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pullmecloseman · 22 days ago

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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.

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cece693 · 5 months ago

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So I just read a fic on Tumblr about reader acalling their lover 'bro', 'dude', etc. and I thought it was hilarious. Like it's something so harmless but your lover sees it like betrayal. I couldn't think of a person who would allow such a thing, but then comes in Joe Goldberg :)

You’re My Bro—Wait, What?

pairing: joe goldberg x male reader tags: 'bro' zoned, power bottom Joe, no explicit smut but mentions of it, reader is amused, Joe is not, casual turned into relationship, Joe monologuing

You’re starting to think Joe might be just a little too possessive—but hey, that’s half the fun, right? The two of you are standing at a crowded bar, shoulders touching as you each cradle a drink, when one of your friends strides over. You see Joe tense the moment they look between you and him, curiosity shining in their eyes. “So are you guys—?”

“Buddies,” you blurt, before you can think of something more diplomatic. Joe’s entire posture goes rigid as a steel rod. You can practically hear him grinding his teeth.

(Joe's inner monologue): You have got to be kidding me. First, “friend.” Then, “buddy.” Now, “bro.” Every time he does this, it feels like I’m being listed on some discount website: ‘And here’s my pal Joe, 50% off while supplies last!’ Doesn’t he realize he’s basically advertising that he’s still on the market? Am I a placeholder until some new fling shows up? Because I am definitely not a placeholder.

You finish the interaction with your friend, laugh awkwardly, and they move off to join the crowd. You turn to Joe, but he’s already looking at you with that borderline laser-focused stare. “Hey, buddy,” you try, testing your luck with a playful grin. Joe’s brow twitches, and you mentally kick yourself—buddy is basically the forbidden word at this point.

(Joe's inner monologue): He’s doing it on purpose…right? He must be doing it on purpose. Is he oblivious, or am I supposed to interpret this as some twisted come-on?

“Not now,” he says under his breath. “We’re going somewhere quieter.” He practically grabs you by the wrist, weaving through the bar crowd, until you’re both in a dimly lit corridor near the bathrooms. The incessant clacking of pool balls and muffled Top 40 hits fade behind the hum of neon beer signs.

You watch Joe pace in a tight circle, raking his fingers through his hair. It’s endearing and simultaneously a bit intense—like he’s one step away from either kissing you or strangling you. (In Joe’s defense, that’s basically his resting expression.) “Okay,” you begin, leaning back against the wall, “what was that about?”

He whirls on you, eyes narrowed. “You keep calling me your buddy. Or your pal. Or your bro. I’m not some backup plan you keep on the sidelines until you find a better guy to binge-watch Netflix with.”

You chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Dude, it’s just—”

(Joe's inner monologue): Oh, now I’m ‘dude?’ Fantastic. Might as well just write ‘NOT AVAILABLE FOR COMMITMENT’ on my forehead.

“It’s not just anything,” he hisses, crossing his arms. “I’m pretty sure after everything we’ve done—” He lowers his voice, leaning in. “After letting you do literally every position we saw in that questionable YouTube video—maybe you could stop calling me bro.”

You open your mouth, realize no words are coming, then awkwardly clear your throat. “Alright, maybe I have been a little casual about this, but that’s only because we’ve never had the talk. I didn’t think you’d want me shouting from the rooftops about how we’re—”

Joe cuts you off, stepping closer. “And maybe I don’t want a rooftop announcement. But I do expect more respect than a frat-house label.”

(Joe's inner monologue): Just say it. Just say you want me. No big speech, no elaborate plan—just an acknowledgement that I matter. That’s not too much to ask… right?

“Fine,” you admit, swallowing your pride. “You matter. I’m not looking for anyone else. I’m not hooking up with random guys. But, Joe, you gotta give me a little grace. I’m not great at labeling…this.” You gesture between the two of you.

Joe exhales loudly. “Right. Labeling is apparently your kryptonite. Noted. Just...can we skip this weird in-between? Because every time you say ‘bro,’ it sounds like you’re flipping the sign on the door from exclusive to vacancy.”

You sigh, stepping in closer, placing a hand on Joe’s waist. “Dude—I mean—Joe, you’re not replaceable.” You soften your voice. “I’m not looking to replace you. I’m not looking for anything new. I’m good right here.”

He stares back at you, arms still crossed, but his gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up. Before you know it, the tension in that cramped hallway flips from charged anger to charged…something else. Joe’s eyes flash with a challenge, and you swear he’s daring you to make a move. You lean in and give him a slow kiss, feeling him momentarily stiffen before melting against you. It’s kind of funny—he’s so prickly about your label issues, but the second your lips meet, he’s turning to jelly. Well, controlling jelly.

He tugs on the front of your shirt, yanking you closer so your hips align with his. You groan against his mouth, the adrenaline from the argument still spiking through your veins. “Still want to argue?” you tease, pulling back.

Joe’s cheeks flush, but his gaze is steady. “Oh, I can argue and get what I want,” he mutters.

There’s a momentary scramble of limbs, heated looks, and the two of you decide that maybe the corridor behind the bathrooms isn’t the best place for what’s about to happen. Next thing you know, you’re ducking into the single-occupancy restroom—fortunately not locked. You twist the lock shut behind you while Joe promptly shoves you against the sink, eyes blazing.

(Joe's inner monologue): We’ve done this in decent places: my apartment, his place, that weird bookstore corner once (don’t get me started). But a bar bathroom, mid-argument? Maybe it’s not the classiest setting, but I need him to understand: I might be the one on my back, but I’m the one running this show.

He’s on you again—biting kisses, needy hands. Every swipe of his tongue is laced with frustration, wanting to prove a point. The comedic reality that you’re in a dingy bathroom, complete with flickering fluorescent light and a questionably stained sink, is not lost on either of you. But you can’t find it in yourself to care.

Joe’s breath is already ragged when he spins around, shoving you onto the closed toilet lid. He straddles you, controlling the angle despite being underneath—or, technically, on top—of you. You blink up at him, a little stunned by how quickly he’s taken charge.

(Joe's inner monologue): He might be bigger, physically stronger, but I’ve never had trouble taking the reins. Because if I don’t, he’ll probably just keep calling me ‘pal’ until the day we die.

His lips brush your ear. “You’re gonna remember who I am after tonight,” he murmurs, voice husky. “No more ‘bro’ or ‘buddy.’ Unless you’re aiming for round two of this discussion.”

There’s definitely some comedic irony that you were just seconds away from strangling each other verbally, and now Joe’s tugging you into a feverish, borderline out-of-breath makeout. He’s got that gift of making every single movement deliberate—grinding down just enough, leaning back just enough, whispering exactly what he wants.

A short while later—between the occasional slam on the wall from someone in the hallway telling you to hurry up—Joe’s making sure you fully understand your position. He’s the bottom, but he’s the one guiding the pace, telling you exactly how he wants it, and you, well…you’re happy to give it to him.

(Joe's inner monologue): He’s going to call me something else from now on. Not ‘bro.’ Not ‘buddy.’ Something that actually says I’m important. Because the truth is, there’s no one else like me. He’ll see that. By the time we’re done, he’ll more than see it—he’ll feel it.

Eventually, you both emerge, hair mussed, lips swollen, clothes hastily adjusted. The rest of the bar patrons give you a mix of amused and annoyed looks—apparently, you were in there a while.

Joe clears his throat, straightening his jacket with that almost comical air of dignity (as if he didn’t just thoroughly test the structural integrity of the bathroom sink). You wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him close. He doesn’t protest—although he narrows his eyes suspiciously, like he’s waiting for you to casually toss out the dreaded word again.

