Either way — it made him want you.

The lecture began the same way it always did — syllabus points, early framework, a few jokes to keep the room alive.

But then he asked a question.

A tough one.

A silence followed. Then, as expected, a dozen hands flew up around the room — loud, eager, obvious.

But his eyes went straight to you.

“You,” he said smoothly, pointing without hesitation. “Third seat, first row. Go ahead.”

Your head snapped up, wide-eyed. The pen slipped from your fingers.

He watched you blink, inhale sharply, lips parting as you searched your mind for the answer. He could see the nerves flash across your face, that same little crease forming between your brows as you swallowed.

“I—um. The, uh… the cause of the shift in policy was—was rooted in post-WWII diplomatic tension,” you stammered, voice soft. “Specifically the… growing divide between the U.S. and the Soviet Union in the early years of the Cold War.”

A pause.

Then: “Yes,” he said, lips curling into something dangerously close to a smile. “Exactly.”

Your cheeks flushed pink. You looked down immediately, biting your lip, and picked your pen back up like you’d said something wrong.

Jake exhaled slowly through his nose.

Fuck.

You looked so pretty when you were flustered. When you stumbled just slightly over your words. When you turned red from something he did.

He wanted to see that look again. Not here. Not like this.

Closer. Louder. Wetter.

His jaw flexed.

He shouldn't be thinking about you like this. You were a student. Twenty, maybe. Barely even an adult. And he was a professor — your professor — with no business imagining what you might look like on your knees, still wearing that fucking bow.

But you made it so hard not to.

That quiet intelligence. That unintentional sweetness. The way you never looked at him for too long, like you didn’t trust yourself to.

You were perfect in the kind of way that made men like him ruin things.

And he already knew he would.

Because after just two classes, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Not during his office hours. Not during faculty meetings. Not even at night, lying in bed with his hands gripping his cock, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what it would feel like to own that innocence.

And God help him — he already knew this wasn’t going to be enough.

Just watching you from across the room?

It was never going to be enough.

You were walking out of class when he saw it happen.

Some kid — backwards hat, lazy grin, the kind who barely passed the midterms and only showed up when attendance counted — let his eyes drag down the length of your legs as you passed. No shame. No subtlety.

Jake watched from behind the podium, pretending to shuffle papers, while something cold and sharp curled in his chest.

The kid wasn’t alone.

There were two more — one leaning against the doorframe, another pretending to scroll through his phone — all of them stealing glances like you were something they could take.

Their eyes lingered on your skirt, that pretty little plaid thing you always wore. On your thighs. On the bounce of your step. And Jake knew — he knew — what they were thinking.

Because he’d thought it first.

He’d seen that skirt and wondered how far it would ride up if you sat on his desk. He’d looked at the ribbon in your hair and imagined tugging it loose just to watch it fall. He’d watched the way you blushed when he called on you and wondered what you'd sound like if he kept you flustered on purpose.

But they didn’t get to think about you like that. Not them.

You weren’t some girl at a party or a name on a group chat. You weren’t a story they could brag about over beer and noise and cheap cologne.

You were soft-spoken. Smart. Thoughtful.

You were kind.

And you were his student.

Jake’s grip on the folder in his hand tightened.

Those boys — those kids — didn’t even see you. Not really. They saw a pair of legs and a short skirt and a pretty mouth they wanted wrapped around their dicks.

They didn’t know about the way you highlighted your notes in color-coded tabs. The way your eyes lit up when you made a historical connection no one else caught. The way you bit your lip when you were concentrating, or how your breath hitched ever so slightly when he spoke too directly to you in class.

No. They didn’t deserve to look at you. Not like that.

He did.

He watched you stop by the door, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, your eyes flicking up for a second — not at him, never directly — before you slipped into the hallway and disappeared from view.

Jake exhaled slowly, jaw tight.

He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t want this.

But that ribbon in your hair? The way your skirt swayed when you walked?

He was already imagining how easy it would be to press his palm flat against your lower back and guide you into his office. Lock the door behind you. Make you say his name in that same breathy voice you used when answering questions you already knew the answer to.

He knew it was wrong.

But it didn’t stop him from thinking it.

And it sure as hell wouldn’t stop him from watching the next time someone else looked at you like that.

Because next time, he might not be able to stop himself.

You were in the library when he saw you again.

Tucked away near the windows, hunched over a stack of books so tall it looked like they might topple over. Your ribbon today was white, soft satin, tied in a bow at the base of your ponytail. You had one foot tucked beneath you, a highlighter between your lips, fingers moving quickly as you copied something down into a lined notebook.

And you didn’t see him watching.

You never did.

Jake had only meant to pass through. Drop off a faculty packet, maybe grab a coffee on the way out. But then he caught a glimpse of that pale bow and that neat little skirt, and suddenly he wasn’t moving at all.

You were so good. So careful.

You read every assigned chapter before class. You came prepared, never late, never distracted. You didn’t party. You didn’t gossip. You didn’t flirt.

You were smart, painfully shy, and still untouched in all the ways that mattered.

And God help him — he wanted to ruin you.

And he didn’t mean in some metaphorical, hypothetical way. No, he meant it like something that would happen. And when it did, it would be rough. Controlled. Intentional.

The first time he touched you, it would be the kind of touch that would make you tremble. He’d talk you through it. He’d teach you. God, the things he'd teach you. He’d whisper in your ear and press kisses to your flushed cheeks and tell you how perfect you were while you came undone beneath him.

Jake didn’t do this. Didn’t fixate. Didn’t cross lines. But with you? Every inch of restraint felt thinner by the day.

And today, he didn’t walk past the table.

He stopped.

“Reading ahead?” he asked, his voice lower than usual, a touch amused.

You startled — just a little. The highlighter fell from your mouth and hit the notebook with a soft thump.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, lips parted.

And then you nodded quickly. “Y-yes. I mean—yes, Professor Seresin.”

You said his name like it meant something. Like it tasted like nerves and reverence and something you hadn’t named yet.

Jake gave you a smile. Not the one he used in lectures. A quieter one. Just for you.

“Didn’t peg you for a library regular,” he said, even though he already knew you came here. He’d seen you. Twice now. Same seat. Same coffee order from the student café. Same color-coded system of sticky notes.

You looked down at your notebook like it might save you. “I—I usually come when it’s quiet. Helps me focus.”

“Mm,” he hummed, gaze flicking to the page in front of you. “You always this thorough?”

You blushed.

Of course you did.

Jake leaned in just a bit, resting one hand on the back of the empty chair across from you. Not quite an invitation. Not quite professional, either.

“You’re one of the smartest students I’ve had in years,” he said, voice low.

You blinked up at him, stunned, your eyes shiny like you were a child who had just given the biggest lollipop.

He knew he shouldn’t be talking to you like this — not here, not like this — but watching the way your fingers curled nervously around your pen, the way you pressed your knees together under the table upon hearing his praise? It made him feel something he hadn’t felt in years.

Possessive.

Protective.

Predatory.

You weren’t like the others. You weren’t careless. You didn’t wear revealing clothes or beg for attention or ask him what kind of wine he liked just to test the waters.

You were soft. Nervous. You fidgeted with your sleeves when you spoke. You licked your lips when you were thinking. You didn’t even realize how many eyes followed you down the hallway — or that he was one of them.

He cleared his throat.

“If you ever want to come by my office hours,” he said carefully, “we could talk more. You’ve got an eye for detail — more than most.”

You nodded, almost too quickly. “O-okay. Thank you.”

Jake smiled again. “Anytime.”

Then he stepped back, just enough to leave you looking flustered and glowing and completely undone from a two-minute conversation.

And when he walked out of the library, it wasn’t coffee on his mind.

It was the bow in your hair.

And how long he’d last before he finally reached out and untied it.

-

It had been almost a month since that conversation in the library.

Four lectures, two assignments, and not a single visit to his office.

You hadn’t come by. Not once.

Jake told himself he didn’t care. That you were just shy. That you probably didn’t want to seem like you were trying to impress the professor. That he liked that about you — the restraint. The self-discipline.

But still. You’d said okay.

And ever since, he’d watched you walk past his office every Tuesday and Thursday after class without even looking in.

It gnawed at him.

You were in his head now — had been since day one — all sweetness and blushing cheeks and that damn ribbon you wore like it didn’t mean anything. And now you were avoiding him?

Jake didn’t like being ignored.

Especially not by you.

So when he saw you outside on campus — standing under the awning of the science building, laughing softly at something some guy was saying — something in him snapped.

The kid was tall. Blonde. Baseball cap and sneakers, some letterman-style arrogance in his stance.

And he was standing too close.

Jake watched from across the quad, invisible behind his sunglasses and department-issued windbreaker, the expression on his face unreadable. To everyone but himself, that is.

Because what he was feeling?

Jealousy.

Sharp. Hot. Irrational.

He watched your hands fidget with the hem of your sweater. You were smiling, polite, nervous. You weren’t flirting — not really — but you weren’t walking away either. And that was enough to make Jake’s teeth clench.

Because what the fuck did he have to say that kept you standing there?

Jake had asked you to come see him. Invited you.

And you hadn’t even glanced his way in a month.

But now this guy? This idiot in Nikes? He got your smile?

No.

No, he didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Later that evening, Jake sat at his desk, staring at your name on the attendance roster. The cursor blinked. His hand hovered over the keyboard for less than a second before he typed:

Miss [Last Name],

I’d like to speak with you regarding your most recent essay. Please stop by my office during my posted hours tomorrow.

– Professor Seresin

Short. Professional. Perfectly appropriate.

But his intention couldn’t have been clearer.

You wanted to pretend you didn’t know the pull he had on you? Fine.

But he wasn’t going to stand back and let some boy with a half-formed thought about post-war diplomacy steal your attention.

No.

You were better than that.

You were his.

Even if you didn’t know it yet.

-

He drank black coffee and stared at his computer screen for exactly forty minutes, unable to work, until your knock came.

You stood in the threshold, clutching your bag to your chest like a prayer. Sleeves of your baby pink cardigan pulled over your fists. Ribbon today was pale blue, tight at your temple.

For a second, Jake thought you might apologize for being early, but you only looked at him with those wide, serious eyes and said, “You wanted to see me, Professor?”

He drank the moment in: the tremor in your voice, the nervous twitch of your left thumb along the bag strap, the way you hovered on the edge of his office like you were afraid to disturb the air.

He wanted to disturb you.

He gestured at the battered armchair across from his desk. “Come in, have a seat.”

You nodded and moved in, perching on the very edge of the chair. He watched your knees press together, skirt riding up just enough to show the bare curve above your knee, and something about the carefulness of the gesture — the fact that you didn’t even try to hide it — made him want to lean forward and rest a palm on the soft skin there, just to see how quickly you’d color.

He didn’t, of course.

Instead, he folded his hands on the desk, faking composure.

“I read your paper,” he said, voice low. “A few times, actually.”

Your jaw twitched. “Oh,” you said quietly. “Was it… bad?”

He fixed you with a look, letting the silence hang, letting you squirm beneath it. “No. It was excellent. Maybe too excellent.”

A little furrow appeared between your brows. “What does that mean?”

Jake smiled, slow and deliberate. “I mean, it was a little hard to believe you wrote it.”

A flash of hurt, quick and sharp, before you schooled it away. “I— I did write it."

“All by yourself.”

You blinked, lips parting. “I—” A flush crept up your neck, coloring your cheeks. “I did. Write it myself, I mean.” You looked down at the papers in your lap. “I just… I really liked the topic.”

He let his smile soften. “I know you did.” He hesitated, then pushed his chair back and stood, circling the desk. You straightened, hands tensing on your bag.

He perched on the edge of the desk beside you, close enough to catch the faint scent of your shampoo—something sweet and citrus, fresh and young. “Would you mind walking me through it?” he asked. “Your argument was good. I only want to hear it in your own words. Sometimes things get lost in translation, from mind to page.”

You nodded, silent, and fumbled for the copy of your essay in your bag. He watched as you smoothed the pages, careful not to crease them, your fingers trembling as you laid it in your lap. “Uh—should I just… talk through it?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“Please,” Jake said, and he let his knee brush yours—just the faintest touch—then leaned back, giving you the illusion of space.

You glanced at the first page, unsure, and then you started: “I argued that the US containment policy was less about ideological opposition to communism and more about economic self-interest, especially after the Marshall Plan. I thought—well, I noticed you mentioned the importance of domestic industry in lecture, and—”

Jake watched you stumble through the explanation, your voice catching, your hands trembling as you clutched the paper. You were so fucking earnest, so desperate to be right, to be good, to impress him, and it made him want to ruin you in every way that counted.

You kept talking, oblivious to his attention, until you realized he hadn't noted it in the margins — the way your voice gathered confidence, the way you straightened as your thesis came into focus. By the end of your summary, you were almost steady, flushed but proud, the paper cradled to your chest like you were daring him to snatch it away.

He hadn't meant to smile, but he did. A real one, gentle at the edges, before he remembered himself and cleared his throat.

"You see it, then," he said. "The connections. Most students don't." He tucked a finger beneath the ribbon trailing by your cheek, almost brushing skin, and let it drop. You drew a sharp breath, the color high on your cheeks now, eyes darting to the window, the door, anywhere but at him.

He let the silence hang. It was a test. He wanted to know how long you'd last before you broke it — if you would. Most didn't. Most filled the air with nervous chatter or apologies. You just sat there.

He didn’t say a word. Just reached, slow and deliberate, and rested his hand on your knee.

You stopped breathing.

It was nothing, technically—an academic gesture, a comfort, the kind of thing professors did all the time. But there was something in the way his palm curved to your knee, warm and heavy, that made it feel like the most significant touch you’d ever felt.

He squeezed, gentle but certain.

Your heart tripped. You couldn’t look away.

"Hey," he said, voice softer now. "You’re not in trouble. You’re a smart girl. Maybe a little too smart for your own good."

"T—Thank you, sir."

Oh, that went straight to his cock. Jake thought he could cum from your voice alone. So innocent, sweet.

He couldn't help but let out a mix between a breath and a laugh. "You really have no idea, do you?"

You looked confused. Completely, utterly confused and that turned him on like he's never been turned on before.

"You sit in my classroom. Front row, wearing the shortest skirt you could've found and tying your hair all pretty in a different ribbon, every damn day." He rose from his chair with a fluid motion, circling you slowly, much like a predator sizing up its prey, eyes lingering with an intense focus. "Do you do it for me, sweetheart? Do you enjoy that I notice?" His voice was a low murmur, resonating with a mix of curiosity and something more primal.

A tingling energy coursed through you, setting every nerve on edge. Your skin erupted in a wave of goosebumps, a testament to the power of his words that seemed to resonate deep within, sending shivers cascading down your spine.

You attempted to speak, but the words seemed to tangle and lodge in your throat, stubbornly refusing to emerge. The intense, undeniable ache between your legs heightened your anxiety, and without conscious thought, you instinctively pressed your legs together, desperately seeking any form of friction to relieve the tension. He noticed, naturally. His face lit up with a wide, mischievous Cheshire Cat smile, a knowing glint dancing in his eyes.

"Do you want to be my good girl, sweetheart? Is that it?" The smirk on his lips widened, a playful yet commanding expression that seemed to dance in his eyes. "Do whatever I say?" His presence was magnetic, drawing you in with an irresistible allure that left your heart pounding in your chest.

You forced a small nod, the tiniest tilt of your head, a mere ghost of motion. But it wasn't enough for him. He craved the certainty of your words. "Say it, baby. Say you want it," he demanded softly, his voice a velvet command. His arms created an unyielding fortress around your chair, his presence enveloping you like an unwavering sentinel. Despite his dominating posture, there was an intensity in his eyes, a searing warmth that promised he would stop if that was what you truly wanted.

But you didn't want him to.

So you gathered all the courage you had in you. "I—I want i—it, Sir."

Jake yanks you up to the desk in one powerful motion, his strength both surprising and reassuring. He positions himself between your legs, forcing them apart with a commanding presence. Leaning over you, he creates a tension that makes you instinctively grip the blue fabric of his shirt, seeking solace.

His lips hover tantalizingly close before slamming into yours with a fervor that leaves you breathless. He kisses you with the desperation of a man who has been deprived, as if this moment was something he has longed for, dreamt of, and maybe, just maybe, it truly was.

His hands shot up your skirt with a fierce urgency, forcing a gasp from your lips against his. A sly smirk flickered across his face, but he pressed on, undeterred, his touch becoming more daring. His fingers danced higher, swiftly locating the waistband of your panties and yanking them down with a ruthless determination. Without hesitation, he thrust a single finger inside your soaking core, his lips trailing a fiery path down your neck as you gasped and shuddered under the onslaught of these electrifying sensations.

"Fuck, you're so fucking tight, bet no one has ever touched you down here before." He growled in your ear, drawing out a desperate whimper. "Don’t worry baby, I'll make sure my cock fits in this tight little hole."

Jake brutally forced in another finger, his movements rough and relentless, making your vision explode with stars. His free hand clamped around your throat, jerking your gaze to meet his intense stare. "I've been fucking patient, baby, I played your little teasing game. I let you sashay out of my classroom every fucking day as if you hadn't just given me the most excruciating hard-on of my life."

"I—I didn't mean—" You choked out, tears streaming down your cheeks from the overwhelming pleasure and his brutal words.

"I know you didn't, and that fucking kills me. But I waited, baby, I fucking waited, and now I'm going to take what's mine."

He abruptly withdrew his hands from both your core and your throat, leaving a sudden void that made you whine softly, a sound filled with longing and need. Your hips instinctively pushed toward him, desperate to reclaim the connection you had lost, as if trying to chase the lingering warmth of his fingers. A low chuckle escaped his lips, rich with amusement at the needy, almost pitiful sounds that escaped yours. As he deftly undid the zipper of his pants, the metallic sound seemed to echo in the charged atmosphere, and he revealed his hardening erection with a confident ease.

Your eyes were immediately drawn to him, widening slightly as your lips parted, a mix of anticipation and nervous excitement washing over you in waves. He was impressively large, thick, and commanding, and you couldn't help but marvel at the sheer size of him. The sight was both intimidating and mesmerizing, and you were certain that even the tip alone would stretch you to the point of discomfort. Yet, despite the apprehension, there was an undeniable allure to him, and your mouth watered in response, captivated by the raw, primal energy he exuded.

The older man takes his shaft in hand, the thick, bulbous tip glistening with anticipation. He slaps against your sensitive cunt, sending a sudden, electrifying jolt of pleasure coursing through your body, making you flinch with each deliberate tap. Then, with a deliberate slowness that makes you ache, he traces the wide, smooth head down to your entrance, where it pauses, poised to claim. He begins to push in, his eyes locked on the sight of his thick shaft stretching you, millimeter by millimeter. The sight of your body yielding to his, the contrast of his thick, veined shaft against your delicate folds, is intoxicating. A low, primal groan escapes his lips, drawn out from some deep, ancient part of him.

There's a pain that ignites like a flame, a burning sensation that makes you gasp and bite down onto his shirt, muffling your cries. Jake watches you intently, his eyes searching your face as he continues to sink his length into you, inch by thick inch. "That's my good girl," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "I know it’s big, baby." he coos, his lips curving into a soft smile. "But you can take it." His voice is a warm, gentle breeze against your skin, a stark contrast to the fierce, burning stretch of his body claiming yours.

Your postwar American History professor slams against you, his heavy balls slapping your ass. He growls your name and the pet names he’s claimed you with, demanding your gaze. “Let me see those fucking eyes, princess,” Jake commands. You tear your face away from his chest, eyes meeting his.

“I’m fucking buried in you, baby. All the way in your goddamn gut,” he snarls, beginning to fuck you with harsh, shallow thrusts. You cry out with each punishing drive, pain morphing into pleasure, a pleasure that consumes you. “That’s it…” he groans, eyes wild with lust and dominance.

"It hurts," you observe, your voice catching in your throat, punctuating the sentence with a sharp intake of breath as Jake's movements become increasingly vigorous. "P—please, sir," you add, your words barely a whisper amidst the growing intensity, each sensation rippling through you like a cascade of electricity.

He nods his head and smiles at you sweetly, “That’s right, baby. That’s what happens when your teacher stuffs his fat cock inside your virgin little cunt.” His words made your walls squeeze him even more, making him groan. "Fuck, you're swallowing me, greedy whore."

“I’m gonna start fucking you now, sweetheart, and you'll take whatever I give you,” he forewarns, and you nod your head.

“Yes, sir.” At your words, Jake begins to pummel in and out of your pussy. Obscene noises come from where you’re connected to him—wet sounds and skin slapping against skin.

Jake gazes down, eyes ablaze, as his thick shaft brutally vanishes and materializes, your tightness struggling to accommodate his massive invasion. His heavy balls swing and slap against your ass, glistening with your wetness. “Drenched fucking everywhere,” he growls, his thrusts brutal and unyielding. “You're fucking loving this—I knew you would.”

His cock batters your cervix with each thrust, sending waves of pain crashing through you. But when he grinds against your sweet spot, the agony morphs into ecstasy almost instantly. “Fuck, look at your juices coating my cock,” Jake snarls, slamming forward with renewed ferocity. “You're fucking gushing, dripping down to my balls—shit!”

Jake leans down to kiss you. At first, it’s soft. But then, like the way he's taking away your innocence, it grows rough and desperate. He's in complete control, shoving his tongue into your mouth and doing all kinds of things you can’t keep up with, yet still try to.

Jake impales you, plunging into your fuckhole without mercy, his shaft brutalizing your soaked cunt. His length ravages your sensitive walls, fucking you with a savage skill. He's finally abusing your pussy with the ferocity he's been craving since he the first time he saw you.

"S-sir! It's... it's too much— I—I can't— I can't control—” You’re overwhelmed, body convulsing, senses spiraling. Jake revels in your chaos, finding your confusion fucking exquisite.

“That’s a orgasm, princess. Now, sit still and fucking beg for my cock,” he growls, and you nod, desperate.

“Drench my thick fucking cock, baby. Come on, make a goddamn mess on this dick,” he orders, punctuating his words with hard slaps on your chest and the side of your left thigh. Your cunt spasms around him, clit pulsing like a live wire, back arching sharply as you explode around his cock for the first time. “Atta girl.”

He roars as your eyes roll back, lids clamping shut like a vice while your face contorts in a grimace of raw ecstasy. Your mouth gapes open, shocked by the inferno that consumes you. Your pussy clamps down on Jake’s cock like a vise, squeezing him mercilessly, demanding more.

Jake pounds into you through your climax, barely slowing as your body convulses with wave after wave of pleasure. Your walls clench and release, milking him until he forces you through the crest, and then he resumes his relentless, brutal pace.

Your breasts heave wildly with each brutal thrust of Jake’s hips, your body jerked upwards like a ragdoll before he yanks you back onto his pulsating shaft. “Ah—ah—ah!” you cry out, mindlessly drooling with each primal grunt, eyes rolling back as coherent thought abandons you.

“Silly little girl—prancing around in miniskirts, acting like a little slut when you haven’t even known real sex,” Jake growls, gripping your jaw tightly, his lips curling into a cruel sneer. He hocks a thick wad of saliva into your mouth, commanding you to swallow it like the good little whore you were.

You obey him instantly, a twisted smile on your lips before your face contorts from the brutal sensations his cock inflicts. "Greedy little slut—your hungry pussy is devouring my thick cock," he growls, ramming his thickness mercilessly in and out of you.

"It's so deep, Sir! C– Can feel it in my belly," you cry out, and your words make Jake's cock pulsate violently within your clenching, drenched walls. Your juices gush over his cock, leaving a thick, glistening coat around his shaft and balls.

“Uh-huh—you’re just so tight, baby. I had to force it in—but now you’re takin’ it like pro.” He grunted. "My little fucktoy… This pussy is mine now—all mine, just like the rest of you," he roars, and your second orgasm crashes over you without warning, leaving you shattered and gasping.

You thrash desperately, trying to escape Jake's grasp, but it's futile. Your swollen nipples rasp against his shirt, the friction sending jolts of unwanted pleasure coursing through you. Jake's thick shaft impales you, your tightness making his movements rough and punishing. "That's it, take it," he growls, his voice a low, feral rumble. "Choke on this cock. My little whore." His mouth attacks your jaw, biting and sucking, marking you with primal intensity.

"I'm going to make you mine," he growls, eyes glinting with dark desire. "You're the perfect fit for me, crafted for my every whim. Gonna turn you into my little whore.”

Your walls clamp down on Jake's shaft, throbbing and desperate. You're drowning him in your heat, your body screaming for his release. "Daddy..." you cry out, a shivering, sweating mess, convulsing with an ecstasy so raw it's agony. Jake's jaw tightens at the sound of that word, his eyes wild, fighting back the cataclysmic explosion threatening to detonate within him but it feels like trying to stop a stampede of 1000 horses with a single thread.

"I'm your Daddy, and don't you forget it," he growls, thrusting with a ferocity that makes you gasp. Each movement is a relentless assault, as if his sole mission is to claim you completely. His focus is unwavering as he drives into you with raw determination, intent on filling you to the brim with his release before flipping you over for more. He relishes the challenge of forcing his girth inside you, feeling the tension and resistance. "You're driving me wild, baby. I'm gonna reward you for taking me so well."

At his statement, you jolt with a surge of excitement, your senses suddenly sharp despite the haze enveloping your mind. "R– Really, Daddy?" you manage to utter, your voice trembling with the thrill of anticipation at the promise of a reward.

"Promise, sweetheart. You're such a good girl for Daddy—"

"Going to fill you up, baby," the older man growls with a raw, primal intensity, his voice a rough edge of desire. "I'll stuff you so full of my cum that you'll be dripping with my seed for days," he declares, his words punctuated by a fervent string of curses, each one a testament to his overpowering need.

The sudden cessation of his hips' rhythm is jarring, an interruption as abrupt as a lightning strike. With a surge of animalistic urgency, he drives himself forward, embedding to the core with a fierce determination. The unexpected force draws a frown from you, a sharp hiss escaping your clenched teeth as the unexpected jolt of discomfort courses through you. But then, a searing warmth bursts within, his release thundering through your inner walls, saturating them with a molten, pearlescent fervor.

"There we go—now you're truly mine, princess," he growls, his voice resonating with the deep rumble of distant thunder. His smile is a languid curve, sated and triumphant, his cheeks flushed with the fiery afterglow of his climax. "And I know you love being Daddy's." His eyes, heavy-lidded and shadowed, lock onto yours with a possessive, almost primal, tenderness.

The air was heavy with the musky scent of sex, mixed with the lingering smell of your professor's cologne. It was a heady and intoxicating smell, one that enveloped you and filled your senses. Your mouth is dry, throat constricted as you try to swallow. The taste of him still lingers on your tongue, a mix of salt and musk.

For a fleeting moment, you remained motionless, struggling to catch your breath while your mind grappled with the reality of the situation. The warm sensation of your professor's release trickled from you, a stark reminder of the intimacy you had just shared, while his member remained embedded deep within you. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your gaze darting around the room, deliberately avoiding his eyes. An awareness settled over you, knowing that his intense gaze was fixed on you, observing your every subtle move, every minute reaction. This scrutiny set your skin ablaze, a fiery sensation that coursed through your body, leaving you flushed and breathless.

"I'm still buried deep inside of your pussy and you can't even look at me? Thought we were past the shyness." Jake's hands grabbed hold of your neck, forcing you to look at him.

His eyes were black as a moonless night, just as they'd been when he'd first claimed your mouth. You could feel his cock, still hard as steel, impaling you, pulsing with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine.

He withdrew slowly, not out of gentleness, but to revel in the sight of his cock glistening with their mingled essence. A primal growl tore from his chest as he watched his seed spill from you, dripping down your thighs and onto his desk in a filthy, sacred mess.

A dark urge compelled him to his knees, hungry to taste you. In his mind, he had earned this right to your flesh. He had been patient, and now it was time to claim his reward. Though he had already taken your virginity, it wasn't enough. He wanted to devastate you, to leave you feeling his mouth, his fingers, his cock for weeks to come. He wanted to imprint himself on you, a brutal, carnal memory that would haunt your every waking moment.

Jake crashed to his knees, forcing your thighs apart with a feral hunger. He buried his face in your heat, growling at the sweet, intoxicating taste of you. Of course, you tasted like fucking honey—ambrosia from the gods themselves. He'd fantasized about this a thousand times, and your taste was always the same. Sweet. Maddening. Pure.

You fought to push him away, desperate to close your legs and hide the wrecked, ravaged mess that was still soaking wet. But Jake was relentless. His massive shoulders wedged your thighs open, and his arms locked around your waist like a vice. You weren't going anywhere.

"St—stop... too much, p—please," you begged, voice trembling, but your pleas crumbled into a moan as that electrifying sensation surged through your belly once more. The wet, obscene sounds he produced while devouring your pussy were utterly maddening, and your body quaked with the overwhelming intensity of overstimulation.

He ripped himself away, eyes locking onto yours like a predator's. "Don't you dare move, baby," he growled. "Daddy's not done with you yet." His words sent a brutal surge through your pussy, clenching around the emptiness. He saw it, lips curling into a feral smirk. Then he plunged back in, straight for your clit, sucking until your legs convulsed.

You shattered again, and Jake devoured every last drop, his tongue relentless. He was ravenous, a beast feasting on your pleasure, ready to spend eternity between your thighs. And you'd let him, just like you were now, offering yourself up for his use, his possession. He wouldn't stop until you were molded into his masterpiece.

He finally ceased his relentless assault with his mouth and pulled away, delivering a final, teasing slap to your pussy just to watch you squirm once more. His eyes locked with yours as he began to button your cardigan with deliberate precision, the silence between you charged and electric.

"Tell me, sweetheart," he taunted, his voice laced with a dark edge. "Do you often allow random men to have their way with you like I just did?" He tucked himself back into his dress pants with a nonchalant air. As he bent to retrieve your panties from the floor, he casually stuffed them into his pocket, while your eyes tracked his every deliberate movement, filled with a mix of wide-eyed curiosity and incredulous wonder.

Your cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson, and warmth spread across your entire face at his words. "I—I've never... you know. I—I mean, n—no one has—" you stammered, struggling to find the right words.

He silenced you with a gentle, fleeting kiss, his lips barely brushing yours before pulling away. "Oh, sweetheart, I know. I just wanted to see you all flustered," he murmured with a playful glint in his eyes.

A soft, melodic giggle escaped your lips as you glanced down, feeling a mix of embarrassment and delight. Gathering the courage, you lifted your gaze to meet his captivating green eyes once more. "Was... Was I good, Sir?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, filled with anticipation and a hint of vulnerability.

Your eyes sparkled with a tantalizing blend of innocence and a desperate craving for any morsel of his approval. It ignited a fire within him, making his desire stir once more with an insatiable hunger.

"You were absolutely perfect, baby. Such a good girl, taking everything I gave you like a champ." Jake's hands cradled your face with an unexpected tenderness, his eyes burning with desire. "Are you going to let me do it again? Let me split you wide open? Make you cum until you can't hold back the tears, stretch you nice and deep, huh? Would you like that?"

Jake observed you with a newfound eagerness, your head bobbing up and down with excitement, causing the once neatly tied ribbon in your hair to tilt askew, bouncing in time with the soft strands cascading around your face.

"Can we do it again?" you asked, your voice infused with enthusiasm, yet your cheeks still bore that familiar blush, a rosy hue that seemed permanently painted across your skin, much to Jake's amusement.

He couldn't suppress a chuckle, his hands gently grasping your hips to help you slide off his desk. He tugged your skirt back into place, ignoring the creases that formed in the fabric. "Try walking to the other side of the room first," he suggested with a playful smile, "and then tell me if you want to go again."

You tried to walk. God, you really tried — wobbling like a newborn deer with his cum dripping down your thighs with all the resolve of someone trying to pretend they hadn’t just been wrecked over a desk by their History professor. And still, you were trying to collect yourself — brushing hair from your face, smoothing the fabric of your clothes like you could piece together the composure he'd stripped from you.

You didn't make it far before your knees buckled, surrendering beneath you the moment you released your grip on the desk. Jake witnessed the exact instant when realization dawned on you—that you weren't going to make it across the room. The quivering in your thighs was too intense, and the ache that pulsed between your legs was too profound.

“You alright there, sweetheart?” Jake inquired, his voice a low, amused rumble, yet gentle, as if he were trying not to startle you.

You nodded—rapidly, too rapidly—and shifted your weight in a way that betrayed your embarrassment. “Mhm. Just… didn’t expect…” Your voice faded into silence, and you caught your lower lip between your teeth.

God, that lip. That mouth. That brilliant mind of yours, always racing ahead, leaving your words struggling to keep pace.

“Didn’t expect what, exactly?” Jake murmured, though the answer was already clear to him.

“Di—Didn’t expect it to feel like that,” you confessed, your voice barely a whisper.

"That means I fucked you way too good." His voice dripped with possessive satisfaction, a reminder that he couldn't resist repeating. "If we're doing this, you need to grasp one thing, sweetheart. You're mine, completely and utterly. From this moment on, no one else will ever get to see you like this, do you understand?"

Your knees buckled once more, this time at the mere thought of belonging entirely to him. You hadn't entered his office with such a scenario in mind, as your nature was far too reserved for such bold intentions. Yet, you couldn't deny the truth—you had often imagined Jake in contexts far removed from professionalism.

From the very first day you laid eyes on him in that classroom, you had waged a relentless battle against your own thoughts, striving to rein in the endless reveries that involved your achingly attractive professor. His presence was magnetic, with his deep-set eyes and the confident way he carried himself, and it took every ounce of your willpower to keep your mind from wandering into those tempting fantasies.

You weren't sure what he saw in you. You were acutely aware of your own shyness, the way it seemed to wrap around you like a cloak. You struggled to maintain eye contact and engage in proper conversation, yet your mind excelled in academic settings, a sanctuary of logic and equations. You figured it was your only advantage, a lifeline you clung to almost desperately. Jake, on the other hand, was someone effortlessly attractive, radiating a confidence that drew others in like moths to a flame. He was fully conscious of his allure, aware that any girl on campus would jump at the chance to be with him. So why you?

The question baffled you, but you decided not to dwell on it.

You were drawn to Jake Seresin with an intensity that was new and overwhelming, a yearning that eclipsed anything you had ever experienced before. This world of desire was uncharted territory for you. Prior to what had just transpired, you had never even explored your own body, let alone shared it with someone else. Yet here you stood, stripped of your underwear, having been thoroughly ravished and brought to the peak of ecstasy multiple times by the man who now stood smirking before you.

It was almost sacred how swiftly and clearly the words escaped your lips. "I understand, Sir."

-

The following day, as you stepped into Jake's classroom, you donned those skirts that unfailingly sent his mind into a frenzy, accompanied by a matching ribbon that you now anticipated he'd deftly untie and loop gently around your neck later in the day. You settled into your usual spot, your desk adorned with a meticulous array of color-coordinated pencils and sticky notes.

Yet, a new dynamic was at play—an electric exchange of eye contact that threaded through his lecture like a secret conversation. Every so often, you'd lift your head, your eyes seeking his, only to find his deep green gaze already fixed upon you, causing a blush to bloom across your cheeks, a silent acknowledgment of the shared understanding between you.

Once his lecture concluded and the class was dismissed, you leisurely gathered your belongings, carefully tucking each item back into your bag. Your gaze wandered over to where Jake stood, surrounded by a cluster of girls who lingered after class with trivial questions that bore no relevance to the subject. You tried to suppress a smile as he finally sent the last girl on her way, his eyes locking onto yours with unwavering intent.

"Miss, could you hang back for a second? I need to give you the pointers I made to your last essay." His lie flowed smoothly, as he pretended to rummage through his own bag, extracting a seemingly random stack of papers. Once the room was clear of others and you were entirely alone with him, he let the papers drop onto his desk, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "I want to take you to my place tonight."

Your eyes widened in surprise. "What? W—why? I—I thought we'd meet at your office."

"The thing is, sweetheart," he growled, stepping closer with an imposing presence that seemed to swallow the room. "The things I desire to do to you demand a bed—a real one. While my office has all the space in the world, there's just no way I can cram a bed in here and tie you up the way I envision without setting off alarm bells for everyone around."

You gulped. "Okay."

"Atta girl." He reached out to give your arm a light squeeze, his fingers lingering for a moment. "Be a good girl and go to your next class, then come find me in my office when you're done."

You managed to nod before turning away from him and toward the exit. You didn't want to go to your next class, not when the ache between your legs was growing rapidly as you processed Jake's words. He wanted to tie you up on his bed, and you were supposed to sit through a two-hour lecture about the American Revolution? Not fair.

The day only seemed to slow down after that. You tried so hard to focus, scribling in your notebook like a maniac, pretending there wasn't a borderline humiliating wet patch in your panties from the thought of getting fucked by your professor. And when the last class was done, you practically threw your things inside your bag without a care and made your way to Jake's office.

Your hands trembled with raw anticipation, a visceral thrill coursing through your veins. For a fleeting instant, a sharp doubt pierced through the haze of desire—what the hell were you thinking? Racing to his door, burning with the reckless urge to be taken like a desperate whore in his house, sprawled on his bed.

But then, the memory of him flooded back, an overwhelming tidal wave—the way his fingers, mouth, and cock overwhelmed you, filling you in ways you had never dared to dream possible. You weren't naive; you understood sex long before losing your virginity to Jake, but you never could have fathomed it would ignite a pleasure so consuming.

There was no room for overthinking; he was already there, leaning casually against the doorframe, his office having closed for the day. His posture was relaxed yet expectant, with arms crossed over his chest and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing his strong, sinewy forearms. The late afternoon light cast a warm glow, accentuating the subtle play of muscles beneath his skin.

"Ready to go? I don't know about you, but I'm ready to relax a little."

You didn’t know how he managed to stay so composed on the walk to the parking lot, especially when you kept glancing over your shoulder every few steps, half-certain someone would see you slipping away with your professor. Still, you stayed close beside him, matching his pace, and murmured a soft thank you — cheeks flushed — as he opened the passenger door of his car for you.

"I hope you didn’t make any plans this weekend," he said casually, draping his arm over the back of your seat as he looked over his shoulder to reverse the car. "You’re staying at my place tonight."

"I—I am? But I didn't bring any extra clothes with me."

Jake didn’t even look at you as he pulled out of the lot, voice low and wicked with promise. “You won’t be needing any, sweetheart. I plan on keeping you naked all weekend.”

-

His house was exactly what you’d imagined — maybe even more so. Warm, quiet, and steeped in character, it felt like stepping into the private study of a man who lived and breathed knowledge. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, packed so tightly with old hardcovers and leather-bound tomes that some were stacked horizontally on top of others. The scent of aged paper mingled with the faint aroma of coffee and sandalwood. Dark leather armchairs, clearly well-worn and well-loved, faced a stone fireplace that looked more decorative than functional.

Framed photographs of ancient ruins, battlefields, and crumbling cathedrals dotted the walls — remnants of places he’d likely studied, maybe even visited. A globe sat near the window, polished and antique, and a mahogany desk in the corner was littered with yellowed papers, fountain pens, and a magnifying glass. It was the kind of house that didn’t just belong to a history professor — it belonged to him.

"You’ve read all of these?" you asked, eyes wide as you slowly scanned the towering shelves, your head tilting back to take them all in.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, you felt the warmth of him as he stepped up behind you, the quiet rustle of his shirt as his arms slid around your waist. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he needed the scent of you more than air.

"You can come read them whenever you want," he murmured against your skin, lips brushing just beneath your ear. "Preferably naked."

"You’re relentless," you declared with a stern edge, and he responded with a deep, rumbling laugh, pulling you even tighter against him.

"I can't switch it off, darling. Not when all I crave is to have my way with you again. Would you let me, baby? You've been driving me mad all day with those tempting short skirts of yours."

You inhaled sharply, surrendering to the intoxicating warmth of his touch as his hands roamed possessively from your waist to your thighs. "P—please, sir," you pleaded, your voice a desperate whisper. In response, he pressed his lips to the tender spot behind your ear, sinking his teeth in just enough to send electric shivers down your spine.

"I'll take care of you, sweetheart, don't you worry," he promised, his voice a low, tantalizing growl. Your heart raced with anticipation, believing he would finally let his fingers venture to the place where your desire burned brightest. But when you opened your eyes, you found yourself aching with disappointment as he withdrew entirely. "But first, I'm making you dinner. We can't have you passing out on me before the fun even begins."

Jake's hand landed on your ass with a sharp, stinging slap that echoed through the room, making you gasp. He then strode confidently to the kitchen, immersing himself in the task of preparing food, his focus unwavering, as if your presence was a mere afterthought.

"Can I ask you a question?" you blurted out, your voice barely steady as you mustered the courage to trail him into the kitchen and perch nervously on a stool, eyes glued to his every move.

He paused, lifting his gaze from the simmering stove to lock eyes with you, a devilish smirk playing on his lips. "Anything you want, darling."

Your heart pounded like a drum in your chest. "Ba—back in your office, w—when you said you'd turn me into your... your w—wh..." Your cheeks flamed as red as the tomatoes he stirred with casual ease, your words stumbling to a halt in the suffocating tension.

"Whore? It's okay, you can say it." His smirk deepened, dripping with a mix of amusement and challenge, as though speaking to a child. "I can't believe you caught that. Thought you blacked out for a second."

"I—I just, I don't get what you mean," you stammered, your confusion swirling with a potent cocktail of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you.

"God, you are so innocent," he muttered to himself, his voice dripping with raw desire. "Well, sweetheart, do you want me to teach you?"

"Teach me what?"

"How to be my little whore." His words were delivered with a chilling nonchalance, as if he were commenting on the day's forecast rather than proposing to unravel your very soul.

"W—what do I have to do?"

"Eat your dinner, baby. Let me do the rest."

-

After you agreed to Jake's proposal and found yourself in his office for that first heated encounter, you never anticipated the whirlwind that followed. The last thing you expected was for him to transform from a detached lover into a gracious host, cooking you dinner with an unexpected sincerity. He peppered you with questions about your life, as though you were on an intimate date, not caught in an arrangement where you were, essentially, reduced to being his fuckdoll.

Yet here you were, stumbling over your words but still managing to answer everything he asked with a nervous stutter. A fiery blush spread across your cheeks as you squirmed in your seat, every nerve electrified when Jake's hand stealthily slid under the table to rest possessively on your knee, or when he leaned in with piercing focus to tenderly wipe the corners of your mouth after each bite. You wanted to dismiss his almost parental attention as strange, but you couldn't deny the truth to yourself.

His intense gaze tracked your every move, igniting a thrilling tension. He effortlessly cut your steak after you shyly confessed you'd never eaten it before, and each time his hands inched closer, your eyes followed them, captivated by their grace. It was inexplicable how the ache between your legs intensified with every considerate gesture he made for you, a pulsing desire that grew stronger with each passing moment.

“Before we do anything else,” he said at last, once you’d finished eating, “we need to talk about a few rules.”

He withdrew his hand from your knee slowly, deliberately, then leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. The motion was effortless, confident—his spine relaxed against the chair, posture loose but commanding, like he knew exactly how the rest of the night would go.

“Like what?” you asked, voice softer than you meant it to be. It was almost pathetic, the way you were ready to agree to anything—just for the chance to feel his hands on you again, to have him close, claiming you.

"First, during sex and when we're alone, you'll address me as Sir or Daddy. You call me anything else and I'll have to punish you, alright, sweetheart?" His eyes bore into yours, demanding an answer from you.

"Yes, sir."

"Atta girl." He smirked. "Second, I need you to know you can say no to me anytime you don't feel okay with what we're doing. While I'm fucking you, we'll use something called the traffic light, you know what it is?" You shook your head. "I'll ask you for your color and you'll say green when you want me to keep going, yellow when you want me to slow down, and red when you want me to stop completely."

"I understand, sir."

"I knew you would, you're a smart girl." His words made you squirm in your seat, every part of your body begging to be touched by the man in front of you. "Last, when you're with me, no panties are allowed in the house, so hand them over."

"R—right now?" Your eyes widened, half incredulous and half scandalized at his request.

"If you make me ask again, I'll have to punish you, baby. And I'd rather not leave any marks on you just yet." His tone darkened as he opened his right hand to you. You trembled a little as you stood from your seat and slid down your baby pink panties down your legs to place them in his hand. "Good girl. Shall we begin?"

He stood and guided you toward the stairs, his hand firm on the small of your back. With each step you climbed, your skirt rode a little higher, and he watched with a dark, hungry gaze your naked ass.

Jake’s bedroom was spacious and sharp, every corner reflecting his controlled, deliberate nature. A king-size bed dominated the center of the room, dressed in dark gray sheets that looked both luxurious and well-worn, like they’d been chosen for comfort but never shared. Beside the bed sat a sleek nightstand, a single drawer nestled beneath a reading lamp and a half-finished book. The rest of the space was just as orderly—clean lines, muted tones, nothing out of place. It was a room meant for rest, maybe even solitude—until now.

He led you straight to the bed with an unyielding grip, and with a firm yet gentle shove, you fell onto it with a soft, resonating thud. "I know you've had your pussy eaten before because I did it the other day." He murmured, his eyes locked onto yours with an electrifying intensity. "But tell me, sweetheart, have you ever felt the relentless hum of a vibrator on your cunt?"

"N—no, Daddy. Never." You breathed, aching for him to come closer to you.

You watched with bated breath as Jake strode purposefully to the nightstand, yanking open the drawer with a confidence that made your heart race. He retrieved a white wand vibrator, massive and imposing, and instantly, a deep, throbbing heat pulsed through you. Though you had never encountered such a device so intimately before, an instinctive shiver coursed through your body, foretelling the overwhelming intensity that piece of plastic promised to unleash.

"I'll show you how to use this on your pretty clit, princess. It'll have you screaming my name without me even lifting a finger." His voice was thick with dark desire, an electric promise as he flicked the switch and the device purred to life. He gently teased it against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, causing you to gasp and shiver.

"It tingles, Daddy," you whispered, breathless and yearning.

"Is that so? Let's see how you handle it when it's right… here." With deliberate slowness, he traced it upward, igniting a fiery trail up your thighs before pressing it against your drenched, eager pussy. Your head fell back, a moan escaping as your body instinctively tried to close itself to the overwhelming sensation, but Jake's firm grip kept you exposed. "Don't even think about it."

You fought desperately against the instinct to close your legs, driven by an overwhelming desire to fulfill his every desire. Jake reveled in the spectacle of your surrender beneath him, his eyes drinking in your submission as he increased the intensity of the vibrator, leaving you drenched with arousal. Your breath came in ragged gasps, a symphony of whimpers and moans spilling from your lips, torn between pleas for more and desperate cries for mercy as he continued his relentless assault of your sensitive hole.

"Cum for me, sweetheart. C'mon, let me taste you." His voice was a sultry command, his teeth grazing your thighs with a tantalizing bite, sending shivers through your body.

You came with a breathy moan escaping your lips, chest rising and falling rapidly as you gazed down at Jake nestled between your thighs. He discarded the vibrator carelessly and repositioned your legs over his broad shoulders, diving back in with fervor. His mouth worked magic on your most sensitive spot, the sinful sounds echoing in the room as he devoured you with the hunger of a man possessed.

"Pl—please… too much, sir," Your fingers clutched the sheets desperately, seeking an anchor amidst the overwhelming sensations. That exquisite tension coiling in your belly was all too familiar, yet irresistibly intoxicating. His mouth worked its magic, drawing gasps and needy whimpers from your lips, torn between the plea for him to stop and the desperate desire for him to continue.

"Come on, baby, give me another one." His voice was a sultry whisper, vibrating against your most sensitive spot, as his hand pressed you firmly against the mattress, ensuring you stayed right where he wanted you. Not that you had any intention of moving.

You came for the second time that night, tears of overwhelming bliss pooling at the corners of your eyes, teetering on the edge of spilling over as the intense pleasure surged through you, almost too much to bear.

Jake growled, "You're fucking pretty when you cry." His mouth reluctantly left your drenched core. He pushed himself up, now looming over you, still fully clothed. Leaning in, he licked the tear stains from your cheekbones, his tongue hot and hungry. "So fucking beautiful, so pure. So innocent, ready for me to defile."

He held his weight with one arm, his hand pressed firmly into the mattress beside your head. His other hand roamed your body, leaving a trail of fire and goosebumps before pausing at your belly button. "Color?" he demanded, his voice thick with lust.

"Green, sir." Your breath hitched, your body ached with need, and your mind was a whirlwind of desire. Jake grinned, a wolfish smile, before claiming your mouth in a fierce kiss. He trailed kisses across your face, making you squirm and giggle.

"You're going to come for me again, sweetheart." His fingers danced down to your swollen, sensitive pussy. Your legs trembled and tried to close, but he kept them open with his knee. He thrust a single finger inside you, making you gasp and arch off the bed. "Fuck, you're so tight. Can you take more?"

You nodded eagerly, desperate to please him and to satisfy the hunger within you. "I—I can take it."