“So…” you start, leaning in so only he can hear you. “No more ‘bro’ or ‘buddy.’ I get it, loud and clear. Boyfriend good enough?”

His lips part. You’d swear you see relief flash across his face, but he masks it quickly with mild annoyance. “That’ll do for now,” he grumbles, but his hand slides into yours, interlocking fingers. The contact is firm—possessive, even.

You grin, guiding him back toward the bar for that second drink (which you both probably need after the fiasco in the bathroom). He glances up at you, expression softening.

(Joe's inner monologue): ‘Boyfriend’…that’s what I wanted to hear. Maybe it’s not a rooftop shout, but it’s a start. And if he even thinks about calling me ‘dude’ again, well…I’m not opposed to repeating that whole argument just for the fun of making up.

He notices you smiling to yourself. With a mock glare, Joe warns, “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m on to you.”

You chuckle and press a quick kiss to his temple. “Relax, boyfriend. I’m just thinking about how this’ll be one hell of a story to tell…well, maybe not the bathroom part.”

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srjsteel · 8 days ago

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How Leading TMT Bar Manufacturers Like SRJ Steel Maintain Unmatched Quality Across Bars, Binding Wires & Super Rings

TMT bar manufacturers, super rings, and binding wires are the three elements critical to any structural project. These components aren’t just parts—they’re the skeletal framework of everything we build today, from bridges and highways to high-rises and industrial machinery. You don’t cut corners on the bones of your structure, and SRJ Steel knows that better than most. It’s not just another steel supplier with a flashy logo and big promises. No—SRJ has earned its place by consistently delivering steel that doesn’t flinch under pressure.

Let’s understand how leaders like SRJ Steel maintain their edge.

The Core of Structural Strength

No civil project can be considered safe unless the foundation and framework are built with resilient materials. This is where the expertise of seasoned TMT bar manufacturers comes into play. SRJ Steel integrates rigorous quality benchmarks at every stage of production, ensuring each bar offers uniform ductility, a high strength-to-weight ratio, and earthquake resistance.

Their TMT bars go through quenching and tempering using the Thermex process, which results in a tough outer surface and a softer core – perfect for withstanding stress. It’s this consistency that makes a critical difference in high-rise buildings, bridges, and industrial structures.

Precision That Goes Beyond Bars

While TMT bars carry the visible load, binding wire silently holds the framework together. Often underestimated, the role of binding wire is structural glue. SRJ Steel’s binding wire is manufactured using high-grade raw material, ensuring flexibility and excellent corrosion resistance.

Their precision in diameter and tensile strength helps workers secure bars more efficiently on-site, reducing manual error and enhancing reinforcement integrity. It’s not just wire – it’s control over every millimeter that matters.

The Hidden Hero: Super Rings

Another overlooked but essential product is super rings – those circular reinforcements used to tie up vertical and horizontal rebars in columns. If they aren’t manufactured precisely, they risk compromising the column’s shape and load-bearing capacity.

SRJ Steel’s super rings are machine-cut and automatically welded, ensuring dimensional accuracy. This eliminates manual inconsistencies and enhances site speed during construction. The symmetry offered by machine precision isn’t just for aesthetics—it’s crucial for uniform stress distribution.

Metallurgical Excellence Meets Modern Technology

The manufacturing process at SRJ Steel isn’t just mechanical—it’s metallurgical science. From raw material selection to final product testing, every stage incorporates spectrometers, rolling mill automation, and advanced lab facilities. The goal is singular: zero deviation.

When comparing leading TMT bar manufacturers, the distinction lies in adherence to BIS standards, internal audits, and third-party lab certifications. SRJ’s ISO 9001:2015 certification speaks for itself.

Sustainability and Cost-Efficiency, Hand in Hand

SRJ Steel also maintains eco-conscious practices. Their processes minimize wastage, recycle scrap, and optimize energy use. For buyers, this translates into cost efficiency without quality compromise—a win on both budget and environmental fronts.

Choosing Long-Term Structural Security

What differentiates brands isn’t the ability to produce – it’s their dedication to quality even when nobody is watching. SRJ Steel’s products come with batch traceability, consistent test reports, and after-sales support. From builder to architect, this creates confidence and peace of mind.

For decision-makers evaluating TMT bar manufacturers, the question isn’t just about price but long-term assurance. When every rod, ring, or wire meets or exceeds industry benchmarks, structural safety is guaranteed.

Conclusion

TMT bars, binding wires, and super rings are only as strong as the process behind them. Brands like SRJ Steel don’t just manufacture—they engineer trust. Their commitment to technical excellence, process transparency, and performance integrity makes them a name synonymous with structural reliability.

In civil engineering, strength lies in the unseen. Choosing a brand that understands this—like SRJ—is choosing safety for decades.

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freightforwardingindonesia · 1 month ago

Text

Export Rebar and Steel Bar to USA

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daddyslittlecrow · 4 months ago

Note

How about period Sex with caleb⁉️⁉️

YES YES I WILL!!

Oh.

You meant…no, no, of course. It's just a prompt! Not a serious possibility 🤧

Anyway….I love these types of prompts. Menstruation happens whether people like it or not and I absolutely love that the game has 5 such gentle, kind period trackers ❤️

And they would all absolutely fuck you during it if you let them

Not proofread, sue me 🤘

Warnings: 18+ MDNI

Painkiller - Caleb

For some reason, the cramps seemed to be much more intense this month. You spent the last few hours curled up around a heating pad, willing the painkillers to keep working. While the pain was still manageable, you peeled yourself from the sheets, hobbling to the bathroom to change your pad.

By the time you were washing your hands, you heard the door to your apartment shut. Caleb. You shamelessly texted him a while ago, begging him to come over after work so he could take care of you.

You collapsed back into your nest of self-pity just as he burst through the door. “I bought 4 different kinds of chocolate to avoid any tears. Learnt my lesson last time.” He said immediately, a plastic grocery bag in one hand and the other hiding behind his back.

He bent down. His kiss told you how much he missed you, caressing your lips with his. The scent of aftershave mingled with steel consumed you. You breathed him in, urging your racing heart to settle. It didn't help that he was still in his sexy uniform.

Caleb straightened up, a boyish grin plastered on his face. “Also got you these for being so brave.”

Red roses. Emotions swelled in your chest as you admired them. His gesture was returned with a weak smile. “They’re beautiful Caleb. Thank you.”

He left the bag of supplies next to you before walking out with roses and the vase that held last week’s bouquet. While you felt somewhat okay now, you knew the cramps were lurking. Patiently waiting until the painkillers left your system so they could seek revenge.

Thank God you asked him for more. The pills you took earlier were the last one in the box. You brought the grocery bag closer to you, sifting through the chocolate and pads. Oh no. Quickly dumping everything onto the bed, pure panic bubbled.

“Where are the painkillers?” Caleb was walking back into your room, eyes growing wide at your words. His cheeks flushed. He had forgot them, distracted by the flower stand.

You tapped your phone screen, checking time. It was too late. By the time Caleb returned to the store it would be closed. You sighed dramatically. “I guess I'll die tonight then.”

Caleb chewed on his bottom lip, feeling terrible that he racked his brain for a solution. He placed the roses on your nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. The warmth of his finger tips felt soothing as he traced patterns along your back. You were wearing the comfiest things you could find. A pair of sweatpants and one his t-shirts.

His amethyst eyes drank you in like you were the most beautiful creature on earth. Even if you thought you looked horrendous with your hair piled on top of your head and a lovely hormonal spot screaming for attention on your chin.

“You know Pips…i think I read somewhere that orgasms can help. Eases the cramps.” You laughed despite feeling your cheeks start to burn. Despite feeling miserable during your period, it also made you extra…sensitive.