"That's my good girl, my best girl, taking everything I give you." He groaned, adding another finger, stretching you, possessing you.

Jake fingered you relentlessly, his every movement a brutal assault on your senses, catapulting you over the edge into a shattering abyss again and again. His gaze, unyielding and fierce, feasted on your undoing, watching you splinter apart with each savage thrust.

"The moment I saw you, I knew I had to have you, baby," he growled. "You begged for this, didn't you? You craved your older professor to break you, corrupt you. Filthy little slut, teasing me with your clothes, your scent—you knew exactly what you were doing."

"Ye—Yes, Daddy! Please," you gasped, the words tumbling out in a desperate plea, your mind a chaotic storm. His words and movements were a relentless assault, scrambling every coherent thought until nothing remained but the overwhelming presence of the man above you, his fingers deep inside your pussy.

You would say anything, do anything, just to sustain this intoxicating sensation. It felt like you were drowning, submerged in the inebriating aroma of his cologne, lost in the depths of his piercing eyes, consumed by the feeling of his cock.

"That's it, baby. Cum, cum on my fingers. God, you're so pretty, wish you could see what I'm seeing right now."

You came again, your legs trembling with a delicious intensity and your eyes glazed over in a daze. Exactly where Jake wanted you—utterly undone. A needy whine escaped your lips as he withdrew his fingers, only for your eyes to widen in pleasurable surprise when he slid them into your mouth. You eagerly sucked on them, savoring your own essence, a satisfied hum escaping you as he gazed at you with eyes brimming with desire, pure and consuming.

You lay there in a hazy blur, body boneless and warm, still trembling from the aftershocks. Jake moved quietly around the room, the sound of running water drifting in from the bathroom. When he returned, the cloth in his hand was warm and gentle against your skin. You flinched slightly at the contact, a soft hiss slipping from your lips, but he was quick to soothe you with a low, “Easy, sweetheart.”

He took his time, careful and thorough, then helped you sit up with a firm, steady hand. One of his shirts—soft and oversized—was slipped over your head, the familiar scent of him surrounding you like a second skin. You sank into it, into him, and he brushed your hair back with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

"You're incredible," he said finally, voice thick with something dark and reverent. "I wasn’t lying, sweetheart—you’ve been in my head since the first damn day. Walking into my class like temptation wrapped in innocence."

Your limbs were limp, boneless in his sheets, every nerve still singing from how thoroughly he’d ruined you. The afterglow made your lips loose, words tumbling out unfiltered. "I—I didn’t show it, but I had a crush on you too," you confessed, cheeks burning. "You're so smart... I didn’t know how to act around you. It was kind of intimidating."

He let out a low, almost disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as he hovered over you. “I just told you I’ve been wanting to fuck you senseless since the moment I saw you—and you were worried I was smart?”

There was no cruelty in his tone—just wonder. Like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was.

"You’re unreal," he murmured, brushing your hair back, eyes hungry even now. “So sweet, so fucking shy—do you have any idea what that does to me?”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then lower, over your jaw, your neck. “You’re mine now. Every soft little sound you make, every blush, every part of you—mine to ruin, mine to worship.”

His voice dropped as he pressed his forehead to yours. “And I’m nowhere near done with you, baby.”

-

His shirt felt impossibly soft against your skin — and far too big. The sleeves draped over your hands, and the hem brushed your bare thighs with every quiet step you took. You hadn’t meant to wander, but the living room drew you in: all warm wood and soft lighting, shelves lining one wall from floor to ceiling.

You glanced over your shoulder. Jake was stretched out on the couch, one leg propped up casually, a glass of something dark in his hand. His gaze followed you like it always did — slow, intent, full of quiet hunger. He hadn’t looked away from you since you left the bedroom.

The bookshelf was packed. All history books. Some names you recognized, some you didn’t. You ran your fingers along the spines before stopping at one with worn edges: The Private Lives of the Tudors. You pulled it out carefully.

Jake’s voice came from behind you, warm and amused. “You’ve got a thing for scandals, sweetheart?”

You blushed immediately, ducking your head. “N-No. I mean—I just like that era. The clothes. The... politics.”

He laughed under his breath, low and fond. “Adorable,” he muttered. “Pick something you like and bring it here.”

You turned to him slowly, book clutched to your chest. “You want me to read?”

“I want you next to me,” he said simply, his voice dipping into something velvety and sure. “The reading part’s optional.”

Your cheeks flamed again, and he smiled wider, patting the cushion beside him. “Come on, sweetheart. You’re too cute when you’re flustered — I’d hate to miss a second of it.”

Heart racing, you padded across the room and sat down beside him, still clutching the book like it might save you. Jake draped an arm over the back of the couch and let his fingers play lightly with your hair, brushing against your neck now and then just to make you squirm.

He leaned in, voice just above a whisper. “Bet you blush even harder when we get to the juicy parts.”

You hid your face behind the book.

Jake chuckled, low and satisfied. “God, you’re perfect.”

You sat stiffly beside him, the book heavy in your lap, pretending to read while trying not to focus on how close Jake was — how his fingers brushed your hair, your neck, your shoulder, just to watch you squirm.

“I have an idea,” he said after a long moment, voice velvet-smooth, full of mischief.

You turned toward him slowly, unsure whether to be intrigued or terrified — probably both.

He smirked. “Let’s play a game.”

You blinked. “A game?”

Jake reached over and tapped the cover of your book. “You read to me,” he said, tone almost innocent. Then, his eyes dipped lower. “And I’ll keep myself entertained.”

Your breath caught.

“I—Jake—”

“You keep reading,” he cut in gently, “no matter what I do. If you stop... I stop.” He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Think you can handle that, sweetheart?”

Your cheeks went hot, your heart thudding so loud you were sure he could hear it. Still, you gave a shaky nod.

He grinned. “Attagirl.”

Jake took the book from your trembling hands, flipping a few pages as he settled between your legs. He helped you shift until you were lying back on the couch, the book propped open in your hands, your thighs parted around him.

“Start here,” he said, tapping the paragraph with a single, commanding finger. “Nice and loud.”

You began to read, your voice uneven, barely above a whisper. “’Despite the grandeur of court life, privacy was rare—’”

His hands slid slowly up your thighs, warm and steady. Your breath hitched, but you kept reading.

“’Even monarchs found it difficult—d-difficult to escape the eyes of—of their households.’”

Jake chuckled against your skin — low, amused, impossibly pleased. You couldn’t see him, not really, but you could feel him. The heat of his mouth, the trail of soft kisses he left along the inside of your thigh.

You bit your lip.

“Keep going,” he reminded you gently, voice vibrating through you. “Don’t stop.”

You took a shaky breath. “’Henry VIII was known for his appetite, both literal and—’” Your voice faltered as his lips pressed higher, breath warm and maddening. “—and... and otherwise.”

He hummed in approval. “History never sounded so sweet.”

As he kept going, your words grew more tangled, breathier, every syllable a challenge. Your fingers trembled as they gripped the book. Jake was relentless — not cruel, just completely, devastatingly focused. Worshipful, almost. Like he’d dreamed of this and was finally, finally getting everything he wanted.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured against you, his voice thick with desire and pride. “God, look at you.”

You tried to answer, to keep reading — but your voice cracked, and Jake paused instantly.

“Ah, ah,” he teased, pulling back just enough to make you whimper. “Rules are rules.”

You forced the next sentence out, breathless and desperate, cheeks burning from the effort — from how good it felt, how much he was making you feel without even asking for anything in return.

Jake watched you, his own breathing heavier now, eyes never leaving your face. He kissed the inside of your thigh again, softer this time, and murmured like a secret: “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

You shook your head, eyes glazed, lips parted.

He grinned, utterly undone. “Good. You keep reading, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

And then he went back to it, dragging you under all over again — and this time, you didn’t even try to keep your voice steady.

Your voice was barely holding together, words stumbling out between shaky breaths and quiet gasps as Jake kept his promise — and his pace.

“’Royal apartments were not—mm—not designed for solitude...’” you managed, eyes fluttering shut for a second before forcing them open again. The page was swimming in front of you, your fingers white-knuckled on the book’s spine.

Jake was gentle and deliberate with every movement, every kiss, every stroke of his tongue — like he knew exactly how much you could take before your thoughts scattered again. His hands never stopped caressing you, coaxing you, steadying you when your hips twitched or your legs tried to close around him.

He paused only to murmur, “Eyes on the book, baby. You stop reading, I stop.”

You whimpered, blinking rapidly to refocus. “I-I’m trying,” you whispered.

He grinned against your skin, sinful and smug. “I know you are. You're so good for me.”

Your voice quivered again, reading now a whisper of syllables barely stitched together. “’M-many monarchs... r-relied on a network of—’”

Another flick of his tongue made you arch, voice breaking. “—trusted attendants to guard their privacy...”

Jake rewarded your effort with a deeper press of his mouth, and your whole body reacted — a shiver racing through you, your breath catching.

“You’re so sweet like this,” he muttered between kisses, lips slick against your inner thigh. “Trying so hard. You like being good for me, don’t you?”

You nodded frantically, not trusting yourself to speak.

He chuckled low. “I knew you’d be like this. Knew you’d melt the second I touched you right.” His voice dropped. “I’ve had to bite my tongue every day just to keep my hands off you.”

Your fingers trembled again, the book slipping slightly as another wave built low in your belly. It was too much and not enough, all at once. You didn’t even realize you’d stopped reading until Jake pulled back, and you let out a quiet, pleading noise.

He raised an eyebrow. “I warned you, baby.”

“Daddy,” you gasped, eyes wide and desperate now.

He leaned up just enough to kiss your inner knee and then trailed one finger along the crease of your thigh. “Then read,” he said gently. “Be a good girl and I’ll give you everything you want.”

You fumbled for the words on the page, voice wrecked and shaky. “’Despite the formal nature of court life, physical passion was—was often c-concealed behind—’”

Jake rewarded you instantly, returning his mouth to you with slow, deliberate strokes that had you crying out again — this time muffled into the back of your hand.

“That’s it,” he praised, his voice thick. “God, you taste like heaven. Keep going. Let me hear you fall apart.”

You tried, you really did — but your body was already trembling again, heat curling fast and sharp in your belly, and your voice collapsed completely as the words dissolved into moans. Jake held your hips steady as you writhed, grinning against you, utterly drunk on your reaction.

And when you finally broke apart — shaking, panting, head tipped back in pleasure — he didn’t stop right away. He drew it out, kept you there, lips soft and reverent as he coaxed you down from the high he’d built just for you.

When he finally pulled back, your thighs still trembling, the book had slipped to the floor.

Jake rested his chin on your knee, watching you with flushed cheeks and soft eyes, like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“You,” he whispered, catching his breath. “Are so worth the wait.”

You could only nod, still dizzy and breathless.

He leaned up to kiss you — sweet, slow, utterly different from what he’d just done — and smiled against your lips.

“I hope you’re not too tired,” he murmured. “We’ve still got the whole weekend.”

[literal-tv-menace]

i could watch this show forever...

TED LASSO 2.06 — The Signal

[literal-tv-menace]

What Happens In Vegas... - Jake "Hangman" Seresin X Female Reader

Title: What Happens In Vegas...

Jake "Hangman" Seresin X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Natasha "Phoenix", Bradley "Rooster" Bob "Bob", the rest of the Dagger Squad (Mentioned), and Elvis (Mentioned)

WC: 6,1238

Warnings: Reader's callsign is Turbo, references, italics, teasing, banter, flirting, nicknames, non-sexual nudity (brief), cursing, drinking/alcohol mentioned, confessions, friends to lovers, yelling, bars, angst, and fluff

It all started with one reckless suggestion over beers at the Hard Deck.

“Vegas weekend,” Jake said, “We earned it.”

You remembered blinking at him, half-laughing, half-shocked. “You mean like, actual Las Vegas?”

Jake had leaned back in his chair, flashing that insufferably charming grin of his. “Unless there’s a fake one I don’t know about.”

Bradley had chimed in with a skeptical brow raise, “You just want an excuse to get drunk somewhere fun.”

Jake winked. “Who says I need an excuse?”

Despite the sarcasm flying across the table, it didn’t take much convincing. Natasha had already started looking up hotel options before her second drink. Bob was quietly excited, more about the buffet than the nightlife. And you? You’d already been dreaming about it the second Jake said the word "weekend."

Vegas was on your bucket list. The lights, the music, the chaos... Yeah, you loved partying as much as the next adrenaline junkie, and something about going with this particular group? It felt like it had to happen. You weren’t about to miss it.

Besides, after everything, you’d earned your spot in the Dagger Squad with blood, sweat, and an unhealthy amount of caffeine. Callsign: Turbo. You deserved a vacation, no matter how short. The team had become your found family faster than you expected. Natasha was your best friend, your confidante, your late-night wine-and-rant buddy. Bradley was like an older brother, constantly looking out for you, and offering quiet advice when he saw you spinning out. You and Bob had a running book club - yes, really. Half way through reading “The Return Of The King.”

Then there was Jake. Jake, with the movie-star smile and the ego to match. Jake, who teased you mercilessly. Who flirted like it was his second language, who winked every time you rolled your eyes. Everyone knew it was a game; he flirted with you, you gave it back, and no one got hurt. Except, you kind of did. Because somewhere in those months of missions and training and bar nights… You caught feelings. Big, inconvenient, messy ones. You’d never admit it out loud, not even to Natasha.

But still… He made you laugh. He saved you a seat at meeting debriefs and lunch. Helped build your IKEA dresser one time. You know, when he wasn’t being a smug pain in the ass, he was actually someone you genuinely loved spending time with.

So yeah, when the Vegas plan came up? You were in. No questions asked. And a week later, you were boarding a plane with Bradley, Bob, Natasha, and Jake, your stomach full of nerves and something you couldn’t quite name. You didn’t know what the weekend would hold, but you knew this much. You were going to have fun. Even if it was going to hurt a little.

And God, did it hurt. 

It was the sunlight that woke you. Blinding and merciless as it cut straight through the thin hotel curtains like a knife. It stabbed directly into your skull, immediately setting off the worst headache you’d ever had in your life. The kind that throbbed behind your eyes and pulsed in your temples, dry-mouthed and sandpaper-throated. You groaned, face scrunching as you turned over, burying your cheek into the pillow to escape the light, only to freeze when you felt it. The weight of someone’s arm draped heavily across your waist.

You froze. And that was not your pillow. That was someone’s chest. And judging by the firm muscles pressed against you, this someone spent a lot of time in the gym. You opened one eye, heart hammering. Slowly, you turned your head up just slightly and nearly swallowed your own tongue.

Jake Seresin. Hangman. Your best friend, Top Gun hotshot, Navy aviator, and walking, talking headache, was sleeping next to you. His face, usually set in that cocky smirk, was slack with rest, lips parted slightly, one cheek squished into the pillow. His lashes cast faint shadows on his skin, and his usually slicked-back hair was tousled, sticking up in places you knew would drive him crazy. He looked almost boyish. And, if the blanket’s weight and the lack of clothing between you were any indication… Very, very naked.

You stared at him, heart jackhammering, trying to will yourself out of whatever fever dream this was. Jake, your Jake, the one who teased you mercilessly, called you darlin’ when you were mad, and always sat next to you on every post-deployment flight was now drooling slightly on a Vegas hotel pillow, his arm still slung possessively across your waist.

“What the hell,” You whispered, trying to edge away.

But you moved too fast, and Jake stirred. He blinked awake slowly, green eyes hazy. “Mm… Five more minutes,” He mumbled, pulling you closer.

You let out a squeak. “Jake.”

His eyes opened fully. His brain caught up a second later. He shot upright like he'd been hit by lightning. “Shit!”

“Yeah,” You said, grabbing the blanket and yanking it up to cover yourself. “My thoughts exactly.”

Jake looked around the room like he expected it to explain something. “What- Why are you in my room?”

“Your room?” You jabbed a finger toward the corner. “My suitcase is right there, genius.”

His eyes followed, landing on your bag with its open zipper and mess of clothes. “Oh.”

There was a pause. You both sat in stunned silence, the evidence around you damning - champagne bottles, a half-eaten slice of cake on the desk, glitter in the carpet, and clothes in a trail leading from the door to the bed. Your gold sequin dress, his jeans. Your bra. His boxers.

Jake rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard. “Okay. Okay. Maybe we just… Shared the bed? Platonically. Like friends. Very naked friends.”

You lifted your left hand to brush your hair out of your face. You didn’t feel anything. No numb ache between your legs. So, you let out a breath of relief before you froze one more. There it was. A ring. Not just any ring. A diamond. Big, glinting, and mocking. You stared at it. “Jake.”

“Hm?”

“Why is there a ring on my finger?”

Jake looked. Froze. Then yanked his own hand into view and cursed. He had one too. A plain gold band. “No.”

“No no no no no!” You repeated, crawling off the bed and nearly tripping in the sheets. “We didn’t- We couldn’t have- Jake?!”

“Don’t look at me,” He stood too, grabbing the bedsheet and half-wrapping it around his waist, his usual confidence nowhere in sight. “This has to be a prank or somethin’.”

You carefully wrapped the sheet around yourself before you started pacing, “What do you remember?”

He blinked. “Bar. Dancin’. You challengin’ me to tequila shots.”

“Someone yelling ‘DO IT’ over and over again,” You added weakly.

Jake winced, pressing the heel of his hand into his temple, “I think that was the Chicken.”

You shrugged helplessly. “There’s glitter in places I don’t remember glitter being.”

You both paused. Processing. The hangover screamed, your pulse wouldn’t slow, and that damn ring sparkled under the cheap hotel lights like it was trying to chime in to say something.

Jake finally broke the silence. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples. “You think there’s a certificate? Maybe Chicken, Phoenix, Bob, or whoever just got us rings to mess with us. ”

“That might be it…” You walked over to the desk. Sitting neatly beside the room service menu was a folded paper. You picked it up slowly, fingers trembling. Vegas. Marriage license. Both your names. Dated. Stamped. Filed. You turned, eyes wide. “Oh my God. Jake. We’re married.”

He gestured wildly for you to bring it to him, and you did. He took the paper, stared down at it, before he handed it back over to you, running both hands through his hair. “Well… Shit.”

You sank down beside him, staring down at the paper in your hand. “Do you think it’s legal?”

“I don’t know, but it looks like it is.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I can’t remember a damn thin’.”

Your breath caught. “Me either,” You whispered, horrified. “I don’t even remember getting back to the hotel- Hell, I barely remember leaving the bar.” You squeezed your eyes shut, heart pounding in your ears. This was bad. This was so, so bad. And worst of all? Some part of you - a traitorous, lovesick part - didn’t entirely hate it. “I can’t believe we did this.”

Jake arched a brow, a smirk slowly growing. “Well… On the plus side, darlin’, I make a very handsome husband.”

You stared at him incredulously, still trying to process everything. That nickname… Jake called you “Darlin’’ more than he called you your callsign or your actual name. And, if it was any other day, you would’ve inwardly swooned, but right now…

Jake held up both hands in surrender, “Too soon. Got it.”

You let out a big, exhausted sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay,” You began, “We need to get dressed and figure out what the hell happened last night. Maybe the others remember more than we do.”

Jake nodded, already scooping his boxers off the floor with one hand and bending to grab his jeans with the other. You stood, carefully collecting your underwear from the scattered pile of clothes near the edge of the bed. Your cheeks burned as you moved to your suitcase and rifled through it, pulling out a clean pair of jeans and a shirt.

“I’ll take the bathroom,” Jake said, stepping toward it, and passing the dresser on the way. 

“Nope, I'm taking the bathroom. You can have the room.” You said, pushing past him.

“Yes, ma’am.” He answered as you shoved the bathroom door closed behind you with a satisfying slam. The lock clicked as you twisted it in place, pressing your back to the wood with a deep breath. Jake’s muffled chuckle echoed faintly through the door. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will your heartbeat to slow down. This couldn’t be real. Married. To Jake Seresin. You looked down at the band still hugging your finger. Oh God. What the hell had you done?

By the time you finally emerged from the bathroom, your face splashed with cold water, hair finger-combed into some semblance of order, and your emotions shoved down as far as they could go, Jake was already dressed. You blinked at the sight of him sitting comfortably on the edge of the bed, wearing what you vaguely remembered him wearing the night before: jeans, a white button-up with the sleeves pushed up, and that worn leather watch he never took off. His hair was still a little messy, but in that effortlessly attractive way that made you want to scream into a pillow.

He glanced up from his phone, grinning like this was just another Sunday morning where he slept over, “They’re on their way up,” He announced cheerfully, tapping the screen once before tossing the phone beside him.

You let out an exaggerated sigh, shoulders slumping as you dramatically threw yourself onto the bed face-up, your arms flopping over your head. “They better not tease us,” You muttered, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Jake chuckled under his breath, and you didn’t have to look at him to know that smug smirk was back. Your heart gave another nervous lurch. How was he so calm right now? You felt like your entire nervous system had short-circuited. You closed your eyes, trying to will away the sick, churning thoughts, but they just kept circling.

Jake let out a long breath beside you. “Hey,” He said, softer now. “We’ll figure it out, alrigh’?”

You opened one eye to glance at him. You nodded once and looked back up at the ceiling. “Yeah,” You said. “We better.”

And then came the knock. Three firm raps on the hotel room door, followed by a chorus of muffled voices, laughing, unmistakably familiar. You groaned quietly, dragging your hands down your face again as you pushed yourself off the bed.

“They’re here,” You muttered, mostly to yourself, as you padded barefoot across the carpet.

The second you opened the door, your friends practically poured in. Bradley was at the front of the pack, sunglasses perched crookedly on his head and a lopsided grin already spreading across his face. “Well, well, well,” He drawled, his tone teasing and far too loud for how early it felt. “Look at the happy newlyweds. How’s the matrimonial bliss treating you this fine morning?”

You glared at him, half tempted to slam the door shut again.

Jake stood from the bed, folding his arms across his chest with a curious tilt to his brow. “Actually,” He said, “We were kinda hopin’ you could tell us what the hell happened last night.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, already unlocking her phone. “Say no more.” She scrolled with the precision of someone who knew exactly what she was looking for. After a few beats, she found it. “Here,” She said, tapping a thumbnail before spinning the phone around in her hand. “This was around-” She squinted, “Midnight?”

Before either of you could really react, you reached out and snatched the phone from her hand. Jake blinked, mildly amused. “You and snatching things.” He muttered under his breath.

“Shut up,” You said automatically, already focusing on the video.

You tapped the side button to raise the volume, and shaky, chaotic footage came to life. The camera was clearly pointed at a karaoke stage, or at least Bradley, center stage, mid-chorus of “Baby I’m A Star” by Prince, completely in his element, holding the mic. Natasha, behind the camera, could be heard laughing, singing along loudly. But most of the footage wasn’t focused on him. No, it was trained mostly on you and Jake, slightly off to the side, drinks in hand. Jake’s arm was slung around your shoulders. You were grinning, eyes glassy, your drink tilted dangerously. 

Bradley hummed thoughtfully, peeking over your shoulder at the phone screen. “Oh yeah. That’s from the first bar.”

Your head snapped toward him so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “The first bar? At midnight?”

“The night was a bit of a crawl,” Natasha added helpfully, flopping onto the armchair near the window, “We hit at least three places.”

“Three, technically,” Bob chimed in, “Bradley wanted karaoke, Jake wanted whiskey, and someone, Turbo, wanted tequila shots.”

You rolled your eyes, “Yeah, for Hangman.” Jake took the phone from your hand, sitting down on the bed, scrolling to the next video.

“Keep watching, Turbo. It gets better.” Bradley spoke, gesturing to the phone. 

You gave Bradley a suspicious look but turned your attention back to the phone in your hand, thumb hesitating before tapping play. The screen lit up again, this time clearly at a different bar. The lighting was dimmer, full of neon purples and blues that made everything glow in a fuzzy haze. You squinted at the timestamp in the top corner.

“Two fifteen?” You muttered, blinking. “We were still out at two fifteen?”

Jake gave a low whistle beside you. “Guess we go hard.”

Onscreen, you and Jake were pressed close together again. Your shoulders touching, his hand resting comfortably on your waist. A bright, obnoxiously colorful drink with a tiny paper umbrella sat in your hand as you giggled at something he said. The camera panned suddenly to the left, revealing Bradley at the bar slamming back shots. He threw his head back, whooping, then turned and raised both arms in triumph as Natasha, still filming, laughed from behind the camera. Then it panned back to you and Jake. You were both cheering for Bradley, your voices loud and slurred as you hollered something unintelligible. 

“Oh no,” You muttered aloud, just as the video caught your drunk self turning to Jake and shouting something. “Let’s get tequila shots!” As on screen you waved down the bartender, slamming your hand on the counter in excitement.

“DO IT!” Bradley yelled from the background, full of chaotic encouragement.

The video showed Jake grinning like a man on a dare, holding up one finger to the bartender, then quickly raising a second. The two shots were placed in front of him, and he tossed one back without hesitation. Then the second. The group cheered around you as Jake banged the shot glass down, grinning proudly. And then, as if the moment needed more chaos, Bob slid into the frame from the side with a full cup of bar peanuts, like he’d wandered in from a completely different movie. Still sober, and looking very much overstimulated.

You turned to look over to Bob by the room door, “I’m sorry, Bob,” You apologized before you returned to the video, staring in horror. “What were we doing?”

Bradley leaned over and plucked the phone from Jake’s hand, grinning. “Oh, don’t act so surprised. You two couldn’t get enough of each other all night. Like magnets.” Bradley handed the phone back to you, eyes glinting with amusement. “Here. Last video. My personal favorite.”

You swallowed. Jake leaned in closer beside you, both of you quiet as you tapped play. The video opened in an entirely new setting. A white-walled chapel room, kitschy and bright. String lights blinked along the corners, and a low platform stood at the front. There was also a man in a white rhinestone jumpsuit and oversized sunglasses - clearly an Elvis impersonator. The camera, slightly shaky, panned and landed on you and Jake, standing hand-in-hand on the platform, swaying just slightly.

Your eyes widened. You watched, completely frozen, as the scene unfolded. The Elvis officiant was saying something about burning love and hunk of burning commitment. Your voice slurred out a barely comprehensible vow, and Jake followed with something even more ridiculous, blinking slowly through his crooked grin. Then came the rings. You saw yourself laugh - giggling so hard your shoulders shook - as Jake slipped a band onto your finger. And then he pulled you flush to him, arms wrapping tightly around your waist, and dipped you low like something straight out of a cheesy rom-com movie. Your arms looped around his neck, your hair falling back as he kissed you, slow and passionate and completely without shame.

The video cut to another moment. You were now standing off to the side, covering your mouth as you giggled uncontrollably, your cheeks flushed and glowing. You looked genuinely, stupidly joyful. The ring sparkled on your finger as you tilted it in the air, catching the light. Jake popped into the frame beside you, sticking his tongue out and making a ridiculous face, his arm winding back around your shoulders like it belonged there.

Then the scene changed again. The music started first, “Be My Baby” by The Ronettes crackled through the video as it opened to a dimly lit, 50s-themed bar. Neon lights, vinyl booths, and black-and-white checkered floors. The timestamp read somewhere past four in the morning. The crowd was lively but cozy, people dancing in pairs, some swaying, others spinning. And there you were. You and Jake, right in the center. His arms settled around your waist, and yours around his neck. The video kept going, a long, unbroken clip, showing you slow-dancing to the end of the song, forehead to forehead, your eyes closed. Jake whispered something you couldn’t hear over the song, but in the video, you smiled like he’d said something that made your heart leap.

“Wait,” Jake said beside you, “Why didn’t you stop us from gettin’ married, Baby On Board? You were sober.”

Natasha sighed from where he stood awkwardly, “I left after the second bar.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. You were still staring at the video. You and Jake looked… Happy. Your stomach twisted. This is horrifying. 

You tore your eyes away from the screen, lifting your gaze to Natasha. “Why didn’t you stop us?” You asked, your voice cracking slightly.

“I was drunk, too,” She stood with a dramatic huff, stretching like the picture of calm. “I am very hungover,” She said, rubbing her temples. “I’m just good at hiding it.”

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face before covering it entirely. “I hate you all.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Jake teased, elbowing you gently with a smug little grin on his face.

You slowly lowered your hands just enough to glare at him. The kind of glare that would make any other man flinch. Jake just smiled wider.

“Happy wife, happy life,” Bradley mumbled under his breath with a half-snort.

Your head snapped to him. “You’re not safe,” You said, pointing at him with deadly precision, eyes narrowing in mock warning.

Bradley raised his hands in surrender, laughing nervously. “Noted. Very noted.”

Bradley chuckled, leaning back against the wall with a casual shrug. “When we dropped you guys off, you were both muttering about being ‘soooo tiiiiired’.” He mimicked your drunken slur, voice lighthearted, “And something about tacos and space pirates. And how the room was just so hot.”

Natasha snorted. “You were half asleep on his shoulder. It took both of us to get you to your room.”

“Yeah,” Bradley added, grinning. “You kept calling me ‘Brawley’ and telling Jake he had ‘pretty eyelashes.’ It was a whole thing.”

You blinked, stunned silent for a beat. Then the tension in your chest cracked, just a little.

Bradley sobered slightly, meeting your eyes. “You could barely keep your eyes open. He wasn’t any better. He carried your shoes… Who knew Bagman is such a gentleman when he’s drunk. You should drink more often, you aren’t as annoying.”

“Hey, Chicken, shut it.” Jake glared, as you let out a shaky breath, not sure whether you felt better or worse.

~~~

Later that day, well, it was around three in the afternoon when you woke up, Jake moved back to his own room, flashing you a wink like you both didn’t get legally married last night… Or this morning? Now, you were alone. Laying in your bed, the room too quiet, too dim. You were supposed to be packing. You’d unzipped your suitcase an hour ago, thrown in maybe one sock, and now you were curled on your side, scrolling through your phone. How to get an annulment. You tapped one link, then another. The screen blurred slightly as your eyes welled.

You never expected this. You were never the type to do something like this. You were reckless in some situations, yes, but this was crazy. You were never drinking this much ever again, that’s for sure.

But God, it hurt. Even if it wasn’t real. Especially because it wasn’t. You hated yourself for wishing it was. You hated yourself for wishing you could remember that kiss. For wishing you could remember how it felt when he looked at you like you were his. Even for just one stupid night. You knew Jake didn’t want this. Of course he didn’t. He was Hangman. A flirt, a player, someone who needed his space, his options, his freedom. You weren’t an idiot. It was best if you figured this out and forgot all about it.

You sniffled, pressing the heel of your palm to your eye, trying to blink the sting away. It didn’t help. With a frustrated sigh, you locked your phone and tossed it aside. You then rolled to your other side for some distance from the spiral, but the second your face hit the pillow, you regretted it instantly.

Jake.

You could smell him. That familiar mix of clean linen, spice, and the faint sharpness of his aftershave clung to your pillow like a ghost. Like he was still here. Still next to you. You could still feel what it was like to wake up beside him… Damnit. 

You let out a shaky breath, “... Shit…”

~~~

The ride to the airport was quiet. Well, you were quiet. Hoodie pulled up over your head, sunglasses shielding your eyes, you sat in the backseat nursing the dull, pounding ache behind your temples. Two ibuprofen pills had been hastily downed with a bottle of lukewarm water back at the hotel, but they hadn’t fully kicked in yet. You barely spoke. Just nodded when spoken to, offered a weak smile once or twice. You couldn’t look at Jake. Didn’t even try. You weren’t ready to face whatever might be in his eyes - regret, amusement, indifference. You didn’t want to see any of it. Not right now.

You were so glad your seat on the plane was two rows away from everyone else. Just enough distance to breathe, to not feel their eyes on you, to not pretend you were fine when you very clearly were not. Solitude, however, came with its own curses. The toddler behind you kicked your seat like it owed him money, and the old man beside you reeked of cigarettes, humming tunelessly as he mashed buttons on his tablet screen playing Tetris. You just wanted to disappear.

So you turned your face to the window, resting your temple gently on the closed shade. The coolness soothed your skin a little. You kept your earbuds in, low music humming just loud enough to drown out the low rumble of the plane and the occasional sniffle from the kid behind you. You tried to sleep. The moment the wheels touched down and the plane taxied to the gate, you felt a strange kind of relief. Back at base, the California sun was hot and blinding, but you didn’t let yourself linger.

You said your goodbyes quickly - Bob, Natasha, Bradley, and even Jake - offering them all the same tight-lipped smile. “Gotta get home. Unpack. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” They called their goodbyes after you, cheerful and warm, but you didn’t look back. You just gave a half-hearted wave over your shoulder and kept walking, your suitcase rolling behind you on uneven pavement, thumping with each crack and dip in the sidewalk.

You didn’t stop until you were inside your apartment. Alone. Silent. You didn't even unpack that night, just kicked off your shoes and fell into bed. It hurt you to take the ring off, but you did, tucking it into your nightstand drawer.

The next day, you buried yourself in work. Reports, checklists, debriefs, maintenance logs, you kept your head down, eyes glued to screens or forms or anything but the curious glances being thrown your way. At lunch, Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote were very excited to hear about everyone’s adventures.

“So? How was the trip?” Fanboy asked, clearly dying for gossip.

“Yeah, we heard things got... Fun,” Coyote added with a knowing smirk.

“Oh, Well-” Bradley was about to say, but you stood.

“I gotta grab something from my locker,” You said quickly, tray in hand. You didn’t want to deal with it. The jokes. The teasing. The questions. You weren’t ready.

By the end of the day, people were clocking out, packing up, heading home with tired smiles and waves. But not you. You were already zipping up your flight suit again, tugging your helmet under your arm as you made your way to the tarmac. Your bird was waiting, fueled and gleaming in the fading light. You climbed in without hesitation, the ritual comforting in its precision.

Straps secured. Visor down. Comms check. The engine humming like a heartbeat beneath you. “Tower, this is Nightmare requesting clearance for solo evening flight.”

“Nightmare, you are cleared for takeoff. Runway is yours.”

You taxied forward, heart pounding, and as soon as the jet launched down the runway and the wheels lifted off the ground, you could breathe again. The sky opened up before you. The Gs pressed against your chest, but you welcomed them. You soared above the clouds, cutting through the amber light of the setting sun, and for the first time in two days, you felt calm. Up here, there were no questions. No tension. No memories of Jake’s touch or the way he looked at you in those videos, or the kiss. Just you and the sky. You dove into sharp banks, looped up into the sky, then rolled cleanly out of them. The engine’s roar was a balm to your nerves, the blue and orange sky stretching wide before you, untouched. You cut through the clouds like they were nothing. For a little while, you could pretend.

When you finally touched back down, the wheels squealed against the tarmac, the sun low on the horizon casting golden light across the flight line. You taxied off the runway and shut everything down, your body feeling heavy but lighter at the same time. Climbing down from the cockpit, you pulled your helmet off and set it gently on the tarmac beside you. Your fingers raked through your hair, slightly damp with sweat, and you let out a long, tired breath.

“Good flight, darlin’?”

You froze. The voice was too familiar. Your head snapped around.

Jake.

He was leaning against the wall just beyond the hangar, arms crossed, still in his khakis, eyes locked on you.

Your hands dropped from your hair. “You didn’t go home?” You asked, wary, reaching down to grab your helmet.

Jake pushed off the wall, taking a slow step toward you. “Couldn’t,” He said. “Not without talkin’ to you first.”

You turned your head, jaw tense. “If this is about the annulment, I’m working on it. I already planned to get the paperwork filled out after work today. I’ll email you a copy to print and fill out-”

“Why are you rushin’ it?” He cut in.

You blinked. “What? Why are you being so- So calm about this? Out of anyone, I would think you would want to get this over with as soon as possible.”

Jake’s expression shifted slightly, his eyebrows furrowing, “The annulment,” Jake  spoke, “Why are you in such a hurry to do it?”

“Great, ignore my question.” You huffed, already walking toward the lockers, and he followed, steps steady behind you. “Because it was a mistake,” You said, your voice clipped. You shoved the locker room door open.

“A mistake,” Jake echoed.

You spun around to face him, heart pounding in your ears. “Yes, Jake. We were drunk. It’s not like we planned this. You didn’t plan this, I didn’t plan this.”

Jake didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you. “Is the thought of bein’ married to me really so horrible to you?”

“Yes!” You burst out, too fast, too loud. You saw the shift in his expression before you turned away. Hurt. But you opened your locker quickly, using the door like a shield, hiding behind the cold metal. “That’s- That’s not what I meant,” You said, voice lower now, you tried your best to calm yourself down. There was no use in yelling. “It’s not that the idea of being married to you is… Disgusting or something. It’s not that.” Your hands curled tight around the edges of the locker, knuckles white. “It hurts because it was a mistake,” You said it barely above a whisper. “It’s not real… Even if I wish it was.” That last part you had initially meant to stay in your head, but it slipped out in a breath, surprising not only you.

The silence that followed was thick, stretching between the two of you like a drawn-out breath.

“You wish it was real?” He asked, voice low, careful.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“Darlin’,” Jake said softly, “Shut the locker.”

You shook your head, “No,” You murmured weakly.

You heard it, the soft, resigned sigh he let out, followed by the faint thud of him leaning his weight against the lockers. Metal creaked faintly under him. “I can’t keep doin’ this,” He said, “Can’t keep actin’ like I don’t feel what I feel.”

Your hand faltered on the locker door. “Jake…”

“I’m not askin’ you for everythin’,” He said, voice rough. “Just… Give me somethin’. Tell me it’s not all in my head.”

All in his head?

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the locker door, heart pounding so loud it echoed in your ears. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Not yet.

Then his voice softened, gentler now. “You know what I wish?”

Curiosity tugged at you, unwillingly. You peeked out from behind the locker door, still holding onto it. Jake stood less than a foot away, leaned sideways into the row of lockers, his shoulder resting there, hands buried in his pockets. His expression was unreadable, but there was no sign of amusement. No trace of that cocky glint you were so used to. Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe?

“I wish I could remember what it was like to kiss you,” He murmured.

And just like that, the air shifted. Your breath caught, eyes wide. You shut the locker with a soft click, twisting the lock into place. But you pursed your lips, eyes looking at your boots. “I’m not in the mood for teasing, Jake,” You murmured tiredly.

“I’m ain’t teasin’.”

You looked up. Still no grin. Just him, Jake Seresin. And yet, something flickered in his eyes. Something that made your ribs ache.

“I’ve been wonderin’,” He said, voice low, “What it felt like when you smiled into the kiss. When your arms were around me. When your fingers were in my hair.” His gaze dipped to your mouth. “And if your lips are as soft as I’ve imagined.”

The weight of it hit you like a tsunami wave. You felt rooted to the floor, unable to move, just staring at him. “What are you trying to say?” You asked slowly, eyebrows furrowing.

Jake didn’t skip a beat. “I want a redo.”

“Jake-”

“I mean it,” He said, “Not drunk. Not in Vegas. Just you and me.” He must’ve noticed your growing hesitance or doubt, as he continued, “If I could go back, I’d change one thing and it’s not the wedding. I’d change forgetting it. I’d remember all of it. Every second of you lookin’ at me like it meant somethin’.”

Your throat tightened. “Really?” You hadn’t meant for it to sound so small. Tears burned at the backs of your eyes as Jake moved, his hands leaving his pockets.

He reached up, cupping your cheeks, his thumbs brushing back and forth along your soft skin. “Really, darlin’.” The way he was looking at you… You’d never seen him like that before. The usual spark of mischief, the cocky smirks, the charm, was gone. His brows had drawn together just slightly, his eyes warm; not with smugness. “And maybe,” He added, a small teasing curl forming at the edge of his lips, “You’ll tell me what it’ll take to get you to forget the annulment paperwork.” His gaze flickered briefly to your lips, one of his hands on your cheek raising to tuck your hair behind your ear, before dropping to your waist. 

That pulled a shaky laugh from you, shaking your head, “Jake…”

He tilted his head, “What?” He drawled, his southern twang deepening slightly, “You want me to propose properly or somethin’? Get down on one knee right here in front of the lockers?”

You covered his hands on your cheek with yours, “Jake…”

“Yeah?”

You hesitated, your eyes searching his, then breathed out, “Just kiss me, already.”

That familiar grin made its way back, slow and real. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” He leaned in, closing the space, and kissed you.

It started slow, but there was no hesitation in the way your lips met his. You couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, your arms sliding up around his neck, and your fingers diving into his hair without a second thought. Jake let out a low sound, almost like a hum, and you felt him smirk just before he shifted, one arm slipping behind your back, and dipped you. Just like that damn video.

You gasped, your giggles muffed as he kissed you deeper, holding you steady, anchored and weightless at the same time. There was nothing drunken or hazy about this - it was clear, deliberate, and real. When he finally pulled back, it was slow. Like he didn’t want it to end. He leaned in for another soft brush of lips. Then one more. Your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, your heart pounding in time with his.

Jake smiled, “You know… I could really get used to this, Mrs. Seresin.”

Your lips curved. “Well, Mr. Seresin… I’m not exactly complaining.”

He said nothing more, only kissing you again, grinning the whole damn time.