“Nice try. Did you suddenly forget there’s literal blood flowing out of me?” You reached for one of the chocolate bars, trying not to focus on the slight tremble of your hands. “Come back when the river’s running clear.”

Caleb shook his head, hand sliding down to the hem of his t-shirt. Last month he had finally realised you got incredibly horny during your period. But you never initiated anything and he gave you space, assuming you weren't into it. But he decided to test the waters today.

He loved taking care of you and if that meant making you cum so you'd be less uncomfortable, well? It was a win-win in his books. “What if I told you I don't care whether you’re on your period or not?”

Avoiding the burning glare of his eyes, you snapped off a piece of chocolate and shoved it in your mouth. Anything to distract you from the pulsing sensation that started between your legs.

It's not that you thought it was gross to have period sex, you just couldn't stop imagining a grimace on your boyfriend’s face if he looked down. You’d rather just avoid the potential for embarrassment.

Caleb leaned over and grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. Your breath hitched, a dribble of chocolate at the corner of your mouth. He knew his proposal interested you. Your thighs pressing instinctively together did not go unnoticed.

But he could also see you were too in your head, worrying about the worst case scenario. At war with yourself. He just needed to get you to stop thinking altogether.

The pad of his thumb collected the chocolatey drool before pushing it back into your mouth. Your heart hammered in your chest as you felt his thumb go past your lips.

“Suck.”

The command went right to your pussy, feeling it flutter with anticipation. A small groan slipped out of you. Instantly your lips wrapped around him, swirling your wet tongue around the tip. Just like you did with his cock.

Caleb hissed. Restraining his desires was quite the challenge when you hollowed your cheeks slightly to suction him. Your eyes locked on his - eager, waiting. His jaw clenched, forcing himself to ignore how hard he was already - straining painfully against his work trousers.

This wasn't about him.

A soft pop followed as Caleb removed his thumb from your mouth. Then his lips were on yours, claiming them, swallowing the soft moans the came from your throat. He took those sweet sounds as permission to keep going but he wanted to make sure.

He grabbed the material of the t-shirt, peeling it up over your head. Your back hit the mattress as he gently pushed you down. His eyes trailed down to your bare breasts before lowering himself, his body almost on top of you.

He kissed a scorching path down your neck, stopping when he reached one of your nipples. Your back arched, pushing your breast closer to his mouth. He smirked, flicking out his tongue to tease the sensitive bud. You whined. “Caleb…”

“Good girls use their words, pipsqueak.” His hand slipped under the waistband of your sweatpants, then your panties. A wave of embarrasment hit you and you tried to move his hand away.

Caleb tutted before grabbing your wrist with his free hand, pinning your arm over your head. His fingers pressed against your clit and you moaned loudly as he worked in agonizingly slow circles. Every bit of hesitation melted away as your pussy clenched around nothing. His eyes never left yours.

“Tell me what you want or I’ll stop.” He murmured against your breast before sucking your nipple into his mouth. The tempo of his fingers increased, making your hips buck.

“You - ah - I want…you.” The pleasure started to build, making it difficult to speak. Caleb growled against your breast before removing his hand from your panties.

He practically ripped your bottoms off your legs, leaving you bare before him. His eyes hungrily roamed your body before stopping at your swollen pussy.

He didn't expect how aroused he got seeing your wetness tinged pink with blood. His dick was leaking at the sight. You’d feel so much wetter, hotter, if he sank his length into you right now. And because you were extra sensitive, you'd be able to feel every thick inch as he dragged through your gummy walls.

Before you could start overthinking, he gripped your thighs hard and pushed them apart, opening you wider for him. “Just like back and let me make you feel good, beautiful.”

Your fingers clutched the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as he resumed his touch on your engorged clit. You moaned his name like a prayer. He answered by bringing his middle finger right next to your pulsing hole.

“You want it Pips?” His voice was rough with raw need. He ignored your desperate hips urging him to go further, to fill you with his long finger. “Fucking beg for it.”

You let out a sob as his movements on your clit slowed, refusing to indulge you until you obeyed. “Please let me cum on your…ah…your fingers. I need you.”

The air left your lungs as he slammed his finger into your pussy. He grunted as he fucked it into you hard, making your eyes roll back as your body writhed. In. Out. In. Out.

The sounds of your squelching cunt was sending you close to the edge. He added a second digit, stretching your slick walls. Your hips rocked to match his pace, fucking his fingers as your stomach clenched from the intense pleasure that grew.

“That’s it baby. I know. It feels good doesn't it? So tight. Want you to cum.” Caleb curled his fingers, massaging your g-spot as your moans grew louder. “Good girl. Cum for me. All over my fingers.”

The tension in your body finally snapped. Your jaw went slack as you let out a guttural scream, pussy clenching as you chased each wave of your orgasm. Caleb continued to sciossor his fingers into you, loving how your back arched from what he did to you.

After a few more leisurely pumps, he withdrew his fingers. You melted into the mattress, utterly spent. Your flushed face only burned hotter when Caleb immediately went to the bathroom. He returned with a damp washcloth and gently cleaned you up.

“How are you feeling?” He asked softly, afraid he may have been a bit too rough. He just couldn't help it. He stopped cleaning a few times to leave kisses on your stomach.

Despite cringing at the undeniable mess between your legs, he may have been right. Your orgasm seemed to keep your cramps at bay for a while longer. “That was definitely better than swallowing a few pills.”

You broke out into a fit of laughter and he grinned as he leaned over to kiss you. Your eyes bore into his when he pulled away, stroking your cheek with his thumb. You didn’t miss the michevious spark that burned in his gaze.

“I’ll check in with you we get something to eat. I might be able to give you something…stronger if the pain comes back.”

#lads #love and deepspace #lads mc #lnds caleb #caleb x mc #caleb x reader #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #caleb smut #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #l&ds #smut

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clairewritesfanfics · 2 months ago

Text

Villain Creation System Chapter 6

Pairing/s: Invincible x Reader x Invincible Variants

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Attempted sexual assault

CHAPTER 5: This Boy is a Choking Hazard Series Masterlist <<read the synopsis and trigger warnings first>>

Wisteria was fancier than what you expected from a nightclub. Cleaner, too. It was glass and steel and purple to pink neon lights. Artificial wisteria flowers hung from the ceiling and walls.

The place was freezing and reeked of sweat, booze and a plethora of perfumes.

You were close to throwing up from sensory overload when someone yelled your name amidst the chatter and you found Amber waving at you from the bar.

You wove past the jittering bodies to join her.

“Mark invited you, huh?” She didn’t seem mad or jealous, but she did sound defeated.

“Is that bad?”

She shook her head, smiling weakly. “Nah. He’s a good guy, I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. Just don’t forget what I told you. Mark has a way of wriggling into people’s hearts, especially pretty girls’.”

“I won’t. Thanks, Amber.”

“No problem.” She glanced down at your clothes. “You look great, by the way. I love your jacket.”

You resisted the urge to scoff and thought back to several hours ago.

This body’s taste in clothes was similar to yours, if a little juvenile. The system said that it was because it relayed some of your memories to the World Consciousness. Being a tutorial level mission world certainly helped too.

[Do not expect this to be the same in every mission world, though. As I have said before, the World Consciousness is imperfect. A lot of its programming ability goes to replicating your defining physical features like eye color and complexion, but that leaves everything else subject to variation.]

“I get it already, limited energy or whatever, right?” You waved it off, trying to find the best outfit for the club.