Jake chuckled, soft and a little breathless. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You shrugged, "Not a bad way to go."

~~~

Main Masterlist | Miscellaneous Masterlist

[literal-tv-menace]

CALLSIGN CUPID

Summary: When Jake Seresin realizes he’s in love with his best friend—you—he does what any emotionally repressed Navy pilot might do: sets you up with other guys instead. But after three bad dates, a paper airplane, and one squad-intervention later, Jake finally stops playing Cupid—and starts being honest.

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x reader

Word count: 13.6k

A/N: This was in fact loosely inspired by “10 things i hate about you” but it was also inspired by this one book i read a very long time ago that kinda had the same vibe, not sure what the name was it was at least 5-6 years ago but i still think about it sometimes 💔 also omg?? i think this is the longest thing i’ve ever written! just a disclaimer this was written almost 2 months ago, it was apart of my test subjects before i released “honor & duty”. ALSO MIGHT LOWK MAKE A HANGMAN MULTIVERSE TOO??

Warnings: Second person POV, slow burn, mutual pining, slight sa scene (just a bit of inappropriate touching), jealousy, bad date scenarios (including one with a taken guy), light swearing, emotional tension, one knee-drop romantic gesture, meddling squad behavior, and one very flustered Hangman trying his best.

There were a few things you’d come to accept as non-negotiable truths during your time at Top Gun:

Coffee tasted best when stolen from Rooster’s thermos.

Phoenix and Fanboy would always argue like siblings during preflight.

And Jake Seresin—Hangman himself—couldn’t mind his own damn business to save his life.

You were midway through a morning briefing, half-listening to Cyclone run through upcoming mission simulations, when Jake leaned over just enough to whisper out of the side of his mouth.

“You know, I heard Supply Guy is single again.”

You didn’t even turn your head. “And I heard you should shut up before Cyclone catches you talking.”

Jake grinned, unbothered. “Just trying to help. I’d hate for your roster to run dry.”

You gave him a side-glare sharp enough to slice steel.

Across the room, Phoenix stifled a laugh.

The air in the briefing room was its usual mix of cold coffee, jet fuel, and pure, unfiltered sarcasm. Jake Seresin lounged in a rolling chair near you, boots kicked up onto the empty seat beside him, arms crossed over his chest like he hadn’t a care in the world. His sunglasses were still on. Inside. Because, of course, they were.

“Y’know, Hangman,” Rooster drawled from the front row, “it’s called a briefing. You’re supposed to look at the screen, not just bask in your own reflection.”

Jake tipped his sunglasses down just enough to make eye contact. “I multitask.”

“You can’t spell ‘team’ without ‘me’,” Fanboy muttered, not even looking up from the protein bar he was dissecting with a spork.

“Not how spelling works,” Payback shot back, smirking.

In front of him, you were half-paying attention, flipping through a file with one ear tuned into the mission rundown and the other eavesdropping on the squad’s banter. Bob sat next to you, pressed shoulder to shoulder like always, posture straight and focused—but when Hangman piped up again, you felt Bob shift subtly beside you, like he was biting back a grin.

“Some of us,” Jake said, lifting his voice just a little, “don’t need to memorize the brief. We are the plan.”

“You are insufferable,” Phoenix replied flatly, finally turning toward him with a look that could’ve knocked a lesser man on his ass.

“Didn’t hear a no,” Jake replied with a wink.

Coyote groaned. “I swear to god, if this is how today’s going to go…”

It was how today was going to go.

You’d all been grounded the past week for maintenance drills and mission prep, so the tension in the squad was ramping up like coiled wire. Too much time on the ground made everyone itchy. Especially pilots.

By the time the briefing was about to end, you were already winding down from the tactical talk, scribbling a note in your logbook. Bob leaned toward you, voice quiet.

“You flying lead today?”

You nodded. “Rooster’s wing, but I’ve got lead. Try not to make me look bad.”

His smile was small but genuine. “You could fly solo and still make us all look bad.”

“Flattery gets you… nothing,” you teased, “Except maybe some snacks in the ready room.”

Bob’s face lit up like you’d just promised him classified intel and a hug.

-

Cyclone dismissed you all fifteen minutes later, and as you filed out into the hallway, Jake was still going.

“I’m just saying, I’ve got a gift. A sixth sense for chemistry.”

“Oh yeah?” Rooster asked, slapping Jake’s shoulder. “That why you’re still single?”

“That’s a choice,” Jake shot back, fixing the collar of his flight suit. “I’m out here doing the Lord’s work. Playing Cupid.”

Fanboy groaned. “God, not this again.”

“You don’t even believe in monogamy,” Phoenix said, crossing her arms as she walked backward in front of you all.

“I believe in giving people a little push,” Jake replied. “Like matchmaking. Strategically. For morale.”

“Since when do you care about morale?” Coyote snorted.

Jake pointed at you. “Since she’s been moping around base like she lost a bet.”

“I haven’t been moping,” you argued, though you knew exactly what he was referencing. One shitty date with a comms officer and suddenly Hangman was acting like he needed to fix your whole life.

“You’ve been quiet,” Bob added from your other side, his tone gentle. “Quieter than usual.”

“I’m allowed to have quiet days.”

Jake leaned in again, smirking. “Or maybe you just need someone to make some noise in your life.”

Phoenix punched his arm. “Back off, Casanova.”

-

The pre-flight was smooth. You were zipping up your G-suit when Jake wandered over to your jet, dragging Coyote along like an accessory.

“Need help strapping in, sweetheart?” he asked, leaning against the wing like a car salesman trying too hard.

You gave him a flat look. “Only if you want a wrench to the temple.”

Coyote snorted.

“I was just saying,” Jake continued, completely undeterred, “you’re the picture of confidence. Someone should be here to appreciate it.”

“Jake,” Bob called from a few feet away, arms crossed as he leaned against your jet’s ladder. “You hit on her one more time and the plane might spontaneously combust just to escape the cringe.”

“Ohhh,” Rooster added as he approached, dragging his helmet in one hand. “Burned by Baby on Board. Rough morning for you, Seresin.”

Jake grinned lazily. “Hey, you all mock now, but when I’m the best man at her wedding? You’ll wish you were as charming.”

You raised a brow. “You volunteering?”

“Best man? Groom? I’m flexible.”

You groaned. Bob muttered under his breath, “Flexible like your ego.”

-

You all made your way toward the flight deck, helmets in hand, the morning sun bouncing off the tarmac. The simulation was in forty-five minutes, and you were itching to get in the air—partially because it was the one place where Jake couldn’t talk your ear off.

The air was different on base lately.

It wasn’t just the hotter-than-usual summer, or the fact that everyone had started sneaking ice pops from the freezer in the officer’s lounge. There was something else. A shift.

Everyone was restless. The mission load had eased slightly, giving you all more downtime. And when Top Gun pilots had too much downtime? Stupid things happened.

Betting pools. Pranks. Unnecessary competitions.

And, in this case: matchmaking.

Jake’s obsession had started as a joke—something he said after your third bad date in two months. But now, it was gaining momentum. He’d already made one match between a junior lieutenant and a flight mechanic (they’d gone on two coffee dates and then ghosted each other, but Jake claimed it was a success). And now, unfortunately, you were in his line of fire.

But what you didn’t know—what none of you knew—was that the boys had made a bet.

It started that night. A few hours after debrief, Rooster invited the squad over for drinks and poker.

-

Rooster’s house smelled like beer and leftover pizza, and Jake was already two whiskeys in when the idea started forming.

“Admit it,” he said, shuffling cards with a flourish. “I could get her a date that lasts longer than a week.”

“You think you could find her the right guy?” Fanboy asked, incredulous. “You’re the worst person to set anyone up.”

“I have charm.”

“You have trauma,” Payback muttered.

Jake smirked, unfazed. “I’m serious. She’s just… picky. And I know her type.”

Coyote raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what’s her type?”

Jake sipped his drink. “Someone with a sense of humor. Smart, but not arrogant. Good with their hands. Probably someone in uniform.”

“So… you,” Rooster said dryly.

Everyone laughed.

Jake rolled his eyes. “No. She’d hate dating me.”

“You sure?” Bob asked quietly, brows lifted.

Jake hesitated. “Yeah. She’d kill me before the first appetizer.”

“Let’s make it interesting,” Fanboy said, leaning forward. “Twenty bucks each. You pick someone—set her up. If it lasts more than five dates, you win. If not? We keep the cash.”

“Make it fifty,” Jake challenged.

The boys stared at him.

“Confident much?” Coyote said.

Jake shrugged. “She’s my friend. I know what she needs.”

The pot grew to $300. Jake grinned.

-

You had no idea what you’d just become the center of.

But the next morning, when Jake asked casually if you’d ever considered dating that guy from supply again, you should’ve known something was up.

The next morning broke clear and sharp over the base, the sun spilling golden through the narrow slats of your blinds. You were still half tangled in the remnants of a restless sleep when your phone buzzed with a text.

Jake: “Hey. So… you ever thought about dating supply?”

You blinked, sitting up, the question feeling more like a prank than a genuine suggestion. Jake Seresin, your self-appointed Cupid, was already in full swing.

You typed back with a dry smile:

You: “You’re starting early.”

-

The squad gathered for the morning briefing in the usual cramped room, the air thick with anticipation and the faint smell of burnt coffee. Cyclone was rattling off last-minute mission details when Jake sidled up next to you again, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips.

The morning sun had barely crept above the hangar roof when the squad gathered for the day’s briefing. The cramped room hummed with quiet anticipation, punctuated by the rustle of flight suits and the faint buzz of comm chatter filtering through the air vents. Cyclone’s voice was all business, drilling through the mission simulation details like a machine.

But no one was really paying full attention—not you, and certainly not Jake Seresin.

Leaning against the wall beside you, Jake’s eyes gleamed with that familiar spark of mischief. “Alright, today’s the day,” he whispered, a grin tugging at his lips. “My matchmaking game is officially live.”

You rolled your eyes but fought a smile. Jake had been on this ridiculous kick since last night at Rooster’s, practically bursting with excitement over the stupid bet with the boys. You weren’t sure whether to be amused or mildly concerned.

“Seriously, dude, give it a rest,” you muttered, but he just shrugged and turned back to the briefing.

-

Once dismissed, the squad filtered out toward their jets, the metallic clang of helmets and gear blending with the distant roar of engines warming up. The familiar adrenaline spike coursed through your veins as you slid into your cockpit, fingers expertly running over the controls. Flying was always your sanctuary—the one place where Jake’s antics faded into white noise.

That was until your comm crackled with Rooster’s voice, thick with mock warning. “Hey, Hangman, keep your eyes on your wingman today. No matchmaking during maneuvers. We’ve got enough chaos as it is.”

Jake’s tone answered back, playful and teasing, “I’m just out here doing the Lord’s work. Somebody’s gotta fix this mess.”

You chuckled softly, settling into formation as the jets lifted off in perfect synchrony. The sky was a crystal blue canvas, the sun gleaming on your visor as you sliced through the air.

Flying helped.

Whatever chaos lingered on the ground got swept away the moment you lifted off. You and Rooster made clean turns, slicing through the California sky like it owed you something. Over comms, you could hear the easy banter between Payback and Fanboy, the static-muted smirks between Phoenix and Bob.

Jake, of course, never stopped talking.

“Hey, Bagman,” Phoenix called out mid-loop. “You miss basic training where they teach you how to shut up?”

“You love it,” he fired back.

“I’d love silence.”

“Don’t lie to yourself.”

It was all clockwork—banter, barrel rolls, and bullshit. But it was in the rhythm, in the instinctive trust that came from knowing every one of them would be there when it counted, that you found your balance.

You didn’t realize you were smiling until Bob’s voice came over the comm.

“You’re humming.”

“Shut up, Bob.”

“You’re humming over the intercom. I think that’s a first.”

Jake’s voice cut in, “She’s humming because I’m inspiring.”

Bob immediately: “I’m ejecting.”

-

Back on the ground after a flawless simulation, the squad dispersed toward the mess hall in a slow, hungry shuffle. The air was thick with post-flight energy—half adrenaline, half exhaustion—and someone behind you (probably Rooster) was humming the Top Gun anthem under his breath like he did after every mission.

You were barely through the door, already scoping out whether the snack bar had restocked the decent granola bars, when Jake popped up beside you like a damn prairie dog.

“Hey,” he said, voice pitched low, too casual to actually be casual.

You side-eyed him. “What now?”

He hesitated. That alone was enough to make you stop walking.

Jake Seresin? Hesitating? That was new.

He rubbed the back of his neck, expression a strange mix of nerves and smug determination. Like a kid about to admit they broke a window and that it was totally worth it.

“You remember the supply officer? The one from last week?”

You frowned. “Yeah. What about him?”

Jake cleared his throat. “Well… I might’ve, uh, invited him out for dinner. As part of my… project.”

You blinked. “Project?”

“Matchmaking,” he said, like duh. “Obviously.”

You laughed. Loud enough that two airmen passing by looked over.

“Jake, you can’t just ‘invite’ people for dates like it’s a mandatory training exercise.”

He shrugged, attempting nonchalance but failing miserably. “It’s not an official date. Just… a social outing. A vibe check.”

“A vibe check?”

“I figured I’d do some of the heavy lifting,” he continued, walking beside you now as you made your way toward the salad bar. “Save you the trouble of awkward small talk. If it’s a bust, you can blame me. If it works, you’re welcome.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do realize this is borderline insane?”

“Borderline charming,” he corrected.

“Borderline manipulative.”

“Potato, po-tah-to,” he said, waving a hand.

You stopped at the drink cooler, opening the door with more force than necessary. “Let me get this straight. You, without telling me, set me up with someone I barely know, because you think you know better?”

Jake looked smug. “Yeah. And you’re gonna love it.”

Before you could respond—probably with something that would’ve gotten you written up—Phoenix slid between you both like she’d been waiting for the right moment to intervene.

“You owe me five bucks,” she said to Jake, grabbing a Gatorade from the cooler behind you.

Jake’s smile faltered. “You bet on this?”

“Obviously.” She winked at you. “I said you’d go off on him the second he opened his matchmaking mouth.”

You glared at them both. “This entire squad is feral.”

Fanboy appeared from behind the soda machine, his tray already stacked with two grilled cheese sandwiches and a mountain of fries. “Hey, are we still on for movie night?”

“Depends,” you muttered, eyeing Jake. “Is it a movie I pick, or one Hangman picks based on who he’s trying to set me up with?”

“Ouch,” Jake said, clutching his chest. “You wound me.”

“She’s got a point,” Coyote added, showing up just in time to steal a fry off Fanboy’s tray. “You’re making this personal crusade way too obvious.”

Jake’s eyes flicked to you for a second. “It’s not personal. I just think she deserves someone solid.”

“Uh-huh,” Phoenix said, sipping her drink like she wasn’t starting a fire with every word. “And definitely not you.”

He grinned, sharp and defensive. “Exactly.”

You narrowed your eyes.

You weren’t blind. You’d known Jake for years—flown with him, fought with him, gotten blackout drunk with him during Coyote’s infamous Vegas birthday weekend. You knew what he looked like when he was bluffing.

And this?

This was a bluff. One he’d doubled down on way too hard to back out of now.

“Fine,” you said slowly, popping the lid on your water bottle. “I’ll go. One dinner. But if this guy’s weird or tries to tell me about his crypto portfolio, I’m blaming you.”

Jake grinned like he’d won something. “Deal.”

Phoenix shook her head as she walked off. “You’re playing with fire, Hangman.”

Jake called after her. “Lucky for me, I like the burn.”

-

Movie night started like they all did—overcrowded, under-supplied, and dangerously close to devolving into chaos.

Rooster was balancing a tangled knot of wires in one hand and a half-eaten slice of pizza in the other, muttering something about HDMI adapters and “government-issued bullshit tech.” His ancient projector—the one that had survived deployments, sandstorms, and one very unfortunate encounter with tequila in San Diego—was propped up on two old aviation textbooks and a can of Pringles.

Fanboy arrived ten minutes late and unapologetically smug, cradling a six-pack of Dr. Pepper like it was a rare treasure. “Don’t worry,” he declared loudly, “I saved movie night. Again.”

“No one asked you to,” Phoenix called from where she was elbow-deep in a duffel bag looking for her Captain America fleece blanket.

“Democracy asked me to,” Fanboy retorted. “You’re welcome.”

Bob, sweet dependable Bob, came bearing the only thing anyone actually appreciated—cookies. His sister in Lemoore had mailed him two Tupperware containers filled with snickerdoodles, peanut butter blondies, and something suspiciously green that no one questioned. The second the plastic lids came off, the room collectively moaned like it had just been released from purgatory.

Jake, of course, brought nothing but opinions. And himself. Both in equally large supply.

“Who voted for Hot Fuzz?” he asked, hands on his hips like an outraged PTA mom.

“Me,” you said flatly.

“And me,” Bob added, already curled into the arm of the couch with a cookie in hand, quietly smug.

Jake turned toward you like you’d personally betrayed him. “We could’ve watched John Wick, and you went with British satire?”

“I’m sorry,” you said, completely unapologetic. “Are you anti-cornetto trilogy?”

Jake blinked. “I’m anti-being-bored.”

“Then maybe don’t bring the same six stories about your exes to every hangout,” Phoenix muttered.

“Rude,” Jake replied, not denying it.

The lights dimmed. Rooster finally got the projector to cast a halfway decent image against the white wall, and Payback threw a sock at him when the subtitles didn’t match the audio. Someone screamed “SHOTGUN!” for the beanbag chair that had mysteriously migrated from Coyote’s room. Popcorn flew. The floor space vanished in seconds.

You wound up sprawled beside Bob, your back against a floor cushion that may or may not have once belonged to Hangman before it got appropriated during a game night standoff. Your sock-clad toes brushed against Bob’s shin; he didn’t even flinch, just nudged a peanut butter blondie toward you in a wordless offer.

You took it.

Coyote wandered in halfway through the opening credits carrying two slices of pizza stacked on top of each other, looked at the chaos in the room, and just sighed. “This is why we don’t have nice things.”

“You’re just mad I got the last slice of Hawaiian,” Fanboy sang from the corner.

“We talked about pineapple on pizza,” Coyote said darkly.

Meanwhile, the movie hit its stride—quick edits, dramatic zooms, jokes that landed even harder because everyone in the room had already memorized the lines.

“Point Break or Bad Boys II?” Jake called out in his best Nick Frost impression.

“Which one do you think I’ll prefer?” Rooster responded instantly from across the room, already grinning.

Payback lobbed popcorn at them both. “If y’all quote this whole damn movie, I’m leaving.”

“You say that every week,” Phoenix said, rolling her eyes. “And then you fall asleep halfway through with your mouth open.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

Jake flopped onto the arm of the couch behind you, like gravity had simply decided that spot belonged to him. His knee brushed your shoulder, lingering a second longer than necessary, and you didn’t shift away.

“You good?” he asked, voice pitched low so the others wouldn’t hear.

You tilted your head back, craning to look at him upside-down. “Define good.”

His lips twitched. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

You hummed. “Depends.”

“On?”

You gave him a saccharine smile. “Whether this guy turns out to be a serial killer.”

Jake laughed, and it was real—low and sheepish. “He’s not. I promise. He’s a little weird, maybe. But not murder-y.”

“Solid endorsement.”

“You asked me to look out for you,” he said, still smiling, but there was something beneath it—something quieter. “That’s what I’m doing.”

You stared at him, upside-down still, and for just a second the playful banter faded into something else. Something more loaded.

Your gaze held his for a second too long. Then you looked away, your neck aching a little from the angle. You shifted your weight back into the couch cushion.

“Just don’t make this a habit,” you muttered.

Jake didn’t answer right away. You felt him move behind you—his elbow brushing the back of your hair as he leaned forward slightly.

“Would it be so bad if I did?”

The question hung in the air.

It wasn’t flirtatious, not really. There wasn’t that usual drawl to it. He wasn’t playing this time. There was no smirk. No teasing. Just… curiosity. And something softer underneath it that he probably didn’t even realize had slipped through.

You glanced at him again, your expression unreadable. And for the first time, Jake actually looked unsure.

Before either of you could say anything else, Coyote and Phoenix started arguing across the room about whether or not Nicholas Angel—Simon Pegg’s character—was technically the villain of the movie.

“I’m just saying,” Phoenix started, “he ruins everyone’s fun.”

“By solving murders,” Coyote countered.

“You can’t prove Timothy Dalton didn’t have a point!”

You let their voices fill the room. Let the squad’s laughter and the chaos and the comfort of familiarity drown out the tension curling low in your chest.

Because the truth?

You didn’t hate the attention. You didn’t hate the way Jake always checked in, or the way he always saved you a spot without saying anything, or how he laughed harder when you were around. You didn’t hate any of it.

You just didn’t want to think too hard about why it mattered that it came from him.

Not yet.

-

The next morning arrived with zero fanfare and a whole lot of regret.

Not regret over anything you had done, but regret in the shape of Jake Seresin’s smirking face as he leaned against the edge of the table in the mess hall, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just offered you up like tribute the night before.

“So,” he said, drawing the word out, “you excited?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, halfway through your oatmeal. “Excited for what?”

Jake blinked, all innocence. “Tonight. Dinner. Supply officer.”

Fanboy perked up from across the table. “Wait. You’re going out with the walking spreadsheet?”

Rooster choked on his juice. “The one who alphabetizes the peanut butter?”

You gave Jake a look that could have melted steel. “You told everyone?”

Jake had the audacity to look affronted. “I didn’t tell them. I just—mentioned it.”

Phoenix leaned in, grinning like she smelled blood in the water. “Did you also mention that she was strong-armed into this by you?”

Jake shrugged. “It’s not coercion. It’s encouragement.”

“Encouragement usually involves enthusiasm,” you muttered. “Not bribery and peer pressure.”

“I didn’t bribe you.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘If you go, I’ll never bring up that time you accidentally FaceTimed me from the bath again.’”

Fanboy nearly spit out his coffee. “What?”

Jake held up his hands. “Not what it sounds like.”

You stood, grabbing your tray and ignoring the stares. “You’re all children.”

Phoenix cackled. “Be sure to send us a group text if he turns out to be a taxidermist.”

Jake called after you, “He’s a very normal guy! You’ll have a great time!”

You didn’t respond. But you did flip him off on your way out of the mess.

-

It was 7:00pm sharp when you arrived at the seafood place Jake had suggested—off-base, casual enough to avoid dress uniforms but nice enough to warrant eyeliner. The place had string lights, polished wood tables, and the kind of menu where everything came with a “reduction” of something or other.

You spotted your date—Mike, the supply officer—before he spotted you. He was seated in a booth, already halfway through a glass of water, his posture too perfect and his shirt just a little too tucked-in.

“Hey,” you said as you slid into the seat across from him.

His face lit up with the same earnest enthusiasm he’d had when you’d signed for your new flight gloves last week. “Hi! You made it!”

You smiled politely. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

Conversation started off… fine.

He asked about your squadron, complimented your call sign (which he’d mispronounced twice), and talked about how he’d minored in aviation logistics at Purdue. He had a laugh that was technically charming, and a habit of straightening the salt shaker every time he leaned forward.

He wasn’t creepy. Or mean. Or even weird, really.

But the longer you sat across from him, the more glaringly obvious it became that this was not going to be the beginning of anything remotely romantic.

Your brain betrayed you somewhere between the appetizers and the main course. Because all you could think about was Jake.

Jake, who never sat that straight. Jake, who never got through a meal without sharing food off someone else’s plate. Jake, who once made up a fake call sign for Rooster just to mess with a group of visiting officers (“It’s ‘Cockadoodle-Doom,’ sir, and he earned it.”).

Jake, who had set you up on this date. Who had pushed you toward it with that easy smile and the kind of confidence that only someone with absolutely no self-awareness could manage.

“So,” Mike said, snapping you out of your daze, “are you into board games?”

You blinked. “Board games?”

“Yeah. I host a game night sometimes. We do Settlers of Catan and Terraforming Mars. I’ve got an expansion pack for Wingspan that adds European birds.”

You took a sip of your drink. “That’s… specific.”

Mike grinned. “You’d like it. You seem like someone who appreciates rules.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s not usually what people say about me.”

He looked slightly panicked. “I meant—like… structure. Not in a bad way!”

You laughed once, politely. Then glanced at the time on your phone.

Still forty minutes to go, if you were being generous.

-

Back on base, Jake was restless.

Bob watched him pace from the armchair, where he was trying to read. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the rug.”

Jake ignored him, turning toward the window like he could somehow see the restaurant from there. “You think she’s having fun?”

Bob didn’t look up. “You mean the girl you tried to pawn off like an Amazon package?”

“I didn’t pawn her off.”

“You did. It was weird. You should’ve just asked her out yourself.”

Jake froze. “I don’t— That’s not what this is.”

Bob finally looked up. “Isn’t it?”

Jake didn’t answer.

Didn’t have one, honestly.

-

By the time you made it back to your place, you were tired in a way that had nothing to do with your day. Mike had walked you to your car like a gentleman and given you a hug that lasted half a second too long.

“You’re really cool,” he’d said earnestly, eyes hopeful.

You’d smiled and thanked him.

And then you’d sat in your car for five full minutes, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, wondering what the hell you were doing.

Your phone buzzed.

Jake: “So… still alive? Didn’t join a cult?”

You stared at it. Debated. Then typed back:

You: “Barely. He asked if I wanted to see his board game collection.”

Jake’s reply came instantly.

Jake: “That sounds like a euphemism.”

You: “It wasn’t.”

Jake: “That somehow makes it worse.”

You smiled in spite of yourself. Tossed your phone onto the passenger seat beside you. The night was still. Quiet.

And the only thing louder than the silence was the thought you’d been trying to avoid since the moment Jake first brought this whole “project” up.

Why was he so interested in trying to get you to date?

And why was HE of all people on your mind all of a sudden?

-

The squad didn’t do boredom well.

Two days after movie night and that god awful date, Phoenix convinced half of you to join a beach volleyball tournament on base. You weren’t even sure how it had been sanctioned—maybe the C.O. was just as restless as the rest of you—but suddenly there were nets set up just past the tarmac, and someone had roped off court boundaries with neon cones and caution tape.

You showed up in gym shorts and a tank top, hair pulled back and sunscreen barely rubbed in. Bob handed you a water bottle as you arrived, his cheeks pink from the heat despite the early hour.

“Phoenix and Rooster already claimed each other,” he said. “So I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“Poor thing,” you teased, bumping your shoulder into his.

He just smiled—calm, steady Bob—and tugged his cap lower against the sun. You loved flying with him. Loved hanging out with him. Sometimes you thought maybe you loved everything about Bob, full stop.

Fanboy was the one who brought the speaker. Of course. He queued up a playlist titled “Top Gun Top Hits” that had everything from Kenny Loggins to Doja Cat. By the time the first game started, Rooster was dancing between points and Phoenix had already spiked a serve into Hangman’s chest.

“That one was for your ego,” she said, tossing the ball back over the net.

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you,” Jake shot back.

You and Bob held your own, surprisingly enough. You weren’t flashy, but you had good instincts. And Bob was sneaky—he didn’t talk much during games, but he always seemed to know where to be.

“Okay, that was kind of hot,” you admitted after he dove for a save and landed in the sand.

He just looked up at you, winded and flushed. “You like that?”

You did. Too much. And maybe Jake noticed, because suddenly he was rotating in as your opponent with a little too much enthusiasm.

Afterward, you collapsed on a towel with Phoenix, both of you gulping water and yelling at Coyote for eating all the orange slices.

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” Phoenix muttered.

“Yeah, well, next time bring more,” he shot back, mouth full.

By late afternoon, the squad scattered—some toward the showers, some to grab food, and Jake? Jake lingered.

“You’re free tomorrow night, right?” he asked, nudging your foot with his.

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he said innocently. “Just… remember that avionics tech from the hangar? The one with the buzz cut and the arm tattoo?”

“The one who said Star Wars is overrated?”

Jake winced. “Okay, so he’s not perfect. But he’s free. And I figured—just a quick drink. Harmless.”

You groaned. “Why are you like this?”

“It’s for morale,” he said smugly, already walking backward toward the barracks. “And entertainment.”

-

The bar was dim and vaguely sticky, tucked into a side street just outside the base gates. It smelled like old beer and buffalo sauce, the kind of place that tried to pass itself off as “divey” in a charming way but never quite nailed the charm. Off-duty personnel clustered at the high tables, uniforms swapped out for jeans and team shirts, most pretending not to watch the pilots coming and going like it wasn’t their entertainment for the night. Country music played over the speakers—loud but not loud enough to cover the clink of bottles and the low buzz of half-drunken conversations.

Trevor—aka Buzz Cut Guy—was already seated at a corner booth when you walked in. You spotted him instantly. Tight black t-shirt, designer watch, one leg sprawled out too far into the walkway like he wanted people to trip over him. His cologne hit you before his smile did: something aggressively masculine, the kind of scent that tried too hard to say I lift without any actual lifting.

He stood when you approached, teeth flashing in a grin that felt more practiced than warm. “You must be Jake’s friend,” he said, sliding a hand across the table and pulling out your chair with the sort of flair that implied he’d rehearsed it.

“He said you’d probably try to bail.”

You raised a brow, pausing halfway into the seat. “That’s a weird opener.”

Trevor chuckled like that was somehow endearing. “Just messing. I’m good at reading people.”

You doubted that.

Still, you sat. Mostly because you didn’t want to give Jake the satisfaction of knowing you almost turned around and left the second you saw that buzzcut and smug expression in person.

“Figured I’d keep it casual tonight,” Trevor said, nodding to the waitress as she came over. “Can I get you something? Beer, wine, appletini?”

You blinked. “I’ll just take a ginger ale, thanks.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No alcohol? That’s cute.”

Your jaw clenched. “Or maybe I just have early drills tomorrow and don’t want to show up hungover. Wild, I know.”

Trevor shrugged, unbothered. “Your call. I’m off tomorrow. I usually am. Perks of being indispensable.”

Oh boy.

It only got worse.

Trevor was, admittedly, attractive in the technical sense. Broad shoulders, straight teeth, a tattoo of what looked like a circuit board wrapping around his bicep—but every sentence out of his mouth made you question how many brain cells it took to put on deodorant in the morning.

“I’m kind of a genius with electronics,” he said, not even a full five minutes into the conversation. “Like, borderline savant. I rewired my mom’s entire security system when I was sixteen. She still doesn’t know how I did it.”

You nodded slowly, sipping your ginger ale like it was spiked with the patience of a saint. “Impressive.”

“I don’t get why people worship Maverick, honestly,” he continued, tipping his beer toward you like you’d agree. “Bit of a burnout vibe, don’t you think? Washed up. Always breaking the rules.”

You blinked. “You do realize everyone in my squad reports to him, right?”

He waved that off. “Yeah, but come on. You really think he’s still got it? Dude’s a relic.”

You forced a smile, digging your nails into the underside of the table. “So what made you join avionics if you’re such a prodigy?”

“I could totally be a pilot if I wanted. I just don’t want to deal with all the bullshit training. So much red tape, man. You guys live in the cockpit, but I live in reality.”

It was almost impressive—how quickly someone could become more unbearable with every word. You found yourself cataloging the signs like a checklist: talks over you, check. Makes his job sound harder than yours, check. Thinks The Matrix was “based on real science,” check.

“Oh, and don’t get me started on women who fly. No offense,” he said, glancing at you with that same fake grin. “Just seems like a tough gig. Like, do they even make helmets that small?”

You blinked. Slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Kidding,” he said quickly, hands up. “Joking. Lighten up.”

You had lasted thirty-seven minutes. You decided to be generous and make it to forty. Not because he deserved it, but because walking out before the forty-minute mark would just give Jake ammo to say I told you so.

You nursed your ginger ale. You let him talk. You imagined throwing his phone into the jukebox. And finally—finally—you stood.

“Well,” you said, pushing your chair back with a polite smile that barely masked the storm brewing in your chest. “This has been… something.”

Trevor stood too, reaching for your hand like he thought this was going well. “This was nice. Maybe next time you let me pick the music. Jake says you like weird stuff.”

You pulled your hand back. “Jake’s never heard me complain about music.”

Trevor blinked. “You sure? He said—”

“I’m sure,” you said firmly, already turning for the door. “Thanks for the ginger ale.”

The second you stepped outside into the cool night air, you exhaled like you’d just surfaced from a dive. Your boots hit the sidewalk harder than necessary as you made your way toward the parking lot, fingers already curled around your phone.

Jake 🙄

So??

You stared at the text. A dozen responses came to mind, ranging from sarcastic to profane, but you settled for closing your phone without replying. Not yet.

Let him sweat.

-

It was the kind of late afternoon where everyone lingered in the hangar instead of showering—half still suited up, half in undershirts, flopped on crates or leaning against the wing of Rooster’s F/A-18. No one had the energy to leave yet, and unfortunately for you, that gave them plenty of energy to gossip.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” Phoenix said, cracking open a water bottle and tossing another one at you. “That bad?”

You caught it with one hand and gave her a look. “It wasn’t good.”

“Oh, do tell,” Fanboy said, perking up immediately. “We’ve been waiting for the post-mortem.”

Jake, of course, chose that moment to walk in, sunglasses still on despite being indoors and half the sunlight gone. “Here we go,” he muttered, under his breath but not low enough to go unheard.

You ignored him and sat on an ammo crate. “Okay, well. His cologne could’ve killed a small animal.”

Coyote winced. “Yikes.”

“Buzzcut Guy didn’t pass the vibe check?” Rooster asked, adjusting his backwards cap. “I thought Jake said he was ‘normal enough to survive a night with her.’”

You turned slowly. “He said that?”

Jake held up his hands. “In my defense, I said it in confidence to Rooster.”

Phoenix raised her brows. “So you knew he was questionable and still sent her out there?”

“I didn’t know he was that questionable!” Jake protested, finally removing his sunglasses and hooking them onto his collar. “I mean—how bad could it have been?”

You looked at him flatly. “He said, and I quote, ‘Do they even make helmets that small for female pilots?’”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“Noooooo,” Payback said, wheezing.

Fanboy doubled over like he’d been physically struck. “Nooo shot. Jake. Jake.”

Even Rooster looked horrified. “He said that to your face?”

“Loudly,” you said, sipping your water. “Like he thought it was charming.”

Phoenix’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “He sounds like a national treasure. Jake, where do you find these guys? Do they have a club? Is there a pool you dip into specifically marked ‘do not recommend’?”

Jake looked genuinely pained. “Okay, first of all, Trevor didn’t say any of that shit when we were at the gym.”

“Because of course you recruit men at the gym,” Phoenix said.

“Next you’ll be setting her up with a guy who thinks ‘Top Gun’ was a documentary,” Payback added.

Jake looked at you, eyes a little sharper now. “So what—you’re mad at me again?”

You shrugged. “Not mad. Just impressed you managed to pick someone even worse than the last one.”

Fanboy raised a hand like he was in class. “Question: how do you keep managing to top yourself? Is this a long game to ruin her faith in men so she just gives up and settles for you?”

The squad howled.

Jake’s jaw clenched. “That’s not—”

“I mean,” Rooster said casually, spinning a socket wrench in his fingers. “You do seem to care a whole lot about who she ends up with.”

“Because I’m trying to help,” Jake snapped.

“Help yourself into her pants?” Phoenix offered, deadpan.

“That’s not—oh my god,” Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

You watched him, letting the squad’s laughter drown out the weird warmth under your skin. Jake wasn’t looking at you now, not directly. His ears had gone a little pink.

“Just admit you’re bad at this,” you said calmly, tossing your empty bottle into a nearby bin.

Jake scowled. “You know what? Fine. I’ll do better next time.”

“Oh no,” Rooster said. “There’s gonna be a next time?”

Jake ignored him. “Give me one more shot. I’ve got someone in mind already.”

Coyote looked alarmed. “He said that like a man about to suggest someone who drinks Monster for breakfast.”

Phoenix put her face in her hands. “This is gonna be another ‘I swear he’s normal’ guy, isn’t it?”

You crossed your arms, amused despite yourself. “Is this how you flirt? Just slow psychological warfare until I give up?”

Jake met your gaze. This time, his expression softened. “I could stop if you asked me to.”

You held his stare for a second too long—again—and didn’t reply.

Fanboy clapped his hands. “Alright! Next date pool starts now! Who wants to put money on this one lasting less than thirty minutes?”

“I’m giving her fifteen,” Phoenix said.

“Ten,” said Coyote.

Jake looked around, scandalized. “You guys are actual traitors.”

“Traitors with taste,” Rooster added.

The squad fell back into their banter, placing increasingly dramatic bets, and you let it wash over you—grateful, at least, for the distraction. But as Jake sat beside you on the crate, a little quieter now, you didn’t miss the way his knee bumped yours.

And stayed there.

You glanced back at Jake, who was pretending to be interested in the banter going on with Rooster and Payback, but his knee was still casually brushing yours. Your chest tightened, a weird mix of comfort and something unspoken hanging in the air.

“Alright, Cupid,” you said, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “If you’re so confident, when’s my next ‘date’?”

Jake gave you a mock offended look. “Whoa, slow down. You’re making it sound like I’m some kind of serial dater.”

“Well, you are definitely the reason I’m meeting these characters.” You smirked. “And don’t think I forgot that you specifically picked Buzz Cut Guy.”

Jake shrugged, the grin never leaving his face. “Quality control.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, quality control right into the dumpster.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping an octave. “Hey, I’m trying here. It’s a process.”

You caught the glint in his eyes—the same one you’d seen during briefings, in the heat of missions, and now here, in the middle of all this ridiculous squad chaos. It was easier to tease him, easier to laugh, but your heart hammered with every accidental touch, every shared glance.

“Just… try not to kill me with your ‘dates,’” you teased.

Jake’s smile softened. “No promises.”

For a moment, the noise around you faded, the room shrinking until it was just the two of you—two friends tangled in something neither of you was quite ready to name.

Then Rooster shouted from across the room, “Hey, you lovebirds, quit hogging the crate!”

Jake’s knee finally slid away, but the spark between you lingered.

“Come on,” you said, standing and stretching. “Let’s see what disaster you have planned next.”

Jake was already on his feet, quick on the comeback. “Oh, it’s going to be legendary.”

You laughed, feeling the familiar warmth of the squad around you and something a little more dangerous simmering just beneath the surface.

-

The next morning, the base was buzzing with its usual hum—pilots prepping for missions, techs bustling through equipment checks, and the faint scent of strong coffee drifting from the mess hall. You were sitting at one of the picnic tables outside, scrolling through your phone when Jake strolled up, his flight jacket casually slung over one shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, dropping into the seat across from you with that familiar smirk. “So, about dinner last night…”

You arched a brow. “What about it?”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flickering sideways like he was debating how much to spill. “Trevor wasn’t exactly my best pick.”

You chuckled, setting your phone down. “That’s one way to put it.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I thought he’d be better. But then again, I guess it’s hard to find someone who doesn’t suck.”

You snorted. “Thanks for the glowing endorsement.”

Jake grinned. “I’m just saying, your standards are high.”

Before you could respond, Payback and Fanboy appeared nearby, carrying trays loaded with breakfast. Payback gave you a knowing look.

“Talking about your love life again?” he teased, plopping down beside Jake.

“Only because Jake here is apparently moonlighting as a matchmaker,” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

Jake defended himself. “Hey, I’m just trying to help. And I’ve got a new candidate lined up.”

“Oh god,” you groaned, half-exasperated, half-amused.

Rooster wandered over, catching the tail end of the conversation. “Another date?”

Jake nodded, eyes twinkling. “Yep. This one’s different. Supposedly a real stand-up guy. Name’s Marcus.”

“Marcus,” you repeated slowly, trying the name out. “Sounds promising.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jake said, waving a hand. “He’s a cop. Good with his hands, apparently.”

You squinted at him. “How do you know all this?”

Jake smirked. “Let’s just say I do my research.”

The squad chuckled, settling into easy banter as you all ate.

-

The restaurant was dimly lit with an ambiance that felt more like an exclusive lounge than a casual dinner spot. Soft jazz floated through the air, blending with the quiet clinks of silverware and murmurs of other diners. You sat at a small, candlelit table across from Marcus, the cop Jake had set you up with. From the start, you knew this was going to be a challenge, but nothing prepared you for how quickly it spiraled.

Marcus smiled with that easy confidence cops often carried—the kind that told you he was used to getting his way. His eyes lingered a little too long, and the way he spoke felt less like a genuine conversation and more like an interrogation.

“So, Jake thinks we’ll hit it off,” Marcus began, swirling his glass of red wine with practiced ease. “Apparently, he’s a big fan of mixing things up.”

You smiled politely. “Yeah, Jake has his own ways.”

He chuckled but didn’t take the hint to dial it back. “So, what do you do for fun? I mean, besides dating mystery men?”

You raised an eyebrow but answered carefully. “I’m pretty into my work. Flying missions, training. It keeps me busy.”

Marcus nodded as if that was expected. “I get it. Structure, discipline. I’m all about rules myself.”

You tried to steer the conversation to something more neutral, but the undertone grew heavier.

“You know,” Marcus said, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping an octave, “a woman like you probably likes a man who knows what he wants. Someone who takes charge. Makes decisions.”

You felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. “I’m pretty capable of making my own decisions.”

Marcus smirked, clearly amused. “Sure, but there’s something nice about a guy who can show you the way. Keep things simple.”

You shifted in your seat, trying to maintain your composure. The subtle power play was becoming obvious.

“So, what’s your idea of a perfect date?” Marcus asked, but it wasn’t a question so much as a challenge.

You shook your head slightly, feeling the conversation close in. “Honestly, I just want someone who respects me.”

Marcus’s smirk faded just a little. “Respect’s earned, you know.”

At that moment, Marcus’s hand slid from the table, moving slowly until it landed on your thigh. The contact was light but unmistakably deliberate.

You froze, your stomach twisting. “Marcus…”

He didn’t withdraw his hand. Instead, he let it drift further back, brushing the curve of your hip, and then—before you could react—he gave a quick, possessive squeeze on your lower back.

Your breath caught, and your polite smile hardened. You pulled your chair back slightly, creating distance.

“Look, I don’t know what Jake told you about me,” you said quietly but firmly, “but I’m not here to be touched without consent.”

Marcus’s face tightened for a moment, a flicker of irritation crossing his features, but he masked it with a forced laugh.

“Hey, I’m just trying to show you I’m interested.”

You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “Interest isn’t physical if it makes me uncomfortable.”

The rest of the meal was a blur of awkward silences and forced smiles, each minute stretching longer than the last. Your mind raced for a way out, but you were trapped by the formalities and the restaurant’s watchful eyes.

Finally, you excused yourself, mumbling something about the restroom.

Inside, you locked the door behind you and pressed your back against the cold surface. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of adrenaline and frustration flooding your senses.

You pulled out your phone, fingers trembling as you fumbled to unlock it. Your breath hitched as you typed the message again, trying to keep your voice steady despite the knot twisting tighter in your stomach.

You: Jake, please come get me. Marcus is… not what I expected. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m about to lose it.

The silence stretched. Then your phone buzzed.

Jake: Hang tight. I’m leaving now. Don’t do anything stupid.

You exhaled shakily, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. But you couldn’t help the worry gnawing at you.

A few minutes later, your phone rang. You answered quickly.

“Jake,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“Hey,” Jake’s voice was low but tight, laced with anger and concern. “What the hell’s going on?”

You bit your lip, suddenly feeling small. “Marcus… he crossed a line. I told him to stop, but he—he touched me.”

There was a long pause on the other end. Then Jake’s voice dropped, deadly serious.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine. Just… uncomfortable. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Goddammit,” Jake muttered, his frustration clear. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve stopped this before it even started.”

You pressed your forehead against the cool bathroom wall, trying to calm your racing heart. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

“I should’ve. I’m on my way, alright? Just stay put. Locked door, no matter what.”

“I will,” you whispered.

Jake’s voice softened for a moment. “I’ll be there soon. You’re not alone.”

As the call ended, you pressed the phone to your chest, letting the sound of Jake’s promise settle in. Somewhere between fear and relief, you realized you trusted him more than anyone else right now — and that maybe this ridiculous matchmaking project was turning into something a lot more complicated.

Steeling yourself, you took a deep breath, glanced at your phone’s screen — Jake had texted back, I’m waiting outside. Don’t say a word until you get here.

You slipped out of the bathroom door quietly, heart thumping so loud you thought it might give you away. The restaurant’s dining room buzzed with muffled conversation and clinking glasses. You ducked behind a pillar, weaving past tables with your eyes on the exit.

The cool night air hit your face as you slipped out the side door, the city sounds washing over you in relief. And there he was—Jake, leaning casually against his car, arms crossed, watching the street like a sentinel.

“You made it,” he said softly, voice just for you.

You barely nodded, sliding into the passenger seat before he even opened the door. The car smelled faintly of leather and pine-scented air freshener, oddly comforting in the tension of the moment.

Then, out of nowhere, the front door of the restaurant slammed open and Marcus stomped outside, scanning every shadow.

“Where the hell did she go?” Marcus growled, voice thick with frustration.

Jake’s eyes narrowed, and before you could blink, he pulled the door closed and locked it with a quiet click.

“Hide,” Jake hissed, pulling the seatbelt tight.

You ducked lower, barely able to keep from laughing as Marcus prowled past the car, his angry muttering unmistakable.

Jake cracked a grin. “Looks like your charming date doesn’t have a clue.”

You giggled, the absurdity of the situation hitting you. “Yeah, real smooth.”

As Marcus circled the block, you and Jake exchanged amused looks, the kind that said, Can you believe this guy?

A laugh escaped you, and Jake’s grin widened until it was all teeth and mischief.

“You know,” Jake said, voice dropping a notch, “we make a pretty good team.”

Your eyes met his in the dim glow of the dashboard, and suddenly the air shifted — the easy humor melting into something softer, something more electric.

Jake’s gaze lingered on you, warmth pooling in his eyes like a silent confession.

“Uh…” he cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “I should probably drop you home now.”

You nodded, cheeks flushed for reasons beyond the cold night air.

Jake started the engine and pulled away, the city lights blurring past the windows.

“I’m sorry you had to put up with that asshole,” he said quietly.

You reached over, squeezing his hand. “Thanks for saving me.”

He glanced your way, that grin teasing the corners of his mouth.

You laughed softly, the tension finally unwinding as the car hummed along the quiet streets.

-

The car pulled up outside your place—a modest, familiar building that felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of the night. Jake cut the engine and glanced over at you, his expression softer now, the easy teasing replaced by genuine concern.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, but didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, you reached into your bag, pulling out the small jacket you’d tossed over your shoulders earlier. The cold was creeping in now, but you barely noticed.

Jake stepped out and walked around to your side, opening the door. You hesitated for a moment, then slipped out, the night air cool against your skin.

You stood side by side on the sidewalk, the silence between you thick but not uncomfortable. It was as if the city itself had paused to let this moment breathe.

Finally, Jake broke the quiet.

“Next time, i’ll leg you pick out the date,” he said with a small, crooked smile.

You laughed softly, the sound mingling with the distant hum of streetlights and passing cars.

“Deal,” you whispered.

He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Neither of you said more, but the weight of everything unspoken hung in the air—something tender, something promising.

With a final look, you turned toward your door, and Jake watched you go, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

-

Two days after the restaurant escape, everything felt a little brighter. The sky over base was stupidly blue, the coffee in your hand was criminally good, and for once, your morning wasn’t crawling with tension. Instead, you walked through the hangar bay doors with a little spring in your step, humming under your breath, the lid of your cup pressed to your smile.

Bob was the first to notice.

“Wow,” he said, blinking behind his glasses as you passed him. “Someone’s chipper this morning.”

You smirked, biting back a reply as you took your usual seat beside Phoenix on the toolbox near the main maintenance station. She leaned toward you immediately, squinting. “Okay, what gives? You look like you’re about to break into song.”

Fanboy glanced up from where he was trying to fix the squad’s broken coffee machine. “Please don’t. I haven’t had caffeine in three hours. I might actually cry.”

You held up your cup in mock apology. “I had mine already.”

“Traitor,” he muttered.

Jake looked up from where he was half-bent over a clipboard with Rooster. The second he saw you—your smile, the little crinkle at the corners of your eyes—he felt something twist in his chest. He didn’t say anything, just watched as you took another sip and tried not to grin too hard.

You were glowing. Genuinely glowing.

And it wasn’t because of him.

Coyote joined the group, tossing a wrench onto a nearby cart. “Alright, spill. You’re grinning like you just found out Maverick’s paying off everyone’s student loans.”

You glanced around at all their faces—expectant, amused—and finally caved.

“I met someone,” you said.

Jake’s clipboard snapped shut in his hands. No one else noticed, but his jaw ticked.

Rooster tilted his head. “When?”

“This morning. At a coffee shop, just off base,” you said, twirling your cup slowly. “I was in line, and we started chatting. He’s… funny. Really charming. Works in environmental science or something.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “So not in the military?”

“Nope.”

��Already a green flag,” Fanboy said under his breath.

You laughed. “Right? And he asked me out.”

Jake’s stomach dropped.

You kept talking, unaware of the spiral unraveling behind his practiced expression. “We’re getting dinner tonight. He suggested this little Thai place near the beach. Said it’s his favorite spot.”

“He’s got good taste,” Phoenix said.

“He sounds promising,” Rooster added. “Better than Buzzcut and Cop Guy.”

You winced. “God, don’t remind me.”

“Wait,” Fanboy said, lifting his head. “You’re saying this one might actually be decent?”

“I think so,” you said softly. “He seems… different. It’s not just about looks or whatever. There’s something about him.”

Jake was frozen. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t nod. He was staring at the floor like it held the answers to every single one of his bad decisions.

Because it had just hit him—like a missile to the gut—that he didn’t want to see you smiling like that because of someone else.

He’d wanted it to be him all along.

And now you were going on a date with someone who hadn’t made a complete ass of himself in front of you. Someone you were actually excited about. Someone who made you glow.

Jake couldn’t breathe.

Phoenix noticed the change in his posture and gave him a strange look, but he stood before she could say anything.

“I, uh… I gotta check something in the breakroom,” he muttered, walking off without meeting anyone’s eyes.

Phoenix frowned. “The breakroom?”

Bob glanced at Rooster, then at Fanboy. “We don’t even keep anything in there anymore.”

Rooster sighed. “He’s losing it.”

-

Later That Night

Bob’s place was already filled with the scent of pizza and the low hum of music when the squad filtered in. There was a pile of shoes near the door, two half-full coolers, and a lopsided stack of movies no one would watch.

Jake sat on the couch, beer in hand, eyes glazed over as the rest of the squad cracked open drinks and teased Fanboy for trying to light the fire pit with a lighter too small for the job.

“She’s not here, you know,” Coyote said, flopping onto the other side of the couch.

Jake didn’t reply.

“She’s probably having the time of her life right now,” Fanboy said with a smirk, strolling past with a handful of chips.

“Let it go, man,” Rooster added, nudging Jake’s leg. “We’ve accepted the fact that you’re the world’s worst matchmaker.”

Phoenix dropped down beside them and rolled her eyes. “It’s actually impressive how bad those dates were. I mean, come on—Buzzcut? Marcus?”

Jake took a long sip of beer. “They weren’t that bad.”

“They were terrible,” Phoenix replied. “And now she found someone by accident. Coffee Shop Guy is already in the lead.”

That was the moment her phone buzzed on the table.

Phoenix didn’t look at it right away. She was in the middle of tossing a gummy worm at Rooster’s head. But when it lit up again, and again, she finally picked it up.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh my god.”

Everyone paused.

She turned her phone around and held it out. “Look.”

It was a photo. Taken an hour ago, timestamped. You were on the pier, sitting on the railing, hair blowing in the breeze. Ice cream cone in hand. Laughing. Glowing.

Next to you, a guy. Not Buzzcut. Not Marcus. Someone new. Handsome. Casual arm on the back of your bench.

He looked just as happy.

Jake felt like the air had been knocked out of him.

“That’s him?” Bob asked, peering over her shoulder.

“I guess so,” Phoenix muttered. “My friend saw her and sent this. I had my phone on DND. This was taken, like, an hour ago.”

Jake stood up so fast the couch shook.

“Jake?” Rooster asked.

Jake stared at the picture. And then, before anyone could stop him—

“I love her.”

Everyone froze.

Phoenix blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

Jake ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “I freaking love her. And I’ve been setting her up with losers because I didn’t want to admit it. But I love her.”

Rooster dropped his beer. “Dude.”

Fanboy choked. “WHAT?”

Coyote threw a pillow at him. “You moron! You let her go on four dates?”

“I KNOW,” Jake groaned.

Phoenix stood up. “You have to tell her. Like now.”

“But she’s with him. Look at them!” Jake pointed at the photo. “They’re probably planning their damn wedding.”

“No,” Bob said calmly. “They’re eating ice cream.”

“We need to find her,” Phoenix decided, grabbing her keys. “Now.”

-

“You want to what?”

Rooster stared at Jake like he’d just suggested they storm the Pentagon in flip-flops and Hawaiian shirts.

Jake stood in the center of Bob’s living room, hair sticking up in every direction, chest heaving with chaotic energy and pure desperation. “A paper airplane. I’m writing her a message. On a damn paper airplane.”

Silence.

Then Fanboy, holding a beer and looking deeply unimpressed, said flatly, “What the hell kind of third-grade rom-com fantasy are we living in right now?”

“I’m serious,” Jake barked. “She told me once—like a year ago—that if someone ever gave her a paper airplane with something meaningful written on it, she’d cry. Happy cry. She said she’d marry them on the spot.”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “Wait. She really said that?”