The system huffed–it did not appreciate getting brushed off like some nagging wife–and pixelated smoke puffed out of the corners of its screen, dispersing in the air as tiny dots of light. Deciding to get back at its Host, the system waited for you to pick up a t-shirt and then played that buzzer sound quiz shows would use when a participant got an answer wrong.

[Too plain.]

You raised an eyebrow but agreed. Your hand went for another top.

[Too gaudy.]

Fine. You reached for something else–EEEEHH.

You crossed your arms over your chest and glared at the floating holographic monitor.

The system made an innocent face.

[Too ugly.]

[Too vibrant.]

[Too frumpy.]

It didn’t take more than two minutes of getting bombarded with that obnoxious EEEEHH for you to put your foot down. You settled for something comfortable but more party-coded than your usual wear. The most noteworthy piece on you was a denim jacket decorated with a few pins.

Amber was admiring the one shaped like a semicolon while you used disinfectant wipes on the barstool next to her.

“So,” you started, taking a seat. “How was your test?”

She let out an exaggerated sigh. “What’s done is done. Tonight, I’m just going to focus on dancing. Hey, you’re still coming to my party tomorrow, right?”

“Uh-huh.” To be honest, your social battery was drained to half capacity just by entering this place. If this was a purely social endeavor you would’ve already prepared a whole story about your not-grandmother being in a hospital and wanting to see you tomorrow, but this was a job. If playing nice and pretending to have fun is what your job needs then so be it.

Besides, it would feel wrong to say no to her now.

“I like your blouse,” you said.

She wore a gold sequin halter top with a pair of high-waisted jeans.

“Thanks! A friend of mine picked it out for me, I thought it was too much but she said it’d be a waste not to get it. I think you’ll really like her, she’s an architecture major.” Her eyes flickered over your shoulder and she beamed, waving at someone. “There she is now.”

[Ding.]

“Hey, Amber.” The voice was undoubtedly feminine and clear. The kind of voice befitting an important woman.

Red-orange flickered from the corner of your eye.

Amber stood to give the new arrival a quick hug and then introduced the two of you.

The emerald-eyed stranger offered you a smile and her hand. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

[Samantha Eve Wilkins has arrived.]

Long fiery hair fell delicately over bare freckled-kiss shoulders and her green eyes popped thanks to the lavender silk of her blouse. She was even more striking in person, there was no doubt in your mind that she was an important supporting character. Hell, she could probably pass for the main character.

You gave her hand two shakes. “Hi.”

The bartender arrived, sliding a cool root beer towards Amber and asking you, “What can I get you?”

“Lemon lime–” “–peach soda”

You and Eve exchanged glances, then you giggled at the same time.

The bartender nodded and left to get your drinks.

“Amber tells me you’re a total genius,” Eve said, sitting next to you instead of Amber and effectively sandwiching you between the two beauties. If you were as old as this body was, you would have thrown up from anxiety. Luckily, you have learned to be more adaptable before you died.

“I’m not a genius,” you replied, accepting the bottle of lemon lime from the bartender with a smile and barely audible ‘thank you.’

Amber waved her hand. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit. You always get the highest score in every test and pop quiz–and you only make what, one or two mistakes? It’s insane.” She leaned closer and said to Eve, “The professor thought she was cheating so he had her retake a different version of a test in essay form.”

“No way.” Eve’s jaw dropped. “Is that even allowed?”

“We’re not sure, but jokes on him, our girl here–” she gave you a friendly elbow jab “–got perfect marks on that.”

You groaned internally. You weren’t a genius, but you were technically a college graduate, one who already suffered through chemistry, biology, psychology and so many other -ies.

Daily study sessions, a stringent schedule, different tutors and a sprinkle of all-nighters here and there can go a long way. You also genuinely enjoyed learning, and in this reality, you didn’t have to worry about time or money, so you can focus your energy on studying. The only catch is that you have to go above and beyond for one particular, very specific subject: Mark Grayson.

Your interest in other people who are too distant to be considered friends is usually limited. Relationships are hard, at least for you. Humans can say one thing but mean something else. For example, if one is invited for a drink with their boss, technically, they can say no, but they don’t because it is a faux pas to reject a social invite from an important person. One has to smile and nod when another speaks, even when the topic is boring or nonsensical or disagreeable.

Etiquette and expectations. Tradition versus reason.

Confusing, annoying, but necessary, you admit.

You stared at the cartoon logo on your plastic bottle.

Speaking of confusing things, where the heck is Mark?

[Ding. The system is offline.]

[The system was called “useless” and “unnecessary” by the Host.]

[Since this system is so “useless” and “unnecessary,” it shall stay away for now.]

[(˶˃⤙˂˶)]

Little punk.

You rolled your eyes and let it be, deciding to survey the area. According to Mark, tonight the whole club was reserved for the college or something; an immediate celebration after the first major exams of the academic year.

Expectedly, the entire floor was swarmed with young adults, from freshmen to seniors. Some held beer, others went with sodas or juice.

“Great place, right?” Eve asked, pulling you out of focus mode.

“Yeah, it is.” You turned to face her. Sharp green eyes smiled at you.

“I gotta say, I haven’t been to a lot of nightclubs but I can already tell that this is relatively high end.”

“Amber tells me you’re an architect.”

“Well, studying to be one.”

“That’s cool.”

“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. There’s a lot of math involved.”

“Not a big fan?”

“It’s not my favorite subject.”

“Here, here.” You raised your unopened bottle and she toasted with her peach soda. “I despise mathematics.”

Amber laughed. “Really? I thought you’d eat it up for sure.”

“Math is not as fascinating as chemistry. Or biology.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, but what kind of things do you do for fun? Eve and I have been itching for a girls’ night.”

You opened your mouth to reply but the lights dimmed and the multi-colored lasers focused on the stage.

A young man with green hair and studded leather pants announced into the mic, “Ladies, gentlemen and dear nonbinaries; friends and enemies, congrats on finishing the first Hell Week of the year!”

The two girls beside you cheered with the crowd. Not one for screaming, you opted to clap your hands.

“We got a lot of great performers lined up today, folks. Starting off strong, we present–Indigo Muse!”

Your peers erupted into applause.

The black velvet curtains behind him parted, revealing Mark and his band.

The guy behind the drums lifted his sticks and began the count, “Three, two–”

youtube

Your ears perked at the familiar guitar riff–and soon, the entire floor was dancing.

I’m on my way, but I don’t know

What to do or where to go

Despite being the bassist, Mark was the lead singer and of course, he had the voice of an angel.

You felt your back being pushed and your arms getting pulled.

Eve yelled behind you, “Come on!”

“Let’s dance.” Amber dragged you off your stool.

“Wait, I don’t–”

The two were stronger than they looked and you found yourself standing in the middle of the dance floor, getting squished by varied-smelling bodies.

I’m so nervous, I feel sick

I hope I don’t come off like a jerk

You gripped hard on your lemon lime, trying not to vomit.

You lifted your chin and found Mark’s eyes on you.

I went all out, I washed my hair

I searched and found some clean underwear

There was that gaze again, like you were the only thing worth focusing on in the whole room.

It was too much.

She’s so hot, I can’t resist

I don’t know what I’ll do if she gives me that first kiss

Suddenly feeling extra thirsty, you tried to open your soda, but the condensation made your hand slip. The bottle dropped to the floor and a stray leg kicked it away.

“Crap.” Your two dance partners were too preoccupied to notice you crawling away.

“Excuse me, excuse me! Sorry!” You braved through stiletto heels and heavy boots. The smart thing to do was to get a new soda, but you didn’t want to be responsible for someone slipping on the bottle and causing a domino effect of fallen dancers and a really busy ER.

The bottle hit the legs of a nearby sofa, finally stopping.