“She was drunk,” Jake admitted, pacing like a man on the edge. “We were playing Truth or Drink, and she was tipsy off two margaritas. She said it was the kind of gesture no one makes anymore—personal, sweet, thoughtful. Like… actually knowing her. Not just pretending.”

Bob, from the armchair, blinked slowly. “You realize that means she probably meant it.”

Jake nodded fast, almost frantic. “Exactly. That’s why I have to do it.”

Rooster tossed a piece of junk mail at him. “Here, use this—wait. Never mind. That’s a Domino’s coupon.”

Coyote reached into his backpack and chucked a half-used notebook across the room. “Use this. But don’t waste the back pages—I have my gym log in there.”

Phoenix snatched a pen off the coffee table and pointed it at Jake like she was about to knight him. “Write from the heart. But don’t be cringe. I swear to god, if you start it with ‘Dear beautiful,’ I’m lighting you and the paper on fire.”

“Noted,” Jake muttered, sitting down like he was about to defuse a bomb instead of write on lined paper. His knee bounced. His fingers drummed. The notebook sat in his lap, untouched, and the squad stared like they were watching a live soap opera unfold on Bravo.

“Bro,” Fanboy said. “Just start with her name.”

“I’m not writing her a letter,” Jake said. “Not like that. I’m writing… pieces. Memories. Stuff I wish I’d done right.”

Bob tilted his head. “Like a patchwork confession?”

“Exactly,” Jake murmured, flipping the notebook open to a clean page and clicking the pen. “Things I should’ve said. Dates I should’ve taken her on. Dumb moments I should’ve known mattered.”

He began writing.

For a long time, the only sound was the soft scratch of the pen and the occasional beer bottle clinking against the coffee table. Jake’s brows furrowed, his mouth tugged into a tight line as he scribbled fast, pausing only to cross something out or shake his head at himself.

One by one, the squad wandered closer, like a group of nosy aunties pretending not to read over his shoulder.

On the top right corner, Jake wrote:

should’ve asked you to be my date to Coyote’s promotion party — you looked so good that night I forgot my own damn name

In the center:

remember that diner in El Centro? I should’ve asked for your number before we even got our food

I should’ve kissed you on the tarmac after that night flight

I should’ve told you that your laugh ruins me

Near the fold:

I kept trying to set you up with guys who weren’t me

because if I admitted I wanted to be the guy — and you didn’t feel the same — I’d never come back from it

Near the tip:

I want to take you on real dates

the kind with car karaoke and milkshakes and pulling you closer on the couch when the movie gets boring

the kind that end with you in my sweatshirt

Near the tail:

I’ve been in love with you since that time you punched Rooster in the arm for making fun of Bob’s playlist

I should’ve told you

I didn’t

I’m sorry

In the bottom left corner, nearly hidden:

I don’t deserve a second chance

but if you gave me one

I swear to god I’d never waste it

By the time he finished, the squad had gone quiet.

Jake exhaled hard through his nose, like the act of putting it all down on paper had taken something out of him. He stared at the page. Folded it. Creased it carefully, like it was a sacred artifact. With practiced fingers, he turned the notebook page into a perfect paper airplane and held it in both hands, like it might break.

“Dude,” Rooster said, blinking. “That’s actually… like, good.”

“Kind of beautiful,” Bob offered, smiling softly.

Fanboy looked dumbfounded. “Okay, I take back all the slander. That was not stick figure energy.”

Jake stood up slowly, paper airplane in hand, and said—more to himself than anyone else—“I’m giving it to her tonight. I don’t care if it makes me look insane.”

Phoenix grinned. “You already look insane. But also? Kinda hot.”

“I hate how much I’m rooting for you,” Rooster muttered.

Coyote clapped Jake on the shoulder. “Let’s go find her, man. You made your plane. Time to fly it.”

Jake groaned. “That was awful.”

“Thank you, I try,” Coyote said with a wink.

And just like that, the mission was a go. Paper airplane loaded. Feelings confessed. The squad ready to take on the world—or at least the city—in the name of rom-com chaos.

Next stop: the pier.

If she was still there.

If Jake wasn’t already too late.

-

The paper airplane sat on the coffee table like it held nuclear launch codes. Jake didn’t take his eyes off it.

“It’s not even that late,” he muttered, already pacing again. “They could still be at the pier. Maybe walking around or eating somewhere else nearby.”

Phoenix pointed at the picture on her phone again. “Okay, but which pier? That’s the problem. This could be anywhere. There are like seven piers in the county.”

Rooster squinted at the photo. “Zoom in on that sign behind them. The one next to the bench.”

She did, dragging her fingers across the screen. The image was grainy, and the lighting was terrible, but you could just barely make out a few blurry letters.

Fanboy tilted his head like a confused puppy. “That says ‘Pelican something.’ Pelican Wharf? Pelican Bay?”

Bob perked up. “Pelican Point. That’s a real place—it’s by the old marina past the naval museum. There’s a pier right next to it, with that same kind of bench. I’ve been there with my mom.”

Coyote grinned. “Bob, you beautiful genius.”

Jake was already grabbing his keys. “I’m going. I’ll drive out there. If she’s not there, I’ll keep looking.”

Rooster held out a hand like a crossing guard. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can’t just drive off into the night like it’s a Nicholas Sparks movie.”

“I absolutely can,” Jake said, and then paused. “And technically, it’s more like 10 Things I Hate About You.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “So, what? You’re Heath Ledger now?”

Jake pointed at her dramatically. “If the shoe fits, baby.”

Coyote clapped his hands once. “Alright, alright. Let’s not waste time. Jake, you take your truck and go to Pelican Point. If she’s not there, call us.”

Fanboy stood up too. “Wait—we should track her location.”

Everyone turned.

“She shares it with Phoenix!” he added quickly. “Remember when we all went camping and she said if she got murdered in the woods, she wanted someone to find her body?”

Phoenix nodded. “Yeah. I still have her on Find My Friends.”

She pulled up the app. “Okay, last ping was almost two hours ago. But—” She tilted the phone. “—she’s not at Pelican Point anymore.”

Jake frowned. “Where is she?”

Phoenix zoomed in, and then frowned too. “Uh…she’s home.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Wait,” Bob said slowly, “so she’s not on the pier anymore?”

Phoenix shook her head. “Nope. She’s back at her place.”

Fanboy looked around. “So…should we tell Jake not to go?”

“No,” Jake said instantly. “I’m still going. I’ll check the pier just in case the location’s lagging, and if she’s not there, I’m heading to her house.”

Phoenix crossed her arms. “And what’s the plan? You’re just gonna knock on the door and say what? ‘Hi, sorry all your dates sucked. Turns out it’s because I like you?’”

Jake didn’t blink. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Bob smiled softly. “Don’t forget the airplane.”

Jake grabbed it from the table with a reverence normally reserved for flags and championship rings. He looked at the squad, still wide-eyed and vibrating like a caffeinated hummingbird.

“I have to try,” he said, voice low. “Because if she actually liked this guy—if he’s good to her and he makes her smile like that—and I just sit back and let her be with him, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

Rooster groaned into his hands. “God, you’re in deep.”

Phoenix threw him his hoodie. “Go. But call us if she’s not there.”

Fanboy pointed at the airplane. “And don’t chicken out. That thing’s not gonna launch itself.”

Jake nodded. He turned and made it to the door.

Then paused.

“…You guys coming?” he asked, glancing back.

The squad looked at each other.

And then, like a slow-building mutiny, they all stood.

“We’ll follow you in Rooster’s Bronco,” Coyote said. “But from a distance.”

“We want to see what happens,” Phoenix added. “And make sure you don’t wimp out.”

Bob stood too, grabbing his car keys like they were tactical gear. “Also, if it goes badly, you’ll need backup.”

Jake huffed a disbelieving laugh. “You guys are insane.”

Rooster patted his shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”

They poured out into the night like a small military unit on a love-fueled recon mission. Jake climbed into his truck. The squad piled into two cars behind him. The paper airplane sat on the dashboard like a little talisman.

Operation: Find the Girl was officially underway.

-

Jake’s headlights swept across the gravel lot as he pulled up to the edge of Pelican Point. The pier jutted out into the water like a dark, jagged silhouette against the horizon, the last traces of sunset bleeding into the sky. He threw the truck into park, killed the engine, and stepped out into the warm coastal air.

The wind coming off the ocean hit him like a wall—salty, humid, and just cool enough to feel cinematic. His boots crunched over old wood planks as he walked the length of the pier, scanning every shadow, every bench, every corner where a couple might still be wrapped up in each other.

But it was empty.

No laughter. No clinking silverware from the food shack that had already shut down. No dimly lit photo booth glowing in the background. Just the creaking of wood and the soft lap of waves beneath him.

Jake let out a long, slow breath. “Shit.”

He stood at the railing for a second, holding the paper airplane in both hands, his fingers tightening around the folded wings. The edges were soft now—creased from where he’d clutched it all the way here. His pulse thrummed in his ears.

He glanced down at it again, rereading the scrawled notes across the wings and tail:

“Wish I took you to that rooftop jazz bar instead of setting you up with Trevor.”

“Should’ve kissed you after that night on the beach.”

“You looked so happy at the wedding last spring. I wanted to be the reason.”

“I like you. God, I like you so much it makes me feel twelve.”

He swallowed. Looked out at the water. Then grabbed his phone and hit Phoenix’s name.

She picked up on the first ring.

“Not there?” she asked, no preamble.

“Nope.” Jake dragged a hand through his hair. “Pier’s dead. Not a soul in sight except two drunk teenagers making out on the stairs.”

“Gross.”

“She’s not here, Phoenix.”

“I told you she was home—”

“I know, but I had to check.”

Behind her, he could already hear chaos brewing. Rooster shouting something about Google Maps, Coyote yelling at Fanboy to stop touching the AC controls.

Then Phoenix must’ve put the call on speaker, because suddenly the whole squad was in his ear.

“Abort mission?” Rooster asked.

“No,” Jake snapped. “Not aborting.”

“Then what’s the play?” Fanboy demanded.

“She’s at home. You gonna just roll up and throw the airplane at her window like a boombox?”

“Not a bad idea,” Coyote muttered. “Very Say Anything. Classic.”

Jake turned and leaned his back against the railing, staring up at the sky. “I don’t know, man. I feel like I missed the window. She’s probably sitting on the couch right now with this guy, talking about how great the date was.”

Silence.

Then Bob’s voice came in, quieter. “If that were true, she wouldn’t be home alone.”

Jake blinked. “What?”

“I mean,” Bob said, “if the date went that well, wouldn’t he still be with her? Or at least walking her to the door, staying for a drink, texting her right now? You think she’d really be sitting there by herself?”

Jake said nothing, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“She’s not texting,” Phoenix added. “I can see the read receipts. Last message she sent was a meme about a raccoon eating french fries. That was two hours ago, so your best hope is that she’s not sitting on that couch and making out with that gorgeous man right now”

Rooster groaned. “Why do you know this much about her phone activity?”

“Because I care, Bradley.”

Jake pushed off the railing. “Okay. Okay. I’m going. I’m heading to her place.”

“Hell yeah,” Coyote said immediately.

“Good,” Phoenix added. “And this time, don’t chicken out. Don’t make a joke. Don’t try to flirt your way around it.”

“Be honest,” Bob said gently. “If this is your one shot, take it seriously.”

Jake looked at the paper airplane one more time. Ran his thumb over the wing that read: “Wish I’d told you the truth sooner.”

He nodded to no one.

“On it.”

He hung up.

The squad, for once, didn’t say anything else.

Back in the truck, he laid the airplane carefully on the passenger seat, like it was more fragile than it looked. And for the first time all night, Jake Seresin wasn’t overthinking the landing. He was just aiming straight and trusting the wind.

-

Jake didn’t remember the drive to your place.

Somewhere between the pier and the turnoff to your street, his brain just… blanked. He barely noticed the green lights, the low hum of country radio still buzzing through the truck’s speakers, or the way his hands clenched the steering wheel so tight his knuckles cracked.

All he knew was that the paper airplane sat on the passenger seat like it held his whole heart.

He hadn’t even realized how fast he was driving until he practically skidded up to the curb outside your place, tires whispering against the pavement. His boots hit the ground hard, truck door slamming behind him.

He took the steps two at a time.

Then three.

And then he was there — fist raised, pounding on your front door like it owed him money.

“Open up!” he barked. “Come on, come on—”

He was still muttering to himself when the door opened.

And then you were there.

In a hoodie. Hair pulled back. Eyes glassy.

You looked… wrecked.

And Jake’s voice immediately faltered.

“I—I was gonna—” He waved a hand around like it could pull the words out of the air. “Shit, sorry, I know it’s late, I just—listen, I should’ve said something a long time ago, I was stupid, I thought I was helping you but I was just—God, I’ve been in love with you since that day at the hangar when you made fun of my playlist—”

“Jake.”

“I know you probably hate me,” he rushed on, words tumbling out. “But I had to try, okay? I had to say something before it was too late. I don’t care about the other guys, I don’t care about Coffee shop guy or whatever his name was, I care about you, and I swear to God if you tell me to leave I will—but just let me say this first—”

“Jake.”

You cut in again, softer this time.

He finally looked at you—really looked.

And the words died on his tongue.

You weren’t just tired. You weren’t just annoyed he’d shown up unannounced.

You were upset.

Something in your expression cracked like porcelain under pressure. Eyes rimmed pink, lower lip trembling, arms folded around yourself like armor.

Jake’s chest tightened.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low now. “Are you okay?”

You swallowed hard and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

“I left the date early,” you muttered. “He—he has a girlfriend.”

Jake blinked. “What?”

You laughed, bitter and broken. “Yeah. She showed up halfway through. Started yelling at him. Apparently this is a thing he does. Picks up girls at coffee shops and sees how long he can keep the lie going.”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You didn’t answer.

Just stared down at the floor like it held the last shred of your dignity.

And that’s when Jake’s whole demeanor shifted.

The flustered panic drained from his face. The tension in his shoulders melted, replaced with something raw and real and steady. He took one careful step forward, then another, until he was right in front of you.

You didn’t flinch when his hand cupped your cheek. You just leaned into it—soft and broken and trusting.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

You shook your head. “It’s not your fault.”

“I think it is,” he said. “I think if I’d said something sooner, you never would’ve gone on that date.”

Silence stretched between you.

And then Jake reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the folded paper airplane.

“I was gonna just give you this,” he murmured. “Let it speak for me. But now I think you deserve more than a folded-up piece of notebook paper.”

He stepped back.

And then—to your absolute shock—he dropped to one knee on your porch.

“Jake—?”

“Don’t freak out,” he said quickly. “I’m not proposing. Not unless you want me to, in which case I’ll go grab a ring pop from the gas station, we can make it official.”

You snorted despite yourself.

He smiled.

Then he held the airplane out in both hands like an offering.

“I wrote everything I should’ve said,” he said quietly. “Everything I didn’t say when I should’ve. It’s all there. Every missed chance. Every almost. Every wish.”

Your fingers brushed the paper.

Jake’s voice wavered, just slightly.

“I thought if I couldn’t find the right words… maybe I could fold them.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there, stunned, holding the paper like it might shatter if you breathed wrong.

“I know it’s late,” Jake added. “I know I’m late. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend every day making up for the days I didn’t say the right thing.”

You blinked fast, trying to keep the tears in.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” you whispered.

Jake stood.

“I was scared,” he said honestly. “Because once I told you… it’d be real. And if you didn’t feel the same, I don’t know if I could’ve stood next to you every day pretending it didn’t kill me.”

He looked at you.

And something cracked open inside you.

You didn’t even think. Just stepped forward, dropped the paper airplane gently to the porch, and reached for his collar.

Jake barely had time to register the movement before your mouth was on his.

The kiss was everything.

Long-overdue and breathless. Gentle and feral. All teeth and tears and tangled hands in hair and whispered promises between gasps.

When you finally pulled back, Jake was grinning like a fool, forehead pressed to yours.

And then—

A honk.

From the street.

You turned, squinting into the dark—

And saw two parked cars.

One held Fanboy half hanging out the window, fist pumping in the air.

The other had Phoenix leaning on the horn and Rooster hanging a “FINALLY!” sign out the passenger side.

Jake groaned. “Oh my god.”

“They followed you?”

“I hate them so much.”

“I love them,” you corrected, grabbing the paper airplane and tucking it close to your heart. “And I think I love you.”

Jake blinked.

Then grinned.

“Yeah?” he whispered.

You kissed him again.

Longer this time.

From the cars, a chorus of victorious whooping erupted—cheers, clapping, and at least one bottle of champagne being popped (probably Coyote’s doing).

But Jake didn’t hear any of it.

He was too busy falling into the kiss like it was his softest landing yet.

[literal-tv-menace]

Strictly Professional

pairing; ceo!jake seresin x fem assistant!reader

summary; Jake Seresin was power wrapped in expensive suits and sharper edges, and you were the calm in his perfectly calculated storm. But one unexpected week away was all it took to turn the game into something dangerously real.

word count; 13.5k

warnings; power imbalance, an asshole to everyone but you trope, smut, overstimulation, one bed trope, oral (fem, sooo much pussy eating), dom!jake, lowkey bossy!reader, age gap, i have no idea about business talk so inaccurate references (i wacthed a video and prayed for the best), i think that's it

a/n; this was so fun to write. i'm actually loving writing smut HAHAAH i have soooo many smut fics planned it's crazy, can't wait for you to read them!!! also the smut in this is SO good, let me know what you think!

masterlist

The elevator doors slid open with a polished chime, and the day officially began with the low hum of fear and productivity that seemed to follow Jake Seresin wherever he went.

Outside, Manhattan was barely awake — sunlight bouncing off steel and glass, yellow cabs honking like it was a contact sport, steam rising from subway grates like the city itself was sighing. But up here, on the 49th floor of the Seresin International Building, the air was already thick with nerves.

You stepped into the marble-floored hallway with two coffees in hand and your phone pressed to your ear, rattling off a list of calendar edits to Jake’s London liaison without missing a beat.

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t knock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You handled him.

Which made him insufferably interested.

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

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

That spark. That ridiculous, inconvenient something.

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

So instead, you kept things exactly where they were.

Snarky. Functional. Professional.

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

You dropped a folder on his desk without looking up.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, immensely.”

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

You blinked. “Conference?”

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

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

Jake didn’t argue. Just smirked.

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

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

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

You froze. “What?”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Everyone else? They ducked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I noticed,” you said flatly.

Jake scowled, but you didn’t blink.

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

“They always get it wrong.”

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

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

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

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

“You never take my side,” he muttered.

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

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

You saw the email. You said nothing.

That was the arrangement.

He yelled. You didn’t flinch.

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

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

The rest of the day went smoother.

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

Thank you, it said.

You nodded back, and went on with your day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re underpaid.”

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

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

You blinked.

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

Small talk? Not your thing. Not his either.

Still, you didn’t let your surprise show.

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

Jake’s eyes flicked up at that.

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

“Are you suggesting I’m needy?”

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

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

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

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

As always, you both stayed in your lanes.

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

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

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

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ll drive you.”

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

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

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

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

“Maybe.”

“You don’t even like Midtown traffic.”

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

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

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

Not romantic. Not dramatic.

But new.

A shift.

And neither of you said a word about it.

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

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You crossed your legs and looked out the window.

Eventually, you pulled up in front of your building.

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

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

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

“Night.”

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

But something made you glance over your shoulder.

He was still there.

Engine running. Lights low. Waiting.

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

You stood behind the glass a second longer than necessary.

And then, with a blink, he was gone.

-

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

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

It should have felt like power.

Instead, it felt like procedure.

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

Too big for one man.

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

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

The silence was deafening.

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

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

And you had.

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

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

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

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

The laugh when he mentioned a boyfriend.

I don’t have time for boyfriends.

Neither did he. That wasn’t news.

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

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

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

You were still here.

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

Jake exhaled a quiet laugh under his breath.

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

You were just his assistant.

Brilliant. Efficient. Unbothered by his moods.

And yet —

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

The offices were a study in quiet fear.

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

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

You didn’t bother looking up from your computer.

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

But when he passed your desk?

He paused.

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

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

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

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

“You leave anything for me to do?”

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

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

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

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

You pretended not to hear.

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

Until—

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

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

Silence. Then—

“Fine,” Jake muttered. “Keep going.”

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

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

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

Chaos erupted.

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

He stopped.

The girl froze like a deer in headlights.

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

She squeaked.

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

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

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

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

Then he walked away.

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

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

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

He hated inefficiency. Hated incompetence. Hated noise.

But you?

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

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

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

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

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

You snorted. “Of course it is.”

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

Jake noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tightly.

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

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

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

“I’m fine.”

“You’re pale.”

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

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

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

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

You stared at him, throat suddenly dry.

“…I do.”

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

“Then relax.”

The engines roared to life.

You flinched.

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

You flipped him off.

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

“For your comfort, princess.”

You looked at the pillow. Then at him.

“I swear to God, Seresin—”

But then the wheels lifted.

And you gripped the armrest like it owed you money.

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

Not taunting this time.

Just watching.

Like he was trying to figure you out.

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

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

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

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

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

Jake just smiled and sipped his scotch.

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

He shrugged. “Just trying to distract you.”

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

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

“Turn what off?”

“The smart-ass act.”

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

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

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

“Charming?” he offered.

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

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

“That I believe.”

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

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

“And yours is… heights?”

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

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

A slight shudder through the cabin.

You stiffened instantly, grip tightening on the champagne glass.

Jake didn’t miss it.

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

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

The jet bounced again, more aggressively this time.

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

Jake shifted.

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

Your eyes widened. “What are you—?”

“Helping,” he said simply.

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

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

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

“What the hell is happening?” you whispered.

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

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

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

You exhaled slowly. “A little.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

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

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

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

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

But Jake didn’t move his hand.

And you… didn’t pull away.

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

It should’ve been weird.

But it wasn’t.

Not even a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One bed, Jake.”

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

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

He didn’t even flinch. “It’s fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Seresin.”

Jake turned to you and extended the key.

“Shall we?”

You stared at him. “Who are you?”

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

“Since when?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The suite was… gorgeous.

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

You stared at the bed.

It stared back.

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

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

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

You turned. “Think about what?”

“The couch.”

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

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

You blinked. “You’re not serious.”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t whine.”

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

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

Jake smirked. “Exactly.”

You glared. “This is deflection.”

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

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

You blinked. Once. Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed and focused hard on the screen.

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

And then, finally, the water stopped.

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

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

He was shirtless.

Of course he was.

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

You looked once. Just once.

And regretted it immediately.

Because damn.

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

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

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

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

“Mortified.”

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

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

“I’m very consistent.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re off the clock.”

“I’m never off the clock.”

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

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

He hummed. “Tragic.”

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

The tension was thick. Almost painful.

Your iPad screen dimmed.

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m admiring.”

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

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

“Go to sleep, Seresin.”

“You first, boss.”

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

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

He didn’t move it.

Neither did you.

The silence stretched. Comfortable and tense all at once.

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

This trip was going to ruin you.

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

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

Except it did.

It started small.

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

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

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

You stared.

He walked away like nothing happened.

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

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

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

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

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

Mostly.

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

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

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

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

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

You did not stare at his back muscles.

Much.

The second day, it only got worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the tension was there.

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

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

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

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

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

“…Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

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

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

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

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

Much.

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

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

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

And then he appeared.

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

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

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

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

“…Just here for work.”

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

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

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

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

“Is there a problem here?”

Jake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He disappeared into the crowd.

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

Jake turned to face you, jaw still clenched.

“You okay?” he asked, voice tight.

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

“I saw.”

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

You touched his wrist gently. “Jake.”

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

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

“It’s not your fault.”

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

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

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

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

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

So you rode in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake.”

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

And still… he said it anyway.

“You’re mine.”

The words punched the air between you.

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

Your throat went dry.

“Jake…”

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

You stood frozen.

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

The silence that followed was deafening.

Your mouth parted, but no words came out.

Jake took a step forward.

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

Another beat passed. Then two.

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

“You’re serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed. “Take your time.”

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

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

His pupils dilated. “Say less.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bossy little thing,” he murmured fondly.

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

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

They didn’t go back to the conference.

In fact, they barely left the suite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He never rushed. Not once.

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

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

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

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

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

You were already panting, fingers twitching against the comforter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were starting to hope he didn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

“Just tired,” you lied, soft.

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

That one word sent a flicker through your belly.

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

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

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

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

“Jake—”

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

Your breath hitched.

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

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

You blinked up at him, lips parted.

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

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

Jake grinned.

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

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

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

“Take your shirt off,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow. “So bossy.”

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

You did.

You also knew exactly what he meant.

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

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

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

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

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

You gasped as his teeth grazed your collarbone.

“I didn’t—”

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

“Jake—”

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

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

You moaned, arching into him.

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

“I want you to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimpered, already overwhelmed.

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

Another climax rolled through you with a cry.

He didn’t stop until you begged.

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

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

You looked up at him, heart thudding painfully.

“I don’t either,” you whispered.

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

Everything about today felt intimate.

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

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

“Just… thinking.”

He nodded once. “Same.”

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

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

That made your heart do something complicated in your chest.

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

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

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you rose slowly to your feet.

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

It was quiet for a moment.

Just your breathing

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

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

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

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

The way he said it made your breath catch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You did.

And again.

And again.

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

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

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

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

“Jake—”

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

You gasped.

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

And you did.

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

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

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

The cabin was silent except for your breathing.

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

Jake finally leaned back to look at you.

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

You nodded.

And smiled.

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

You kissed him softly, sweetly, like an answer.

And then you stayed in his lap the whole way home.

[literal-tv-menace]

can’t wait to read this once the kids are in bed 😆

Through the Dark, Back to You

pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader

summary; A former profiler. A fighter pilot. A past that refuses to stay buried. When old ghosts resurface in San Diego, the truth becomes the most dangerous thing of all.

word count; 10.5k

warnings; violence, mentions of kidnapping (nothing graphic), mentions of past torture (nothing graphic), protective!jake, found family, angst, inaccurate references (most likely, google can only do so much), usage of y/n like once

a/n; welcome to a top gun maverick x criminal minds story that nobody asked for! i thought this concept was interesting and criminal minds is one of my favorite shows so i thought why the hell not. idk if i need to say this but this isn't propaganda, i just like the show lol

masterlist

When Jake met you, you were still in the FBI — sharp, focused, and far too busy to notice the way the world tilted slightly when you walked by. He’d only been stationed in Virginia for a couple of weeks, still getting used to the slower rhythm of land life, wandering around town alone when it happened.

You came bursting out of a coffee shop, balancing a cup of black coffee in one hand and what looked like a thousand overstuffed folders in the other. You were mid-apology to the person behind you when he caught the door and held it open for you. You looked up just long enough to murmur a breathless, “Thanks,” then disappeared toward the parking lot, car keys already in your teeth.

Jake didn’t even have time to respond.

Back then, he thought you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen — not in the obvious way, but in the way that made something stir in his chest before he could name it. Your glasses framed your face in a way that made your eyes look even sharper, and your hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail that swayed with every purposeful step. And those trousers? God help him. They clung to you like a second skin, and even though he hadn’t meant to stare, you didn’t give him much choice when you practically jogged down the street like a woman with a world to fix.

Jake was embarrassed to admit he came back to that same coffee shop every single day that week, hoping to see you again — always ordering the same thing, always pretending it was a coincidence. He didn’t.

Just when he was about to give up and chalk you up as one of life’s fleeting moments, there you were. Standing in line on a Thursday morning, hair down this time and wearing another pair of slacks that sent his brain short-circuiting all over again. You were scrolling through your phone, not paying him any mind — not until he stepped into your line of sight with that easy, practiced grin and said, “Hey, I think fate’s trying to give me a second chance.”

You raised a brow at him. “To do what?”

He shrugged. “To ask for your number before you outrun me again.”

And for the first time that week, you smiled.

He tried to impress you with everything he had — the full Seresin charm, that devilish grin, and of course, his shiny, high-flying Navy career. Fighter jets, call signs, a few well-placed smirks. He figured he had you hooked by the time the drinks hit the table. But you? You were the one who blew his damn socks off. Cool as anything, you mentioned — almost shyly — that you were an FBI agent. Supervisory Special Agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Twenty-six years old and finishing your third doctorate. He almost choked on his beer. You said it like it was no big deal, as if anyone could waltz into Quantico at twenty-two years old and profile serial killers for a living. And you blushed when he stared at you like you hung the damn moon.

You talked for hours. About books you loved. About cases you couldn’t talk about, but still carried weight in your voice. About what it felt like to walk into a room and know things no one else could. And Jake, in return, told you about flying — the terrifying beauty of it, the stillness above the clouds, the kind of silence that lets you hear your own heartbeat. He’d never opened up like that with anyone before, but somehow with you, it wasn’t difficult. It felt natural. Easy.

You asked smart questions. He made you laugh. And when the sun dipped low behind the trees and drinks turned to dinner, he walked you to your car and told you he really hoped you’d let him see you again.

You did.

And after that, everything shifted. The dates kept coming — restaurants, long drives, lazy evenings in your apartment with Chinese takeout and documentaries playing in the background while you rattled off facts that he pretended not to be wildly impressed by. You never made him feel like less — not for not being academic, not for only having one degree, not for the way he sometimes couldn’t find the words for how he felt. You just… saw him. All of him. And he fell fast.

He liked how you pushed your glasses up when you were concentrating. How you kept stacks of books everywhere — bedside, kitchen counter, even the bathroom. He liked that you blushed when he complimented you, even though you could walk into the BAU and face monsters without flinching.

Jake never meant to fall in love. Especially not while he was stationed in a place that wasn’t meant to be permanent. But then again, he never expected someone like you — someone whose heart was as terrifyingly big as your brain.

It got serious fast. Not because either of you pushed it, but because the connection was undeniable. Solid. You were the calm to his storm, the reason he didn’t feel like he had to constantly prove himself. And he became your safe place, the one person who didn’t look at you like you were a machine made to solve puzzles — he saw the person behind the profile. The soft girl who lit up when he made her pancakes, who fell asleep with a book on her chest, who told him she trusted him before she even realized she had.

And when the bad days came — the cases that left you quieter than usual, the nights when your hands trembled after the phone rang — he didn’t ask for details. He just held you, steady and silent, until you came back to him.

Because Jake Seresin, the man who’d flown through combat zones and trained for worst-case scenarios, had never been more sure of anything than he was of you.

Things were good. So good.

The kind of good Jake hadn’t believed in before you — quiet mornings with your legs tangled in his, the warmth of your laughter echoing through the kitchen, your voice humming from the shower while he shaved. He used to think permanence was a trap, a thing you tolerated. But with you, it was a gift. Something sacred. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that happy. Maybe he never had been.

You still worked cases, still left on sudden flights, still called him from hotel rooms at 2 a.m. with sleepy murmurs and updates about how close your team was to catching another monster. He hated the danger, hated the way you shouldered the worst of humanity and still came home with softness in your eyes. But he never said a word. You were brilliant. Brave. Made of steel and light. And he wasn’t going to be the reason you dimmed.

Until the day the phone rang, and everything changed.

It was a Tuesday. He remembered because he had just come back from base and had stopped by the market to pick up your favorite tea — the one with the ridiculous packaging and citrusy notes you claimed helped you sleep after a hard case. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he answered without checking. The voice on the other end froze the blood in his veins.

“Jake. It’s JJ. Something’s happened.”

His chest tightened. “What do you mean?”

“Things went sideways on a case. Local police compromised the perimeter. The unsub — he took her.”

The world tilted.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. He barely remembered the rest of the call, only the sound of JJ’s voice — controlled, but heavy with guilt and urgency. The rest was a blur. The market aisles faded, the colors dimmed, his legs moved on instinct. He didn’t remember getting in the car. Didn’t remember driving. Just the rage, the helplessness burning under his skin. The awful weight of knowing the woman he loved — his person — had been taken, and there was nothing he could do.

Hours passed in slow motion. The team worked the case. He wasn’t allowed to be part of it. He wasn’t FBI, wasn’t trained for this kind of war. He was trained to fight, to act — not to wait by a phone, useless.

And then, finally — movement. They found the unsub. A cabin in the woods, middle of nowhere. The team breached, and Jake was already in the car before anyone gave him permission.

He got there right as they were pulling you out.

You stumbled down the front steps of the cabin, leaning heavily on Hotch, your face pale, blood smeared down your arm. Your shirt was torn. There were bruises blooming across your neck, cuts along your hands and collarbone, and your eyes — God, your eyes. Distant. Frightened. Not you.

Jake didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. He froze there in the clearing, heart clawing at his ribs as you blinked at the sunlight like you didn’t even know what day it was. You were barely standing.

When you finally looked up and saw him, your knees buckled.

He caught you before you hit the ground, dropping with you into the dirt as your arms trembled around his neck. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. He could feel it — the pain, the fear, the way you clung to him like he was the only real thing left in the world.

And in that moment, Jake Seresin — the man who never broke under pressure, never flinched in a cockpit — cracked straight down the middle.

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. But something inside him fractured, and it never quite healed the same.

The weeks that followed were slow and brutal.

You didn’t go back to work. Not right away. Not at all, eventually.

The Bureau offered you time, space, therapy, support — but even stepping into the field office again made your skin crawl. The air felt heavier. The walls too close. And the faces — all so kind, all so understanding — reminded you of how it felt to be on the other side of the case. To be the victim. The file.

Jake never once rushed you. Not when you couldn’t sleep, not when the night terrors made you bolt upright gasping for air. He would just sit with you, arms wrapped around your trembling shoulders, whispering soft reassurances into your hair while your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline.

You stopped wearing your badge. Stopped carrying your gun. Jake didn’t say anything when you quietly tucked it into the drawer one night and never looked at it again. He just kissed your temple and pulled you closer.

The decision to leave the FBI wasn’t sudden — it was slow, like mourning something you once loved. A part of you that had always felt unshakable suddenly… didn’t fit anymore. The BAU was home once. Now it felt like a cage.

Jake never tried to talk you out of it.

He listened — really listened — when you told him you couldn’t keep doing it. That something in you had changed. That you couldn’t stomach another crime scene, another case that mirrored your own trauma. That you didn’t want to spend the rest of your life surviving your own job.

“I’m done,” you whispered one night, curled into his chest on the couch, the television flickering softly in the background. “I can’t go back, Jake. Not even if I wanted to.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Then don’t.”

You blinked up at him. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” he said, brushing his fingers through your hair. “You gave enough. You don’t owe that job your soul.”

And he meant it.

Within a month, he’d put in a transfer request. Florida. A clean slate. Somewhere warm, somewhere far from Quantico, somewhere you could finally breathe again. He didn't even ask if you wanted to come — he knew you wouldn't want him to leave without you. Just like you knew he'd never go if you stayed.

You found a small apartment near the beach. Quiet. Sunlight through the windows in the morning. Jake would make coffee while you read the paper with your feet in his lap. It wasn’t flashy, but it was yours. And for the first time in a long time, peace didn’t feel like a distant memory — it felt possible.

Eventually, you started doing research again — privately contracted, flexible hours, all on your terms. It wasn’t field work, but it let you keep your mind sharp. It gave you purpose without reopening old wounds. You let your team — Spencer, Derek, Penelope, the rest of them — stay close. They still called, still checked in. And you still loved them. But the life you’d built with Jake… this was something new. Something whole.

You’d survived the worst. And somehow, when the dust finally settled, he was still right there — steady, gentle, and endlessly proud of you.

Three years.

It had been three years since the worst day of your lives, and tonight — watching you laugh across a bar table in San Diego, lit by string lights and nursing a cherry soda with lime — it felt like the storm had finally passed.

The Hard Deck was buzzing. Music low, the crash of the waves just outside the open doors, and the unmistakable sound of pilots trying to out-charm one another over pool and beer. You were tucked neatly between Natasha and Bob, both hanging on to a story you were telling with shy amusement. Something about the physics of a sonic boom. Or maybe how memory consolidation works during REM sleep. Jake couldn’t quite hear — he was too distracted watching the way your nose scrunched when you got excited.

He leaned against the bar beside Coyote and grinned into his beer.

“You’re staring again,” Javy muttered, nudging him with an elbow.

Jake didn’t even try to deny it. “Can you blame me?”

Across the bar, Fanboy burst into laughter. “Wait, wait — Doc,” he said, catching his breath and pointing at you, “are you seriously telling me you taught yourself Latin for fun?”

You blushed instantly, ducking your head. “I didn’t teach myself. I… dabbled.”

“Dabbled,” Phoenix repeated, shooting Jake a deadpan look. “Okay, Casanova, so when exactly did you trap a shy little genius in your pilot net, and how much bribery was involved?”

Jake chuckled, sliding his beer down on the counter. “Hey, I didn’t trap her. She saw the dimples, and that was it.”

“Must’ve been the dimples,” Bob said seriously, adjusting his glasses. “Or the blinding humility.”

They all laughed, and you rolled your eyes affectionately before giving Jake a smile — one of those soft, private ones that still made his chest ache a little. No one at the table knew the weight behind that look. No one knew what it meant to be here, whole and laughing, after everything you’d been through.

To them, you were you — Jake’s brilliant, bookish partner with the shy smile and the scarily fast brain. They knew you worked in research now. They knew you freelanced for universities, occasionally gave talks at conferences. They knew you could solve a crossword in two minutes flat and had a secret obsession with crime podcasts.

But they didn’t know the other things.

They didn’t know about the badge in the drawer. The gun you hadn’t touched in years. The BAU, the cases, the nightmares. They didn’t know what Jake had seen when he carried you out of that forest cabin — or how hard you’d fought to reclaim the light in your voice again.

And you liked it that way. You liked that, to them, you were just you.

Not a profile. Not a headline. Not a survivor.

Just you.

And Jake? He liked it too. He liked seeing you safe, happy, leaning into a life that didn’t ask you to bleed for it.

Still, every now and then — like tonight — he would catch you watching the room a second longer than necessary. Clocking exits. Reading posture. Tracking movement the way only someone trained to do so would. And he’d know the past wasn’t gone. Just quieter now. Sleeping beneath the surface.

Later that night, the world was quieter.

The bar’s laughter and music had been traded for the soft hum of your apartment’s old ceiling fan, the rhythmic whisper of waves in the distance, and the occasional creak of wood beneath Jake’s bare feet as he padded into the kitchen.

You were curled up on the couch, knees tucked beneath you, one of your oversized sweatshirts slipping off your shoulder. A half-read book rested on your stomach, your glasses tilted slightly as you blinked sleepily toward him. Jake returned with two mugs — tea for you, decaf for him — and handed yours over with that lopsided smile you’d never been able to resist.

“You’re officially two yawns away from drooling on that chapter,” he said, settling in beside you and slinging an arm around your shoulder.

“I was just resting my eyes,” you mumbled.

He snorted. “Sure you were, Doc.”

You leaned into him, the scent of clean cotton and faint sandalwood grounding you instantly. His thumb traced slow circles on your arm. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then Jake said it, casually but carefully, “Hey. Don’t forget your session next week.”

You nodded against him, voice quiet. “I won’t.”

“You’ve been doing good,” he added softly. “Even with everything.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, grounding yourself in the fabric — in him.

“I still have those dreams,” you admitted.

Jake nodded. “I know.”

“But they don’t control me anymore.”

He kissed your temple. “Because you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

You smiled faintly, eyes fluttering shut as his hand found yours and threaded your fingers together.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But tonight, you were home.

The morning was still.

The kind of still that only settled in when Jake was on base — when the apartment sighed in his absence and sunlight stretched through the windows without interruption. You had a mug of tea cooling on the counter and your laptop open in front of you, filled with half-written notes for a research proposal you were supposed to finish by the end of the week.

You were wearing one of Jake’s old Navy shirts, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from your shower, glasses sliding down your nose. You felt normal. Safe. Steady.

And then your phone rang.

Not your work line. Not a research contact.

Jennifer Jareau.

Your blood ran cold.

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the name until the call went to voicemail.

It rang again, five seconds later.

You picked up on the third ring. “JJ?”

“Hey,” she said softly. “I’m sorry to call like this. I know it’s been a long time.”

You swallowed, already bracing. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause, weighted and heavy.

“We’ve got a case. San Diego. And the unsub’s MO… it’s almost identical to him.”

Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter. “JJ—”

“I know. I know you’re not active anymore. I wouldn’t ask unless we were sure. But we pulled old files, reviewed your case. This guy’s escalation pattern, the signatures—” she exhaled. “It’s too close. We don’t know if it’s him or a copycat, but—”

“No.” You said it before you could think. Before fear could disguise itself as bravery. “I can’t, JJ.”

“Sweetheart—”

“I can’t,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I haven’t stepped back into that world in three years. I’m not that person anymore. I’m not… I can’t go back.”

There was silence on the other end. And then, quietly, “I understand. I really do. Just… if you change your mind, we’ll be here.”

You ended the call without saying goodbye.

For a long while, you just stood there. Staring at the mug. At your notes. At the sunlight.

Then you closed your laptop, set the tea aside, and waited for Jake.

He came home just after five.

You were on the couch, legs curled under you, blanket tugged tight around your shoulders even though it wasn’t cold. The second he walked in, you looked up, and something in your face made him pause.

He crossed the room in three long strides, crouched in front of you, hands gentle on your knees. “Hey. What happened?”

You handed him your phone. The screen still showed JJ’s missed call.

“She wants me to consult on a case,” you said, voice quiet. “It’s here. In San Diego.”

Jake didn’t ask who the case was about. He knew. He saw it in your eyes — that far-off flicker of something old and sharp you tried so hard to bury.

“She said the unsub’s MO is almost identical.”

Jake’s jaw tensed. “You told her no, right?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

Relief sagged his shoulders, but not completely. “Good. You don’t owe them that, baby. You survived once. That should’ve been enough.”

“I know.” You reached for his hand and threaded your fingers through his. “It just… shook me.”

Jake lifted your joined hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re not going back there. Not unless you decide to. No guilt. No pressure.”

You nodded again, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his. “Thank you.”

“Always.”

The Hard Deck was buzzing in the late afternoon haze — pool balls cracking, old rock humming through the speakers, and the smell of sea air drifting in from the open doors. The Daggers were in their usual spot near the windows, spread out around a table littered with fries, drinks, and the kind of stories that kept getting taller with every telling.

You sat beside Jake, half-listening to Fanboy retell another story about how he "heroically" saved Payback from a malfunctioning landing gear. Jake, as always, muttered corrections under his breath just for you, and you bit back a smile as you leaned into his shoulder.

The front door opened with a soft chime.

Jake glanced toward the entrance — and stilled.

He knew them instantly.

Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan. Not in suits, but unmistakably federal. There was a certain tension in their posture, a focus in the way they scanned the bar. The last time Jake had seen either of them, it had been in a hospital hallway. He hadn’t forgotten.

He felt your body react a split second later — a stillness in your limbs, like prey hearing a branch crack in the woods. Your hand tensed where it rested on your thigh. Your breath hitched just slightly. Jake reached under the table, brushing his fingers against yours. You didn’t look at him, but your fingers curled around his.

“They’re not here for me,” you whispered, barely audible.

“You sure?”

“No.”

The two agents didn’t head toward you. They didn’t even seem to notice you — not yet. They moved like they were used to this, splitting up without a word, blending in with the crowd.

Jake watched carefully as Derek veered toward the pool tables and Emily headed for the regulars near the bar, both of them asking quiet questions with easy smiles and notepads tucked discreetly in their back pockets.

“Uh…” Coyote squinted after them. “Are those feds?”

“Definitely,” Jake murmured.

“Why are feds here?” Phoenix asked, brows lifted.

Fanboy leaned back in his chair. “Maybe someone finally reported how much you cheat at darts.”

Jake didn’t laugh. He was still watching them. Derek made his way over, casual as ever, flashing his badge just briefly to the group.

“Sorry to bother you all — Derek Morgan, FBI. We’re working a case in the area. Just trying to get a sense of the neighborhood.”

“Did we do something?” Bob asked, half-joking, half-worried.

Derek chuckled. “Nah, nothing like that. Just asking around. We’ve had a string of abductions not far from here — young women, mid-twenties, approached late at night. Pattern’s tight enough we think it might be the same guy.”

“Jesus,” Payback muttered.

Derek’s eyes scanned the group. “You all stationed nearby?”

“North Island,” Coyote said. “We’re pilots.”

“Got it. Any of you regulars here?”

“Three times a week, minimum,” Fanboy said proudly.

“Good. Just keep an eye out. Someone acting out of place, someone who gives you a bad feeling — it might be something.” Derek gave a faint, reassuring smile. “If you remember anything, let the bartender know. She's got our contact info.”

Phoenix leaned forward. “Wait — what department did you say you were from?”

“BAU,” Derek said. “Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“Is that like… psych stuff?”

“Kind of,” Emily added as she joined them. “We analyze crime scenes and build profiles based on behavior. Try to predict who we’re looking for before they hurt anyone else.”

Fanboy blinked. “So you’re… like crime psychics.”

Jake sighed. “No, Mickey. They’re profilers.”

You didn’t speak.

Emily’s eyes swept over the table then — calm, unreadable — and landed briefly on you.

She didn’t react. Just gave the smallest nod. Barely perceptible.

Jake felt you tense again.

The agents thanked the group and moved on to the next table, just as quickly as they’d arrived.

Silence settled for a beat.

Phoenix looked around. “Okay, but real talk — Doc, you okay?”

You managed a tiny smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. Just didn’t expect to see the FBI during happy hour.”

Jake was still watching the agents. Still holding your hand.

Still wondering exactly how long it would be before they came back — and what they’d ask when they did.

The apartment was quiet.

It was late — later than you meant to be awake — but sleep hadn’t come easy since the agents showed up at the Hard Deck. You’d curled up on the couch with a blanket, the TV murmuring in the background while the muted glow from the screen flickered across the living room.

You weren’t really watching.

Not until the news anchor said the words.

“The body of a young woman was discovered early this morning in a wooded area east of San Diego. Authorities have not confirmed whether this case is linked to a string of similar attacks, but sources suggest the victim shares key physical characteristics with those in previous cases…”

You sat up straight, blood draining from your face.

The screen changed to a stock image of a taped-off forest scene. Dim, impersonal. Detached.

But it wasn’t impersonal to you.

Your hair color. Mid-twenties. Slender. Last seen leaving a bar alone.

She could’ve been you.

She was you — in every way that mattered.

Your hands started to shake. You pressed them into your thighs to stop it. A slow, sick heat crept up your spine, curling behind your ribs. Not fear. Not exactly. Something heavier. Older.

Guilt.

She didn’t get out.

You did.

You stood up, moved through the apartment like a ghost. Jake’s jacket was slung over the back of the kitchen chair, his boots still by the door. He wasn’t home yet — still on base, running late from whatever flight debrief got dragged out past midnight.

Your phone was already in your hand.

You didn’t even remember picking it up.

You pulled up JJ’s contact. Your finger hovered above call.

The key turned in the door.

You froze.

Jake stepped in, looking exhausted but warm. His eyes landed on you immediately — the glow from the TV casting you in soft, pale light.

“Hey, baby,” he said gently, tugging off his boots. “Why’re you up? It’s late.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him.

He noticed the tension in your shoulders instantly. “What happened?”

You turned the TV down, not off. The news replayed silently behind you. Same words. Same picture of a girl who could’ve been you.

“They found another body,” you said softly. “In the woods.”

Jake’s expression shifted. Eyes sharp. Back straight.

“She looked like me,” you added.

He crossed the room, slow but firm, his hands cupping your elbows as he looked you over. “You okay?”

You nodded. But it wasn’t true. “I need to help.”

Jake stilled. “No.”

“Jake—”

“No.” He let go of your arms, stepping back, jaw clenched. “You don’t need to. You said no. You said you were done.”

“I didn’t know how close it was,” you snapped, louder than you meant. “She could’ve been me.”

“And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t go anywhere near it.”

You stared at him. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“You didn’t sit here. You built a new life. You survived.”

“And what if the next girl doesn’t?”

That stopped him.

You stepped closer, voice trembling now. “I can help them, Jake. I know how this guy thinks. I lived it. If they’re asking for me, it’s because they’re running out of time.”

Jake ran a hand down his face. “You think I don’t know that?”

His voice cracked.

“You think I don’t wake up every damn day and remember what it was like when I thought I’d lost you? You want to walk back into that world? What if you don’t come out this time?”

You were quiet for a moment.

Then: “I already didn’t come out the same.”

Jake flinched.

You swallowed hard. “But this is who I am, Jake. It always was. And if I don’t do something — if I stay silent while more girls die — I don’t know if I can live with that.”

He looked at you like he wanted to argue. Like he needed to.

But he didn’t.

He just stepped back and turned away.

The space between you stretched with silence.

The bedroom was quiet.

No music. No podcast humming from the bathroom. Just the steady sounds of two people moving through a silence too big to fill with small talk. The tension hadn’t boiled over into anger — not really — but it lingered like steam on the mirror. Heavy. Unresolved.

You brushed your teeth. Jake stripped off his clothes until he was only in his underwear. Neither of you spoke.

He pulled back the sheets while you tied your hair up, eyes flicking toward you once, then away. You both slid into bed like you always did — his side, your side, the familiarity of it muscle memory by now — but the usual warmth was slower to settle.

You lay on your back. Eyes on the ceiling. The cool fabric of the pillowcase beneath your cheek.

Then Jake shifted beside you, just enough to reach for you. His arm curled around your waist, tugging you gently toward him until your cheek rested against his naked chest and your hand settled over his heart.

It was the sound of it — steady, alive — that finally let your body ease.

He sighed, long and quiet. His voice was rough around the edges when he finally spoke.

“I just got you back.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

Jake’s fingers moved in slow circles on your lower back. “I watched them carry you out of that cabin, and I didn’t think I’d ever see you breathe again. You were half-conscious and bleeding, and I remember thinking, God, please — I’ll give anything if she just comes back to me.”

You closed your eyes, curling into him tighter.

“I know you’re strong. I know you’re more capable than anyone I’ve ever met,” he continued, voice low. “And I know your old team wouldn’t be asking unless they really thought you could make a difference.”

He paused.

“But I also know how much it broke you. How long it took to feel safe again. How many nights I held you while you couldn’t even speak.”

Your throat ached.

He tilted his head just slightly, pressing his lips to the top of yours.

“I’m not trying to hold you back,” he said quietly. “I’m just… terrified. That the second you walk into that case, you’ll forget how far you’ve come. That you’ll carry it all again. Alone.”

“I won’t,” you whispered.

Jake nodded. “I believe you. I do.”

His hand found yours under the blanket and squeezed it gently.

“If you do this, I’ll support you,” he said. “Completely. But I need you to promise me one thing.”

You looked up at him, eyes soft in the dark.

“Keep me in the loop,” he said. “Not just on the case. On you. Don’t shut me out. Don’t pretend to be okay if you’re not. I can’t lose you again. Not in any way.”

“I promise.”

The words came out hoarse, but real.

You rested your head back on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat, steady beneath your ear. And when his arms wrapped around you again, tighter this time, you knew he meant every word.

The police station smelled like old coffee and fluorescent lights.

It was early, the morning fog still clinging to the coastline as you pushed through the front doors, the weight of a world you hadn’t touched in three years settling instantly onto your shoulders.

You didn’t wear your old badge. No holster. No Kevlar vest or Bureau ID clipped to your waistband. Just slacks, a blouse, your favorite trench coat, and a plain manila folder clutched tightly in your hand — full of notes you’d stayed up rereading until two a.m.

The moment you walked in, you spotted them.

The BAU.

Hotch stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed, jaw tight as ever — the same unreadable expression you remembered so well. JJ was flipping through a file at the table. Emily leaned against the back wall, sipping her coffee, and Spencer sat half-curled in a desk chair, mumbling something to himself about wound trajectories while tapping a pen against his knee. Rossi and Derek were mid-discussion over the case board, which was already cluttered with photographs, maps, and victim profiles.

No one noticed you at first.

And then JJ looked up.

Her face softened instantly. “You came.”

Everyone turned.

There was no dramatic rush, no gasps or tears — just a long, heavy moment where everyone looked at you like you were both the past and the answer to a question they hadn’t been able to solve on their own.

Spencer stood up first. “You look—”

“Different?” you offered, half smiling.

He shook his head. “Just… stronger.”

You crossed the room slowly, letting yourself breathe a little as you exchanged hugs — tight ones from JJ and Emily, a warm one-armed clasp from Hotch that still somehow said more than words. Rossi didn’t hug you, just rested a hand on your shoulder, his eyes full of something like pride. Derek waited last, pulling you into a long, quiet embrace.

“You sure about this?” he asked against your temple.

“No,” you said honestly.

He pulled back, smiled. “Good. Means you’re smart.”

Hotch nodded toward the board. “We’ll get right to it. You remember the original details?”

“Yeah. Five victims. All local. All grabbed within a few blocks of where they were last seen, usually alone. Strangled. Some bruising consistent with being restrained. Age range: 23 to 27. All the same hair color.”

Spencer blinked. “You already read the files?”

“Skimmed. Jake printed them out for me last night.”

JJ looked a little surprised. “Jake’s okay with you helping?”

“No,” you said softly. “But he’s supporting me anyway.”

That quieted the room a beat.

Rossi gestured toward a chair. “We’ve already established behavioral patterns — consistent escalation, no clear stressor event. But the most recent victim was dumped. Which is a first.”

You nodded. “He didn’t take pride in his disposal before. That could mean he’s getting sloppy, or he wants her found.”

“Or he’s trying to send a message,” Emily added.

“Could be,” you said. “Or… he’s copying someone.”

The air stilled.

JJ exhaled slowly. “You think it’s him.”

“I don’t know what I think,” you admitted. “But the similarities are close. Closer than coincidence.” “He took me after I went out for coffee,” you said, voice quiet but controlled. “I don’t know how he got so close without me noticing, but… I blacked out almost instantly. Probably chloroform.”

Emily folded her arms. “You were gone for two days.” JJ looked down.

Spencer hesitated. “Do you… remember anything else? From when he had you?”

Your voice was steady, but something in your chest clenched tight. “Some things.”

No one rushed you. The room went still, waiting.

You drew in a breath. “He kept me blindfolded. The entire time. I couldn’t see him, not even once. But I remember other things. His voice. His hands. The way he moved. He always walked in from the left. He hummed sometimes — “Danny Boy,” I think. He smelled like cigarettes and cheap aftershave.”

Emily leaned forward slightly. “Did he ever say why he took you?”

“Not directly.” You swallowed hard. “But he said I was the first one who made him wait. That I was smart. He sounded impressed.”

Hotch’s brow furrowed. “And then he let you go.”

You shook your head, a chill brushing over your skin. “No. He didn’t let me go. He ran. He heard you coming — I don’t know how, maybe your sirens — but he bolted. Left me tied to a beam in the corner of that cabin and vanished. I could hear Rossi shouting my name outside, and I started screaming.”

Spencer sat forward, pen still in his hand but forgotten. “He had time. More than enough to kill you.”

You nodded slowly. “I’ve thought about that every day since.”

Derek folded his arms. “He’s never done that before. Every other victim…”

“—Was found dead,” you finished for him.

JJ’s eyes met yours. “You were the only one he let live.”

“No,” you said softly. “I was the only one he chose not to kill.”

There was a long silence.

Rossi finally spoke. “You think you were the start of something different. A new phase.”

“I think… I was the unfinished chapter.”

That shifted the air in the room.

Hotch straightened near the board. “We need to consider that this is the same unsub, returned to finish what he started. Or a disciple. Someone replicating his crimes, but deviating from the original. Either way, your insight — your memory — is our best shot at stopping him.”

You exhaled slowly, nodding. “Then let’s stop him.”

JJ stepped forward and gently rested a hand on your shoulder. “It’s good to have you back.”

You didn’t say it out loud — but it was good to be back.

Even if it was terrifying.

Even if it meant facing everything you'd fought so hard to forget.

The case board was dense with detail now — pinned photographs, strings of mapped movements, a timeline of abductions that had started to tighten like a noose.

You stood near the window, arms crossed, watching the late-morning sun start to burn through the marine layer. The room was heavy with tension and quiet calculation — the kind that comes when everyone’s already running worst-case scenarios in their heads.

“Maybe it wasn’t personal,” you said aloud, your voice cutting through the stillness. “He said I made him wait, but… it wasn’t months. It couldn’t have been. I wasn’t living in that part of town more than a couple of weeks when it happened. There was nothing special about me — it was random. Just bad luck.”

Spencer nodded from where he sat, one leg tucked beneath him. “That tracks. If he’d been watching you for months, we’d have found some record of it — footage, sightings, something. But there was nothing.”

Emily added quietly, “Which means it’s about access. Opportunity.”

Rossi leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “That makes him more dangerous. Less predictable.”

Everyone was gathered tightly around the table now — two laptops open, printouts spread between coffee cups and scribbled notes, the case board slowly growing heavier with faces.

Spencer had pulled up a detailed map of the victim’s last known location: San Diego State. A red marker blinked against the cluster of student buildings.

You stared at it a long moment.

JJ glanced up from her file. “That’s where you do some of your consulting, isn’t it?”

You blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I have a research partnership with their psychology department. I’m there once, maybe twice a week.”

Hotch’s jaw ticked. “Were you there this week?”

“I was. Yesterday.”

Rossi looked up sharply. “So you were at the same location less than twenty-four hours before the abduction?”

You swallowed hard. “Yes.”

"First victim was taken outside the bar you say you frequent, The Hard Deck." Spencer pointed out.

No one said anything for a moment. The implications hung heavy.

Emily broke the silence. “Okay, let’s take a step back. If we assume this is the same unsub as before — that he took you, chose not to kill you, and now he’s resumed — then we need to figure out what changed. What made him pick up again now. Something had to trigger it.”

You stood a little straighter. “Nothing’s changed.”

Derek gave you a look. “Come on, doc. Think. Any media? Interviews? Public lectures?”

You shook your head. “No press. I’ve been low profile. Completely.”

Spencer hesitated, then turned his laptop around slowly. “What about Jake?”

Your breath caught when you saw the image on the screen.

A local news clipping — North Island Naval Officer Promoted to Commander — with a photo of Jake in uniform, standing proud at the front of a hangar during the ceremony. You were just over his shoulder, half-turned, smiling up at him.

The caption read: Commander Jake Seresin with wife, Dr. [Your Name], after the ceremony.

The air in the room shifted again. Tighter. Sharper.

JJ’s voice was quiet. “That ran two weeks ago.”

You closed your eyes.

Emily leaned forward. “And if he saw it…”

“Then he knows where I am,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Hotch didn’t look surprised. “He let you live, but he never forgot you. Maybe you were the exception — the one who got away. But if he’s resurfaced now, and he’s abducting from locations connected to you, it changes everything.”

“He’s not just continuing his old pattern,” Derek said, voice tight. “He’s starting a new one. And you’re the center.”

The realization hit you like a punch to the gut.

You weren’t collateral anymore.

You were the target.

Not for revenge.

For obsession.

Rossi rubbed a hand over his mouth. “We’re not looking at a traditional spree. We’re looking at a fixation. Controlled. Personal. He let you live because he didn’t want it to end.”

“And now he’s picked up the story again,” Spencer said. “From his perspective, the last chapter was unfinished.”

JJ looked across the table. “He saw that photo. It put you back in his orbit.”

And this girl — the one from San Diego State — she wasn’t random. She was a message.

You stepped back from the table, breath shallow, head spinning.

The only thing you could think of was: Jake.

You were still staring at the photo on Spencer’s screen when Derek leaned forward, voice gentle.

“Hey,” he said, getting your attention. “I know it’s a big ask, and I know you’ve already done more than enough just by showing up—but if you’re okay with it, I think we should try a cognitive interview.”

You blinked. “Right now?”

“Soon,” he said. “Only if you’re up for it. I’ll walk you through the process slow—we won’t push. But sometimes going back into the sensory details can surface things you didn’t know you remembered.”

You hesitated, your hands curling tightly around the back of the chair. “He had me blindfolded,” you whispered. “All I had were sounds. Smells. Vibes. But… yeah. Okay. We can try.”

Derek gave a small, reassuring nod. “You set the pace.”

You nodded, then reached for your phone.

If what the team suspected was true—if this man had somehow found you again, after all these years—it wasn’t just you at risk anymore.

Jake had to know.

Jake stood at the wing of a parked F/A-18, sweat clinging to the back of his neck under his flight suit as he looked over a checklist with a tech. His mind wasn’t in it. Hadn’t been all day. Not since you'd left that morning with that look in your eyes—something resolved and haunted at the same time.

His phone buzzed against his hip.

He barely registered the name before answering. “Hey, sweetheart. You okay?”

Your voice came fast, tight, rushed. “Jake. We got confirmation. Another girl’s missing. She was taken from the SDSU campus.”

Jake stiffened. “That’s where you—”

“I know. The team thinks this might be about me. They think he might’ve seen that article from your promotion ceremony. They think he might be here because of that.”

The breath caught in his lungs.

No.

He started walking without realizing. Past the jet, across the tarmac.

“I’m on my way,” he said. “Stay in the building. Stay with Hotch or Morgan. I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Jake—”

But he was already hanging up.

Rooster looked up from his toolbox as Jake rushed across the hangar floor, moving fast—too fast. There was no post-flight sarcasm, no teasing, not even a wave.

“Where the hell’s he going?” Payback asked.

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “That didn’t look like a lunch break.”

“He looked pale,” Fanboy muttered. “Did something happen?”

Bob tilted his head. “Maybe family emergency?”

Rooster was already setting down his wrench. “I’m gonna find Mav.”

Maverick barely glanced up as Rooster, Phoenix, and Bob stepped into the doorway.

“Mav,” Bradley said, arms crossed. “Something’s wrong with Hangman. He just ran off base like the damn world was ending.”

Maverick exhaled, slow and quiet, then turned to fully face them.

He looked at each of them for a long moment before speaking.

“He’s fine,” Mav said.

“Doesn’t look fine,” Phoenix shot back. “What’s going on?”

Maverick rubbed a hand over his jaw. He didn’t want to be the one to say it—but he also knew secrets like this had a shelf life. And if Jake was racing to the PD, they’d find out soon enough.

“She used to be FBI,” he said finally.

That stopped all three of them in their tracks.

“What?” Phoenix asked.

“She was with the Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Mav continued, voice even. “Profiling serial offenders. Got recruited young. Bright. Gifted.” He paused. “And three years ago, she was kidnapped by a subject they were tracking. Held for two days. Barely made it out.”

Silence fell like a brick.

“They think he might be back,” Maverick finished quietly. “And that he’s in San Diego.”

Phoenix’s eyes widened. “That’s what this is about.”

The room was dimmer now. The blinds were half-closed to block the afternoon sun, casting soft shadows across the case board. Derek was prepping the small adjacent interview room — chairs facing each other, lights low, a bottle of water set on the table. You sat on the edge of your chair, elbows on your knees, trying to slow your breathing.

You could do this.

You had to.

But your fingers trembled slightly as you picked at the cap of the pen in your hand, mind skipping in and out of memory. That smell. That song. That freezing cold air from the cabin floorboards. It all crawled back up when you least expected it.

The door burst open down the hallway.

Heavy boots. Fast steps. A sharp voice at the front desk — not angry, just worried.

“Commander Seresin,” Hotch said without looking up. “Right on time.”

You turned just as Jake appeared at the threshold of the room, still in uniform, the top half of his flight suit tied around his waist, white undershirt damp at the collar.

His eyes landed on you instantly.

He crossed the room in three long strides.

“Hi,” you said, voice soft.

Jake cupped your face with both hands and kissed your forehead, breathing you in like he was checking to make sure you were still solid, still here. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

He glanced toward the board — the faces, the photos, the growing map of chaos. His jaw clenched. “You called me. You said it might be about you.”

“I didn’t want to wait until I was home.”

Jake shook his head, pulling a chair closer to yours and sitting so your knees touched. “You made the right call.”

Behind you, Derek stepped into the room again.

“You must be Jake,” he said.

“Yeah. Thanks for taking care of her.”

“She’s about to do a cognitive interview. You’re welcome to stay, long as it’s helpful to her.”

Jake looked to you.

You nodded.

“I want you there.”

Derek gave you a small smile. “All right. We’ll take it slow. Nothing heavy. Just a conversation.”

You and Jake followed him into the smaller room — cold walls, no windows, one camera quietly rolling behind glass. You sat across from Derek, Jake beside you, one arm draped protectively along the back of your chair.

Derek spoke gently.

“You remember the basics of how this works, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Sensory details. Emotion over fact. Let memory take the lead.”

“Exactly. So just close your eyes when you’re ready, and start from somewhere that feels safe. Doesn’t have to be the beginning.”

Jake gave your hand a light squeeze.

You took a breath.

And let yourself fall backward into the dark.

The walls felt closer with your eyes closed.

Derek’s voice was soft, grounded. “You’re doing great. Just take us back to the morning before it happened. Start anywhere that feels clear.”

You nodded slowly, fingers curling against the armrest.

“I was leaving my apartment,” you said, quietly. “It was a Friday. Cold for spring. I remember I forgot my gloves and thought about going back for them, but I didn’t. I had a coffee order in already and I was late.”

Jake stayed silent beside you, unmoving. Just a steady presence. Solid. Safe.

“I walked the same route as always. Past the little bookstore on 9th. The woman inside always had a candle burning — vanilla and sandalwood. I could smell it as I passed.”

Derek’s voice came again. “Do you remember seeing anyone? Or feeling like you were being followed?”

You hesitated. “No. It was normal. People walking dogs, cars driving by. There was a guy smoking outside the bodega. He asked for spare change, and I told him sorry, not today. That’s the last person I remember talking to.”

You paused, heartbeat starting to pick up.

“I got my coffee. Black. I took the lid off — it was too hot to drink, and I remember the smell hit me really strong. Burnt roast. Like it had been sitting too long. I almost didn’t drink it.”

You breathed out shakily, the air in your lungs starting to constrict. “I think… I think that’s when it happened.”

Derek leaned forward slightly. “What do you remember next?”

“I was walking back toward my car. It was parked behind the café, in that little lot next to the alley. It was quiet.”

Your pulse quickened. You could hear it in your ears.

Jake shifted beside you. “You okay?”

You nodded tightly, but your voice faltered. “I remember… someone said my name. But I don’t think I recognized the voice. It was like… like I had just enough time to turn.”

The silence buzzed.

“And then I couldn’t breathe.”

You opened your eyes, chest rising faster.

Derek’s voice was lower now. “Was there anything about that voice? Accent? Tone? Did he sound young?”

Your hands started to tremble. “Deep voice. Calm. Like… calm in a way that felt wrong. It didn’t match the situation.”

Jake reached for your arm. “That’s enough—”

But you shook your head. “No—wait. Wait. I remember something.”

The room froze.

Your breathing was shallow but even, eyes wide now. You were back in the memory but fighting to stay afloat.

“I heard a sound before I passed out,” you said slowly. “It was… soft. Mechanical. Like a click. No—like a button being pushed. Over and over. I didn’t remember it before because it felt unimportant, but—”

You looked at Derek. “He was clicking a pen.”

“A pen?”

You nodded quickly. “Not a nervous tic. Rhythmic. Like… tap, tap, tap. And he kept doing it. I remember it in the dark. When I was tied up. He’d pace and click it. He wanted me to hear it.”

Spencer’s voice crackled through the speaker in the room. “That’s a behavioral trigger. A dominance cue. Like a metronome — asserting control through rhythm.”

Derek looked at you seriously. “That’s huge. Most of his behavior’s been postmortem. But this—this gives us a pre-attack ritual.”

Jake leaned closer, his voice barely audible. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded again, this time more firmly. “I’m okay.”

The cognitive interview had ended fifteen minutes ago, but your body still felt wired — like adrenaline was buzzing just beneath your skin. Jake hadn't left your side. He stood just behind your chair now, one hand on your shoulder, the other flexing and unflexing at his side like he was barely holding something back.

The rest of the team was gathered around the long table, and Penelope Garcia’s voice filled the room over speakerphone.

“Okay, sunshine squad,” she chirped, the only person in the world who could sound cheery in a serial murder case. “So I pulled every known offender, vagrant, or suspicious person with priors within a five-mile radius of the café our Doc was taken from. I cross-referenced that with clicky-pen sales in the immediate area and—just kidding, I’m good, but not that good.”

A few chuckles lightened the tension — even yours.

“Garcia,” Hotch said calmly. “Stick to profiles matching age, behavioral cues, and any psychiatric holds post-incident.”

“Already on it, Captain No-Fun,” Garcia replied. “Based on the pen-clicking, the blindfolds, the lack of sexual assault but intense need for control, we’re likely looking at a male, late 30s to mid-40s, antisocial tendencies, possibly diagnosed or undiagnosed OCPD. And guess what? I got three possible matches within driving distance of San Diego State. All were either arrested or flagged for mental health-related complaints in the past five years.”

On the big screen, three DMV photos popped up.

Your stomach lurched at the sight of them.

Jake stiffened behind you, feeling the shift in your body even before you spoke.

Derek glanced over. “You recognize anyone?”

You leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning each face. The first man—no. The second—no.

But the third.

The third made your skin crawl.

Thinning brown hair. Soft jaw. Unremarkable features. But something behind his eyes flickered—like he knew something you didn’t.

You reached out slowly and tapped the screen with a trembling finger.

“That’s him,” you said quietly. “That’s the guy who asked me for change. Outside the bodega. The day I was taken.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

Spencer looked up, voice suddenly sharp. “That’s not just a match. That’s confirmation. He was at the scene minutes before the abduction.”

“His name’s Albert Kane,” Garcia said, voice now taut and serious. “Lived off the grid for a few years after a psych evaluation flagged him as a potential risk. He dropped off my radar… but if he resurfaced in San Diego…”

Hotch was already reaching for his phone. “Then he’s our unsub. And we don’t have time.”

You sat back, heart pounding. Jake’s hand slid from your shoulder to your back, warm and grounding.

“You did good, darlin’,” he murmured softly near your ear. “Really good.”

But all you could think about now was the girl. The one still missing. Somewhere in the city. Maybe already trapped in a cabin just like the one you barely escaped.

The room had transformed into a war room — coffee refills forgotten, printouts slapped onto the board, and maps laid flat on the table like battle plans.

Spencer tapped a red marker against the screen, zooming in on a cluster of pins outside the city. “Albert Kane was born in Idaho, but he’s moved constantly — Colorado, Nevada, Oregon, and now California. The only stable pattern is the terrain. He favors isolated wooded areas, usually within two hours of a major freeway.”

JJ spoke next, flipping through Kane’s file. “Three years ago, he was flagged after being forcibly removed from a wellness retreat. Paranoia, manipulation, and clear signs of obsessive control behavior. The facility didn’t press charges, just wanted him gone.”

“And now he’s escalated,” Hotch added, arms crossed. “Likely triggered when he saw her face in the paper. The woman who got away. He’s trying to recreate the original event — only this time, he’s in control from the start.”

Rossi gestured to a map of the outer San Diego County area. “We’re assuming he’s repeating the cabin setup. Garcia, do we have eyes on isolated structures he could be using?”

Penelope’s voice buzzed over speaker. “Sending three viable options now — all rented in the last six weeks under aliases I’ve connected to Kane in the past. One of them was booked with a prepaid debit card used in San Diego two days ago.”

“Got it.” Derek grabbed the printout as it came through. “Cabin off Route 94. About forty-five minutes from here. No neighbors. No cell reception.”

“That’s our target,” Hotch said. “We move now.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a faint hum over the now-quiet station. The tension that had built over the past few hours had finally snapped — the girl was alive. Bruised, scared, but alive.

You’d cried when Emily called it in.

She’d said the words gently, like she knew you’d been holding your breath all day: “We got her. She’s safe. And we’ve got him in cuffs.”

Jake had just sat down beside you in the waiting room, hand tightly holding yours. He pressed a kiss to your temple and hadn’t let go since.

Now, the hum of engine brakes echoed outside as one of the SUVs pulled up out front.

You looked up just in time to see them dragging him in.

Albert Kane — cuffed, wild-eyed, struggling like an animal. Blood on his cheek, likely from the takedown. Dirt under his nails. Disheveled. Unhinged.

You didn’t mean to stand. You just… did.

And that’s when he saw you.

For a split second, everything stopped.

Then he lunged.

“It was for you!” he screamed, spittle flying, veins straining in his neck. “All of it! They were nothing—nothing compared to you! You were supposed to see it! You were supposed to understand—”

Jake moved like a loaded gun — explosive, furious, ready to tear him apart.

“Don’t you dare talk to her!”

His voice boomed across the station, eyes burning with a rage you had never seen in him before. He lunged forward, but—

Derek caught him mid-step, slamming a hand against his chest and pushing him back, muscle against muscle.

“Jake.” Derek’s voice was steel. “Not worth it. Not here. Not now.”

Jake struggled against the restraint for a breathless second — then collapsed back a half-step, shoulders rising and falling with shallow, furious breaths.

Kane was screaming, being dragged out of the hallway. “I saved you! You were supposed to save me!”

And then he was gone.

The door slammed behind him.

The room was silent.

You were shaking.

Jake turned toward you slowly, his fury replaced by something else — horror, helplessness, grief. He reached you in two long strides and pulled you into his chest.

You crumbled.

Arms around his waist, face buried in the soft fabric of his undershirt, you broke down. Your shoulders shook with quiet sobs you didn’t even realize you were holding in.

Jake’s hand cupped the back of your head, his lips pressing to your temple.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. He’s done. It’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

You clung to him tightly.

“I didn’t think I’d ever have to see him again,” you choked out.

Jake leaned his forehead to yours. “I’d kill him with my bare hands if I could. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you whispered. You nodded, forehead resting on his chest.

Derek watched from a short distance, his jaw tight but his eyes warm.

“We’ll take it from here,” he said gently. “Go home. You both need rest.”

Jake didn’t answer. He just gathered you against his side, nodding once as if to say thank you, and walked you out the front door into the night.

[...]

The sun was slipping below the horizon, casting long golden streaks across the water and painting the sky in soft pastels. The Hard Deck buzzed with life — laughter, clinking glasses, music humming low in the background. But in the back corner, where the picnic tables sat half in shadow, a very unusual group was taking over.

“Okay, but seriously,” Derek said, nursing a beer and looking across the table at Phoenix. “You’re telling me they call him Hangman because of his ego?”

“Because of his everything,” she said with a grin, nudging Jake across the table. “He earned that callsign the minute he opened his mouth.”

“Y’all are just jealous,” Jake said, reclining like a man who finally had something worth relaxing into. “I have style. Presence. Charisma.”

“You have tantrums,” Rooster chimed in, tipping his drink toward Spencer, who blinked slowly like he’d just watched an exotic bird speak. “This guy once argued with an entire vending machine.”

“He kicked it,” Bob added helpfully.

Emily leaned forward, “I love him.”

You sat sandwiched between JJ and Natasha, both women gently teasing you about how long you’d kept two entire identities hidden — genius profiler and Navy pilot’s wife.

“I knew you were smart,” JJ said, bumping your shoulder. “But this is some next-level secret agent business.”

“I’m telling you,” Natasha laughed, “I feel like I’ve been living in an episode of a spy drama.”

“You were,” Rossi added dryly from behind his wine glass.

Even Hotch looked amused, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth.

“I still can’t believe you guys didn’t know,” Emily said, sipping a beer. “I mean, come on. ‘Doc’?”

“She told us she had a PhD,” Fanboy shrugged. “Didn’t think it came with a federal badge and a body count.”

Everyone laughed.

Across the table, Jake looked at you — relaxed, glowing in the amber light, your eyes crinkled from smiling. He reached under the table and found your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

You looked at him and smiled, and he mouthed a quiet, “You okay?”

You nodded. “I am now.”

It wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic. But it was true.

You were whole. And you were home.

As the sun finally slipped beneath the waterline, the Daggers and the BAU raised their glasses in a mismatched toast — to friendship, to healing, to the weird little twist of fate that brought them all together.

And for the first time in years, the past didn’t feel quite so heavy.

You’d carried it. You’d survived it.

And now, you could finally set it down.

[literal-tv-menace]

he is perfect. 😍

Exam Room 6

Summary: A seemingly boring day at work takes an unexpected turn that could change Langdon’s life forever when he walks in on Y/n in Exam Room 6.

Word count: 8,959

Author’s note: Big thank you to @itsthelastcatastro-phe for submitting this idea.

Any comments and feedback are greatly appreciated!!

Restless and antsy, Langdon couldn’t keep still. Sat at the nurses station charting, his leg bounced up and down, up and down. He was never good with being idle.

The nearly empty energy drink on the desk wasn’t helping either. It probably wasn’t the best idea to have a second so soon after he finished his first, but it was just one of those days. It wasn’t even noon yet and he already needed a pick-me-up.

It wasn’t that the ED was slow—it never was. The waiting room was packed, they were short on beds, staff was stretched too thin. Pretty much business as usual. 

But that was the problem. 

These past few days he'd been blessed by the ED Gods getting to perform all the emergency -otomies—thoracotomies, tracheotomies, cricothyrotomies, you name it—that as a med student he’d have wet dreams about. Still high off the emergency fasciotomy he did yesterday, he hoped to ride this feeling straight into his weekend. 

It wasn’t looking like that would be the case though. The minutes dragged, and so did the cases that came through. The most exciting thing to happen so far was the NG tube he put in and was charting now. Granted the day was still young, but the fact he even had the time to sit and chart goes to show just how slow time was going by. He needed something exciting and dramatic to happen, and soon. 

Tossing the now empty energy drink in the trash can behind him, Langdon took the opportunity to scan the floor for any incoming EMS arrivals he could nab. What he ended up catching was the eye of an anxious looking intern.

Whitaker approached him needing help with his patient, a sixteen year old girl in Exam Room 6 with a facial laceration. Still just an intern, he needed an attending or senior resident to supervise the stitching. 

It was just Langdon’s luck he happened to be the first one Whitaker spotted. Turning back to the computer screen to finish up his charting, Langdon scoffed to himself.

Great, babysitting. 

—

One whiff was all it took.

The patient had barely unwrapped the tuna sandwich Y/n handed him when her throat started to contract and her mouth began to coat itself in saliva preparing itself for what was coming. Quickly excusing herself, she rushed to the nearest restroom. 

Bent over the toilet, staring down at the contents of her breakfast, Y/n knew it was time. 

She snuck into the first empty exam room she could find, closed the curtains and flipped the ultrasound machine on. Knowing she only had a few moments of privacy before someone would eventually need the room, she worked quickly. The cold gel smeared haphazardly across the bare skin of her stomach sent a chill up her spine. The chill spread rapidly across every inch of her body as the live imaging of her own uterus popped up on the screen. 

She knew what to expect, even braced herself for it, but seeing it with her own two eyes was startling nonetheless. 

Examining the embryo on the screen, she was left frozen in place seeing how much larger it was than she anticipated. A pit of dread opened in her stomach, growing wider and wider by the second, threatening to swallow her whole from the inside out.

When she first missed her period, she immediately entered denial. She pushed it out of her mind, refusing to acknowledge the slightest possibility of pregnancy under the superstitious notion that if she did, it would come to fruition—as if biology wasn’t the dictator of that. Even after the positive at-home tests, she continued to run and hide from dealing with this, telling herself she had time to think about what she wanted to do. That was until today of course, when a bout of morning sickness hit her hard enough to knock some sense into her. 

Staring at the screen in front of her, there was no way she could keep avoiding this. Time was running out on the game of back and forth her heart and mind were having. 

She needed to decide, before it was too late for to make a decision at all—was she keeping it or not?

—

Outside of Exam Room 6, Langdon could see the curtain inside was drawn closed. He figured it must’ve been one real gnarly gash on this poor girl’s face if they were hiding it from anyone on the outside looking in. 

His knuckles knocked politely against the wooden door before entering to find an oddly quiet room. No voices, no rustling, not as much as a peep came from behind the curtain.

Langdon rolled his eyes thinking Whitaker must’ve given him the wrong location. Regardless, he announced himself before drawing the curtains open to check if anyone was there. Expecting to see an empty room, what he saw instead sent him into a state of shock. 

In front of the ultrasound machine was Y/n, holding her scrub top up with one hand while the other held the probe against her lower abdomen, and on the monitor, the most jarring detail of all, was an embryo roughly 8-9 weeks along. 

Y/n had been staring so intently at the monitor, the sound of her own deafening thoughts drowned out his knocks. It took his voice and the loud rattling of the curtain rings against one another to grab her attention. Turning over her shoulder to see him standing there wide eyed with his jaw on the floor, sent a wave of panic through her so strong she swore she would have thrown up right then and there if she still had anything left to throw up.

She put down the probe and shut off the machine in a hurry. But it was too little too late. The black and white image had already ingrained itself in Langdon’s mind. 

In a rush to wipe the gel off her stomach, she cursed under her breath, getting it all over her hands. Langdon moved mindlessly, handing her more paper towels. As she took them from him gratefully, their hands brushed against each other, and like a jerk reaction, their eyes locked.

Always so confident and sure of herself, especially here at work, it was unnerving to see Y/n look like a deer in headlights. It brought Langdon back to their second year of residency—the only other time he can recall her looking as shaken as she was now—when she couldn’t remember if she gave the correct dose to the correct patient. Patient A in Central 8 needed 2mg of morphine and Patient B, just next door in Central 9, needed 0.2mg of dilaudid. It was late, they were all tired and Y/n panicked looking down at the empty vials in her hand worried she just gave Patient B 2mg of dilaudid instead of 0.2—a deadly dose.

Before him now, she was a spitting image of her younger self then, paled faced and trembling in fear. His initial shock wore off at the sight, and the gravity of the situation sunk in.

“You’re pregnant?” he blurted out in disbelief as the image of the embryo danced around in his head tauntingly.

He was really starting to regret those energy drinks right about now. All that caffeine and sugar exacerbated his body’s response to the stress and inhibited his ability to cope with it. His vision blurred for a second and a cold, nervous sweat spread across his back. His head was spinning trying to wrap itself around this bombshell. It would’ve been wise to wait for it to come to a still before he opened his mouth. But that sort of wisdom required patience, and at the moment he had none. He needed answers, now.

“How far along?” 

She shrugged. “About 9 weeks?”

“When did you find out?”

Y/n inhaled sharply debating how to respond. The truth—that she’d been sitting on not one, but two positive at-home pregnancy tests for almost two weeks now—would undoubtedly send him reeling. She could lie and say she just found out. It would be much easier if she did. But her conscience was heavy enough with the guilt of keeping this from him. And now with the additional guilt of having him find out so unceremoniously? It was time to come clean.

A sick feeling rumbled in his stomach waiting for her to respond. “Y/n, when did you find out?” 

"Not that long ago," she downplayed it.

“How long?”

“A week or so.”

“A week or so?” 

“Maybe closer to two weeks actually…” she admitted in a low voice. 

“Two weeks?” He blinked hard, waiting for her to correct him because surely he heard her wrong. 

Her silence was all the confirmation he needed.

“Two weeks,” he repeated, mostly for himself as he processed what that meant.

Y/n watched with bated breath as his expression soured, going from confused, to offended before finally landing on anger.

His heart raced from both the energy drinks and his rising blood pressure. He pinched the bridge of his nose trying to take in a deep breath to blow out the anger he could feel starting to burn in his chest. But the fire was too wild to tame, and the breath he took only served to fan the flame. 

“Are you serious?” he blew up. “You’ve known for two weeks, and haven’t said a word about it?” He went on before she could even get a word in. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why’d you keep this from me?”

Overwhelmed and frustrated, she cradled her head. This is why she didn't tell him. She had her own complicated feelings about being pregnant to sort through without having to worry about Langdon’s stake in all this as well. 

“I don’t know. Okay?” she groaned. “It wasn’t exactly news I was ready to share with anyone else-”

“I’m not just anyone else, Y/n. I’m the father for fuck sake—I mean, I am? Right? The father?” 

It was a low blow, and he knew that. There wasn't a doubt in his midn that the baby was his. But he was angry, and wanted to make sure she felt it.

And he succeeded. Y/n's eyes flashed red. “Wow. Really?” 

“Or do we need to wait another couple weeks and do another set of tests till we know for sure?” 

“Oh, that’s real fucking rich Frank.” 

“No, Y/n. What’s rich is you always harping on about having open and honest communication, and then keeping a whole pregnancy from me. When were you gonna tell me, hmm? When you start showing? Or when you push out a baby in nine months?” 

“I don’t even know if there’s even going to be a baby to push out in nine months,” she snapped.

The energy in the room shifted instantly. Her sobering words quelled the anger they’d both been spewing at one another.

Before either of them could say anything else, a staticky voice came on suddenly over the intercom.

Code Orange. I repeat, Code Orange. Calling all available staff, please report to the ED. Mass casualty incident, patients en route.

—

When Langdon said he wanted something exciting and dramatic to happen, he didn’t expect all this. Finding out Y/n was pregnant was enough excitement and drama as it was. To top it off with a mass casualty incident moments later was just rubbing salt in the wound.

But he asked for it, so the universe delivered.

Any prior concerns about the day dragging were put to rest. Time was flying by now, in a flurry of guts and gore. One of the city’s busiest highways collapsed sending more mangled and bloodied patients through their doors than he could keep track of.

The ED had transformed into one large trauma center, every corner, every open space occupied by machines, beds, patients and staff.

Stationed in the red zone—where triage sent patients with the most critical, life-threatening injuries—Langdon was right in the thick of it. Alarms and monitors going off. Cries and screams coming from all directions. Blood-covered staff yelling back and forth, struggling to communicate over everything. 

He maneuvered through it all expertly, making tough calls others wouldn’t have the nerve to, flying by the seat of his pants as supplies dwindled. As morbid as it was to say, he should’ve been basking in the chaos, reveling in the rush. He couldn’t though, not fully. 

Not when each time he took his eyes off the patient in front of him, they always found Y/n. No matter how far or near she happened to be. No matter how briefly he looked away. Like a compass always finds north, his eyes always managed to find her. His mind flashing back to Exam Room 6 and their conversation left hanging there, each time they did.

As Langdon stepped back from his patient, checking their vitals after securing a makeshift tourniquet on their leg, his eyes landed on her again. She was just two beds ahead of him working on a chest decompression. 

Looking at her, he wondered how he had missed the signs. Replaying the past couple of weeks in hindsight, he realized the signs were definitely there. He just never gave any of them a second thought assuming there were reasonable explanations for it all. That time he caught her vomiting? The Chinese takeout that had been sitting in the fridge for the past week. The fatigue and headaches? Long hours at work. The out-of-character moodiness? Probably PMS. 

Pregnancy never crossed his mind at all. Had he been subconsciously turning a blind eye? Or had he really just been that oblivious? 

Either way, he didn’t deserve to find out the way he had. What he deserved was to hear it from her directly, as soon as she found out. He was the father of the baby and had a right to know. He wondered if he hadn’t walked in on her then, when he would have found out.

“Patient’s stable,” Mateo confirmed, grabbing Langdon’s attention. 

Tearing both his eyes and mind off of Y/n, Langdon looked down at the patient's blood stained leg. The tourniquet had stopped the bleeding for now, but it won’t work for long. This patient needed an OR. He pulled up the bed rails, prepping to help move the patient towards surgery when Mel called out for help. Nodding at Mateo to take things from here, Langdon jogged over to Mel. 

About to ask Mel what was going on, a voice he knew too well beat him to it. Standing at the foot of the patient’s bed was Y/n. The pair sized each other up. Even in the midst of all the pressure they were under, even with the events of Exam Room 6 on the back of both their minds, their competitive nature took precedence.

“Dibs,” Y/n said. 

Langdon scoffed. “You don’t even know what we’re dealing with yet.” 

“Don’t need to. The patient's impaled with a metal rod. I want it.”

“Too bad. I want it too,” he challenged. 

Eyes locked, they dared the other to back down. Their steely stares were clearly more than just about the patient. Something Mel—who had been eyeing them both curiously—picked up on pretty quick.

It became clear neither of them were going to back down, so Mel went ahead and gave them both the rundown. The patient before them was brought in with a rod running right through his abdomen. He was stable upon rescue and waiting for an OR, but his blood pressure started dropping steadily. 

“Seems like an internal bleed,” Y/n suggested.

“The FAST exam earlier was negative,” Mel said.

“The rod doesn't look stabilized though. Could’ve nicked a vessel if he shifted or moved. It’s gotta be tamponading something,” Langdon said. “What’s your next move, Dr. King.”

“Uh, let’s do another FAST again to rule out internal bleeding for certain,” Mel offered. 

“What do you say Dr. L/n, should we do the FAST now or wait? Say, maybe two weeks?” Langdon asked, smothered in sarcasm.

Mel turned to him horrified at the suggestion. 

“Just ignore him,” Y/n told Mel.

“You’re good at that aren’t you,” Langdon muttered.

“Just about as good as you are at being an asshole.”

Head whipping from Y/n to Langdon and back again, following their verbal volley, Mel tried to reel them back to the task at hand. “So, FAST exam—yes?” 

“Well, what do you think, Dr. L/n?” 

“I think you should grow up,” Y/n replied, rolling the ultrasound machine around the bed to Mel, shoulder checking him in the process. 

Not expecting her to put as much power into it as she did, Langdon lost his balance for a second. He stumbled back a step bumping into Mateo walking behind him, who in turn bumped into Dr. Robby. 

Having heard all of Y/n and Langdon’s conversation, Robby had enough. Busy bagging his patient he scolded them over his shoulder sharply. “Both of you grow up.”

Langdon and Y/n exchanged embarrassed looks as Robby went on about expecting more from senior residents. The shame stung but it was short lived as Mel brought their attention to the FAST exam results.

Taking a closer look at the screen, they spotted free fluid indicating the patient did indeed have an internal bleed. And like Langdon suggested, the rod itself must have been lodged right against the source of the bleed, acting as a plug, keeping the patient from bleeding out totally. 

“Looks like it’s a slow bleed, if we can stabilize this rod and manage his vitals this till surgery takes-” Langdon was saying before the patient’s rough, bloody coughing cut him off. 

The three stared at the patient in horror knowing nothing good could come from that. Immediately, monitors started going off. The patient’s jolting cough agitated the rod. What was a contained, slow bleed turned into a full on blood bath in a matter of seconds.

“He’s bleeding out fast. BP’s tanking now,” Mel said.

“Slow bleed you were saying?” Y/n jabbed at Langdon, before calling out for a crash cart. 

Despite their bickering, the pair locked in immediately.

“I need two units of O-neg,” Langdon told the nurse jumping in to help. 

“Get surgery on the line. They need to open up an OR, now,” Y/n instructed Mel. 

Whatever personal issues they had with one another were pushed to the side. They worked together effortlessly, moving alongside each other with practiced coordination, like a dance only they knew the steps to. After piles of gauze, dressing, tape and honestly anything else they could get their hands on to keep the rod as still as possible, they managed to secure it in place, hopefully preventing any more damage. 

The monitor’s beeps drilling in their ears finally stopped as the bleeding slowed and the patient's BP climbed towards an acceptable range. 

“You two make a good team,” Mel beamed, securing the additional large bore IV on the patient.

Langdon shot Y/n a satisfied smirk. 

Standing beside him, Y/n didn’t say a word, didn't even look in his direction. She didn’t need to though. The small smile breaking the straight face she fought to keep was enough for him. The friction between them was replaced momentarily with fondness. It was through toil and tears that they built the teamwork they had. The dizzying highs and devastating lows of their first few years of residency bonded them first as close colleagues, then as even closer friends, before their eventual and inevitable romantic relationship ensued.

“She’s right. We do make a good team,” he said. 

He should’ve just shut his mouth there and let them have this moment. It was a much needed piece of positivity in all the suffering they were surrounded by, in all the uncertainty between them. But Langdon just couldn’t help himself. If he was anything, he was an incessant smartass.

“That is when we communicate at least,” he added. 

Y/n threw her head back. The comment was unnecessary but more irritating than that, it reminded her of the one thing she'd been glad to forget. These past few hours working nonstop gave her the escape from reality she needed. She was too preoccupied to think about anything other than saving the lives in her hands. For just a little while, she could forget about the ultrasound, about the big decision she had to make, about Langdon, about all of it, and just focus on what she does best—her job. And until her job here was done, she was not willing to hear or discuss anything unrelated to that.

In her annoyance, she made a show of ripping off her gloves and isolation gown before walking away briskly. 

“Is she okay?” Mel asked, worried she may have had a role in Y/n’s evident displeasure. 

Watching Y/n disappear in the bustle of bodies and beds, Langdon sighed.

“I don’t know.”

—

Finally. 

The relief Y/n felt finally getting to use the restroom was almost orgasmic. 

The only way she was even able to hold it in as long as she had was because of all the adrenaline pumping through her. She’s had to pee for what felt like the past four hours now. And considering as of late, she’s been running to the toilet at least four times in one hour—just another early sign of pregnancy she'd been brushing off—it was needless to say her bladder felt like it was about to explode the second she burst into the restroom.

Washing her hands, she glanced at herself in the mirror. And what a vison she was. Flyaways stuck out any which direction. Sunken eyes accentuated by the dark circles forming from exhaustion. A dull ache pulsed on the soles of her feet having well surpassed her steps-per-day goal. She couldn’t imagine having to go through all this physical and emotional labor at work, then having to go home to labor over the unpredictable and demanding needs of a baby. 

Her own words replayed in her head. 

I don’t even know if there’s even going to be a baby to push out in nine months.

Looking at the facts, there was no way she could have a baby now. She and Langdon couldn’t keep that damn goldfish they won at the fair alive, how could they be expected to keep a baby alive. Let alone raise it without irreparably fucking it up somehow along the way. 

Aside from that, having a baby now, at this point in her life, would flip her world upside down. Everything would change—her body, her career, her priorities, basically her life as she knew it—and not necessarily for the better. 

The answer was obvious. 

Except that it wasn’t. 

The answer to life altering decisions like this were never laid out plainly in black and white. These decisions were painstakingly nuanced, painted with varying shades of gray. 

This unexpected pregnancy was no different. It was like a blob of gray paint splattered across all her carefully planned brush strokes. And the man who walked through the bathroom door just as she was about to leave, was like a paint brush smearing that ugly gray across the canvas of her future, making a murky muddled-up mess of it.

“Are you alright?” Langdon asked. 

Do I look like I’m alright, she thought. She almost said it too, still upset with him for the things he said to her and the way he had been acting. But hearing the genuine concern in his voice, she held back her bite.

“What, are you following me now?” she accused instead. First the exam room, now the bathroom. It was a valid question.

“I saw you rushing in here, I thought maybe something was wrong.”

"It's the bathroom,” she said matter-of-factly. “I had to use it.”

“Right…” he trailed off.

Sensing that there was more, much more, he was about to say, she started towards the door in hopes of getting by him before he could find his words. 

“Well, if you’ll excuse me.” 

She didn’t make it far before his hand grabbed her elbow, keeping her in place. “Don’t be like that, Y/n. Can we talk? Please.”

In the little bit of down time he had—between jumping from one patient to the next—he began to regret how everything went down in Exam Room 6, then with the impalement case. He let his emotions and his temper get the best of him. Embarrassed and ashamed about it all, he just wanted to clear the air. He hated when they fought. 

Whenever they butted heads there was never a winner. Just two losers with throbbing head aches. And worse than the fighting was what came afterwards. The awkwardness, the tension, the skirting around each other. He couldn’t stand it. Like a shirt tag sewn in perfectly to poke at you every chance, Langdon learned early on to save them both the discomfort and just yank it out at the source straight away. And in this case, that meant talking things out as soon as possible.

Not exactly in the mood to talk, Y/n wanted to yank her arm out of his hand and storm out of there. But she didn’t. His hold on her was just too strong—literally but more importantly, figuratively. His pleading eyes, and the way her name slipped through his lips, dripping in desperation in that low voice that made her knees buckle, held her right where she was.

They should talk. They needed to. But this wasn’t exactly the time or the place to sort out their issues. While things had slowed down considerably out on the floor, they were still on the clock and not to mention in the middle of an active mass casualty incident.

“Can we just please get through this shift first?” she pleaded. “We have a lot to talk about that I don’t think we can get through in the span of a bathroom break.”

Langdon relented, nodding thoughtfully. He should’ve let her go then. Let them both get back to work. But his grip on her remained as he closed what little space was left between them. He expected her to run out the door and dodge his attempt at affection like she’d been dodging him all day on the floor. However, to his surprise, she stood in place as his other hand cupped her cheek, tilting her head up, urging her to see the apology written across his face. 

Maybe it was the hormones, or the love in his eyes as he looked down at her like she was his whole world, or the way they were literally made for each other, their bodies fitting perfectly against one another as he pulled her into him. It was hard to say. But whatever it was, had Y/n leaning into his touch, chasing the familiar warmth of his embrace. Burying her face into his chest, the steady, calm beating of his heart eased the tightness in her chest. He rubbed her back soothingly, as her shoulders, tensed up so high they almost touched her ears, relaxed, falling in tandem with the long deep breath she let out. Having been in fight-or-flight mode all day long, there was nowhere else she’d rather be than here, in his arms. 

And she hated it. Hated how being in his arms made her feel so content but somehow still so desperate for more of him. Hated how needily she clung onto him like he’d slip away if she let up. Hated how she could never stand her ground when it came to him. She was supposed to be mad at him. He had been mean, unprofessional, and just plain annoying. But how could she stay mad when he knew exactly how to comfort her, when he was probably the only one who could. 

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been standing there like that. Time always seemed to suspend itself whenever they were in each other’s arms. He would’ve stayed there with her like this for as long as she’d let him. But she was right earlier—they still had a shift to get through. And the faster they get through it, the faster they’d get to finally having this much needed conversation. 

“Alright. Let’s get back out there,” he said. Pressing a tender kiss on forehead, he released her from his arms reluctantly.

“At least things are winding down finally,” Y/n said, as they stepped back onto the floor.

But what they were met with was the exact opposite of that. Things hadn’t winded down—they were ramping back up. Doctors and nurses shuffled equipment around trying to accommodate the wave of new patients triage was sending in.

Y/n started to worry they'd been sent back in time somehow. Things were looking just as chaotic as they had when the first batch of victims came through. She asked Dr. Mohan, who had been zooming past them, what was going on. It turns out there was a whole busload of victims recently dug out of the debris by search and rescue coming through triage now. 

Speed-walking to the nearest cabinet for fresh sets of PPE, Langdon whispered to Y/n. “Winding down, you were saying?” 

—

The sun had already set by the time the morning shift finally clocked out for the day. Dark purples and blues painted the sky as they lugged one tired foot in front of the other, leaving the PTMC behind them to enjoy whatever was left of their day. 

A group of nurses and doctors usually cracked a cold one at the park across the street after work. Especially so after rough, long shifts like this one. 

Langdon joined in tonight, needing a bit of liquid courage. On the bench sitting beside Robby, Langdon tried to enjoy the banter and booze but he was only partially present. His mind was still stuck on Y/n, constantly craning his neck checking the hospital doors to see if she'd come out yet.

“Waiting for someone,” Robby teased, knowing exactly who that someone was. Glancing down at his watch, Robby let out at a curious hum. “She should’ve been out by now.”

Langdon shrugged, taking a swig of his beer at the mention of her. “She’s probably still charting. You know what she’s like. Always the overachiever.”

“You’re right about that,” Robby chuckled. “And that is exactly why I’ve been pushing her to apply for the PCCM fellowship over at Pittsburgh General.”

The warmth he was feeling from the alcohol turned cold. 

“You have?” Langdon asked, unable to hide his surprise. Not at the fact that Robby would suggest such a thing to Y/n. Why wouldn’t he? She was the perfect candidate. No. Langdon was surprised because this was the first he was hearing about it. 

Deep creases formed on Langdon’s forehead and Robby realized he might’ve just revealed something he shouldn’t have. Immediately, he went into damage control, not wanting to be the cause of a rift between the couple. “Yeah, but just recently y’know. She probably hasn’t even had the time to really think about it yet.”

“Right,” Langdon nodded unconvinced, mentally adding another item to the list of things Y/n had been keeping from him.

“Speaking of the devil,” Robby said, spotting Y/n walking towards the group. 

Princess offered Y/n a beer from the cooler. The frosty can glowed pulling Y/n in, practically calling out her name. Without thinking she went for it. She needed this, something to take the edge off after everything today. About to click it open, she stopped herself right before the tab punctured the mouth open remembering that she was pregnant. How ironic that the exact reason she wanted the beer so bad was also the reason why she couldn’t have it.

Hiding her disappointment, Y/n handed the can back to Princess. “On second thought, I’ll pass,” 

“You sure? It’s nice and cold,” Princess insisted, waving the can enticingly.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Not tonight,” y/n shook her head. “I actually just came looking for Langdon.”

Everyone whooped and hollered in good fun as Langdon got up to meet her. The group couldn’t pass up a chance to give their resident lovebirds a hard time. Little did they know the pair were already going through it, on the cusp of having one of the hardest conversations they’ve ever had. 

—

Walking home was something Langdon and Y/n always looked forward to. All cozy and snug, his arm draped over her shoulders, hers wrapped around his back. Nothing but smiles and laughter, talking about what they should grab for dinner or debating who had the most gruesome case that day. 

Tonight, though? The walk home was anything but cozy and snug.

The crisp evening breeze was cold enough without the frigid, awkward silence filling the large gap between them as they walked so far apart it almost looked like they didn’t even know each other. They’d only exchanged a few words. Langdon pointing out that divot on the sidewalk she always seems to miss. Y/n asking if he ate anything, offering him the granola bar in her bag.

Other than that, silence. It was suffocating.

All the thoughts, all the questions, all the feelings bottled up inside clawed relentlessly at his throat looking for an escape, desperate to be voiced. But he soldiered on—though he wasn’t sure how much longer he could—because as badly as they needed to have this conversation, it was best he let her start things off. He'd already shoved his foot in his mouth one too many times today as it was.

So he suffered in the silence, holding onto her promise that they’d talk about things once their shift was over. A promise she had yet to deliver on it despite being a few blocks away from the hospital and well past since their shift had ended.

Beside him Y/n could hear each of his angsty footsteps. She could feel the heat of his gaze as he'd peek at her from the side of his eye. She could see the vein on the side of his neck protruding ever so slightly from the strain of it all.

She wanted say something. But there was just so much to be said between them, Y/n didn’t even know where to begin.

Reaching a physical impasse, as an orange net enclosed a construction zone blocking their usual shortcut home, Langdon took it as a sign. They couldn’t keep going on like this.

Forced to close the gap between themselves, now practically glued together as the detour led them onto a narrow sidewalk, Langdon made an attempt at light small talk, hoping to ease into the real conversation they need to have. At risk of shoving his foot in his mouth again he—as lightheartedly and as politely as he could muster—asked her what held her up so long back in the hospital. It was meant to be an innocent question. Little did he know what a loaded question it actually was. 

“I was up in the OB,” she paused, “Making an appointment.”

“For what exactly?” Langdon asked, stretching the words out slowly, hesitantly. Like he was afraid to ask, because honestly he was.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“You’ve had two weeks,” he scoffed under his breath. 

It took two steps forward till he felt the loss of her presence, a gust of the wind blowing through the space beside him where she was supposed to be. He winced, tasting the bottom of his foot in his mouth again.

He didn’t mean to pick a fight. But in fairness, it was the truth. She’d known for two weeks now. Which he felt was more than enough time to think things through. It’s not like she could wait much longer anyway. If she was nine weeks along like she said, the window to make a decision was closing fast. 

Turning to face her, he was met with her face scrunched in anger and annoyance. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he warned her. “You’re the one with an appointment you’re not even sure what for.”

That eye roll she gave him—as if he's in the wrong here—was all it took to push him off the edge. He wanted to go about this calmly, wanted to have a conversation not an argument. But he couldn't do it anymore. The eye roll unlocked the floodgates, letting loose everything he'd been holding in.

“You had two weeks,” he said, the words punctuating each step he took towards her. 

Here we go, Y/n thought arms crossed, heels dug into the ground bracing herself for the onslaught. She just felt bad for whoever lived in the townhome they stopped in front of because they were about to get the brunt of it all too.

“Two weeks, Y/n?" he said, holding two fingers up for emphasis. "You had two weeks to tell me. And that's how I find out? Walking in on you giving yourself an ultrasound because some intern forgot what room he was in.”

“I didn't mean for you to find out like that,” she argued.

“Well how did you mean for me to find out? Matter of fact when? I mean were you even going to tell me at all? Do I not have the right to at least know?”

“Yes,” she said, “But it's so much more complicated than that. I still don’t even know what the fuck I’m going to do. There’s a lot of things I need to factor in-”

“Yeah, I know,” he interjected spitefully. “Like that fellowship Robby’s been pushing you to go for.”

Her stomach dropped. “How do you know about that?”

“It doesn’t matter how I know. What matters is that you didn’t tell me about that either,” he said sharply. “I mean what else are you keeping from me?”

“Nothing-”

“Are you sure? Because I don’t know how many more secrets I can take.”

Y/n's heart ached hearing the hurt in his voice. The angry yelling she could handle. But not this. She wasn’t ready for this.

“Frank,” she pleaded, trying to reach out to him. But he pulled back from her touch. 

“I thought that we told each other everything. I don’t know what’s worse. You not telling me about the pregnancy, or you not feeling safe enough to come to me about this.”

“It’s not you,” Y/n tried to explain, swallowing growing lump in her throat, “Well, it is you. But not like that.”

“Then, like what Y/n?” he asked, throwing his arms out exasperatedly. “Because you’ve been basically lying to me for the past two weeks. Acting like everything is all normal and we’re all good. Meanwhile you were hiding these life changing decisions from me. The fellowship? The pregnancy?”

She was speechless, searching for the right words as he went on.

“I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out why you would keep this shit from me. And I can’t understand for the fucking life of me Y/n. I really can’t. Did I do something to make you feel like you couldn’t tell me? Do you not trust me or something?”

“I trust you. I trust you with my life,” she said, finally and fervently. “It’s not you I don’t trust. It's me.”

Langdon shook his head at her incredulously, struggling to understand.

“I couldn’t trust myself to make the right decision if I told you about it because I already know what you’d want,” she explained. “So I kept pushing it off till I knew what I wanted before-”

“Woah, woah. You do not know what I want,” he corrected her sternly. 

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“It’s real bold of you to tell me what I want,” he argued, growing upset by her baseless presumption.

“I see that look on your face whenever your with your nieces and nephews, whenever there’s a baby within a 10 foot radius.” 

“What face? I don’t make a face.”

“Yes you do,” she insisted. “A face like you can’t wait to have your own.“

Then it clicked. Her words and her actions all started to make sense.

They’d talked about kids before and while, yes he’d expressed how much he oved kids and looked forward to being a father one day, ultimately they were on the same page and in no rush.

Neither of them were ready for the responsibility, the sacrifice, the lifelong commitment having a kid meant. So the fact she was pregnant had him scared shitless. They weren’t married yet—not even engaged. Rather than a house, with a white picket fence all they had was a one-bed-one-bath apartment with a rusty fire escape. They both worked crazy, long hours. Both had a couple more years of residency left to finish. They had no business having a baby. 

And all that to say, even despite every reason they shouldn't, the thought of having a baby with Y/n made his heart swell big enough to think maybe they should. Imagining a little human with the best of her and the best of him. His eyes, her hair. His nose, her lips.

He can’t deny he wanted that. And he also can’t deny that it would be shitty to be presented the possibility of having that, only to have it ripped from him.

But he would never, ever impress his own wants onto her or pressure her into anything. It was her body and her choice. He would respect whatever she decided. She had to know this.

“Baby, you know I would never ever make you do anything you don’t want to do-”

“No, I know that. I know you would never do it intentionally,” she assured him. “But knowing how much you want this? I can’t bear you resenting me if I decided not to keep it.”

Langdon shook his head hard, mouth open ready to disagree but she didn’t give him the chance.

“Even if you say you won’t, you will, at least a little. So I couldn't tell you till I was sure one way or the other, because if I told you, and I saw your eyes light up even the tiniest bit, the decision would’ve been made right then. There’s no way I could take this away from you.”

“Y/n, listen to me,” he said, grabbing her shoulders, forcing her to face him, to see how gravely serious he was. “Fuck me. Alright? Fuck me. Fuck my feelings. Fuck whatever you think I want. 

“I am a nonfactor in this decision. And I will support you whether you decide to keep it or not. Do I want to have kids with you? Yes. God, yes. I wanna have as many kids with you as you’ll let me. But only if you want to have them, and whenever it is you want to have them.”

Tears brimmed her eyes as he went on.

“You being pregnant now doesn’t change my mind about that,” he swore. “I promise you, I could never resent you for making the best decision for yourself.”

The streetlight above cast a shadows over her face hiding the tears that fell. But he caught them anyway, wiping them gently with his thumb as he held her face.

“I love you, Y/n. And all I want is the best for you—whatever that is.”

Too choked up by her own sobs to reply, she simply nodded. Her tears stained his jacket as she rode out the wave of emotions that tore through her, pressed against his chest. Langdon’s arms held her impossibly close, continuing to assure her. 

“I’ve got your back. No matter what.” 

—

Shit.

Langdon was late. Tugging on the stethoscope around his neck, he paced in the empty elevator. 

He was only going up five floors but it felt like fifty. The digital screen above took an excruciating amount of time to change from one floor to the next. Langdon glared at it wondering how they could possibly have such a slow elevator in a trauma hospital where time was always of the essence. Before he could harp on it further, the doors finally opened up to the OB. 

Sparing a glance at his watch, he began jogging through the halls, mentally beating himself up for letting time slip away from him. 

He doesn’t know how, when he had been actively checking the clock every other minute. But things happen scary fast down in the ED. Some days, you blink and an hour passes.

He was right in the middle of a hip reduction with Collins when he spotted the clock from across the room showing it was already 1:51.

Y/n’s appointment was at 2.

Collins gave him a funny look when he asked her—though it wasn’t much of a question, more so him just telling her—to take things from here. She pushed him for details, not falling for his excuse of needing a lunch break—he never ate lunch. Already halfway to the door, he waved her off pretending not to hear what she was saying.

The OB floor was quiet and calm. The total opposite of the noisy chaos he was used to in the ED. It only served to worsen the nerves already starting to take hold of him. 

Hoping to still find y/n sitting there in the waiting room, instead he was met with strange stares from a bunch of pregnant women as he barged in suddenly and out of breath. 

Shaky hands smoothed down the mess of dark hair that had fallen out of place in his haste as the nurse led him to the exam room y/n was waiting in. 

His nerves intensified seeing y/n laying on the exam table peacefully. Eyes closed, hands clasped together resting on her stomach. No one would’ve guessed she was moments away from making a life altering decision. He promised to be here for support. But what kind of support was he if a) he was late and b) more nervous she was. 

“You’re late,” she said, not bothering to open her eyes.

Despite the annoyance in her voice, she didn’t turn away when he pressed a kiss to her head. He was about to apologize and explain his tardiness when two loud knocks came from the other side of the door.

Shortly after, an ultrasound tech walked in with a smile, greeting them both as she took her place behind the ultrasound machine. She and Y/n went over her vitals and medical history before beginning. 

Langdon squeezed y/n’s hand for support. Whether it was more for him or her, he wasn’t entirely sure. He just knew that in that moment it felt right. 

“Before I start, would you like me to keep the sound on or off?” the tech asked Y/n. 

Many undecided mothers understandably choose to keep the sound off so as to not hear the baby’s heart beat. He wondered if she’d do the same.

Glancing down at her, he searched her face for an answer. She hadn’t yet revealed to him her decision or if she had even come to a decision at all. And he didn’t ask.

In the days leading up to today, he respected the space she needed to think things through on her own. He was there for her when she needed a shoulder to lean on or to cover her tears in. But beyond that, as hard as it was, as much as being left in the dark was killing him, he held back. His only concern was ensuring she knew she wasn’t going through all this alone.

He tapped his foot in suspense waiting for Y/n to answer the tech. The options ware simple, one syllable each, either on or off. But one of those syllables had the power to change both their lives forever. He was literally moments away from finding out if he was about to become a dad or not. 

Regardless of what she decides is best for her, he was going to be right here, right by her side, supporting her. He squeezed her hand again, reminding her of just that. 

Her hand squeezed back as she responded to the tech. “Sound on.”

The words blew through him like a gust of wind, knocking him off kilter, sending him free falling off the ledge he’d been teetering on. Time, which had been moving punishingly slow, was now moving at warped speed. Everything happened so fast, it nearly gave him whiplash. One second the tech was just plopping a generous blob of gel on Y/n’s stomach, then the next she’s pointing out the embryo’s growing limb buds on the screen and before he knew it the sound came on. 

His hand gripped Y/n’s so tightly he worried he was hurting her when he first heard it.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Instinctively, he and Y/n looked at one another, hearing the steady heartbeat—their baby’s steady heartbeat. It was one thing to see it on the screen, but hearing it too made it all that more real. 

As the tech exited, it was just Y/n, Langdon and the printed ultrasound picture in his hand left in the room as they waited for the doctor to arrive. Looking down at the picture, he tried not to get too emotionally invested just yet. While Y/n opting to hear the heartbeat was a sign she wanted to keep the baby, he needed to hear those exact words from her himself. 

“So you’ve decided?” he asked gently.

She nodded silently.

“You want to have the baby?” 

She nodded again. But he wasn’t convinced and it didn’t look like she was either. Part of her looked like she wanted to back out while the other wanted to go all in. The conflicting look on her face—one of simultaneous awe and terror, equal excitement and anxiety—had his stomach in knots.

“Are you sure about this?” Langdon asked earnestly, brushing his thumb over hers. 

This decision, whichever path she went down, there’d be no turning back from. She’ll have to live with it, it’s consequences and the regret that may follow for the rest of her life.

His words echoed in her mind. Was she sure about this?

“Not at all,” Y/n said honestly. 

Langdon was seconds away from taking a steep nose dive down the roller coaster of emotions he was on, when the brakes slammed suddenly as Y/n let out an involuntary snort.

She never would’ve thought she’d be where she was right now—in the OB, 9 weeks pregnant, having an ultrasound done. It wasn’t funny necessarily, but it was kind of comical. Just when she thought she had it all figured out, her next steps all planned perfectly, life threw her this insane curve ball.

The thought turned her snort into full on laughter and soon enough Langdon was laughing along with her. Their laughs bounced off the walls replacing the sound of the baby’s thumping heartbeat that had been stuck in his head. 

It felt so good to laugh, to let out the breath he’d been holding in since the moment he walked in on her in Exam Room 6, the moment he found out she was pregnant. 

As they settled down, Y/n squeezed his hand pulling his attention. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever be sure, or that there will ever be a right time,” she paused, her voice melting into soft sincerity, “But I am sure that I don’t want to do this with anyone else but you. And I don’t want to wonder what if. So fuck it. We’re having a baby.”

In an instant the burden of uncertainty that he’d been carrying was lifted off his shoulders. The relief didn't last long as the burden of his new reality, of being a soon to be father, quickly took its place. But this one he didn’t mind shouldering. In fact he was happy to.

Brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, he studied her face, wanting to commit every detail of this moment to memory. Her fresh, flowery scent filling his lungs. The way the edges of her eye crinkled as she looked up at him. And her lips, pillowy soft and parted into that smile that melted heart.

Looking at her, he couldn’t help himself. Whenever they were this close, he never could. He leaned down as Y/n shifted, sitting up straight, eager to meet him halfway. Their lips met hungrily, starved of each other’s taste these past few days.

Her hands raked through his hair, resting at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, deepening their kiss. Their tongues moved against each other, guided by the heat of their emotions. He pulled her by the hips to the edge of the table, slotting himself between her legs.

With her hands roaming his chest and her hips rocking ever so slightly against him, Langdon had half a mind to lock the door, lay her back on the table and ease the growing tent in his pants. But listening to the rational half of his mind, remembering that’s how they ended up here in the first place, he pulled back.

Forehead resting against hers, hands squeezing her thighs to ground himself, he sought reassurance once more, “We’re really having a baby?”

Y/n laughed, lips brushing against his as she answered.

“We’re really having a baby.”

[literal-tv-menace]

ahhhh finally!!! can’t wait to read this tonight!

Come in With the Rain | t.o.

Tyler Owens x fem!reader

“Two weeks and several tornadoes will definitely make you fall in love."

Word Count: 11.2k

Warnings: Descriptions of panic attacks, tornado wrangling, hurricane descriptions. Making out but nothing too much tbh.

Author's Note: I've been working on this for WEEEEEEEKS and I've finally got it. I have the full article I wrote for this if anyone is interested LOL

Talk to Me! | Coffee?

She’s sitting on the curb of the motel parking lot, staring at the sky.

Javi is reading a weather report out loud, explaining that there’s two cells forming just north of where they’re parked. She’s not Kate; she doesn’t know when a storm is coming just by looking at the sky or noticing how the wind shifts. Not that she’s comparing herself to Kate –she loves Kate and they’ve known each other long enough to know they both have skills that balance each other out. Kate’s skills were in the field and her skills were translating those skills into accessible reports for the public and the government. 

However, when the sky is tinted that ominous green, it’s not like it’s not obvious that something is coming. 

The rest of the Tornado Wranglers haven’t quite figured out who she is, or why she’s there. She’s pretty sure most of them think she’s a groupie, only there to be entertained or flirt with the blonde cowboy who is working on his truck.

“Which one are we going after?” Javi asks, looking to Kate who is walking back towards the Wranglers.

“The one going west is actually going to form,” Kate explains, pointing out towards the west. The journalist is jotting down notes as Kate speaks.

“Hey, Kate –you gonna tell us who your friend is?” Dani asks suddenly, kicking the curb beside her and causing her to jump some. 

Kate motions to her, as if to say introduce yourself. She shuts her journal and points her pen at Kate, smiling. “Kate asked me to join –I’m here to do a write up on the impact storm chasers like you guys have on the communities being impacted.”

That catches Tyler’s attention, and he sits up against the truck, looking down at her with a grin. “I didn’t realize you were a reporter.”

“Not technically,” she offers, pushing herself off the ground. Her knees pop, and she makes a face before shrugging a little bit. “I used to be the PA specialist for the NOAA. But I shifted away from that and now I do independent freelance writing on anything related to ocean, climate, space and weather policies that the government implements –or wants to implement.”

“She acts like she’s not an award-winning journalist that’s been published in several scientific journals,” Kate tacks on for good measure, linking their arms with a grin. 

She just shrugs sheepishly, but there’s a proud grin tugging at the corner of her lips. As Tyler is about to say something else –because he seems much more interested in her now –he’s interrupted by Dexter yelling something, then practically jumping out of the RV.

“I’ve read your work!” Dexter exclaims, holding a journal that’s definitely a few years old. “You wrote about how ENSO patterns affect hurricane behavior in the U.S. –you used historical data from the NOAA to support your –,”

“Damn, Dex,” Dani teases, interrupting the older man with a smirk. “Didn’t know you were a fanboy.”

“I take it that’s how you two met,” Tyler says, motioning between her and Kate now. He’s got a teasing grin on his face, and she thinks it’s far more charming than it has any right to be. “Did Sapulpa here get you to watch our channel then, or were you a fan before she joined?”

“Remember that whole ‘I write about anything related to ocean, climate, space and weather policies’ spiel? You’ve been around –so I’ve known about you guys for a hot minute.”

And that’s the honest to God truth. 

It’s not like she’s an active follower of their channel, but when they do things that actually have some scientific research to them, she’ll watch it. She appreciates anyone that makes science and education accessible to the general public, especially in a way that’s both entertaining and engaging. And she’ll take notes on what they do and how they do it, if anything because she’s interested in the methods. Though, she would also argue that their methods are absolutely insane, considering they actively drive into the storms with their rigged-to-hell-and-back truck and cowboy hats. 

“Ah, okay –you can admit you’re the president of the fan club,” he chuckles, shutting the hood of the truck. “Or vice president –I think Javi is our president now.”

“Fuck off, Owens,” Javi laughs, shaking his head. 

Kate is elbowing her some as Tyler watches the journalist for a moment. She doesn’t back down, eyeing him back with a quirked smirk on her face. The moment is only interrupted because Lily says something about the storm, and she looks towards the drone controller with interest. But a sneaking glance back at Tyler shows him still watching her, and just as she’s about to ask him what he wants –he winks at her and turns away. 

Okay, so he’s kind of cute. In the same way the guys in romance novels are cute; look but can’t touch kind of cute. 

Later that evening, she stares at the start of her article, then at the eleven tabs she has open regarding the Wranglers. The funny thing is that the Tornado Wranglers have their own wiki for their fanbase –of which she’s certain is updated by the team themselves (based solely on Boone’s personality description as “a fun, adventurous guy”). Truthfully, she probably doesn’t need to read the Wranglers’ page either since they’re sitting outside the motel they’re all staying at, playing music and enjoying their evening.

With a hum, she closes her laptop and unplugs it, slipping out of her room with it tucked under her arm. Standing in front of the railing, she scans the parking lot: Kate is talking to Javi in the bed of their truck. Tyler is sitting on the top of his truck, seemingly reinforcing something on the roof of it. His team is gathered around a little grill, paying him no mind as they laugh and chat. 

“You gonna keep starin’ at us or you gonna come down here and chat?” Tyler suddenly calls up to her, leaning against his leg as he smirks up at her.

“I’m debating that very question,” she counters, but she’s walking down the stairs nonetheless with her laptop in hand so she supposes she’s made her decision.

Tyler jumps down into the bed of his truck then onto the ground, wiping his hands on his jeans. “How’s that article comin’, darlin’?”

“Oh, real good, cowboy,” she grins, holding her laptop up some as she takes a seat on the tailgate. “I’ve got most of the introduction written, but good writing takes time and I haven’t even seen you in action yet.”

As she settles into her seat, Lily offers her a plate with a burger and chips, and she takes it with a grateful smile. Dexter hands her a beer, looking at her computer like he’s debating stealing it from her. Tyler drops down beside her, taking it and opening it up. Then he waits for her to unlock it. 

“You’re welcome to review it,” she finally offers, unlocking the computer for him.

However, it’s Boone that takes the computer from Tyler, who gives him a pointed look. The videographer takes the computer carefully, making sure to hold it with both hands. She thinks, for a moment, that’s a nice thing for him to do –a bit surprising too, given how rough everyone always seems in the videos. She takes a bite of her burger, looking around at the group of people surrounding her. 

But then Boone starts reading out loud, and she turns her attention back to the Wranglers, feeling herself flush some. It doesn’t matter how many awards she’s gotten or how well she knows she writes –hearing her words read is always cringey.

“Fairview, OK

“Tornado chasers, often seen racing toward storms that others flee from, play a vital role in advancing meteorological science. By collecting real-time data on wind speeds, pressure changes, and storm formation, these scientists and enthusiasts help improve early warning systems and deepen our understanding of tornado behavior. Their high-risk pursuit contributes directly to saving lives and refining the models that predict severe weather, turning adrenaline-fueled missions into invaluable scientific contributions. 

“There are many teams of chasers whose ultimate goal is to determine how these storms form and use that data to help slow or weaken the storms. The research study will focus on one specific team: the Tornado Wranglers. 

“The Tornado Wranglers are a seasoned team of storm chasers known for their fearless, up-close approach to tracking tornadoes. Led by Tyler Owens, the team consists of rugged field scientists and veteran storm chasers who rely on custom-modified vehicles and years of hands-on experience to pursue some of the most dangerous storms in the country. Unlike more tech-heavy operations, the Tornado Wranglers specialize in close-range observation, often intercepting storms directly to capture real-time footage and collect critical atmospheric measurements from inside the tornado's path.

“Their work plays a vital role in improving early warning systems and deepening scientific understanding of tornado behavior. The high-risk data they collect often becomes some of the first and most valuable material available during severe weather events. Driven by passion and a commitment to public safety, the Tornado Wranglers transform their adrenaline-fueled missions into meaningful contributions to meteorological science.

“Despite their reputation as ‘reckless,’ the Tornado Wranglers share the same goal as any team of storm chasers: to uncover the hidden mechanisms that drive tornado formation and ultimately contribute knowledge that could mitigate future storm damage. Their combined efforts represent the critical intersection of passion, science, and public safety.”

There’s a low whistle from someone –she’s not sure who –but Tyler is giving her an appraising look. Like he’s pleasantly surprised by what she’s written; like maybe he expected something much more scathing than what she’s got on the page. She can’t look at him because there’s something about feeling his eyes on her that’s making her feel hotter than she should.

“You gonna send us a copy of that when you’re done?” He asks, lifting his beer to his lips. “I’m dyin’ to know how it’ll change.”

“If I have to subscribe to watch your videos, you have to subscribe to read my work,” she counters with a smirk.

“Y’know what –that’s fair enough.”

He takes her laptop from Boone, and as she’s about to take it from him, he shoos her hand away and types something onto her document. Then, he closes the laptop and hands it back to her with a grin. She’s tempted to open the computer and see what he did, but Kate and Javi are walking back over with motel keys and gas station bags full of snacks. 

“You ready to get some rest?” Kate asks, looking between her and Tyler for a second. There’s a knowing look in her friend’s eyes and the journalist tries to ignore it. “You’ve got a hell of a day ahead of you tomorrow and you’ll want to be rested.”

“Sapulpa,” he greets, finishing off his beer. “So you’re bring us a city girl and you can’t even let us get to know her?” He teases, and Kate rolls her eyes at him as he looks back down at the journalist. “You got any superpowers we should be listenin’ to? 

“Kate is the one with the tornado spidey-sense,” she teases, shaking her head. Then she holds up her computer again. “I just listen to what she says and write it down. And I’m not a city girl.”

“Oh yeah? I thought you were from New York?”

“Born and raised in the sunshine state,” she offers as if it’s something to be proud of. It’s really not, though.

“Well damn; out here makin’ assumptions when I should have been askin’ the real questions.”

She’s about to ask where he’s from when she hears Javi complaining about wanting to get a shower in before they steal the hot water. With an eye roll, she runs her tongue over her teeth. Kate rolls her eyes and tells her to hurry up, then heads off to get upstairs. 

She watches Kate for a moment, before she turns back to the group who have gone back to talking amongst each other. Tyler, however, is watching her with that same grin on his face. Like he knows something she doesn’t, but he’s not going to tell her. And while she’s very interested in trying to figure out just what’s going on behind those pretty green eyes, she knows she really does need to get some rest.

“Goodnight, Tyler,” she finally says, running a hand over her hair with a sigh. “It was nice chatting –and thanks for the burger.”

“You’re welcome to join us any time you want, darlin’,” he offers, and she can tell he means every word. “Chases, dinner, whatever you want.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

And she will. Because she has to in order to finish her work. And not because Tyler Owens is far more charming than she expected him to be. Or because he’s really hot and keeps smiling at her. Nope. That’s definitely not why she’s going to bug them again tomorrow.

Once she’s back in her shared room with Kate, she opens up her laptop finally to see what Tyler put on her document. But the blush she feels in her cheeks and the smile she’s biting back is a dead giveaway for Kate to peer over her shoulder and elbow her.

He wrote his number, with a little note next to it: 

Send me the link to wherever you’re published –I want to read it all. 

The next morning, she wakes before Kate and Javi –the sun hasn’t even come up yet and she’s certain she’s going to regret being up before her alarm. But if she goes back to sleep now, she’s going to regret that even more, so she gets dressed and slips out the door with her backpack and hopes to find decent coffee.

The parking lot is full of storm chasers, and the sun is just peeking over the horizon as she takes the stairs two at a time. As she hits the ground floor, Tyler rounds the corner with a cup in hand and bed disheveled hair. He’s a little less put together right now –plain white t-shirt and definitely the jeans from yesterday from the dirt stains. And yet somehow, he still looks too hot for someone up at five in the morning. 

For a moment, she considers just sliding past him and letting him wake up more, but he has coffee and she really wants a cup.

“Where’d you find that?” She asks, and he looks up through tired eyes then smiles at her.

“Motel lobby –not great, but it’s better than what’s in the room,” he explains, then he turns around to join her. “You always up this early?”

“Oh, god no –I think my brain was too wired to sleep anymore though,” she laughs as he opens the lobby door for her. 

“That excited, huh?” He teases as he leans back against the wall, watching as she adds probably too much creamer and too much sugar to the coffee. 

“I am, honestly,” she admits as she takes a sip. She makes a face at the coffee, but she’s a little too desperate to put it down. He’s right; it’s not great. “I think I saw a diner down the street –definitely walking distance. Probably has food and better coffee –you in?”

Tyler studies her for a second, then nods with a grin on his face. She shoots Kate a text, telling her what she’s up to and asking if she wants anything. It’ll be a little while before they’re up –their alarms were set for seven, but Kate warned that Javi won’t be up until at least eight. 

When they arrive at the diner, there’s a handful of truckers inside but plenty of little booths by the window. The only waitress working tells them to sit wherever and she’d be over in a second, so they slide into a table without question. As she lifts up the menu, she holds back a sigh, realizing that she’s starving –and hashbrowns and runny eggs sound so good right now. The waitress wastes no time getting them coffee and their orders in.

“So what’s the plan, Owens?” She asks, brow raised after she orders half the menu it feels like. 

Tyler laughs, shaking his head as the waitress pours them their coffee. “A woman after my own heart –orders half the menu and doesn’t bat an eye.”

He thanks her with a smile, then hands the journalist a handful of creamer and sugar packets. She’s surprised that he noticed how sweet she likes her coffee, especially after only seeing her drink it once. But neither of them say anything; they simply smile at one another and enjoy the momentary silence as they sip the coffee that’s so much better than the motel’s. 

She thinks Tyler is more than he lets on. Not that she thought too low of him in the first place; on the surface, he’s polite and a little rowdy. But he’s sweet, and he’s funny. Clearly, he’s smart and observant as well. But there’s more to him than he’s telling anyone else, and she thinks she wants to know more about him outside of storm chasing.

Until her article is done, though, she can’t cross that line.

Momentarily, she’s distracted by the smell of bacon, eggs and grease –smells like a Sunday morning after a night out. “Goddamn, this looks good.”

He chuckles, and she looks at him with narrowed eyes. “Didn’t take you as a greasy diner kinda girl.”

“Diner food will always be the best breakfast at the crack ass of dawn,” she argues, using her fork to point at him accusingly. “You can’t argue with that.”

“I’m not arguin’,” he says, putting his hands up. The smile hasn’t left his face as she cuts up her eggs and mixes the yolk into her hashbrowns. Then he looks offended. “That I am arguin’ against –what the hell are you doin’ to those potatoes? Drownin’ them?”

“I’m making them delicious,” she defends, reaching for the salt now. As if the meal needed any more of it. “C’mon, you’re telling me you don’t mix your eggs and hashbrowns?”

“Not like that I don’t,” he points out, motioning to her plate. “You cook’em like that –it’s called piggybackin’. What you’re doin’ is called a goddamn mess.”

“Well, it’s a delicious mess,” she settles on saying, taking a bite of her meal and sighing in content. There really is something about greasy diner food that makes the heart happy. Probably all the cholesterol. “Back to the question though, cowboy –what’s the plan for today? Are you actually going to take me into a storm?”

“Is that what you really wanna do?” He counters, leaning his elbows on the table and looking her over now. Like he’s trying to get a feel for what she actually wants –or doesn’t want, maybe. “It’s okay if you’d rather hang back with Dexter and Dani in the RV –no shame in that.”

Taking another bite of her meal, she weighs the two options. Staying back gives her a better chance to document what’s going on around her. She can see the wide angle, and everything that goes into a famous Tyler Owens storm chase. On the other hand, though, doing the chase herself, in his truck, gives her first hand experience as to what he does. But also on that hand, he’s an absolute maniac who drives headfirst into tornadoes –so there’s an inherent danger there.

Something tells her that Tyler wouldn’t let her get hurt though –not if he has any say in it, at least. Especially if he’s giving her an out to sit back today.

“I’ll ride with you, Boone and Kate, if that’s alright,” she finally decides, setting her fork down. 

“You got different shoes?” Tyler asks, kicking her feet with his boots. 

She glances down at her beat up red Toms, shaking her head. “Oh, no –I don’t.”

“We’ll need to get you some boots then –something a little more sturdy. Just in case.”

“Excuse you,” she grins, bumping his shin with the toe of her shoe. “My Toms are peak performance.”

“Maybe for writin’ from afar,” he counters, pointing at the horizon with the hand that’s not holding his coffee cup like it’s going to disappear. Storm clouds are gathering, and she knows that he’s probably right. “But not for what we’re gonna be doin’.”

“You act like I’ve never been in a tornado before,” she teases, pointing her fork at him again with a small grin.

“Oh yeah? What’s the worst you’ve been through?”

“Tornado-wise? Probably an EF2. But it’s not the tornadoes you have to worry about.” She stirs her eggs and hashbrowns some more, a way to distract herself from the memories that are settling in her stomach. “Remember Hurricane Ian?”

“Took out a good chunk of the Florida Southwest in 2022, right?”

“Yessir,” she nods, pulling her backpack into her lap and rifling through it. She pulls out a beat up journal and flips to the first few pages. Then she holds it up, where there’s numbers and diagrams drawn. “My dad lived over the Sanibel Causeway –the one that collapsed. We were trapped on the island for two weeks before anyone could come get us or send help. For about two days, we had to hunker down and hope the eye passed so we could see the damage, then we had to wait for it to entirely pass.”

She points at a diagram of the bridge, showing where the surge did the most damage. “Tornadoes are terrifying –but they’ll be gone sooner rather than later. Hurricanes –those can last days. And when the bridges are out, and the waters are too rough to navigate –that’s when the damage gets the worst. Have you ever sat through a hurricane?”

“Not like that,” he admits, taking her journal and reading over her notes like they’re the most important thing he’s ever been given. “Your dad okay?”

Watching him for a second –watching his eyes scan over the notes and the drawings –she thinks he genuinely is interested in what she writes. Not that she didn’t think he would be –she sent him links to the journals she’s published in, like he’d asked –but the way his eyes are glued to her chicken scratch handwriting makes her heart twist in her chest.

When he looks up, and catches her staring, she shakes her head some. “No,” she admits, reaching over and turning the page a few times before she lands on a little calendar she made. “After the storm passed, we had enough supplies to last maybe seven days. We had no service though, and couldn’t get in touch with anyone. FEMA didn’t show until almost the end of the week, and even then there wasn’t a lot they could do. 

“The house was totaled; all the windows shattered, and the roof wasn’t meant to withstand a direct hit,” she explains with a sigh. “Lost pretty much everything. But if you’ve ever met old people in Florida, they don’t listen until it’s too late.”

Tyler is silent, leaning on his elbows as he watches her with an intensity she’s never seen before. Not from anyone, let alone a handsome cowboy who might as well be a celebrity. 

“I was only down there to try to convince my dad to evacuate. He’s on a million types of medications that he didn’t have enough of because he…just never got them filled on time. By the time he realized we needed to, it was too late. By the time rescue had gotten to us, he’d gone four days without beta-blockers –the stress from the storm was too much.”

She leaves out the part where she had to sit with her father’s body for two extra days, waiting for rescue to bring in body bags. Leaves out that she refused to let him be alone, sitting in a makeshift medical tent that’s overrun and out of power. And how she still hasn’t quite recovered from the longest two weeks of her life; both physically and emotionally. 

No, she leaves out the worst details, because Tyler doesn’t need to look at her any differently than he probably already is. 

Silence lingers for a few minutes. Neither of them touch their food or coffee, and she wonders for a moment if trauma dumping at six in the morning is really what she should be doing. Especially as she wipes the stray tear that’s running down her cheek. It’s not the first time she’s told this story, and she’s sure it won’t be the last but it never gets easier. Watching her father waste away after losing everything else will always be something that she has to live with.

But as she considers how to lessen the tension, Tyler reaches over and puts his hand over hers.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says. There’s no pity in his voice. No over the top sympathy or anything like that. Just…genuine empathy behind green eyes and a furrowed brow.

She flips her palm up and squeezes his hand in thanks, giving him a sad but grateful smile. “I want to say it’s okay, but it’s not –but it will be one day. Thank you for…listening to me, though.”

“Any time.” 

And he means it. Somehow, she knows he does.

When they return to the motel, Kate and Javi are already setting up with Boone and Lily, and the four of them give the two of them curious looks. But neither Tyler nor her seem to notice as they walk up, enjoying whatever comfortable silence they’ve found themselves in. Kate pries her away from him though, giving her a small grin as Tyler joins Dexter in the RV. 

“Where have you two been?” Kate asks, nudging her shoulder as they return to Javi, who is looking over his tablet now. 

“We just got breakfast,” she explains with a shrug, though she knows that Kate isn’t going to stop until she gets a better answer. “Seriously, I woke up early, needed coffee. We just ended up at the diner down the street.”

“That why he keeps looking at you?” Javi interjects, smirking at her as he glances towards where Tyler is standing with Boone and Dexter. 

Following Javi’s gaze, she immediately catches Tyler’s eye and he grins at her with a nod as he slips his cowboy hat on. Looking away, she feels a blush creeping up her neck and she gives Javi a dirty look.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he argues but he’s got a shit eating grin on his face. “He’s coming over now, if you need to clean yourself up.”

“Kate, I’m gonna kill your friend –,”

Tyler interrupts her as he approaches, holding up a pair of boots. “Dani’s gonna let you borrow these today; she’s the closest to your size.”

Taking them, she looks over at Dani, holding the boots up with a smile. The other woman shoots her a thumbs up and a grin. 

After lacing up the boots and making sure she has all her materials for the day, Tyler opens the passenger door for her with a grin and his hand held out. Boone and Kate climb into the backseat as she takes Tyler’s hand and gets in. Then he tugs on the harness behind her, pointing out that it’s there for her safety and when he says to put it on, she’s going to need to listen.

Then he’s pulling the harness over her shoulders, the straps lying close against her chest as he fits them carefully into place. He talks her through each step –how it fastens, where it should rest, how she’ll need to do it herself next time –but his voice is softer now, slower. His fingers brush over her collarbone, just beneath her jaw as he adjusts the final strap, and she swallows hard. 

His hands pause just briefly, not enough to be obvious, but long enough that she knows he felt the shift too. When their eyes meet, she’s certain that he can feel her heart beating in her chest, threatening to break through her ribcage the longer they stare at each other.

Just as quickly as the moment starts, it’s over and he clears his throat, finishes the adjustment, then tells her she can take it off until he tells her. Then he’s shutting the door and getting into the truck himself. Kate is sitting behind her, and she kicks the front seat to get the journalist’s attention. 

The look she’s being given says that none of that moment was private.

Luckily, either Boone is completely unaware of what just happened or genuinely doesn’t care. Because he’s flipping the camera on and pushing himself between her and Tyler.

“You don’t mind bein’ on camera right?” He asks, patting her shoulder as he points the camera directly in her face. “‘Cause, y’know, that’s our whole thing.”

She pushes the camera a little further away with a laugh and a nod, promising she doesn’t mind as he turns it to Tyler. The cowboy persona is dialed up –not a lot, she notes, as she takes out her notebook. Whoever Tyler Owens is in front of the camera seems to be the same as whoever he is in behind the camera. Maybe a little extra, but not by much. 

“Alright, guys,” he says, pointing at the camera with an bright smile. “We’ve got a special guest –why don’t you introduce yourself?” 

Boone turns the camera to her, and she awkwardly waves and laughs, introducing herself –though Tyler insists she explains who she really is. 

“I’m a freelance journalist,” she explains, holding up her notebook. “My job today is to determine just how much of an impact your favorite chasers have on the study of these storms.”

“And it’s her first time runnin’ headfirst into a storm,” Tyler adds on, turning the camera back to himself. “We’ve got a real good one for all of y'all today –it’s lookin’ like there might be an EF2 formin’ about ten miles west of Fairview. Nothin’ we can’t handle, but good for a girl’s first time.”

“Miss Sunshine State here is gonna lose her mind,” Boone adds from behind the camera, clearly delighted.

She scoffs but doesn’t look away from the window. “If I throw up, you’re cleaning it.”

Boone just cackles.

Tyler shifts gears, eyes cutting to the horizon where the clouds are folding in on themselves –dark, heavy, beautiful in a terrifying way. “That EF2’s droppin’ in the next five. We’ll get in ahead of it. Put that harness on.”

There’s a tone shift in his voice –not performative, not cowboy-charming. Just serious. The same shift she hears in scientists who know exactly what they’re doing and are already twenty steps ahead. And she follows his orders without question. Kate’s got the radar pulled up in the backseat, and Boone has the camera, already live-streaming something to the Wranglers’ fanbase. She can hear him narrating between seatbelt clicks and the rattle of gear in the back.

The truck jerks as the anchors deploy, hydraulics hissing beneath their feet like a dragon exhaling under pressure. She doesn’t need to ask what it means. She’s watched this part in their videos before –Tyler Owens and his unstoppable truck bracing against the worst nature can throw. It’s one thing to observe it through a screen, from the safety of her apartment though. It’s another entirely to be inside it.

The storm hits before her breath can catch.

Then it’s like…the world unzips.

Wind tears across the field with a violence that feels personal, slamming into the truck with enough force to make the reinforced frame creak and shudder. The air thickens with dirt, stray pieces of brush, debris –things too twisted and fast to identify. The roar outside is so loud, so impossibly deep, it sinks into her teeth. Into her bones. It’s soaking into her very being as she grips the handle above her head until her knuckles turn white.

She’s pinned in place –not by her seatbelt, but by the sheer weight of the moment. Her fingers curl tight around the edge of the seat, then tighter still when something –a trash can? a road sign? –ricochets off the side of the truck with a metal-on-metal shriek. Kate mutters something in the backseat, low and steady, reading off numbers, but the wind steals most of it away.

And then she sees it.

The tornado is there. Just outside the glass. Towering and lean, the color of bruised earth and ash. It moves like it’s alive, like it’s hunting –shifting its weight back and forth across the open field, brushing so close that she swears she can see individual stalks of wheat being pulled up and swallowed into its center.

A sharp, involuntary breath leaves her lips. Her entire body goes still. Not frozen in fear –but braced. Braced against memory.

It’s not the tornado itself that steals the reality out of her.

It’s the sound of it. The pressure. The way the light dims like the sun’s been torn out of the sky. All of it wraps around her; a storm surge climbing higher and higher, until she’s no longer in the truck. She’s back on Sanibel Island, hands pressed against broken glass, waiting for the water to reach the ceiling. Waiting for the surge to swallow the house whole as she scrambles to get to dry land and pull her father with her. 

Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t cry, not here. Not now. But her chest clenches like it’s caught in a vice.

And then –quietly, without a word –Tyler takes her hand.

It’s sudden, and unannounced. His eyes are still forward, still trained on the storm, but his fingers slide into hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

The grip is steady. Calloused palm warm against hers. No tension. No squeeze. Just…there.

She holds on like it’s the only real thing in the truck.

The storm wails around them, furious and unrelenting. The truck groans again as the funnel shifts direction –spiraling just close enough that she can see its rotation brush across the top of a fence line, tearing through wooden posts like matchsticks. Boone yells something behind them –he might be filming, or laughing, or both –but none of it breaks through.

Because all she feels is his hand.

All she hears is the sound of the storm, and the echo of another one.

But she stays grounded.

Anchored –not just by the steel driven into the earth beneath the truck, but by this strange, steady feeling between her and the cowboy beside her. This storm-chasing cowboy with green eyes and dirt under his fingernails who doesn’t look at her, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t try to fix it. 

Just offers her silent reassurance as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.