You sighed in relief, but just as you approached forward, a girl bumped into you and dropped her bottle.

She rubbed her head. “Ow… Sorry.”

“I’m fine.”

You picked up both drinks and stared at them. Huh. Both lemon lime. Both unopened.

“Here.” You gave her one randomly.

“Thanks. Sorry again for, uh, falling on top of you.”

“No harm done.”

She grinned and walked away, her long blonde ponytail bouncing with each step as she disappeared into the sea of people.

You reached inside your jacket for a wet wipe and cleaned the soda bottle from top to bottom.

You twisted the cap open and the system dinged just as you realized–

Shit.

***

Mark didn’t stop looking even when you did. He half-expected you to email with some generic excuse like a relative in the hospital or a dead grandparent, so seeing you here, in the flesh, was a win in his book.

He was happy to see you all dressed up. He couldn’t wait to ask the story behind every pin on your jacket. Would you actually get giddy like you did during philosophy debates? Would your face remain deadpan? Would you lose your patience and get mad?

His well-practiced singing never faltered as he watched you weave through the crowd.

What were you doing?

They already reached ⅔ of the song when you stopped near a sofa to wipe your soda clean.

He recalled applause and his team patting his back. The emcee approached him while he saw you suddenly burst into a panicked sprint from across the room.

“Mark? Hey, dude?”

“Sorry, I need to use the restroom.” He shrugged off his strap and swiftly put down his bass.

The emcee pointed his thumb behind him. “There’s a staff only wash over–”

Mark leaped off the stage and went the other way.

The emcee glanced at his bandmates, who could only shrug.

Mark did his best to dash towards the restrooms, but with this many people he couldn’t blitz his way recklessly.

By the time he reached the girls’ toilets, he had calmed down enough to try and knock first, but he heard screaming and he burst through the door with a kick.

“Princess!”

He froze, and so did you, and so did the large guy you were hitting with a mop. Beneath that football player-shaped guy was a blonde girl crying on the floor. Her blouse was ripped open and Mark could see red handprints around her throat.

The bastard recovered from shock earlier and swung at you. Your legs faltered and you hit the sink with a loud thud.

Mark didn’t breathe–he didn’t think–

all he saw was red.

“You like hitting girls, huh?”

THUNK

“What about me, tough guy?”

THUNK

“Come on!”

THUNK

“Fight back, asshole!”

“Mark–”

“Fight back–”

“Mark.” Cold, clammy palms covered his cheeks.

Clear eyes grounded him. “Stop.”

“Princess?”

You gave him a small smile. “We’re okay now.”

Something cool and wet touched his knuckles. He looked down and saw you wiping away the blood.

He glanced back at you and saw the early signs of a shiner. He used his free hand to cradle that side of your face. “He hurt you.”

“I’m not the victim here.” You used your mouth to gesture behind him.

The blonde girl was unconscious, but you had draped your jacket over her torso.

Mark swallowed. “Did he–”

You shook your head. “I arrived just when he pushed her down. She’ll be… she’ll remember this night, but she’s one of the luckier ones.”

“Luckier, huh.”

You frowned. “You know what I mean.”

“I do. It just stinks that this is what we consider lucky.”

You silently finished wiping the blood from his knuckles and threw them inside a ziplock bag.

Mark cocked an eyebrow. “You… carry ziplock bags with you?”

“You’ll never know.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I saw you run here from the stage.”

“You got good eyes.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, I got better instincts.” He met your gaze. “How did you know what was about to happen?”

You showed him a bottle of lemon lime soda inside a bigger ziplock bag. “She and I accidentally switched bottles. They were both unopened at first glance, but when I twisted the cap, it was loose.”

He examined the container.

“Oh, and it didn’t fizz.”

“What?”

“The soda didn’t fizz. A loose cap is one thing, but then add the fact that it didn’t fizz?”

“You pieced that together fast. I would’ve just thought that it was an old bottle.”

You grinned. “I’ve been told that I’m something of a genius.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

He chuckled.

“Are you okay?” You asked, surprising him.

“You’re asking me? I’m not the victim here,” he parroted your words back to you.

“That didn’t stop you from worrying about me.” Your eyebrows furrowed. “Are you okay, Mark?”

You put your hand over his clean knuckles.

His breath hitched.

You were close enough to–

He heard groaning behind him and you pulled back, standing up.

“Hey,” he heard you speak to the blonde girl. “Do you remember where you are? It’s okay. You’re safe, it’s all right, the police are on their way.”

He heard crying as he looked down at the man whose face was now unrecognizable.

He looked at his freshly wiped fingers.

“You’re okay.”

He then turned around and saw your shaking hands comfort the weeping girl on the floor.

Mark clenched his fists.

***

[Affection: 44%. Darkening: 15%.]

You stared at the pink and black bars while the paramedic cleaned your wounds.

Amber was in tears, holding your hand and apologizing for not paying more attention, despite your insistence that this was nobody else’s fault except the criminal who was currently on his way to the ER.

Eve said she would go check up on Mark. The system informed you that they were conversing on the roof.

The blonde girl, Ariel, was giving her statement to the cops. When she was finished, she walked over to you and surprised you with a hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Unsure what to do, you awkwardly patted her head. “No problem. Anyone would have done the same.”

“I’m sorry about messing up your jacket.”

“Eh, I needed a new one.”

She and Amber laughed.

Ariel stepped back. “Thank you.”

She nodded at Amber and then joined a female officer inside a police car.

Amber’s phone chirped and she squeezed your hand. “You hungry? Eve and Mark want to eat nachos.”

“I didn’t know Eve and Mark were close.”

Amber blinked. She then waved her hand. “No, no, well, yes, they are close, but not like that.”

“Then like what?”

“Well, apparently, they work at the same place. I still don’t know what they actually do, but they see each other occasionally. Eve’s taken though. Some guy named Rex.”

“I see.” For some reason, your heart felt lighter.

***

“Amber said they’re good for nachos,” Eve said, putting away her phone.

Mark stayed quiet as he stared at his hands. You told him to wash them thoroughly but he can still feel the stain on him.

Eve walked closer. “You did good. You saved them.” She stopped talking, but Mark knew that tone.

He hated it because it meant she had something else to say, something annoying. “But…?”

“...but you should’ve held back.”

“He was a rapist.”

“Yes, and I hate him, too, but he’s also human. If you kept going the way you did you would’ve killed him!”

Mark paused.

He was brought back inside that tiny rest room. Before the police arrived, the staff nurse offered to take Ariel inside the attached clinic for treatment. You reassured them that you would follow, and when it was just you and Mark, you locked the door, walked over to Ariel’s attacker and stomped down on his crotch; hard enough that Mark actually winced, hard enough that he heard squishing noises when you lifted your foot.

Face blank, you said to him, “If they ask, tell them it was self-defense.”

He almost laughed. Hearing that was liberating.

He wondered if Eve would have approved. Eve wasn’t a goody-two shoes, but she drew hard lines when it came to crime-fighting. Excessive force and torture were something she balked at.

“I recognize that guy, y’know,” Mark mumbled. “I saved a different woman a few months ago.” In addition to being a prized player at the university, he was part of a powerful frat, a legacy. “I will never forget that smug face of his when the judge let him free.”

“That sucks.”

Mark sneered. That’s all Eve ever says. “If only I–”

“If only, what? If only you killed him? You’re better than that.”

Mark could hear his mother’s voice echo from the back of his mind: “You’re better than him.”

He shot to his feet and turned towards the door.

“We aren’t done here.”

“I think we are,” he snapped back and swung open the rooftop door.

“Oh.”

You were standing right in front of him. “Hi,” you squeaked.

“Hi.” He flashed you his signature smile. “Missed me already? I thought we were meeting at the restaurant?”

“I just needed some fresh air, I didn’t think there was anybody here, sorry. I’ll leave.”

Eve interrupted you, “No, it’s fine. We’re done.”

She gave Mark a look and then smiled at you. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll see you later.”

Mark held the door, stepped to the side and made a sweeping motion with his arm, like a doorman welcoming guests.

“You really like roofs,” you noted, strolling towards the railing. “Do you enjoy looking down at the world?”

“You make me sound like a megalomaniac.”

“Your words, not mine.” You rest your elbows on the guardrail.

Mark joined and you uttered to him, “I have a confession.”

His heart stopped for a moment. “What?”

“When you were punching that guy, I was really tempted to let you beat him to death.”

“Oh.”

You eyed him and he quickly added, “–kay. Okay. I see. So why didn’t you?”

“I was worried about you. You didn’t look like yourself.”

He guiltily lowered his head. “Sorry for scaring you.”

You let out a loud Ha! “You don’t scare me, not even when you had blood all over you.” You glanced down at the city. “What I meant was that you seemed to be in a trance. I didn’t want you to wake up and realize you killed someone in your sleep. That would suck.”

This time, Mark let himself laugh.

***

He was laughing.

Jesus, what a psycho. He almost killed someone and he was laughing?

He really was destined for villainy.

[Affection: 49%. Darkening: 16%.]

You were supposed to pretend to love someone like this? For how long? And how many times before you were free? How many more horrible things did you have to experience and witness?

Mark’s brown eyes widened. “Princess?”

“Hm?”

“Are you–”

You turned away from him and brought a shaking hand to your face. “I’m all right, I promise.”

He didn’t say anything. Instead, you felt his arms slowly, almost hesitantly, stretch around your shoulders.

Permitting this moment of weakness, you leaned your head on his chest.

His arms tightened, folding over you protectively. “It’s okay, princess. You’re safe.”

You shook your head, because he was awful and kind and confusing and he had no idea what he was saying.

[Ding. Affection: 52%. Darkening: 20%.]

taglist: @weponxwrites @ratkidcalledallie @qxuanii @lilacoaks @gluttonousriceflour @phisen @sleepyzzz3

Disclaimer: The images used in this post do not belong to writerclaire. They were lifted from the following sources:

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CHAPTER 7: My mama done tol' me a man… Series Masterlist

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#invincible #reader #y/n #mark grayson #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #imagines #invincible x y/n #vcs #villain creation system #afab reader #afab y/n #CW: attempted SA #TW: attempted SA #READ THE TRIGGER WARNING #Youtube #myscene #i miss the old barbie days

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big-poppa23 · 1 month ago

Text

Echoes Of Silence Part 5.5

synapse: y/n had chosen to stay with her chosen team—red. she’d have to do what she can to survive and then find the dae-ho to protect him from someone who wants him dead.

pairing: kang dae-ho x deaf!reader

contains: blood, graphic deaths

a/n: @katscloudy @f3r4lfr0gg3r this is a pick your ending but if you chose this— here’s more chapters for this one

part six part seven

. . .

Y/N closed her eyes as the doors slammed shut behind the final member of the blue team. The finality echoed in her chest like a drumbeat.

No turning back now.

Red Team it is.

Kill who you have to. Find Dae-ho. That was the plan.

She glanced at the digital timer ticking down from two minutes above the arena entrance, the red glow washing over her face. Two minutes to steel herself. Two minutes before the hunt began.

Then her gaze flickered sideways—landing on Gi-hun. He wasn’t watching the clock. He was watching the hallway Dae-ho disappeared into. His jaw was set, his eyes blazing like a man possessed.

Y/N’s heart clenched. She had to get to Dae-ho before Gi-hun did.

She dropped her box to the floor with a hollow clang, gripping the cold handle of the knife inside. Her hand wrapped around it tightly, pulse pounding in her ears. Breathe in. Breathe out. She could do this.

But then someone shifted in front of her. She opened her eyes.

Player 124. Nam-gyu.

Of course.

He turned toward her with that same infuriating grin, his expression too casual for the nightmare they were about to step into. “Hey, deaf girl,” he greeted like an old buddy at a bar, not a killer gearing up for the next hunt. “We’re playing for the same team now.”

She gave him a stiff, silent nod.

He stepped closer, hands finding her shoulders. She didn’t flinch, but her muscles tensed like coiled wire. “Word of advice, deafy,” he said with mock sincerity. “Don’t just kill one. Kill every blue player you see. The more blood we spill, the fatter the prize pot gets.”

She gave a small nod again, but not because she agreed. She wasn’t here for money. Not anymore.

She was here for him.

Nam-gyu leaned in just a bit, his breath sour with arrogance. “I’m rooting for you, deafy. I hope you don’t die.” Then he smirked, tone dropping, crueler now. “But if your little long-haired translator does? Well… there’s always someone better.”

Her grip on the knife tightened.

Without a word, she lifted her hand and pointed squarely to the center of his chest, gaze sharp.

His grin widened as if she’d just flirted with him. “I always did like quiet girls,” he murmured, biting his bottom lip in some twisted show of charm.

She didn’t dignify it with a response.

Instead, she looked up as the timer above them blinked its final seconds.

3… 2… 1…

A long mechanical beep. The doors creaked open.

Nam-gyu let out a whoop of laughter, throwing his arms up. “Let’s get it!” he shouted in English, striding ahead like this was a damn party.

Y/N followed quietly, knife in hand, eyes darting everywhere.

Her silence wasn’t weakness. It was war.

And she was going to find Dae-ho.

Before Gi-hun did. Before Nam-gyu decided to follow through on his veiled threats. Before the arena swallowed them whole.

Let the game begin.

The doors slammed shut behind the Red Team with a metallic finality, and above them, the thirty-minute timer began its cruel descent.

Y/N moved without hesitation, her boots echoing down the sterile hallway. She kept low, her blade gripped tight in one hand, her eyes sharp as razors. One by one, she tested every door she passed—locked. Every handle turned, every effort fruitless.

The building was a maze designed to disorient. But she had something no map could offer—instinct.

She paused and crouched low, placing her palm flat on the cold floor.

There.

The soft tremor of hurried footsteps.

To her right.

She sprang into motion, feet pounding silently on the concrete as she sprinted down the corridor. A blur of movement caught her eye—blue. A jersey disappearing behind a door.

She didn’t hesitate.

Y/N lunged forward just as the door slammed shut. She shoved it with her shoulder, but the person inside pushed back hard. Her boots slid on the floor as she strained against it, grunting quietly, but then—she stopped.

Silence followed.

Whoever was behind the door paused too, believing perhaps she’d given up.

That was their mistake.

With a guttural exhale, Y/N hurled her weight into the door. It burst open, slamming with bone-crunching force into the face of the blue-jerseyed man on the other side. A sickening crack echoed off the walls as he crumpled to the ground, clutching his bloodied nose.

She looked down, heart hammering.

Player 100.

The bastard who had rallied others to keep the game going. The man who’d shouted about cattle ranches while others died around him.

For a fleeting second, pity sparked. Then it died.

“Please,” he whimpered, blood dripping through his fingers. “Spare me…”

She met his eyes. Cold.

And slowly shook her head.

The blade rose.

But he wasn’t done fighting.

With a sudden shout, he kicked her square in the stomach, sending her flying back against the door. The wind left her lungs with a gasp. By the time she looked up, he was scrambling—up the stairs, desperate, pawing at a locked exit.

Wrong key. Wrong door.

He knew it, and still he tried.

Y/N rose, knife still in hand. Her ribs ached, but she stalked forward.