Eventually, the wind begins to fall away. Not all at once, but like an exhale. The roar softens. The sky begins to lighten at the edges. The funnel moves on, lifting into the sky in that eerie, effortless way storms do –leaving behind wreckage, silence, and awe.

For a long moment, no one says anything.

Only when the last gust passes does Tyler finally shift his gaze. His hand is still wrapped around hers when he turns to her.

“You still with me?”

She nods, voice caught somewhere in her throat. Her heart is pounding, her skin is flushed, and her fingers are trembling just slightly against his.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I’m here.”

His smile isn’t big. It isn’t charming. It’s quiet –like he doesn’t want to spook the stillness between them. Like he knows that there’s something going on behind her eyes that he can’t fix, but wants to soothe. 

“Good,” he says softly, finally letting go.

She’s about to say something –thank him, apologize, something –but Boone is yelling in her ear as he jumps out of the truck. With a wince, she looks over at the videographer before undoing her harness and freeing herself. Tyler is slipping out of the truck, looking over the aftermath of the field. When she gets out of the truck, her knees wobble a little –like it’s the first time she’s stood on solid land in days –and Kate quickly catches her with furrowed brows.

“Hey, you good?” She asks, looking over the journalist with concern. 

But she just nods, feeling Tyler’s eyes on her as she stands up straight. “I’m good. I think the adrenaline is wearing off, that’s all.”

Kate gives her a once over, then when she determines that her friend is okay, joins Tyler as they stand and look over the skies. While one storm has passed, the radar is calling for more, Boone explains, showing her the tablet. But she’s watching Kate and Tyler, with whatever superpowers they seem to possess, as they scan the skies. Boone comes to stand at her side, camera still rolling, as he speaks.

“What y’all are seeing here is a genuine connection to nature,” he explains, voice filled with awe and excitement. “I don’t know what it is these two got in their blood, but goddamn is it impressive. Right, Sunshine State?”

He points the camera to her next, and she nods some in agreement, smiling at the camera. “Yeah…yeah, it really is.”

The next motel they check into is much smaller than the last, and has less rooms available. Dani and Dexter choose to sleep in the RV. Javi and Boone room up and take a room without too much argument. But Lily and Kate are sharing a look that suggests that they’re up to something –then immediately part to the room they’re sharing suddenly.

There’s one room left, and the journalist and Tyler are the only two without a roommate. 

She makes a mental note to kick Kate’s ass later on.

“Feel like they’re settin’ us up,” he jokes, grabbing her backpack from the passenger side of the truck. When she tries to take it from him, he shakes his head. “I got it, don’t you worry, sunshine.”

“It’s because they definitely are,” she confirms, rolling her eyes at the nickname as she follows him up the stairs to the room. “Did you see their faces? They did it on purpose.”

“Gotta love’em for tryin’.”

The motel room door creaks like it’s been waiting all year to be opened. She steps inside first, and it’s everything she expected from the outside and maybe just a little worse –aged wallpaper with water stains bleeding through the corners, a single bed covered in a quilt that looks like it hasn’t been replaced in at least a decade, and one lamp that casts more shadow than light. 

The mattress sinks low in the middle. A small table stands in the corner, supporting a microwave she wouldn’t trust with popcorn. The A/C unit beneath the window hums like a dying bee, sputtering cool air in erratic bursts. There’s one chair. No couch. And most notably, no second bed.

She lets out a breath and tries not to make a face. Behind her, Tyler steps in and immediately drops her bag gently by the door, his presence filling the too small space in a way that makes it feel even more narrow. She crosses the room and presses a hand to the mattress. The dip in the middle is dramatic, but manageable if they stick to their respective sides. She glances at the thin barrier of decorative pillows and thinks, not for the first time, that she’s absolutely in over her head with this entire week.

Tyler moves behind her, quiet, until she hears the rustle of fabric and turns –only to realize he’s already shed his shirt, tossing it casually onto his duffel. Her mouth goes dry. She pretends to look anywhere else.

His chest is exactly what she’d imagined it would be, and she hates that she’s imagined it at all. Strong, sun-worn, peppered with a few old scars. One on his shoulder, one along his side. Every inch of him says field work and recklessness and heat.

She grabs her sleep shirt from her bag and turns sharply for the bathroom. “I’ll change in here.”

“Take your time,” he says, and it sounds like he’s trying not to sound smug, but fails.

Behind the flimsy bathroom door, she splashes cool water on her face and stares at herself in the mirror.

She can handle this, she tells her reflection. It’s just one night. He’s just a guy.

A ridiculously attractive guy with bright green eyes who held her hand through a tornado without her asking him to. But a guy nonetheless.

She changes quickly, pulling on a worn t-shirt and sleep shorts, then returns to the room with her arms folded tight. Tyler’s already pulled the quilt back and settled on the right side of the bed –bare chested, legs tangled under the covers, one arm folded behind his head as he scrolls through something on his phone.

He looks up as she walks in, and then –to his credit –sits up straighter.

“I can take the floor,” he offers. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

“No, don’t,” she says quickly, waving a hand. “It’s fine. We’re both adults. Just stay on your side.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of cross crossin’ enemy lines.”

She huffs out a breath that’s half a laugh and half nerves, then slides under the covers as delicately as possible –like the mattress might register her heartbeat if she lets it. It dips toward him immediately, and she has to brace her elbow against the edge to keep from rolling into the middle.

They lie there in silence for a few beats, the hum of the window unit filling the space where her thoughts are trying not to go. She should be thinking about her notes. About the article. About how getting too close –too personal –might color the objectivity she’s spent the last five years building like armor.

But all she can think about is the weight of his hand over hers in the truck. The way his eyes stayed steady on the storm, but his fingers never flinched.

Tyler clears his throat beside her, voice softer than earlier. “You sure you’re alright?”

She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “From earlier?”

“Yeah.”

She exhales, then shakes her head a bit. She shifts to her side, looking up at him as he sets his phone aside. “It felt like drowning. For a second. The sound, the pressure. It brought everything back.”

“The hurricane.”

She nods, eyes closing for a second. “I could smell the salt in the air again. The mildew. I could feel the tile under my knees.” Her throat tightens, but she pushes through, opening her eyes again to look at him. “And then your hand was just...there.”

Tyler doesn’t say anything right away. But when he does, it’s low. Honest. “Didn’t think about it. Just reached for you.”

“I’m glad you did,” she says before she can stop herself.

Silence again. But it’s changed shape now. Not awkward. Not afraid. She glances over –he’s lying on his back, one arm still behind his head, the other resting on his stomach, fingers tapping out some unconscious rhythm.

“I thought about letting go,” she admits quietly. “In the truck.”

He turns to look at her, eyes searching. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I can’t. Not…not if I’m going to keep doing my job well. Not if I want to continue being respected in the field.”

His smile is sad and soft, just visible in the lamp’s glow as he lays on his side to face her. “Being respected doesn’t mean you can’t let go, y’know. And I think you’re doin’ a damn good job, if it’s any consolation. Not many people can say they drove headfirst into a tornado willingly –especially not for an article that didn’t really need that done. You can, though.”

The honesty in his voice knocks something loose in her chest. A strange heat creeps up her spine, but not in the way she expected. It’s not lust. It’s…safety. 

Slowly, carefully, she reaches across the gap between them –not very far, now that the mattress has conspired to tilt them together –and lets her fingers brush his hand.

Tyler doesn’t hesitate. He threads their fingers together like it’s instinct. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She shifts slightly to face him more fully, their hands resting in the middle of the bed now, the space between them warm in the way only honest proximity can be.

For a while, neither of them say anything.

The silence is thick, but not heavy. More like a pause in the world. The kind that only happens late at night, when the air feels slower and your thoughts feel louder –but somehow safer to say out loud. She traces a thumb over his knuckle, surprised by the calluses there. Not rough, exactly, but lived-in. Real.

There’s a stillness that follows –not hesitation; not quite. More like a breath the world is holding, waiting to see what she’ll do.

She lifts her eyes to meet his. They’re closer now. She hadn’t noticed the shift, but maybe the bed did most of the work for them. Maybe it was inevitable. His gaze drops to her mouth for a second –just a flicker –and then back to her eyes. But he doesn’t lean in, not yet. 

So she doesn’t overthink it.

She leans forward slowly, her hand tightening around his. Her nose brushes his, soft and deliberate, and then she kisses him. Their lips meet softly –no rush, no need to prove anything. Just the quiet kind of kiss that asks, Are you here with me? And answers, Yes. I am.

It’s gentle. Careful. Like something neither of them wants to break. His free hand rises to her cheek, steadying her like he did in the truck –fingertips warm, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. There’s no urgency in the way he touches her. Just presence. Assurance. The kind of touch that says, I’ve got you, even if neither of them is ready to say the words out loud.

Her hand curls against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. It grounds her more than anything else has in days. He tastes faintly like spearmint and motel coffee, and something simpler, something warm –like how a summer day smells right after rain.

The kiss deepens slightly, still quiet, still tentative. Like a secret shared between a storm and the silence that follows it. There’s no desperation in it, only the slow unfolding of something that’s been building for days. Something fragile, but real. 

He tilts his head just a bit, pulling her closer without closing the space completely –like he’s inviting her in, but only if she wants to be there. She does. And for a few seconds, the world falls away. There’s no motel room. No creaky bed. No article. No storm. Just this: the soft press of lips, the warmth of skin, the low exhale between them that sounds like relief.

When they finally pull back, foreheads resting together, she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her eyes flutter open, and his are already there –watching her like she’s something worth holding on to.

“I didn’t expect you,” she says quietly, and she’s not even sure what she means until it’s out.

Tyler tilts his head slightly, watching her in the dim lamplight. “Didn’t expect me to what?”

“To be like this,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “I assumed you’d just be…all YouTube persona and fake. Cowboy hat and charm. But then…,”

She trails off, but he’s already smiling –not the wide grin he gives the camera, not the cocky smirk he throws at Boone. This smile is small. Private. For her, and not an audience.

“Then?”

She meets his gaze. “Then you proved me wrong, and you kissed me just now like you meant it.” She pauses a moment, then takes his hand. “I’m glad I was wrong. I like who you are –on and off camera, but especially off camera.”

He shifts some, then she’s being pulled against his chest. Tyler’s arm wraps around her shoulders, and presses his lips to her hair. 

“I did mean it,” he says. Promises. Like he needs her to know that.

She swallows. Her voice catches a little, but she nods into his chest. “I know.”

And she does. God, she does. She felt it in the truck. In the way he didn’t look at her when he reached for her, like it wasn’t about watching her fall apart –just about being there in case she did.

Her arm settles around his waist, cheek pressed against where his heart is beating in his chest. 

“My article just became biased,” she sighs, but it’s one of contentment.

“I think it’s been biased the entire time,” he counters with a chuckle, fingers trailing down her spine softly. 

She studies him for a long moment –the soft edges of him in the glow of the bedside lamp, the relaxed way he lies beside her like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, the quiet strength in how he’s holding her. Not possessive. Not careful.

Just steady.

“Yeah,” she admits with a nod. “I think you’re right.”

The quiet stretches again, but this time it’s full of everything unsaid –everything neither of them needs to rush. She’s not sure how long they lie there like that, but it’s not unwelcome by any means. Tyler is warm, and soft in all the right places, even if he’s built for hard work and reckless chases. 

And when sleep finally comes, it comes easy –like maybe, just maybe, for the first time in a long time, she’s safe.

Sometime after three in the morning, she’s forced awake by alarms blaring outside the window and banging on the motel door. For a moment, she doesn’t realize what’s going on –all she knows is Tyler’s got her wrapped up against his chest and she doesn’t want to move from this spot. He’s warm, and solid, and the feel of him under her fingertips is nothing short of tempting.

But then Kate is yelling her name, and it finally registers what’s happening. Then she’s yanking herself out of his arms, shaking him awake in a panic. She throws on her jeans and boots once he’s awake. 

As soon as he hears the alarms and the banging though, he’s alert and up, yanking on his shirt. Then they’re grabbing their backpacks and scrambling out the door, the wind already howling like a warning down the motel corridor. The sky is pitch black, but not in the way night should be –it’s bruised and pulsing, every flash of lightning revealing the twisted silhouette of a storm that’s already far too close.

Kate’s voice cuts through it like a blade. “There’s a basement under the front office –back corner! Move!”

Tyler doesn’t wait. He grabs her hand and takes off, tugging her alongside him as the wind rips at their clothes and sends gravel skittering across the lot like shrapnel. She can’t hear much beyond the rising shriek of the sirens and the slap of her boots on wet concrete, but she sees it when Kate and Javi split off –pounding on doors, shouting for the other motel guests to get up, get out, get moving. Dani’s already banging on windows. 

They’re not leaving anyone behind.

And yet –Tyler hasn’t let go of her hand once.

“This way,” he says, sharp but steady, steering her toward the cracked wooden door tucked behind the front office. It looks like it hasn’t been used in years. “We’ll get it open.”

“I’ve never been in a basement,” she says, which sounds like the dumbest thing she’s ever said out loud. 

Tyler shoots her a look –equal parts disbelief and concern –before yanking the door open with a grunt and guiding her down the steps. “Well, welcome to your first. Congrats.”

The air that hits her is damp and old, full of mildew and dust. The stairs are narrow, steep, and pitch black. She stumbles once, barely catching herself –but Tyler’s hand is at her back, keeping her steady.

“Stay down here,” he says, voice low, commanding. “I’ll be right back.”

She grabs his arm. “You can’t go out there again –,”

He just looks at her, and something in that look is so calm, so him, it shuts her right up.

“I’m not leavin’ anyone up there. Not while we’ve got time.”

Then he’s gone –back up the stairs and into the night.

She stands frozen at the bottom of the steps, back pressed against the cool wall, heart hammering in her chest. She’s never been underground like this. Never trusted her safety to four concrete walls and blind faith. It feels claustrophobic and wrong and far too quiet without him in it.

Footsteps slam overhead. The door groans open again and the flood begins.

Javi stumbles in first, waving people down –an older couple from one of the back rooms, a woman carrying a crying toddler, a man holding a dog leash with no dog attached yet. Then Dani comes down with two teenagers. Dexter and Boone come down next, arms full of emergency kits, while Kate and Lily are ushering a handful of kids and parents down the stairs. 

And then –Tyler.

He’s soaked to the bone, dirt smudged across his face, hair plastered to his forehead. And when he sees her still standing there in the dark, eyes wide, he’s focused on her and her alone. Straight to her. Steady hands on her shoulders.

“You okay?”

She nods, swallowing hard. “I just…I’ve never sheltered like this before. Usually it's a closet, or a bathroom without windows. It’s…weird being underground.”

He manages a small, breathless laugh. “Kinda the whole point, sunshine.”

There’s a groaning sound from above –pipes creaking then metal scraping against metal. She flinches at the noises, trying to ignore the kids crying and the parents trying to console them. Tries to tune out the wind that’s threatening to rip the basement door off its hinges just fifteen feet away. 

Tyler turns his head, listening. Then –like he does with storms, with people, with her –he reads the moment for what it is and doesn’t try to fix it. Just squeezes her shoulder once. “C’mon. Sit with me.”

They hunker down in a far corner, backs against the cement. The wind above sounds like it’s trying to tear the motel off the foundation. The lights flicker once –then die entirely. She presses her hands to her ears as the roar builds. Not just wind now –but the storm. The tornado. It’s right on top of them.

Tyler’s hand finds hers.

Again.

“Breathe,” he says, soft but firm. “I’m right here with you.”

The pressure shifts. Her ears pop. The baby cries louder. Then something hits the building above with enough force to make the pipes overhead shudder. Dust rains down. Someone near the stairs curses. She presses her forehead to her knees. Tries to breathe through it.

The sound is unbearable. It’s like she’s back on Sanibel again; back sitting in her father’s house, listening to the roof peel off the foundation. Watching the windows shatter, and the house flooding. The only difference is that there is no flood, no glass –not underground, at least.

Tyler’s arm wraps around her shoulders, and he tucks her close to his side. She doesn’t care how it looks, or if this makes her pathetic –she clings to him, fingers tangled in his shirt as she closes her eyes. His voice is soft in her ear, promising her that she’s safe; he’s got her. There’s not enough in her to confirm that she hears him, but she thinks her fist tightening against his stomach tells him anyway.

Then slowly –inch by inch –the worst of the wind passes. The shaking stops. The roar fades to a howl. Then to a whistle. Then to nothing but the heavy, stunned silence of survivors in the dark.

Kate’s voice breaks it, relief dripping through her tone. “That’s it. It’s moved on.”

Slowly, everyone files out of the basement. The kids are still crying, but it’s quieter, more subdued. The adults are breathing sighs of relief as they get out into the night air again. Boone says something to Tyler, but her ears are ringing and she doesn’t catch it –but she sees the team following the others out. 

Tyler squeezes her shoulder gently, and he loosens his hold but he doesn’t push her away. When she finally looks up, his eyes are already on her. Checking. Steady. Slowly, she lets go of his shirt and takes a deep breath. It’s shaky, and trembling, but she manages to inhale and exhale fully once –twice. 

“You alright?” He asks, his voice soft as he pushes a stray hair out of her face. 

“I…didn’t need to be so scared,” she admits, feeling ridiculous as she finally pulls away entirely. She stands, rubbing the heel of her palm into her eye. “I’m sorry –I don’t know –,”

“Hey, hey, no,” Tyler interrupts, pushing himself off the ground and reaching out to her. One hand pulls her wrist away from her face and the other is taking her hand. “You’re allowed to be scared. There’s no shame in that, you understand me?” 

“How do you do this every day?” She asks, looking up at him with tears in her eyes. She hates that she’s crying; hates that the fear and the anxiety have finally bubbled up enough inside her that crying is the only way to get it out. “I’ve watched your videos, Tyler. I’ve seen the crazy shit you do, but I guess I never…I never realized how genuinely insane you guys are for doing this kind of stuff.”

That earns a huffed out laugh, and he let’s go of her as she pulls back and wipes her eyes. “‘Insane’ is the nicest thing I think I’ve been called,” he admits. Then he reaches up –hesitating just a moment but it's like he decides he’s allowed to touch her again –and wipes a stray tear from her cheek. “I was eight when I saw my first storm. Drivin’ with my aunt, sirens are goin’ off all around us. All of a sudden, this…vortex just lowers right down in front of us. Center of the road. I was just…mesmerized. Then I looked at my aunt and she just…she’s got this look on her face. And I realized at that moment, I was supposed to be scared.”

Her brow furrows as she looks up at him, blinking away her tears. “Were you?”

He nods, and he smiles down at her softly as he wipes another tear away. “Yeah. I was. But you know that quote ‘the only thing to fear is fear itself?’” She nods and so does he. “Fear is the reason we do it. If you don’t face your fears, then you let’em win. And you can’t let the fear win.”

She exhales a laugh –sharp, watery, not quite steady –and shakes her head like she’s trying to knock the vulnerability loose. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” he says, voice lower now, less certain and more real. “It’s never simple. You think I don’t get scared still? Every time I go out, I wonder if this’ll be the one that wins.”

She looks up at him again, and something in her gaze has steadied –still glassy at the edges, still fragile, but clearer now. Like maybe the storm shook something loose in her too, but left behind something stronger.

“And if it is?” she asks quietly.

Tyler’s mouth twitches into something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Then I hope someone like you is around to write it down. So it’s not just wreckage and memory.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. So she doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she steps forward –slow, deliberate –and he’s already there to meet her.

Tyler doesn’t wait this time.

He reaches for her with the kind of certainty that comes from knowing exactly what he wants. One hand finds her waist, the other lifts to the side of her neck, fingers brushing her jaw with a certainty that she wishes she had had last night; but it doesn’t matter now. His touch is sure, steady –not rushed, not hesitant –just right.

And then he kisses her.

Like it’s been decided.

Like the storm is over and this – like she –is what he’s holding onto in the quiet after.

She exhales against his mouth, not from surprise, but from relief. From recognition. Her hands find his chest, then slide up around his neck, anchoring herself there like she’s done it a hundred times. The kiss deepens –full of something that’s been building between them since the moment she stepped into his orbit.

When they part, it’s only because they have to breathe.

Tyler doesn’t step back. Doesn’t smile or crack a joke to break the moment. He just stays close, eyes on hers, thumb still brushing the edge of her cheek.

“You okay?” he asks, quiet but direct.

She nods. “Yeah. You?”

His gaze doesn’t waver, and now he’s giving her a smile that could light up a room. “Never been better.”

They stay like that for a long moment. Just breathing.

When she finally pulls back, there’s a small smile on her face. Tired, but genuine.

“I’m still terrified,” she admits.

“Good,” he says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Means you know it’s real. Means you’re smart. Means you’re still here.”

She doesn’t argue with him. Doesn’t deflect. Just nods.

He glances toward the stairs. “C’mon. Let’s get you some air.”

By the end of the week, her article is finished but she hasn’t finalized publication yet. The journal that wants the article is waiting, but she keeps rereading it over and over again, trying to decide how biased it sounds now. She wants to think it’s not all that biased; everything she’s written is true. Especially in the aftermath of the storm earlier that week, when she experiences what the Wrangler’s don’t show in their videos.

That’s what the article is really about, she decides. Not the research, no matter how important it might be. But the real impact.

“While the Tornado Wranglers are perhaps best known for their close-proximity intercepts and high-risk data collection methods, a less publicized yet equally significant aspect of their work emerges in the aftermath of the storm. Following each severe weather event, the team transitions from storm chasers to first responders, providing on-the-ground assistance to affected populations in rural and suburban areas where access to formal aid is often delayed.

“This transition is neither incidental nor performative. Rather, it reflects a broader ethos among field operatives who recognize the intersection between research, public service, and human impact. In the hours following a tornado, members of the Wranglers can frequently be observed conducting door-to-door welfare checks, distributing bottled water, food, and hygiene supplies, and offering communication support via satellite phones and portable charging stations. In several instances, the team has also aided in locating missing persons, clearing debris from public access roads, and assisting local emergency management personnel with situational awareness in otherwise inaccessible zones.”

“You coming down or what?” Javi asks suddenly, poking his head into the motel room with his brow raised. “Owens is waiting for you –think he wants to take you to the airport.”

“Tell him my flight got cancelled,” she says, shutting her laptop and standing up. Javi gives her a smirk and disappears back downstairs, no doubt telling Tyler the news. 

Kate steps out of the bathroom, pulling her hair into a ponytail. “Wait, did it?”

But the journalist just gives her a friend a knowing grin, shrugging noncommittally. Kate immediately picks up on it and practically jumps on her in a hug, squealing in excitement. “You’re staying! I knew you’d want to!”

“I will not be driving into anymore storms,” she laughs, hugging her friend back. “But I think there’s more to the story than what you guys show the public.”

Kate scoffs, pulling back. “And you’re in love.”

“I am not in love –I’ve known him two weeks,” she counters, rolling her eyes.

“Two weeks and several tornadoes will definitely make you fall in love,” Kate argues as Tyler knocks on their open door.

He looks like he’s trying to hide excitement, but his eyes and smile give him away. “Hope I’m not interruptin’ anything.”

“Nope,” Kate says, grabbing her bag and slipping out the door with a playful wink. The journalist rolls her eyes as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Javi said your flight got cancelled,”  Tyler says, and there’s a hopeful undertone as he steps towards her.

“Yeah,” she nods, biting back her smile as she looks up at him. “I guess it was smart to get the refundable ticket.”

For a moment, he looks down at her with furrowed brows and confusion. But then it clicks, and the smile that breaks out over his face makes her knees weak.

“How long you stickin’ around?” But he’s reaching for her, hands settling on her hips as he pulls her closer to him. 

She gives another noncommittal shrug as she wraps her arms around his neck. “I guess however long you want me around.”

“Darlin’,” he replies, leaning down just enough for her to feel his breath against her lips. “You’re gonna be here for a long time if that’s the case.”

He doesn’t give her time to say anything else.

His mouth finds hers in a kiss that’s all heat and gravity, like everything that had been building between them –every look, every touch, every word unsaid –crashes into this one moment. Her fingers tighten in his hair, anchoring herself as he deepens the kiss, tilting his head just enough to taste the curve of her smile.

She presses herself against him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palms, and for a second it’s like the world narrows to nothing but this: the scratch of his stubble against her skin, the way his hands slide up her back like he’s memorizing the shape of her, the low sound he makes when she kisses him harder.

It’s not hurried. It’s not hesitant. It’s the kind of kiss that says finally and don’t you dare go anywhere in the same breath.

And when they finally pull apart, barely, he rests his forehead against hers, grinning like he’s found something he’s been looking for his entire life.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” she whispers, breathless.

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “That’s exactly where I want you.”

[literal-tv-menace]

ahhhh finally!!! can’t wait to read this tonight!

Come in With the Rain | t.o.

Tyler Owens x fem!reader

“Two weeks and several tornadoes will definitely make you fall in love."

Word Count: 11.2k

Warnings: Descriptions of panic attacks, tornado wrangling, hurricane descriptions. Making out but nothing too much tbh.

Author's Note: I've been working on this for WEEEEEEEKS and I've finally got it. I have the full article I wrote for this if anyone is interested LOL

Talk to Me! | Coffee?

She’s sitting on the curb of the motel parking lot, staring at the sky.

Javi is reading a weather report out loud, explaining that there’s two cells forming just north of where they’re parked. She’s not Kate; she doesn’t know when a storm is coming just by looking at the sky or noticing how the wind shifts. Not that she’s comparing herself to Kate –she loves Kate and they’ve known each other long enough to know they both have skills that balance each other out. Kate’s skills were in the field and her skills were translating those skills into accessible reports for the public and the government. 

However, when the sky is tinted that ominous green, it’s not like it’s not obvious that something is coming. 

The rest of the Tornado Wranglers haven’t quite figured out who she is, or why she’s there. She’s pretty sure most of them think she’s a groupie, only there to be entertained or flirt with the blonde cowboy who is working on his truck.

“Which one are we going after?” Javi asks, looking to Kate who is walking back towards the Wranglers.

“The one going west is actually going to form,” Kate explains, pointing out towards the west. The journalist is jotting down notes as Kate speaks.

“Hey, Kate –you gonna tell us who your friend is?” Dani asks suddenly, kicking the curb beside her and causing her to jump some. 

Kate motions to her, as if to say introduce yourself. She shuts her journal and points her pen at Kate, smiling. “Kate asked me to join –I’m here to do a write up on the impact storm chasers like you guys have on the communities being impacted.”

That catches Tyler’s attention, and he sits up against the truck, looking down at her with a grin. “I didn’t realize you were a reporter.”

“Not technically,” she offers, pushing herself off the ground. Her knees pop, and she makes a face before shrugging a little bit. “I used to be the PA specialist for the NOAA. But I shifted away from that and now I do independent freelance writing on anything related to ocean, climate, space and weather policies that the government implements –or wants to implement.”

“She acts like she’s not an award-winning journalist that’s been published in several scientific journals,” Kate tacks on for good measure, linking their arms with a grin. 

She just shrugs sheepishly, but there’s a proud grin tugging at the corner of her lips. As Tyler is about to say something else –because he seems much more interested in her now –he’s interrupted by Dexter yelling something, then practically jumping out of the RV.

“I’ve read your work!” Dexter exclaims, holding a journal that’s definitely a few years old. “You wrote about how ENSO patterns affect hurricane behavior in the U.S. –you used historical data from the NOAA to support your –,”

“Damn, Dex,” Dani teases, interrupting the older man with a smirk. “Didn’t know you were a fanboy.”

“I take it that’s how you two met,” Tyler says, motioning between her and Kate now. He’s got a teasing grin on his face, and she thinks it’s far more charming than it has any right to be. “Did Sapulpa here get you to watch our channel then, or were you a fan before she joined?”

“Remember that whole ‘I write about anything related to ocean, climate, space and weather policies’ spiel? You’ve been around –so I’ve known about you guys for a hot minute.”

And that’s the honest to God truth. 

It’s not like she’s an active follower of their channel, but when they do things that actually have some scientific research to them, she’ll watch it. She appreciates anyone that makes science and education accessible to the general public, especially in a way that’s both entertaining and engaging. And she’ll take notes on what they do and how they do it, if anything because she’s interested in the methods. Though, she would also argue that their methods are absolutely insane, considering they actively drive into the storms with their rigged-to-hell-and-back truck and cowboy hats. 

“Ah, okay –you can admit you’re the president of the fan club,” he chuckles, shutting the hood of the truck. “Or vice president –I think Javi is our president now.”

“Fuck off, Owens,” Javi laughs, shaking his head. 

Kate is elbowing her some as Tyler watches the journalist for a moment. She doesn’t back down, eyeing him back with a quirked smirk on her face. The moment is only interrupted because Lily says something about the storm, and she looks towards the drone controller with interest. But a sneaking glance back at Tyler shows him still watching her, and just as she’s about to ask him what he wants –he winks at her and turns away. 

Okay, so he’s kind of cute. In the same way the guys in romance novels are cute; look but can’t touch kind of cute. 

Later that evening, she stares at the start of her article, then at the eleven tabs she has open regarding the Wranglers. The funny thing is that the Tornado Wranglers have their own wiki for their fanbase –of which she’s certain is updated by the team themselves (based solely on Boone’s personality description as “a fun, adventurous guy”). Truthfully, she probably doesn’t need to read the Wranglers’ page either since they’re sitting outside the motel they’re all staying at, playing music and enjoying their evening.

With a hum, she closes her laptop and unplugs it, slipping out of her room with it tucked under her arm. Standing in front of the railing, she scans the parking lot: Kate is talking to Javi in the bed of their truck. Tyler is sitting on the top of his truck, seemingly reinforcing something on the roof of it. His team is gathered around a little grill, paying him no mind as they laugh and chat. 

“You gonna keep starin’ at us or you gonna come down here and chat?” Tyler suddenly calls up to her, leaning against his leg as he smirks up at her.

“I’m debating that very question,” she counters, but she’s walking down the stairs nonetheless with her laptop in hand so she supposes she’s made her decision.

Tyler jumps down into the bed of his truck then onto the ground, wiping his hands on his jeans. “How’s that article comin’, darlin’?”

“Oh, real good, cowboy,” she grins, holding her laptop up some as she takes a seat on the tailgate. “I’ve got most of the introduction written, but good writing takes time and I haven’t even seen you in action yet.”

As she settles into her seat, Lily offers her a plate with a burger and chips, and she takes it with a grateful smile. Dexter hands her a beer, looking at her computer like he’s debating stealing it from her. Tyler drops down beside her, taking it and opening it up. Then he waits for her to unlock it. 

“You’re welcome to review it,” she finally offers, unlocking the computer for him.

However, it’s Boone that takes the computer from Tyler, who gives him a pointed look. The videographer takes the computer carefully, making sure to hold it with both hands. She thinks, for a moment, that’s a nice thing for him to do –a bit surprising too, given how rough everyone always seems in the videos. She takes a bite of her burger, looking around at the group of people surrounding her. 

But then Boone starts reading out loud, and she turns her attention back to the Wranglers, feeling herself flush some. It doesn’t matter how many awards she’s gotten or how well she knows she writes –hearing her words read is always cringey.

“Fairview, OK

“Tornado chasers, often seen racing toward storms that others flee from, play a vital role in advancing meteorological science. By collecting real-time data on wind speeds, pressure changes, and storm formation, these scientists and enthusiasts help improve early warning systems and deepen our understanding of tornado behavior. Their high-risk pursuit contributes directly to saving lives and refining the models that predict severe weather, turning adrenaline-fueled missions into invaluable scientific contributions. 

“There are many teams of chasers whose ultimate goal is to determine how these storms form and use that data to help slow or weaken the storms. The research study will focus on one specific team: the Tornado Wranglers. 

“The Tornado Wranglers are a seasoned team of storm chasers known for their fearless, up-close approach to tracking tornadoes. Led by Tyler Owens, the team consists of rugged field scientists and veteran storm chasers who rely on custom-modified vehicles and years of hands-on experience to pursue some of the most dangerous storms in the country. Unlike more tech-heavy operations, the Tornado Wranglers specialize in close-range observation, often intercepting storms directly to capture real-time footage and collect critical atmospheric measurements from inside the tornado's path.

“Their work plays a vital role in improving early warning systems and deepening scientific understanding of tornado behavior. The high-risk data they collect often becomes some of the first and most valuable material available during severe weather events. Driven by passion and a commitment to public safety, the Tornado Wranglers transform their adrenaline-fueled missions into meaningful contributions to meteorological science.

“Despite their reputation as ‘reckless,’ the Tornado Wranglers share the same goal as any team of storm chasers: to uncover the hidden mechanisms that drive tornado formation and ultimately contribute knowledge that could mitigate future storm damage. Their combined efforts represent the critical intersection of passion, science, and public safety.”

There’s a low whistle from someone –she’s not sure who –but Tyler is giving her an appraising look. Like he’s pleasantly surprised by what she’s written; like maybe he expected something much more scathing than what she’s got on the page. She can’t look at him because there’s something about feeling his eyes on her that’s making her feel hotter than she should.

“You gonna send us a copy of that when you’re done?” He asks, lifting his beer to his lips. “I’m dyin’ to know how it’ll change.”

“If I have to subscribe to watch your videos, you have to subscribe to read my work,” she counters with a smirk.

“Y’know what –that’s fair enough.”

He takes her laptop from Boone, and as she’s about to take it from him, he shoos her hand away and types something onto her document. Then, he closes the laptop and hands it back to her with a grin. She’s tempted to open the computer and see what he did, but Kate and Javi are walking back over with motel keys and gas station bags full of snacks. 

“You ready to get some rest?” Kate asks, looking between her and Tyler for a second. There’s a knowing look in her friend’s eyes and the journalist tries to ignore it. “You’ve got a hell of a day ahead of you tomorrow and you’ll want to be rested.”

“Sapulpa,” he greets, finishing off his beer. “So you’re bring us a city girl and you can’t even let us get to know her?” He teases, and Kate rolls her eyes at him as he looks back down at the journalist. “You got any superpowers we should be listenin’ to? 

“Kate is the one with the tornado spidey-sense,” she teases, shaking her head. Then she holds up her computer again. “I just listen to what she says and write it down. And I’m not a city girl.”

“Oh yeah? I thought you were from New York?”

“Born and raised in the sunshine state,” she offers as if it’s something to be proud of. It’s really not, though.

“Well damn; out here makin’ assumptions when I should have been askin’ the real questions.”

She’s about to ask where he’s from when she hears Javi complaining about wanting to get a shower in before they steal the hot water. With an eye roll, she runs her tongue over her teeth. Kate rolls her eyes and tells her to hurry up, then heads off to get upstairs. 

She watches Kate for a moment, before she turns back to the group who have gone back to talking amongst each other. Tyler, however, is watching her with that same grin on his face. Like he knows something she doesn’t, but he’s not going to tell her. And while she’s very interested in trying to figure out just what’s going on behind those pretty green eyes, she knows she really does need to get some rest.

“Goodnight, Tyler,” she finally says, running a hand over her hair with a sigh. “It was nice chatting –and thanks for the burger.”

“You’re welcome to join us any time you want, darlin’,” he offers, and she can tell he means every word. “Chases, dinner, whatever you want.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

And she will. Because she has to in order to finish her work. And not because Tyler Owens is far more charming than she expected him to be. Or because he’s really hot and keeps smiling at her. Nope. That’s definitely not why she’s going to bug them again tomorrow.

Once she’s back in her shared room with Kate, she opens up her laptop finally to see what Tyler put on her document. But the blush she feels in her cheeks and the smile she’s biting back is a dead giveaway for Kate to peer over her shoulder and elbow her.

He wrote his number, with a little note next to it: 

Send me the link to wherever you’re published –I want to read it all. 

The next morning, she wakes before Kate and Javi –the sun hasn’t even come up yet and she’s certain she’s going to regret being up before her alarm. But if she goes back to sleep now, she’s going to regret that even more, so she gets dressed and slips out the door with her backpack and hopes to find decent coffee.

The parking lot is full of storm chasers, and the sun is just peeking over the horizon as she takes the stairs two at a time. As she hits the ground floor, Tyler rounds the corner with a cup in hand and bed disheveled hair. He’s a little less put together right now –plain white t-shirt and definitely the jeans from yesterday from the dirt stains. And yet somehow, he still looks too hot for someone up at five in the morning. 

For a moment, she considers just sliding past him and letting him wake up more, but he has coffee and she really wants a cup.

“Where’d you find that?” She asks, and he looks up through tired eyes then smiles at her.

“Motel lobby –not great, but it’s better than what’s in the room,” he explains, then he turns around to join her. “You always up this early?”

“Oh, god no –I think my brain was too wired to sleep anymore though,” she laughs as he opens the lobby door for her. 

“That excited, huh?” He teases as he leans back against the wall, watching as she adds probably too much creamer and too much sugar to the coffee. 

“I am, honestly,” she admits as she takes a sip. She makes a face at the coffee, but she’s a little too desperate to put it down. He’s right; it’s not great. “I think I saw a diner down the street –definitely walking distance. Probably has food and better coffee –you in?”

Tyler studies her for a second, then nods with a grin on his face. She shoots Kate a text, telling her what she’s up to and asking if she wants anything. It’ll be a little while before they’re up –their alarms were set for seven, but Kate warned that Javi won’t be up until at least eight. 

When they arrive at the diner, there’s a handful of truckers inside but plenty of little booths by the window. The only waitress working tells them to sit wherever and she’d be over in a second, so they slide into a table without question. As she lifts up the menu, she holds back a sigh, realizing that she’s starving –and hashbrowns and runny eggs sound so good right now. The waitress wastes no time getting them coffee and their orders in.

“So what’s the plan, Owens?” She asks, brow raised after she orders half the menu it feels like. 

Tyler laughs, shaking his head as the waitress pours them their coffee. “A woman after my own heart –orders half the menu and doesn’t bat an eye.”

He thanks her with a smile, then hands the journalist a handful of creamer and sugar packets. She’s surprised that he noticed how sweet she likes her coffee, especially after only seeing her drink it once. But neither of them say anything; they simply smile at one another and enjoy the momentary silence as they sip the coffee that’s so much better than the motel’s. 

She thinks Tyler is more than he lets on. Not that she thought too low of him in the first place; on the surface, he’s polite and a little rowdy. But he’s sweet, and he’s funny. Clearly, he’s smart and observant as well. But there’s more to him than he’s telling anyone else, and she thinks she wants to know more about him outside of storm chasing.

Until her article is done, though, she can’t cross that line.

Momentarily, she’s distracted by the smell of bacon, eggs and grease –smells like a Sunday morning after a night out. “Goddamn, this looks good.”

He chuckles, and she looks at him with narrowed eyes. “Didn’t take you as a greasy diner kinda girl.”

“Diner food will always be the best breakfast at the crack ass of dawn,” she argues, using her fork to point at him accusingly. “You can’t argue with that.”

“I’m not arguin’,” he says, putting his hands up. The smile hasn’t left his face as she cuts up her eggs and mixes the yolk into her hashbrowns. Then he looks offended. “That I am arguin’ against –what the hell are you doin’ to those potatoes? Drownin’ them?”

“I’m making them delicious,” she defends, reaching for the salt now. As if the meal needed any more of it. “C’mon, you’re telling me you don’t mix your eggs and hashbrowns?”

“Not like that I don’t,” he points out, motioning to her plate. “You cook’em like that –it’s called piggybackin’. What you’re doin’ is called a goddamn mess.”

“Well, it’s a delicious mess,” she settles on saying, taking a bite of her meal and sighing in content. There really is something about greasy diner food that makes the heart happy. Probably all the cholesterol. “Back to the question though, cowboy –what’s the plan for today? Are you actually going to take me into a storm?”

“Is that what you really wanna do?” He counters, leaning his elbows on the table and looking her over now. Like he’s trying to get a feel for what she actually wants –or doesn’t want, maybe. “It’s okay if you’d rather hang back with Dexter and Dani in the RV –no shame in that.”

Taking another bite of her meal, she weighs the two options. Staying back gives her a better chance to document what’s going on around her. She can see the wide angle, and everything that goes into a famous Tyler Owens storm chase. On the other hand, though, doing the chase herself, in his truck, gives her first hand experience as to what he does. But also on that hand, he’s an absolute maniac who drives headfirst into tornadoes –so there’s an inherent danger there.

Something tells her that Tyler wouldn’t let her get hurt though –not if he has any say in it, at least. Especially if he’s giving her an out to sit back today.

“I’ll ride with you, Boone and Kate, if that’s alright,” she finally decides, setting her fork down. 

“You got different shoes?” Tyler asks, kicking her feet with his boots. 

She glances down at her beat up red Toms, shaking her head. “Oh, no –I don’t.”

“We’ll need to get you some boots then –something a little more sturdy. Just in case.”

“Excuse you,” she grins, bumping his shin with the toe of her shoe. “My Toms are peak performance.”

“Maybe for writin’ from afar,” he counters, pointing at the horizon with the hand that’s not holding his coffee cup like it’s going to disappear. Storm clouds are gathering, and she knows that he’s probably right. “But not for what we’re gonna be doin’.”

“You act like I’ve never been in a tornado before,” she teases, pointing her fork at him again with a small grin.

“Oh yeah? What’s the worst you’ve been through?”

“Tornado-wise? Probably an EF2. But it’s not the tornadoes you have to worry about.” She stirs her eggs and hashbrowns some more, a way to distract herself from the memories that are settling in her stomach. “Remember Hurricane Ian?”

“Took out a good chunk of the Florida Southwest in 2022, right?”

“Yessir,” she nods, pulling her backpack into her lap and rifling through it. She pulls out a beat up journal and flips to the first few pages. Then she holds it up, where there’s numbers and diagrams drawn. “My dad lived over the Sanibel Causeway –the one that collapsed. We were trapped on the island for two weeks before anyone could come get us or send help. For about two days, we had to hunker down and hope the eye passed so we could see the damage, then we had to wait for it to entirely pass.”

She points at a diagram of the bridge, showing where the surge did the most damage. “Tornadoes are terrifying –but they’ll be gone sooner rather than later. Hurricanes –those can last days. And when the bridges are out, and the waters are too rough to navigate –that’s when the damage gets the worst. Have you ever sat through a hurricane?”

“Not like that,” he admits, taking her journal and reading over her notes like they’re the most important thing he’s ever been given. “Your dad okay?”

Watching him for a second –watching his eyes scan over the notes and the drawings –she thinks he genuinely is interested in what she writes. Not that she didn’t think he would be –she sent him links to the journals she’s published in, like he’d asked –but the way his eyes are glued to her chicken scratch handwriting makes her heart twist in her chest.

When he looks up, and catches her staring, she shakes her head some. “No,” she admits, reaching over and turning the page a few times before she lands on a little calendar she made. “After the storm passed, we had enough supplies to last maybe seven days. We had no service though, and couldn’t get in touch with anyone. FEMA didn’t show until almost the end of the week, and even then there wasn’t a lot they could do. 

“The house was totaled; all the windows shattered, and the roof wasn’t meant to withstand a direct hit,” she explains with a sigh. “Lost pretty much everything. But if you’ve ever met old people in Florida, they don’t listen until it’s too late.”

Tyler is silent, leaning on his elbows as he watches her with an intensity she’s never seen before. Not from anyone, let alone a handsome cowboy who might as well be a celebrity. 

“I was only down there to try to convince my dad to evacuate. He’s on a million types of medications that he didn’t have enough of because he…just never got them filled on time. By the time he realized we needed to, it was too late. By the time rescue had gotten to us, he’d gone four days without beta-blockers –the stress from the storm was too much.”

She leaves out the part where she had to sit with her father’s body for two extra days, waiting for rescue to bring in body bags. Leaves out that she refused to let him be alone, sitting in a makeshift medical tent that’s overrun and out of power. And how she still hasn’t quite recovered from the longest two weeks of her life; both physically and emotionally. 

No, she leaves out the worst details, because Tyler doesn’t need to look at her any differently than he probably already is. 

Silence lingers for a few minutes. Neither of them touch their food or coffee, and she wonders for a moment if trauma dumping at six in the morning is really what she should be doing. Especially as she wipes the stray tear that’s running down her cheek. It’s not the first time she’s told this story, and she’s sure it won’t be the last but it never gets easier. Watching her father waste away after losing everything else will always be something that she has to live with.

But as she considers how to lessen the tension, Tyler reaches over and puts his hand over hers.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says. There’s no pity in his voice. No over the top sympathy or anything like that. Just…genuine empathy behind green eyes and a furrowed brow.

She flips her palm up and squeezes his hand in thanks, giving him a sad but grateful smile. “I want to say it’s okay, but it’s not –but it will be one day. Thank you for…listening to me, though.”

“Any time.” 

And he means it. Somehow, she knows he does.

When they return to the motel, Kate and Javi are already setting up with Boone and Lily, and the four of them give the two of them curious looks. But neither Tyler nor her seem to notice as they walk up, enjoying whatever comfortable silence they’ve found themselves in. Kate pries her away from him though, giving her a small grin as Tyler joins Dexter in the RV. 

“Where have you two been?” Kate asks, nudging her shoulder as they return to Javi, who is looking over his tablet now. 

“We just got breakfast,” she explains with a shrug, though she knows that Kate isn’t going to stop until she gets a better answer. “Seriously, I woke up early, needed coffee. We just ended up at the diner down the street.”

“That why he keeps looking at you?” Javi interjects, smirking at her as he glances towards where Tyler is standing with Boone and Dexter. 

Following Javi’s gaze, she immediately catches Tyler’s eye and he grins at her with a nod as he slips his cowboy hat on. Looking away, she feels a blush creeping up her neck and she gives Javi a dirty look.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he argues but he’s got a shit eating grin on his face. “He’s coming over now, if you need to clean yourself up.”

“Kate, I’m gonna kill your friend –,”

Tyler interrupts her as he approaches, holding up a pair of boots. “Dani’s gonna let you borrow these today; she’s the closest to your size.”

Taking them, she looks over at Dani, holding the boots up with a smile. The other woman shoots her a thumbs up and a grin. 

After lacing up the boots and making sure she has all her materials for the day, Tyler opens the passenger door for her with a grin and his hand held out. Boone and Kate climb into the backseat as she takes Tyler’s hand and gets in. Then he tugs on the harness behind her, pointing out that it’s there for her safety and when he says to put it on, she’s going to need to listen.

Then he’s pulling the harness over her shoulders, the straps lying close against her chest as he fits them carefully into place. He talks her through each step –how it fastens, where it should rest, how she’ll need to do it herself next time –but his voice is softer now, slower. His fingers brush over her collarbone, just beneath her jaw as he adjusts the final strap, and she swallows hard. 

His hands pause just briefly, not enough to be obvious, but long enough that she knows he felt the shift too. When their eyes meet, she’s certain that he can feel her heart beating in her chest, threatening to break through her ribcage the longer they stare at each other.

Just as quickly as the moment starts, it’s over and he clears his throat, finishes the adjustment, then tells her she can take it off until he tells her. Then he’s shutting the door and getting into the truck himself. Kate is sitting behind her, and she kicks the front seat to get the journalist’s attention. 

The look she’s being given says that none of that moment was private.

Luckily, either Boone is completely unaware of what just happened or genuinely doesn’t care. Because he’s flipping the camera on and pushing himself between her and Tyler.

“You don’t mind bein’ on camera right?” He asks, patting her shoulder as he points the camera directly in her face. “‘Cause, y’know, that’s our whole thing.”

She pushes the camera a little further away with a laugh and a nod, promising she doesn’t mind as he turns it to Tyler. The cowboy persona is dialed up –not a lot, she notes, as she takes out her notebook. Whoever Tyler Owens is in front of the camera seems to be the same as whoever he is in behind the camera. Maybe a little extra, but not by much. 

“Alright, guys,” he says, pointing at the camera with an bright smile. “We’ve got a special guest –why don’t you introduce yourself?” 

Boone turns the camera to her, and she awkwardly waves and laughs, introducing herself –though Tyler insists she explains who she really is. 

“I’m a freelance journalist,” she explains, holding up her notebook. “My job today is to determine just how much of an impact your favorite chasers have on the study of these storms.”

“And it’s her first time runnin’ headfirst into a storm,” Tyler adds on, turning the camera back to himself. “We’ve got a real good one for all of y'all today –it’s lookin’ like there might be an EF2 formin’ about ten miles west of Fairview. Nothin’ we can’t handle, but good for a girl’s first time.”

“Miss Sunshine State here is gonna lose her mind,” Boone adds from behind the camera, clearly delighted.

She scoffs but doesn’t look away from the window. “If I throw up, you’re cleaning it.”

Boone just cackles.

Tyler shifts gears, eyes cutting to the horizon where the clouds are folding in on themselves –dark, heavy, beautiful in a terrifying way. “That EF2’s droppin’ in the next five. We’ll get in ahead of it. Put that harness on.”

There’s a tone shift in his voice –not performative, not cowboy-charming. Just serious. The same shift she hears in scientists who know exactly what they’re doing and are already twenty steps ahead. And she follows his orders without question. Kate’s got the radar pulled up in the backseat, and Boone has the camera, already live-streaming something to the Wranglers’ fanbase. She can hear him narrating between seatbelt clicks and the rattle of gear in the back.

The truck jerks as the anchors deploy, hydraulics hissing beneath their feet like a dragon exhaling under pressure. She doesn’t need to ask what it means. She’s watched this part in their videos before –Tyler Owens and his unstoppable truck bracing against the worst nature can throw. It’s one thing to observe it through a screen, from the safety of her apartment though. It’s another entirely to be inside it.

The storm hits before her breath can catch.

Then it’s like…the world unzips.

Wind tears across the field with a violence that feels personal, slamming into the truck with enough force to make the reinforced frame creak and shudder. The air thickens with dirt, stray pieces of brush, debris –things too twisted and fast to identify. The roar outside is so loud, so impossibly deep, it sinks into her teeth. Into her bones. It’s soaking into her very being as she grips the handle above her head until her knuckles turn white.

She’s pinned in place –not by her seatbelt, but by the sheer weight of the moment. Her fingers curl tight around the edge of the seat, then tighter still when something –a trash can? a road sign? –ricochets off the side of the truck with a metal-on-metal shriek. Kate mutters something in the backseat, low and steady, reading off numbers, but the wind steals most of it away.

And then she sees it.

The tornado is there. Just outside the glass. Towering and lean, the color of bruised earth and ash. It moves like it’s alive, like it’s hunting –shifting its weight back and forth across the open field, brushing so close that she swears she can see individual stalks of wheat being pulled up and swallowed into its center.

A sharp, involuntary breath leaves her lips. Her entire body goes still. Not frozen in fear –but braced. Braced against memory.

It’s not the tornado itself that steals the reality out of her.

It’s the sound of it. The pressure. The way the light dims like the sun’s been torn out of the sky. All of it wraps around her; a storm surge climbing higher and higher, until she’s no longer in the truck. She’s back on Sanibel Island, hands pressed against broken glass, waiting for the water to reach the ceiling. Waiting for the surge to swallow the house whole as she scrambles to get to dry land and pull her father with her. 

Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t cry, not here. Not now. But her chest clenches like it’s caught in a vice.

And then –quietly, without a word –Tyler takes her hand.

It’s sudden, and unannounced. His eyes are still forward, still trained on the storm, but his fingers slide into hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

The grip is steady. Calloused palm warm against hers. No tension. No squeeze. Just…there.

She holds on like it’s the only real thing in the truck.

The storm wails around them, furious and unrelenting. The truck groans again as the funnel shifts direction –spiraling just close enough that she can see its rotation brush across the top of a fence line, tearing through wooden posts like matchsticks. Boone yells something behind them –he might be filming, or laughing, or both –but none of it breaks through.