Player 100 spun to face her, face twisted in rage and fear. “Stupid deaf bitch! You’re gonna die—!”

She lunged. He ducked, but not fast enough. The blade tore through his forearm. His scream echoed through the corridor.

He shoved her off with frantic strength, his bloodied arm sliding off the blade with a wet squelch. He hit the floor hard, crawling. Desperate.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She drove her knife into the back of his leg, pinning him in place as he howled in agony.

She yanked him toward her like a ragdoll, gripping the handle, her face emotionless.

He flipped over, pleading again—eyes wild, lips trembling.

Too late.

The knife plunged into his chest with brutal finality.

Blood sprayed her face. She didn’t blink. Not once.

She didn’t breathe until he stilled.

Only then did she pull the knife free. It slid out slick and slow, and she rose to her feet in silence, wiping the blood from her face with the sleeve of her shirt.

Another breath. Another heartbeat.

And she moved on.

“Player 100, eliminated. Player 067, pass.”

The robotic announcement echoed off the walls, flat and devoid of humanity. But Y/N didn’t hear it.

What she did see was the silhouette leaning against the now-open exit door at the top of the stairs.

She raised her knife on instinct, breath hitching—until she recognized him.

Nam-gyu.

He clapped slowly, a grin curling across his face. “Damn. That might’ve been the hottest thing I’ve ever seen a woman do. I am so turned on.”

Y/N didn’t acknowledge him. She barely spared a glance at the man beside him—Player 333, Myung-gi. Quieter, twitchy, clearly uncomfortable but tagging along nonetheless.

She lowered her blade and descended the steps, blood still splattered across her shirt, her eyes burning with only one goal:

Find Dae-ho.

Nam-gyu’s gaze followed her like a wolf eyeing prey. “I really thought she was just a mute, annoying bitch,” he laughed. “But man, I’d kill to get her in bed now.” He looked down at the knife in his hand, amused. “I bet she’d be crazy in—”

“She’s not important right now,” Myung-gi interrupted sharply, his voice low, warning. “Focus.”

Nam-gyu rolled his eyes but followed as they moved off.

Meanwhile, Y/N kept moving through the twisting hallways, her breath steady, her grip on the blade unshaking. She didn’t even look at the trembling Blue Team members she passed. One huddled behind a half-open door. Another peeked out from behind a corner.

They weren’t her target.

They weren’t him.

All she cared about now… was finding Dae-ho.

She pressed her palm to the floor again, grounding herself. And there it was—a subtle drag, like a body being pulled or someone crawling. Close. Recent. Her pulse quickened.

She rose swiftly, every muscle tense as she followed the faint sensation, knife raised in case it wasn’t who she hoped it would be.

She rounded the corner sharply—and froze.

Jun-hee. Hyun-ju. Mrs. Jang.

Her eyes softened and immediately lowered the knife. Relief, but only a flicker.

Jun-hee leaned heavily on Mrs. Jang, her face pale and pinched with pain. She was limping badly. Y/N’s eyes shot to Hyun-ju, her brows pulling together in silent question.

“She fell,” Hyun-ju said softly, already unlocking a nearby door. “We’re hiding here for now.” Jun-hee and Mrs. Jang disappeared into the room, Hyun-ju pausing to glance back at Y/N. “Stay safe, alright?”

Y/N gave a short nod, watching them vanish behind the door before turning away—her grip on the knife tightening once more.

She kept moving. Different hallway. Different doors. Different faces.

But never his.

She started to spiral. What if he was gone? What if he—

No. She clenched her jaw. She wasn’t going to think like that.

And then—blood.

A thin smear across the floor. Still wet. Still red.

Her stomach twisted.

Without hesitation, she broke into a sprint, boots pounding against the floor as she followed the trail, heart in her throat, praying—

Please let it be you. Let me find you before someone else does.

She pushed forward, eyes trained on the smears of blood that now streaked toward a door at the end of the hall. It pooled just slightly beneath the handle—fresh and still glistening. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she twisted the knob and threw it open.

Stairs.

The blood continued upward.

She didn’t hesitate. Her shoes pounded against the steps, one hand on the railing, the other gripping the knife like a lifeline. The blood curved around the upper landing, leading her down another corridor.

She rounded the corner, breath catching in her throat, prepared for the worst—when she slammed into another body.

A sharp yelp. Her knife flew up instinctively—

But then stopped. Her fingers loosened their grip.

Dae-ho.

His face crumpled with visible relief as he pulled her into a desperate hug, shaking slightly. He clung to her like he’d found the only solid thing in a collapsing world.

Then he pulled back, his voice hoarse, trembling. “Gi-hun’s after me… my leg’s messed up. I don’t know how much farther I can go…”

She nodded quickly, her hands already moving as she signed, ‘Let’s try, okay? Let’s get you to a room. Sit down, breathe.’

She looped his arm over her shoulder, her own arm snaking around his waist, careful not to jostle the wound. Together, they hobbled down the corridor, her knife still clenched tightly in her hand.

She tried the nearest door. It swung open—and her breath caught in her throat.

A ledge. A drop. Nothing below but a black void. One misstep and they’d fall to their deaths.

She didn’t have time to close the door.

A presence behind them.

She tensed.

Gi-hun.

They turned, and Dae-ho pushed himself upright, trying to shield her. “Don’t come any closer,” he warned, voice low and fierce despite the pain.

But Y/N moved faster, stepping in front of him, arms wide, knife ready. Her entire body screamed protective. Gi-hun’s eyes burned with rage as he tried to get around her.

“Move,” he growled.

She shook her head firmly.

He didn’t care. He shoved her hard against the wall, her head snapping back from the force.

And then he lunged at Dae-ho.

The two men collided. Dae-ho managed to knock the blade from Gi-hun’s hand and shoved him against the wall. But Gi-hun was relentless. He punched Dae-ho hard—too hard. Dae-ho crumpled to the ground.

Gi-hun raised a fist to finish it—until he felt the cold kiss of steel against his throat.

He froze.

Y/N stood there, arm rigid, knife pressed into the soft skin of his neck, her gaze like fire.

She didn’t flinch.

She dragged him backward by the collar, forcing him to stand—and without a word, flipped the knife in her hand and slammed the hilt into the back of his skull.

He collapsed like a dropped puppet, unconscious.

She didn’t wait to see if he’d wake.

She dropped to Dae-ho’s side. ‘Are you okay?’ she signed, her hands shaking.

He nodded, face pale but alive.

Relief surged through her. That was enough.

She threw his arm over her shoulders again and guided him away. They didn’t have much time. Two minutes at most.

The next door opened easily. She helped him inside, gently lowering him to the floor.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “My leg…”

She studied him, worry in her eyes. ‘I could stop the bleeding—but it’ll make us vulnerable.’

He shook his head, panting. “No. You’re right. We can’t risk it yet… not if he wakes up…”

But she wasn’t worried about Gi-hun anymore.

She was looking at the door.

Her eyes lit with an idea. She reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out something small and dull—a metal fork, stolen from the gimbap meal.

In silence, she bent the handle back and forth until it snapped. Then she bent the prongs just slightly and walked to the door. Carefully, she cracked it open just enough to slide the fork into the latch. She wedged the broken handle into the prongs, jamming the lock shut.

A makeshift barricade.

She backed away from the door, hands trembling, heart racing as she checked the makeshift lock one more time. It wasn’t perfect—but it would hold. At least long enough.

When she turned around, Dae-ho was staring at her with wide, tired eyes. He was breathing heavily, sweat clinging to his brow, and his leg was stretched out awkwardly, the fabric of his pants dark with blood.