Because all she feels is his hand.

All she hears is the sound of the storm, and the echo of another one.

But she stays grounded.

Anchored –not just by the steel driven into the earth beneath the truck, but by this strange, steady feeling between her and the cowboy beside her. This storm-chasing cowboy with green eyes and dirt under his fingernails who doesn’t look at her, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t try to fix it. 

Just offers her silent reassurance as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.

Eventually, the wind begins to fall away. Not all at once, but like an exhale. The roar softens. The sky begins to lighten at the edges. The funnel moves on, lifting into the sky in that eerie, effortless way storms do –leaving behind wreckage, silence, and awe.

For a long moment, no one says anything.

Only when the last gust passes does Tyler finally shift his gaze. His hand is still wrapped around hers when he turns to her.

“You still with me?”

She nods, voice caught somewhere in her throat. Her heart is pounding, her skin is flushed, and her fingers are trembling just slightly against his.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I’m here.”

His smile isn’t big. It isn’t charming. It’s quiet –like he doesn’t want to spook the stillness between them. Like he knows that there’s something going on behind her eyes that he can’t fix, but wants to soothe. 

“Good,” he says softly, finally letting go.

She’s about to say something –thank him, apologize, something –but Boone is yelling in her ear as he jumps out of the truck. With a wince, she looks over at the videographer before undoing her harness and freeing herself. Tyler is slipping out of the truck, looking over the aftermath of the field. When she gets out of the truck, her knees wobble a little –like it’s the first time she’s stood on solid land in days –and Kate quickly catches her with furrowed brows.

“Hey, you good?” She asks, looking over the journalist with concern. 

But she just nods, feeling Tyler’s eyes on her as she stands up straight. “I’m good. I think the adrenaline is wearing off, that’s all.”

Kate gives her a once over, then when she determines that her friend is okay, joins Tyler as they stand and look over the skies. While one storm has passed, the radar is calling for more, Boone explains, showing her the tablet. But she’s watching Kate and Tyler, with whatever superpowers they seem to possess, as they scan the skies. Boone comes to stand at her side, camera still rolling, as he speaks.

“What y’all are seeing here is a genuine connection to nature,” he explains, voice filled with awe and excitement. “I don’t know what it is these two got in their blood, but goddamn is it impressive. Right, Sunshine State?”

He points the camera to her next, and she nods some in agreement, smiling at the camera. “Yeah…yeah, it really is.”

The next motel they check into is much smaller than the last, and has less rooms available. Dani and Dexter choose to sleep in the RV. Javi and Boone room up and take a room without too much argument. But Lily and Kate are sharing a look that suggests that they’re up to something –then immediately part to the room they’re sharing suddenly.

There’s one room left, and the journalist and Tyler are the only two without a roommate. 

She makes a mental note to kick Kate’s ass later on.

“Feel like they’re settin’ us up,” he jokes, grabbing her backpack from the passenger side of the truck. When she tries to take it from him, he shakes his head. “I got it, don’t you worry, sunshine.”

“It’s because they definitely are,” she confirms, rolling her eyes at the nickname as she follows him up the stairs to the room. “Did you see their faces? They did it on purpose.”

“Gotta love’em for tryin’.”

The motel room door creaks like it’s been waiting all year to be opened. She steps inside first, and it’s everything she expected from the outside and maybe just a little worse –aged wallpaper with water stains bleeding through the corners, a single bed covered in a quilt that looks like it hasn’t been replaced in at least a decade, and one lamp that casts more shadow than light. 

The mattress sinks low in the middle. A small table stands in the corner, supporting a microwave she wouldn’t trust with popcorn. The A/C unit beneath the window hums like a dying bee, sputtering cool air in erratic bursts. There’s one chair. No couch. And most notably, no second bed.

She lets out a breath and tries not to make a face. Behind her, Tyler steps in and immediately drops her bag gently by the door, his presence filling the too small space in a way that makes it feel even more narrow. She crosses the room and presses a hand to the mattress. The dip in the middle is dramatic, but manageable if they stick to their respective sides. She glances at the thin barrier of decorative pillows and thinks, not for the first time, that she’s absolutely in over her head with this entire week.

Tyler moves behind her, quiet, until she hears the rustle of fabric and turns –only to realize he’s already shed his shirt, tossing it casually onto his duffel. Her mouth goes dry. She pretends to look anywhere else.

His chest is exactly what she’d imagined it would be, and she hates that she’s imagined it at all. Strong, sun-worn, peppered with a few old scars. One on his shoulder, one along his side. Every inch of him says field work and recklessness and heat.

She grabs her sleep shirt from her bag and turns sharply for the bathroom. “I’ll change in here.”

“Take your time,” he says, and it sounds like he’s trying not to sound smug, but fails.

Behind the flimsy bathroom door, she splashes cool water on her face and stares at herself in the mirror.

She can handle this, she tells her reflection. It’s just one night. He’s just a guy.

A ridiculously attractive guy with bright green eyes who held her hand through a tornado without her asking him to. But a guy nonetheless.

She changes quickly, pulling on a worn t-shirt and sleep shorts, then returns to the room with her arms folded tight. Tyler’s already pulled the quilt back and settled on the right side of the bed –bare chested, legs tangled under the covers, one arm folded behind his head as he scrolls through something on his phone.

He looks up as she walks in, and then –to his credit –sits up straighter.

“I can take the floor,” he offers. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

“No, don’t,” she says quickly, waving a hand. “It’s fine. We’re both adults. Just stay on your side.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of cross crossin’ enemy lines.”

She huffs out a breath that’s half a laugh and half nerves, then slides under the covers as delicately as possible –like the mattress might register her heartbeat if she lets it. It dips toward him immediately, and she has to brace her elbow against the edge to keep from rolling into the middle.

They lie there in silence for a few beats, the hum of the window unit filling the space where her thoughts are trying not to go. She should be thinking about her notes. About the article. About how getting too close –too personal –might color the objectivity she’s spent the last five years building like armor.

But all she can think about is the weight of his hand over hers in the truck. The way his eyes stayed steady on the storm, but his fingers never flinched.

Tyler clears his throat beside her, voice softer than earlier. “You sure you’re alright?”

She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “From earlier?”

“Yeah.”

She exhales, then shakes her head a bit. She shifts to her side, looking up at him as he sets his phone aside. “It felt like drowning. For a second. The sound, the pressure. It brought everything back.”

“The hurricane.”

She nods, eyes closing for a second. “I could smell the salt in the air again. The mildew. I could feel the tile under my knees.” Her throat tightens, but she pushes through, opening her eyes again to look at him. “And then your hand was just...there.”

Tyler doesn’t say anything right away. But when he does, it’s low. Honest. “Didn’t think about it. Just reached for you.”

“I’m glad you did,” she says before she can stop herself.

Silence again. But it’s changed shape now. Not awkward. Not afraid. She glances over –he’s lying on his back, one arm still behind his head, the other resting on his stomach, fingers tapping out some unconscious rhythm.

“I thought about letting go,” she admits quietly. “In the truck.”

He turns to look at her, eyes searching. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I can’t. Not…not if I’m going to keep doing my job well. Not if I want to continue being respected in the field.”

His smile is sad and soft, just visible in the lamp’s glow as he lays on his side to face her. “Being respected doesn’t mean you can’t let go, y’know. And I think you’re doin’ a damn good job, if it’s any consolation. Not many people can say they drove headfirst into a tornado willingly –especially not for an article that didn’t really need that done. You can, though.”

The honesty in his voice knocks something loose in her chest. A strange heat creeps up her spine, but not in the way she expected. It’s not lust. It’s…safety. 

Slowly, carefully, she reaches across the gap between them –not very far, now that the mattress has conspired to tilt them together –and lets her fingers brush his hand.

Tyler doesn’t hesitate. He threads their fingers together like it’s instinct. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She shifts slightly to face him more fully, their hands resting in the middle of the bed now, the space between them warm in the way only honest proximity can be.

For a while, neither of them say anything.

The silence is thick, but not heavy. More like a pause in the world. The kind that only happens late at night, when the air feels slower and your thoughts feel louder –but somehow safer to say out loud. She traces a thumb over his knuckle, surprised by the calluses there. Not rough, exactly, but lived-in. Real.

There’s a stillness that follows –not hesitation; not quite. More like a breath the world is holding, waiting to see what she’ll do.

She lifts her eyes to meet his. They’re closer now. She hadn’t noticed the shift, but maybe the bed did most of the work for them. Maybe it was inevitable. His gaze drops to her mouth for a second –just a flicker –and then back to her eyes. But he doesn’t lean in, not yet. 

So she doesn’t overthink it.

She leans forward slowly, her hand tightening around his. Her nose brushes his, soft and deliberate, and then she kisses him. Their lips meet softly –no rush, no need to prove anything. Just the quiet kind of kiss that asks, Are you here with me? And answers, Yes. I am.

It’s gentle. Careful. Like something neither of them wants to break. His free hand rises to her cheek, steadying her like he did in the truck –fingertips warm, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. There’s no urgency in the way he touches her. Just presence. Assurance. The kind of touch that says, I’ve got you, even if neither of them is ready to say the words out loud.

Her hand curls against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. It grounds her more than anything else has in days. He tastes faintly like spearmint and motel coffee, and something simpler, something warm –like how a summer day smells right after rain.

The kiss deepens slightly, still quiet, still tentative. Like a secret shared between a storm and the silence that follows it. There’s no desperation in it, only the slow unfolding of something that’s been building for days. Something fragile, but real. 

He tilts his head just a bit, pulling her closer without closing the space completely –like he’s inviting her in, but only if she wants to be there. She does. And for a few seconds, the world falls away. There’s no motel room. No creaky bed. No article. No storm. Just this: the soft press of lips, the warmth of skin, the low exhale between them that sounds like relief.

When they finally pull back, foreheads resting together, she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her eyes flutter open, and his are already there –watching her like she’s something worth holding on to.

“I didn’t expect you,” she says quietly, and she’s not even sure what she means until it’s out.

Tyler tilts his head slightly, watching her in the dim lamplight. “Didn’t expect me to what?”

“To be like this,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “I assumed you’d just be…all YouTube persona and fake. Cowboy hat and charm. But then…,”

She trails off, but he’s already smiling –not the wide grin he gives the camera, not the cocky smirk he throws at Boone. This smile is small. Private. For her, and not an audience.

“Then?”

She meets his gaze. “Then you proved me wrong, and you kissed me just now like you meant it.” She pauses a moment, then takes his hand. “I’m glad I was wrong. I like who you are –on and off camera, but especially off camera.”

He shifts some, then she’s being pulled against his chest. Tyler’s arm wraps around her shoulders, and presses his lips to her hair. 

“I did mean it,” he says. Promises. Like he needs her to know that.

She swallows. Her voice catches a little, but she nods into his chest. “I know.”

And she does. God, she does. She felt it in the truck. In the way he didn’t look at her when he reached for her, like it wasn’t about watching her fall apart –just about being there in case she did.

Her arm settles around his waist, cheek pressed against where his heart is beating in his chest. 

“My article just became biased,” she sighs, but it’s one of contentment.

“I think it’s been biased the entire time,” he counters with a chuckle, fingers trailing down her spine softly. 

She studies him for a long moment –the soft edges of him in the glow of the bedside lamp, the relaxed way he lies beside her like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, the quiet strength in how he’s holding her. Not possessive. Not careful.

Just steady.

“Yeah,” she admits with a nod. “I think you’re right.”

The quiet stretches again, but this time it’s full of everything unsaid –everything neither of them needs to rush. She’s not sure how long they lie there like that, but it’s not unwelcome by any means. Tyler is warm, and soft in all the right places, even if he’s built for hard work and reckless chases. 

And when sleep finally comes, it comes easy –like maybe, just maybe, for the first time in a long time, she’s safe.

Sometime after three in the morning, she’s forced awake by alarms blaring outside the window and banging on the motel door. For a moment, she doesn’t realize what’s going on –all she knows is Tyler’s got her wrapped up against his chest and she doesn’t want to move from this spot. He’s warm, and solid, and the feel of him under her fingertips is nothing short of tempting.

But then Kate is yelling her name, and it finally registers what’s happening. Then she’s yanking herself out of his arms, shaking him awake in a panic. She throws on her jeans and boots once he’s awake. 

As soon as he hears the alarms and the banging though, he’s alert and up, yanking on his shirt. Then they’re grabbing their backpacks and scrambling out the door, the wind already howling like a warning down the motel corridor. The sky is pitch black, but not in the way night should be –it’s bruised and pulsing, every flash of lightning revealing the twisted silhouette of a storm that’s already far too close.

Kate’s voice cuts through it like a blade. “There’s a basement under the front office –back corner! Move!”

Tyler doesn’t wait. He grabs her hand and takes off, tugging her alongside him as the wind rips at their clothes and sends gravel skittering across the lot like shrapnel. She can’t hear much beyond the rising shriek of the sirens and the slap of her boots on wet concrete, but she sees it when Kate and Javi split off –pounding on doors, shouting for the other motel guests to get up, get out, get moving. Dani’s already banging on windows. 

They’re not leaving anyone behind.

And yet –Tyler hasn’t let go of her hand once.

“This way,” he says, sharp but steady, steering her toward the cracked wooden door tucked behind the front office. It looks like it hasn’t been used in years. “We’ll get it open.”

“I’ve never been in a basement,” she says, which sounds like the dumbest thing she’s ever said out loud. 

Tyler shoots her a look –equal parts disbelief and concern –before yanking the door open with a grunt and guiding her down the steps. “Well, welcome to your first. Congrats.”

The air that hits her is damp and old, full of mildew and dust. The stairs are narrow, steep, and pitch black. She stumbles once, barely catching herself –but Tyler’s hand is at her back, keeping her steady.

“Stay down here,” he says, voice low, commanding. “I’ll be right back.”

She grabs his arm. “You can’t go out there again –,”

He just looks at her, and something in that look is so calm, so him, it shuts her right up.

“I’m not leavin’ anyone up there. Not while we’ve got time.”

Then he’s gone –back up the stairs and into the night.

She stands frozen at the bottom of the steps, back pressed against the cool wall, heart hammering in her chest. She’s never been underground like this. Never trusted her safety to four concrete walls and blind faith. It feels claustrophobic and wrong and far too quiet without him in it.

Footsteps slam overhead. The door groans open again and the flood begins.

Javi stumbles in first, waving people down –an older couple from one of the back rooms, a woman carrying a crying toddler, a man holding a dog leash with no dog attached yet. Then Dani comes down with two teenagers. Dexter and Boone come down next, arms full of emergency kits, while Kate and Lily are ushering a handful of kids and parents down the stairs. 

And then –Tyler.

He’s soaked to the bone, dirt smudged across his face, hair plastered to his forehead. And when he sees her still standing there in the dark, eyes wide, he’s focused on her and her alone. Straight to her. Steady hands on her shoulders.

“You okay?”

She nods, swallowing hard. “I just…I’ve never sheltered like this before. Usually it's a closet, or a bathroom without windows. It’s…weird being underground.”

He manages a small, breathless laugh. “Kinda the whole point, sunshine.”

There’s a groaning sound from above –pipes creaking then metal scraping against metal. She flinches at the noises, trying to ignore the kids crying and the parents trying to console them. Tries to tune out the wind that’s threatening to rip the basement door off its hinges just fifteen feet away. 

Tyler turns his head, listening. Then –like he does with storms, with people, with her –he reads the moment for what it is and doesn’t try to fix it. Just squeezes her shoulder once. “C’mon. Sit with me.”

They hunker down in a far corner, backs against the cement. The wind above sounds like it’s trying to tear the motel off the foundation. The lights flicker once –then die entirely. She presses her hands to her ears as the roar builds. Not just wind now –but the storm. The tornado. It’s right on top of them.

Tyler’s hand finds hers.

Again.

“Breathe,” he says, soft but firm. “I’m right here with you.”

The pressure shifts. Her ears pop. The baby cries louder. Then something hits the building above with enough force to make the pipes overhead shudder. Dust rains down. Someone near the stairs curses. She presses her forehead to her knees. Tries to breathe through it.

The sound is unbearable. It’s like she’s back on Sanibel again; back sitting in her father’s house, listening to the roof peel off the foundation. Watching the windows shatter, and the house flooding. The only difference is that there is no flood, no glass –not underground, at least.

Tyler’s arm wraps around her shoulders, and he tucks her close to his side. She doesn’t care how it looks, or if this makes her pathetic –she clings to him, fingers tangled in his shirt as she closes her eyes. His voice is soft in her ear, promising her that she’s safe; he’s got her. There’s not enough in her to confirm that she hears him, but she thinks her fist tightening against his stomach tells him anyway.

Then slowly –inch by inch –the worst of the wind passes. The shaking stops. The roar fades to a howl. Then to a whistle. Then to nothing but the heavy, stunned silence of survivors in the dark.

Kate’s voice breaks it, relief dripping through her tone. “That’s it. It’s moved on.”

Slowly, everyone files out of the basement. The kids are still crying, but it’s quieter, more subdued. The adults are breathing sighs of relief as they get out into the night air again. Boone says something to Tyler, but her ears are ringing and she doesn’t catch it –but she sees the team following the others out. 

Tyler squeezes her shoulder gently, and he loosens his hold but he doesn’t push her away. When she finally looks up, his eyes are already on her. Checking. Steady. Slowly, she lets go of his shirt and takes a deep breath. It’s shaky, and trembling, but she manages to inhale and exhale fully once –twice. 

“You alright?” He asks, his voice soft as he pushes a stray hair out of her face. 

“I…didn’t need to be so scared,” she admits, feeling ridiculous as she finally pulls away entirely. She stands, rubbing the heel of her palm into her eye. “I’m sorry –I don’t know –,”

“Hey, hey, no,” Tyler interrupts, pushing himself off the ground and reaching out to her. One hand pulls her wrist away from her face and the other is taking her hand. “You’re allowed to be scared. There’s no shame in that, you understand me?” 

“How do you do this every day?” She asks, looking up at him with tears in her eyes. She hates that she’s crying; hates that the fear and the anxiety have finally bubbled up enough inside her that crying is the only way to get it out. “I’ve watched your videos, Tyler. I’ve seen the crazy shit you do, but I guess I never…I never realized how genuinely insane you guys are for doing this kind of stuff.”

That earns a huffed out laugh, and he let’s go of her as she pulls back and wipes her eyes. “‘Insane’ is the nicest thing I think I’ve been called,” he admits. Then he reaches up –hesitating just a moment but it's like he decides he’s allowed to touch her again –and wipes a stray tear from her cheek. “I was eight when I saw my first storm. Drivin’ with my aunt, sirens are goin’ off all around us. All of a sudden, this…vortex just lowers right down in front of us. Center of the road. I was just…mesmerized. Then I looked at my aunt and she just…she’s got this look on her face. And I realized at that moment, I was supposed to be scared.”

Her brow furrows as she looks up at him, blinking away her tears. “Were you?”

He nods, and he smiles down at her softly as he wipes another tear away. “Yeah. I was. But you know that quote ‘the only thing to fear is fear itself?’” She nods and so does he. “Fear is the reason we do it. If you don’t face your fears, then you let’em win. And you can’t let the fear win.”

She exhales a laugh –sharp, watery, not quite steady –and shakes her head like she’s trying to knock the vulnerability loose. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” he says, voice lower now, less certain and more real. “It’s never simple. You think I don’t get scared still? Every time I go out, I wonder if this’ll be the one that wins.”

She looks up at him again, and something in her gaze has steadied –still glassy at the edges, still fragile, but clearer now. Like maybe the storm shook something loose in her too, but left behind something stronger.

“And if it is?” she asks quietly.

Tyler’s mouth twitches into something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Then I hope someone like you is around to write it down. So it’s not just wreckage and memory.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. So she doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she steps forward –slow, deliberate –and he’s already there to meet her.

Tyler doesn’t wait this time.

He reaches for her with the kind of certainty that comes from knowing exactly what he wants. One hand finds her waist, the other lifts to the side of her neck, fingers brushing her jaw with a certainty that she wishes she had had last night; but it doesn’t matter now. His touch is sure, steady –not rushed, not hesitant –just right.

And then he kisses her.

Like it’s been decided.

Like the storm is over and this – like she –is what he’s holding onto in the quiet after.

She exhales against his mouth, not from surprise, but from relief. From recognition. Her hands find his chest, then slide up around his neck, anchoring herself there like she’s done it a hundred times. The kiss deepens –full of something that’s been building between them since the moment she stepped into his orbit.

When they part, it’s only because they have to breathe.

Tyler doesn’t step back. Doesn’t smile or crack a joke to break the moment. He just stays close, eyes on hers, thumb still brushing the edge of her cheek.

“You okay?” he asks, quiet but direct.

She nods. “Yeah. You?”

His gaze doesn’t waver, and now he’s giving her a smile that could light up a room. “Never been better.”

They stay like that for a long moment. Just breathing.

When she finally pulls back, there’s a small smile on her face. Tired, but genuine.

“I’m still terrified,” she admits.

“Good,” he says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Means you know it’s real. Means you’re smart. Means you’re still here.”

She doesn’t argue with him. Doesn’t deflect. Just nods.

He glances toward the stairs. “C’mon. Let’s get you some air.”

By the end of the week, her article is finished but she hasn’t finalized publication yet. The journal that wants the article is waiting, but she keeps rereading it over and over again, trying to decide how biased it sounds now. She wants to think it’s not all that biased; everything she’s written is true. Especially in the aftermath of the storm earlier that week, when she experiences what the Wrangler’s don’t show in their videos.

That’s what the article is really about, she decides. Not the research, no matter how important it might be. But the real impact.

“While the Tornado Wranglers are perhaps best known for their close-proximity intercepts and high-risk data collection methods, a less publicized yet equally significant aspect of their work emerges in the aftermath of the storm. Following each severe weather event, the team transitions from storm chasers to first responders, providing on-the-ground assistance to affected populations in rural and suburban areas where access to formal aid is often delayed.

“This transition is neither incidental nor performative. Rather, it reflects a broader ethos among field operatives who recognize the intersection between research, public service, and human impact. In the hours following a tornado, members of the Wranglers can frequently be observed conducting door-to-door welfare checks, distributing bottled water, food, and hygiene supplies, and offering communication support via satellite phones and portable charging stations. In several instances, the team has also aided in locating missing persons, clearing debris from public access roads, and assisting local emergency management personnel with situational awareness in otherwise inaccessible zones.”

“You coming down or what?” Javi asks suddenly, poking his head into the motel room with his brow raised. “Owens is waiting for you –think he wants to take you to the airport.”

“Tell him my flight got cancelled,” she says, shutting her laptop and standing up. Javi gives her a smirk and disappears back downstairs, no doubt telling Tyler the news. 

Kate steps out of the bathroom, pulling her hair into a ponytail. “Wait, did it?”

But the journalist just gives her a friend a knowing grin, shrugging noncommittally. Kate immediately picks up on it and practically jumps on her in a hug, squealing in excitement. “You’re staying! I knew you’d want to!”

“I will not be driving into anymore storms,” she laughs, hugging her friend back. “But I think there’s more to the story than what you guys show the public.”

Kate scoffs, pulling back. “And you’re in love.”

“I am not in love –I’ve known him two weeks,” she counters, rolling her eyes.

“Two weeks and several tornadoes will definitely make you fall in love,” Kate argues as Tyler knocks on their open door.

He looks like he’s trying to hide excitement, but his eyes and smile give him away. “Hope I’m not interruptin’ anything.”

“Nope,” Kate says, grabbing her bag and slipping out the door with a playful wink. The journalist rolls her eyes as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Javi said your flight got cancelled,”  Tyler says, and there’s a hopeful undertone as he steps towards her.

“Yeah,” she nods, biting back her smile as she looks up at him. “I guess it was smart to get the refundable ticket.”

For a moment, he looks down at her with furrowed brows and confusion. But then it clicks, and the smile that breaks out over his face makes her knees weak.

“How long you stickin’ around?” But he’s reaching for her, hands settling on her hips as he pulls her closer to him. 

She gives another noncommittal shrug as she wraps her arms around his neck. “I guess however long you want me around.”

“Darlin’,” he replies, leaning down just enough for her to feel his breath against her lips. “You’re gonna be here for a long time if that’s the case.”

He doesn’t give her time to say anything else.

His mouth finds hers in a kiss that’s all heat and gravity, like everything that had been building between them –every look, every touch, every word unsaid –crashes into this one moment. Her fingers tighten in his hair, anchoring herself as he deepens the kiss, tilting his head just enough to taste the curve of her smile.

She presses herself against him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palms, and for a second it’s like the world narrows to nothing but this: the scratch of his stubble against her skin, the way his hands slide up her back like he’s memorizing the shape of her, the low sound he makes when she kisses him harder.

It’s not hurried. It’s not hesitant. It’s the kind of kiss that says finally and don’t you dare go anywhere in the same breath.

And when they finally pull apart, barely, he rests his forehead against hers, grinning like he’s found something he’s been looking for his entire life.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” she whispers, breathless.

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “That’s exactly where I want you.”

[literal-tv-menace]

😍😍

You Jump, I Jump.

pairing: jake seresin x f!reader  rating: 18+ (minors dni)  warnings/triggers: smut? yes. word count: 5,463 summary: jake seresin, your childhood crush, makes his way back into town while on leave from his home squadron in lemoore. naturally, it calls for a nostalgic swim at the old quarry. A/N: two of two entries for @echoingbirdsofprey’s summer challenge on discord in typical ‘me’ fashion—right under the wire. Prompt is “Swimming with Jake Seresin”. this is completely un-beta'd. There are likely a shit-ton of mistakes as I posted this in a fugue state at 2 AM. plz forgive any glaring errors. tysm. ♡

❥ masterlist ♡ taglist ❥ 

By the time the last bell of the day rang through the halls of Grover Elementary, the Texas sun still sat high in the sky, summer fully settling in now with its long, golden afternoons. 

Primarily, it meant that you’d have time to finish grading the pop quiz and still be able to enjoy the last stretches of pink-orange fingers of sunlight on the porch swing with your latest romance book and a glass of wine. 

“Remember to bring your books into class for Monday!” you called over the bustling gaggle of six-year-olds as they tore to the coat room to grab their things. 

Straightening a few papers on your desk, you turned to adjust the “Room 6 Countdown to Summer Break!” chart tacked to the corner of the whiteboard, wiping the ‘7’ away and replacing it with a bubbly ‘6’. 

“Miss!” Brett Corrigan called, the edge of his little lisp reaching you from around the corner. 

He’d been doing a great job with his shoelaces recently. Only calling you over when he’d really gotten the “bunny stuck around the tree” as he put it, hopelessly tangled, as you liked to call it. 

Today was an extreme case of bunny stuck around the tree situation. 

Brett huffed dramatically, in only the way that a six-year-old could manage, when you rounded the corner. “It’s stuck, Miss.” 

“It’s okay,” you hummed, crouching in front of him and examining the damage. Tangled. Hopelessly. You’d have to suggest a different approach.  

When you looked up at his face, cheeks smudged with paint from earlier in the day, you smiled gently. “Here. Let’s start from the beginning together.” 

You made quick work of the knot, straightening the laces—offering him a clean slate. You motioned to the shoe then, tapping the top of Brett’s toe. “Try again. We’ll do it together.” 

Brett nodded once, sharply before he set in on the shoes with determination etched into his tiny features. 

Fumbling with the laces, Brett’s small fingers worked through the loops and pulls while you whispered encouragements beside him. His tongue peeked out from the corner of his mouth in intense concentration at intervals, and for a moment, you stayed quiet, letting him figure it out when he paused, unsure. 

When he finally got the loop through and tugged tight on the second shoe, he beamed, cheeks flushed with pride. “I did it!” 

“You did do it, buddy,” you grinned, ruffling his hair. “That bunny made it around the tree and into the hole like it was nothing. Twice.” 

He giggled and shot up from the bench, backpack bouncing against his back as he ran toward the door. 

“I’m gonna tell my dad!” he called over his shoulder, not looking back as he sprinted down the hall. 

You stood slowly, brushing your hands against your skirt, your knees making their usual quiet protest. You turned to head back to your desk— 

And stopped. 

He leaned one shoulder casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his wide chest, wearing an ‘any man’ crisp white t-shirt and his favourite dark blue jeans. His aviators, sitting on the bridge of his nose, reflected your face back at you, and even in the dim school hallway lighting, he looked unfairly golden—tanned, relaxed, a little smug. 

Trademark Jake Seresin.  

Down to that dumb toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth. 

“Since when do you teach kids how to tie shoes?” he drawled, a slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

You blinked, heart doing a small, traitorous stutter.  

You hated how he could literally disappear from your life and reappear, days, weeks, months later and he’d still be able to make you feel things you wanted desperately to bury with just a smirk and a few words.  

“Since they started showing up with shoes and not the ability to tie them.” 

“Ah.” He tilted his head like he was considering something serious. “I still double knot mine, just in case. Think you could show me the bunny trick?” 

“I think you’re well past the bunny trick stage.” 

He stepped into the classroom, gaze drifting over the crayon drawings taped to the whiteboard, the “Countdown to Summer Break!” with its freshly drawn ‘6,’ before finally landing on you. 

He looked like he belonged and didn’t belong all at once—too big for the room, too bright, too Jake. It was the same way he felt in this town. Like something it couldn’t quite hold. Too much for the quiet routines, the polite gossip, the town whose biggest flex was a Buttermilk Festival in August—arguably the worst month for a dairy-based event in Texas, in your very humble opinion. 

And yet, he was familiar, too. I In the way you, at once, knew the lyrics of an old song after the first bar even when you hadn’t heard for years. Something forever present in the woven fabric of your life. 

“So how long were you standing there?” 

“Long enough to witness that kid tie the hell out of those shoelaces.” 

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you. “What are you doing here?” 

“Came home for a few days. On break. My CO at Lemoore was feeling extra generous.” He paused, eyes holding yours. “Thought I’d pick you up. Maybe get you out of here before you get too involved in grading those quizzes on a Friday night.” 

Your brows lifted then, pausing as you gathered the papers with the slanted, crooked writing. “You remembered the pop quiz?” 

“You said something about it in a text last week.” 

“You barely replied to that text.”  

You remembered because it stuck with you—being left on read, especially when you still felt that connection you couldn’t explain. You remembered having to quash the thoughts your mind raced to about why he hadn’t answered. 

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t read it.” 

The weight of that hung between you for a second longer than it should have. He shifted, then smiled again, a little softer this time. 

“So? You got plans tonight?” 

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your voice quieter now. “No. No plans.” 

Jake nodded once, like that was all he needed. 

“You ready to get out of here then?” he tipped his head toward the door, like it were the most natural thing in the world, like he hadn’t been gone, and things hadn’t changed between you two. 

You considered the stacks of spelling tests one last time, the glitter from the morning activity still catching light on the rug at the front of the class, the clock on the wall ticking past your contracted hours. 

“God, yes. Let me grab my bag.” 

He waited patiently while you shut your laptop and tugged on your jean jacket, but you could feel his eyes on you the whole time—watching you like he was trying to memorize what had changed and what hadn’t. You tossed him a look over your shoulder, caught the look in his eyes before it shifted and was gone just as quickly. 

“You taking me to Sonic, or do I have to call your mama and tell her you forgot how to be a proper Southern gentleman?” 

Jake was already shaking his head, stepped toward the classroom door and holding it open as you passed through. “You drive a hard bargain. The usual? Cherry limeade and tots?” 

“You know me so well, Seresin,” you teased, already smiling as you stepped into the too bright fluorescent lighting of the hallway. 

The cicadas had started humming, the sky blooming orange and lavender as you and Jake walked toward his truck—shoulders brushing, just like they used to when you were sixteen. 

Then he said, low and thoughtful, “You ever think about what’d happen if we never left here?” 

You glanced up at him, nudged him with your elbow. “Yeah. You’d still be trying to impress me, and I’d still be beating you at everything.” 

Jake’s grin stretched wide. “Some things never change.” 

You kicked off your flats in the cab, tucking your feet beneath you, and the truck rumbled to life beneath you like a long-forgotten memory, triggered.  

A few blocks from the school and several bars into his playlist, you reached out and turned the volume down, eyeing him. 

“Where are we really going, Seresin? Sonic doesn’t usually require that dumb little smirk.” 

He feigned offense—badly. “You wound me.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

He drummed his fingers against the wheel, the last rays of sun catching his profile like a memory you weren’t ready to feel. “I might’ve made a detour before coming to get you. Jim’s back in town. Cassidy too. We’re heading out to the old quarry after dark—just for a swim, some beers. Like we used to.” 

You stared at him for a beat. 

“The swimming hole?” you echoed, unsure whether to laugh or groan. “Jake, that water’s probably full of leeches and adolescent regrets.” 

He let out a laugh that echoed in the cab. “Exactly. And just my luck: I’m in desperate need of both.” 

You shook your head, but there was no stopping the warmth crawling across your chest. “Who else is going?” 

“Just the old crew. Nothing crazy. Just… a night.” 

You looked at him. Really looked. 

And when you saw what was sitting behind the smile—something quieter, something a little tired, a little searching—you sighed, tucked your feet in tighter, and nodded. 

“Fine. But if something bites me in that water, I’m holding you personally responsible.” 

Jake gave you a mock-serious nod. “Fair. I’ll even let you push me in first, if that helps.” 

“I think you’ll find you’re gonna regret telling me that.” 

When Jake pulled a u-turn to head back to your place, you were already texting your sister. Letting her know (in not so many words) you were heading off into the middle of nowhere with the boy who once dared you to eat a worm and talked you into jumping off the roof of your barn into a haystack. 

Her reply came quickly: “WAIT. Jake? Giiiiiiiiiirl. Don’t get knocked up. 😉” 

You tossed the phone into the depths of your bag as it continued to buzz with a flurry of incoming texts. Your cheeks heated quickly and you turned to look out the window, suddenly interested in the RV park and the fast-food places that zipped by. 

Jake stopped by your place so you could change into your bathing suit. You didn’t pretend not to know what you were doing when you grabbed the cutoffs that made your ass look fantastic and the tank top that made your B cup breasts look like generous C cups. 

When you returned, quickly locking the door while you hopped on one foot to secure a flip flop, Jake was leaning against the trunk of the overgrown maple tree whose roots had pushed up the paver stones on the walk leading to the house. You didn’t miss the way his head tipped up and his eyes watched you in a way that made your stomach knot and unfurl at the same time. 

Keep it together, you reminded yourself as you skipped down the porch steps. This isn’t different than before, he won’t stay. 

Flip flops echoing in your ears as you made your way down the long front walk, your smiled at him. 

Jake whistled low, pushing himself to stand now. “You clean up alright, Teach.” 

The scoff that left you wasn’t convincing, not to your own ears at least. It doubled as a cover for a nervous laugh. Why you were nervous around this boy—man, you corrected yourself—was beyond you. Except, it really wasn’t, was it? 

“Don’t flatter me, flyboy. You’re not even my third favourite pilot.” 

“Oh yeah? Who’s number one?” 

“Snoopy. Then Han Solo.” You smirked, brushing past him as you headed for the truck parked at the curb in front of the house that had once belonged to your parents. 

The sound that left Jake, close at your back now as he trailed you, was wounded. “I get bested by a beagle and a fictional character?” 

“Welcome to humility, Jacob. You could use some.” 

When you reached the truck, Jake was only a beat behind, opening the door for you without hesitation. “I’m letting that slide only on account of us being late, and Jim will absolutely call me a city slicker if I don’t show up on time.” 

You climbed up into the passenger seat, adjusting the hem of your cutoffs just enough to feel a breeze tickle the tops of your thighs.  

Jake shut the door gently after you—uncharacteristically so, like you were something to be handled with care—and rounded the front of the truck.  

You caught your reflection in the side mirror as he climbed in on the driver side: sun-kissed cheeks, that same tilt of your mouth you hadn’t worn in a long time. A little crooked, a little too pleased with yourself. 

The truck roared to life beneath you. 

The truck had left the city limits before you’d broken the silence. You’d already clocked Jake glancing at you once or twice—always quickly, never long enough to get caught when you turned to look back.  

“I’m curious to see if the quarry’s still as murky and questionable as I remember,” you mused, kicking your feet up onto the dash like it was old habit, just as reflexive as breathing. 

Jake glanced at you sideways; a bit longer than he probably should have for a man driving 60 on backroads, past open fields of brittle grass, in the twilight. “Worse, probably. But Jim swears it’s ‘charmingly rustic.’” 

“You’re gonna owe me a tetanus shot if I step on a rusty bottle cap.” 

“Darlin’, I’ll carry you out myself, if it comes to that.” 

It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did. That simple kindness, offered so easily, sent a ripple through your chest you didn’t know what to do with. 

You cranked the window down, turned your face toward the growing darkness, let the wind tangle your hair and cool your cheeks. 

You drove in companionable silence for a while, windows down, country music low on the radio. It was the kind of silence that only ever came with history. The kind that knew where all the soft spots were, the yellow of almost healed bruises, but hadn’t decided whether to press them yet. Hadn’t figured out if the pain of memory was worth the feelings that came with it. 

You reached the clearing overlooking the quarry by the time dusk had bled fully into night.  

The others were already there—Jim’s old Jeep parked haphazardly too close to the edge, a cooler cracked open beside it.  

Cassidy was dancing barefoot near the fire pit, beer in hand, shouting something about a playlist that no one was listening to. 

Jake killed the engine and stepped out, tossing a wave to the group. “Look who I dragged out of the classroom.” 

There were cheers, familiar whoops and greetings, arms thrown around shoulders, handshakes turned to back slaps.  

You were hugged, passed a drink, teased about being late. 

Then someone, likely Jeremy, yelled, “Come on, Seresin! Let’s see if you still got it.” 

Jake, never one to resist a challenge, didn’t hesitate.  

He kicked off his boots and peeled off his shirt in one smooth motion. His jeans followed and you caught yourself staring, transfixed. The hard line of muscle cut down his spine and disappeared under the waistband of his boxers, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. 

Jake Seresin had always been attractive. That wasn’t new. It wasn’t even worth denying. Anyone with eyes could see it. 

But something about the night, about tonight—the flicker of firelight, the scent of pine and beer in the air, the way his skin caught the golden glow—made it dangerous.  

He stood at the quarry’s edge like he was carved into the landscape. Like he belonged in this wild, open space in a way few people ever could. 

You knew you should look away. 

But your eyes couldn’t follow the way your brain told you to keep it in check. Instead, they swept down the line of his shoulders, the broad plane of his back, the flex of muscle just above the waistband of his boxers—and lower, where the fabric clung to the dip of his hips like a dare.  

It was entirely unfair, the way he looked. Tanned, effortless, built like every bad decision you’d ever almost made in high school but grown into something worse—better—with age. 

And then there was the way he moved. Like he knew the effect he had on you, on everyone. Like it had never occurred to him to be self-conscious. 

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, and you forced yourself to pull a deep breath into your lungs, half hoping the cold beer would douse the flicker starting low in your stomach. 

And then, in the middle of your self-chiding—he looked at you. 

Not direct. Not bold. 

Just enough to let you know. Let you know that he knew. 

Heat crawled up the back of your neck. You tore your gaze away too late, caught. Guilty. Wanting. You tilted your drink up to your lips, using the bottle like a shield, but your heart, hammering in your chest wouldn’t slow down. 

When you risked another glance, he was gone. 

Then—splash. A clean, echoing crack of water as Jake hit the surface below the edge.  

Cheers erupted around you. 

You were thankful for the sudden refocus. 

“Still got it!” Jeremy shouted, before he was at your side, hand clapped on your shoulder. “He’s still got it!” 

You chuckled, a bit uneasy, before you nodded and took another gulp of the drink in your hand. 

Jake surfaced with a grin, water sliding off his shoulders, making his skin look slick and touchable and— 

Stop.  

Stop it. 

Get it together.  

His dirty blond hair was slicked back now, darker in the moonlight, and the second his green eyes locked onto you again, it stole the breath from your chest. 

“You coming in or just here to stare?” He smirked. 

You could’ve played it off. You should have. 

Instead, you cocked your head, eyes narrowed, arms folded across your chest, a growing smirk pulling up the corners of your mouth. It was one you hoped masked the way your pulse was pounding in your chest and between your legs. 

“Just evaluating your technique, Lieutenant. It's… passable.” 

He laughed, sharp and delighted, and that glint in his eyes was unmistakable—heat. One that wasn’t just friendly. One that wasn’t innocent. 

Cassidy tossed you a wink and nudged your foot with hers. “You just gonna let him show off alone all night?” 

You shifted, brushing your palm down your thighs, trying to get a grip. “Just waiting for him to wear himself out,” you muttered, not trusting your voice to say more. 

Jake’s voice cut through the air, low and teasing. “That’s gonna take a while.” 

The words hit harder than they should have, thudding low in your belly. Not just because of the challenge in his tone, but because part of you wanted to test it. To call his bluff. 

To find out just how long he could keep going. 

Cassidy whooped and jumped in next.  

Then two more followed.  

The group was in full swing now, laughter echoing off stone, water slapping and splashing as people surfaced and called to each other. 

Beer finished, you stood at the top of the ledge, flipflops abandoned near the firepit, arms crossed loosely over her chest. Watching. 

Jake tread water below, squinting up at you. “Come on, sunshine. You too good for us now?”    You didn’t answer right away. 

Maybe because the nickname sent a jolt straight through you. Maybe because you weren’t ready to pretend that standing here in cutoff shorts and a barely-there tank top, under the weight of Jake Seresin’s attention, didn’t feel dangerous. Not the kind of danger that came with a sharp edge—but the kind you wanted to touch anyway. 

“I’m just waiting for the water to look less like a leech-infested mystery and more like a good idea,” you called back. 

Jake grinned. “Then let me help you make up your mind.” 

And then he was swimming to the edge and climbing out. 

Water rolled off him in rivulets, slicking over his chest, his abs, the trail of hair disappearing into his boxers. His hands came up to rake through his hair, and your mouth might’ve fallen slightly open because—well, damn. Every muscle in his body seemed to tighten under the moonlight, like the air itself flexed around him. 

You backed up half a step. “What are you doing?” 

“Helping,” he said, with that shit-eating grin that always came right before he did something reckless. 

“Jake—” 

But it was too late. 

He closed the distance in five quick strides, hands sliding—hot, sure, and very real—around your waist before you could blink. 

“Jake!” you yelped, grabbing for his shoulders instinctively. “Don’t you dare drop me.” 

“I won’t,” he said, and his voice was low, steady—intimate. His arms tightened, cradling you to his chest like you weighed nothing. “Promise.” 

And then he jumped. 

Your stomach lurched as the quarry disappeared beneath you, wind rushing past your ears and Jake’s laugh rumbling against your chest like thunder. You had just enough time to register the way your hands clung to his bare shoulders, your legs instinctively curling in toward his hips. Too close. Too much. And then the water swallowed you whole.  

You hit with a splash that echoed into the night, the cold shocking the breath from your lungs. 

Then you surfaced, sputtering and gasping and laughing all at once, your arms still around him, his arms still around you. 

“You’re insane,” you managed between gulps of air. 

Jake just smirked, water beading on his lashes. “You screamed like I dropped you.” 

“You practically did.” 

“Sunshine,” he said, breathless but grinning, “if I was gonna drop you, I’d have done it years ago.” 

And that—that did something to you. Right there in the dark water, bodies pressed close, his hands slipping lower on your waist under the guise of keeping you afloat. 

You were in trouble. 

And God, part of you wanted to sink. 

They’d swum until their fingers pruned and their laughter turned breathless, and now they’d settled into that easy lull that came after—when bodies were tired, hearts were full, and the air buzzed soft with embers and crickets. 

Jake had backed his truck up close to the fire pit like they used to, the tailgate down, a blanket thrown across it. Jim’s Jeep sat open nearby, the Bluetooth speaker tucked in the back playing low country guitar and soft vocals. The fire cracked and hissed, flames licking the dark, casting everyone in gold and shadow. 

Someone passed around beers—cheap ones, mostly warm.  

Cassidy nursed one, curled into a camp chair, retelling a story about Jim falling into the pond at homecoming and dragging Jake down with him.  

Jake, sprawled across the tailgate with a damp shirt over his shoulder, let out a laugh and didn’t deny it. 

You were cross-legged on the blanket beside him, one of your knees brushing his, still barefoot, your hair drying in loose waves from the swim. Your fingers toyed with the label of your drink, half-listening, half-watching him. 

Then, somewhere between Cassidy switching songs and Jim lighting another marshmallow on fire, Jake spoke. 

“Headin’ back to Lemoore at the end of the week. Probably going to get assigned to Miramar for a bit.” 

His voice was casual—too casual. Like he hadn’t just thrown a rock into still water. 

You looked over at him, brows drawn. “That soon?” 

Jake didn’t meet your eyes. “They bumped up our schedule. Some new training pipeline starting. Just a few weeks of leave, that’s all they could give me.” 

You nodded, slowly. “Right.” 

The laughter around the fire dulled. Cassidy stood to stretch. Jim made some excuse about early errands. One by one, everyone trickled off—hugging goodbye, slinging bags over shoulders, waving as headlights blinked on and tires crunched down the gravel road. 

Until it was just you and Jake, sitting in the flickering light, the fire low and the night deepening around you. 

He leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the sky. “Still remember all the constellations you taught me.” 

You didn’t smile. Not quite. “You only remembered the ones with good stories.” 

He turned his head toward you, eyes catching the last licks of firelight. “They were good stories.” 

Silence stretched. Not heavy. Just full. Like neither of you quite knew how to fill it without saying too much. 

Finally, you said, “Feels like you just got here.” 

Jake nodded but didn’t respond. 

The fire popped, loud in the quiet. 

You looked down at your hands, at the chipped nail polish and the old friendship bracelet still tied around your wrist from a hundred summers ago. “I hate that I keep losing people.” 

Jake sat up slowly, shifting so he was facing you. “You never lost me.” 

“Didn’t I?” you asked, voice soft. 

Jake’s jaw flexed. “No. You just… stayed. And I kept moving. But I always come back.” 

You held his gaze. “Then don’t wait so long next time.” 

His smile, when it came, was smaller than before. Realer. “I won’t. Swear.” 

You didn’t reach for him, not yet, but the space between you felt like it was humming. Something unspoken but pressing. A tension not quite resolved. A question neither of you had been brave enough to ask out loud. 

The fire burned lower, but neither of you moved to leave. Not yet. Not while there was still something tethering you to the moment. 

You weren’t sure when Jake moved closer—only that you felt it first. 

A brush of his knee against yours. The shift of his arm, slow and deliberate, until his hand found the edge of the blanket beside yours. His pinky grazed your thigh, light enough to pretend it was accidental, intentional enough that your breath caught. 

Neither of you said anything. 

Your eyes stayed fixed on the fire—what was left of it. The glow that barely reached the stones. You could hear Cassidy’s car rumble down the path, followed by silence so deep it made your skin prickle. 

Jake's voice broke it. 

“I don’t want to go back yet.” 

You looked at him, and something in your chest twisted. 

“You will, though.” 

“I have to.” He paused, then added, “But tonight—can we just... not think about that?” 

The air stretched taut between you. You could’ve filled it with sarcasm. With deflection. With every excuse you'd used before to keep your distance. 

But the fire was almost out, the night was already too far gone, and the way he was looking at you—barefoot, hair mussed from swimming, green eyes too honest under the moonlight—made it impossible to pretend. 

So you nodded. 

Jake exhaled once, like you’d given him permission to breathe again, and then he reached for you. 

Not with hunger, not at first—but with intention. A slow, steady pull, his hand at your back guiding you toward him, until your legs unfolded and you were in his lap, knees bracketing his hips, your hands planted on his chest to keep yourself steady. 

You didn’t kiss right away. 

You just sat there, breathing each other in. Feeling the heat radiate off his skin, the way his fingers dug into your hips like he was grounding himself. 

“I used to think about this,” he said quietly, his voice rough with restraint. “You. Me. That summer before I left.” 

You nodded once, your lips inches from his. “I know.” 

His hands slid under the hem of your tank top, thumbs brushing the warm skin at your waist. His touch wasn’t rushed, wasn’t asking. Just there. Steady. Present. 

And when he kissed you, it was slow—achingly so. His mouth moved over yours with a kind of reverence that made your chest go tight. Like he wasn’t just kissing you—he was remembering you. All of you. 

The teasing, the heartbreak, the years in between. 

And just like that, the dam broke. 

You shifted in his lap, grinding down just enough to make him groan into your mouth. His hands moved to your thighs, gripping tight. Your fingers slid into his damp hair, tugging until he hissed. 

“You sure?” he asked, lips brushing yours. 

You nodded, already breathless. “Are you?” 

His mouth curled against your skin. “Haven’t been more sure of anything in a long time.” 

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your hands resting on either side of his face. “Then don’t be careful.” 

Something dark and beautiful flashed across his face. 

“I won’t,” he said—and then he laid you back against the blanket in the bed of the truck, body pressing into yours with all the weight of everything you’d both been trying not to say. 

His mouth was on your neck, hot and possessive, tongue dragging against your pulse before he sucked—hard enough to make you gasp, hard enough to leave a mark. 

“Still so goddamn sweet,” he muttered, voice thick, dragging his teeth across your collarbone as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. “Did you miss this?” he asked, like he didn’t already feel the way your hips tilted up into his hand, desperate. 

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not when he had his fingers on you, slipping past the cotton to find you already slick, already aching for him. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes half-lidded as he dragged his fingers through you slowly. “Look at you.” 

Your hands tugged at his shirt until he helped you strip it off, baring warm, tanned skin and muscle. You leaned up and kissed his chest, teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss. He let you for a second—then gripped your jaw, tipped your head back, and kissed you hard. 

There was no hesitation, no fumbling. Just heat and friction and a long-restrained hunger breaking wide open. 

Jake didn’t waste time after that. He shoved your shorts down your thighs with a growl low in his throat, cursing softly when they stuck to your skin. You reached for his jeans in the same breath, unbuttoning them with fingers that trembled more than you’d like to admit. 

He pushed them down just far enough, then gripped your hips and dragged you to the edge of the tailgate until your legs dangled off. He didn’t ask again. Didn’t have to. 

He lined himself up, dragged the head of his cock through your slick once, twice, teasing. You whimpered, hips chasing him, and Jake just grinned—dark and hungry. 

“Still impatient,” he murmured. 

Then he sank into you in one deep, devastating thrust. 

Your mouth fell open. No sound—just the shock of being filled. He didn’t move. Not right away. He stayed there, buried deep, jaw clenched tight as your thighs wrapped around his waist. 

“You always felt like this,” he rasped against your ear, hips starting to move. “Tight. Hot. Fucking perfect.” 

He didn’t take it slow. He fucked you like he meant it, like he was making up for every year apart, every near-miss, every memory that kept him up at night. His hand found your throat—not tight, just grounding—and his mouth was on your jaw, your shoulder, your chest. Your name fell from his lips between curses, breath shallow, body flush with yours. 

You moaned for him—quiet and ruined—and he kissed it from your mouth. 

“Tell me this ain’t just memory,” he said, voice breaking, pace unrelenting. “Tell me it’s still us.” 

You pulled him down until your forehead touched his, your voice catching. “It’s still us.” 

That broke something in him. His rhythm faltered, deepened, became messy and desperate, like he couldn’t hold back anymore. You met every thrust, body straining for more, and when you came, it hit like a wave—violent, hot, clenching around him so tight he choked on a moan and followed you over the edge. 

He stayed inside you, panting, forehead pressed to your shoulder, one hand tangled in your hair. 

Neither of you spoke for a long time. 

Then Jake lifted his head, looked at you like he’d forgotten how to pretend. 

“You’re it,” he said hoarsely. “Always been.” 

And when you kissed him again, you didn’t say anything back. 

You didn’t have to. 

tags, bb!

sorry if I missed any! ask in the comments and i'll add you!

@mrsevans90 @avengersfan25 @obsessed-fan-alert @lunatygerqueen @khouse712

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