Still, his lips curved into the faintest, dazed smile. “You’re…you’re amazing…”

She knelt beside him, her hands already moving in fluent, rapid signs: ‘Don’t talk. Don’t move. Save your strength.’

He exhaled with a small laugh, like he couldn’t believe she was real. “You came for me…”

She paused, then signed slower. ‘Of course I did. I told you I would. I’ll always come for you.’

His eyes flickered with emotion, mouth parting slightly, but no words came—just a sharp hiss of pain as he shifted too much.

She reached up, gently cupping his face to calm him. His eyes met hers.

‘I need to look at the wound,’ she signed. ‘I’ll be fast.’

He nodded, leaning back against the wall as she gently pulled up the fabric on his leg. The sight made her stomach drop. A deep gash, nasty and raw, likely from falling or being cut while fleeing. It wasn’t life-threatening—yet. But it needed to be cleaned and wrapped.

She pulled off her jacket tied around her waist, tore a clean section of it with her teeth, and carefully pressed it to the wound. Dae-ho gritted his teeth, gripping the edge of the wall to stay quiet.

‘Just a little longer,’ she signed, looking up.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded again, his hand reaching out—finding hers.

She held it, thumb brushing across his knuckles. Then she looked up at the timer through the small sliver of a high window. Thirty-eight seconds left.

They were going to make it.

They were still breathing.

And she wasn’t letting him go. Not now. Not ever.

The door rattled—once, twice—sharp and sudden, the sound echoing in the silence of the room. She jumped, instinctively reaching for her knife, heart hammering.

Someone was trying to get in.

But the makeshift fork lock held.

The door trembled beneath the weight of the attempt, but didn’t give. Seconds stretched like hours.

And then… it stopped.

A tense breath later, that cold, mechanical voice filled the air. “The game has ended.”

Dae-ho exhaled shakily, a low sound of relief in his throat. His head turned slowly toward her, eyes wide with disbelief but full of warmth. He signed, ‘It’s over. We made it.’

She gave a small nod, sinking down beside him with a heavy breath. Her body felt like it had been through war. She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder, both of them still catching up to the fact that they were alive.

His hand found hers, fingers curling around her palm with a gentle squeeze. “You saved me,” he whispered, “but he’ll try again. He’ll try to kill me next chance he gets.”

She lifted her head, meeting his eyes, and signed with fire behind her hands: ‘Not if I can help it.’

He stared at her for a moment—really looked at her. And then his hands rose, cradling her face, trembling slightly not from fear now, but something else. He leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was soft, sincere—his lips pressed to hers in a moment that felt like it existed outside the Games, outside the violence. Just them. Just this.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve someone like you,” he murmured, voice raw with gratitude and something deeper.

She smiled softly, barely signing her reply, ‘Then make sure you live like you do.’

. . .

They made it back to the dormitory in silence, the weight of survival still pressing down on their shoulders. Blood had dried on clothes, hearts still thudded with adrenaline, but the fight—for now—was over.

Y/N only parted from Dae-ho once, quietly moving across the room to check on Jun-hee, who sat against the wall cradling her newborn. A miracle born during hell.

Dae-ho watched her go, eyes never straying far from her figure. His jaw clenched when they flicked over to Gi-hun. The rage was still there, cold and steady. The man might’ve been chained to a bed, but Dae-ho didn’t need reminding—he hadn’t forgotten. Not what he did. Not what he tried.

But that didn’t matter now. Y/N had come back. And she was safe.

Then came the vote.

The pot had risen, each person’s share now ₩1.724 billion. A staggering amount. But the most ruthless players—the ones that would’ve killed for it—were already gone.

And when the final vote was cast… shock rolled through the dormitory like thunder.

17 for X. 8 for O. One abstention.

“Of the 25 voters,” the guard spoke. “16 voted for X, eight votes for O and one abstention. In accordance with your democratic vote, the majority has voted to end the games. And so, the games are now terminated.”

A beat of silence. Then a breath. Then joy.

Dae-ho turned to her, his face bright with disbelief. “This is it,” he said. “We can go home. We made it.”

She smiled, eyes glassy as her arms wrapped around him. It wasn’t just a celebration—it was a release. A release from the nightmare, from death, from fear.

Others laughed, hugged, cried. Some from Team O cursed and shouted, but no one could ruin this.

When they pulled apart, Dae-ho reached into his pocket, holding out the worn piece of paper she’d given him—the goodbye note. “Can I read this? Even though we’re…”

Before he could finish, she gently took it from his hand and tore it into pieces. The shredded paper fell between them like snow.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ she signed with a small smile.

He nodded, slipping a hand into his other pocket. From it, he pulled the old note she’d given him nights ago—her number and address. It had survived everything. So had they.

“I’m gonna find you again,” he said, voice soft but firm. “I promise.”

She leaned in and gave him a small kiss, tender and filled with unspoken relief.

Then she turned, walking to her bunk to gather the only two things she owned now: her notebook and her dog-eared sign language book. But her steps slowed when she passed Gi-hun.

Still handcuffed. Still silent.

Still staring at nothing.

Her jaw tensed, but she walked to him anyway, notebook already open in her hands. She squatted down in front of him, her eyes calm but sharp. She held the notebook up for him to read.

‘Don’t blame Dae-ho. It’s not his fault. It never was. He got scared. People were going to die anyway, whether the magazines got there or not. It was a risky plan and everyone knew that.’

Gi-hun read it, but said nothing. His gaze dropped again, hollowed by grief.

She hesitated… then wrote something else. She gently placed the new note on his lap, then turned and walked away without another look.

The final note read:

‘I’m sorry about your friend. I’m sorry about everyone you lost. But people die. That’s life. It’s unfair. And sometimes… you just have to live with the hand you were dealt.’

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elryuse · 4 months ago

Text

She's Unforgettable

Winter X Male Reader

Tags : Bartender Male Reader, Angsty, Depression, Kissing, Teasing, Romance, Words : 4,203 Words

The bar was empty, save for the soft hum of the neon sign flickering outside. You wiped down the counter for the third time, the rag slipping through your fingers as you paused. The air smelled of whiskey and regret, the kind of place people came to bury their secrets or stumble into new ones. Normally, you liked it this way — quiet, predictable, nothing but the clink of glasses and the occasional murmur of the TV in the corner. But tonight, the stillness felt heavier, like it was waiting for something. Or someone.

Then she walked in.

Winter.

Her name suited her — cold, sharp, beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. She didn’t look like a regular; her eyes scanned the room like she was testing the water, hesitant but determined. She slid onto a stool at the end of the bar, her coat pooling around her like a shadow. You moved toward her, your steps deliberate, though you couldn’t say why.

“What’ll it be?” Your voice was steady, but something in the air between you wasn’t.

She looked up, and her gaze pinned you. Not in a flashy, dramatic way. It was quieter than that. Like she was seeing past the bartender, past the man, to something raw and unguarded. “Something strong,” she said, her voice low, almost a murmur. “But not too sweet.”

You nodded, turning to the shelves behind you. Your hands moved automatically, pulling a bottle of bourbon, but your mind was elsewhere. Why her? Why now? You poured the drink with practiced ease, sliding it across the counter. She reached for it, and her fingers brushed yours. Just barely. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

The warmth of her skin lingered, quiet and uncertain, like she hadn’t meant to reach across that distance. But you didn’t pull away. You froze, and in that stillness, something unspoken rose between you.

“I feel safe here,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the bar.

You didn’t respond. Not because you didn’t want to. You just didn’t know how. It had been so long since someone looked at you like that — not as a bartender, not as a mistake in the shape of a man, but something steady. Someone she could trust.

But it scared the hell out of you.

Because women like Winter didn’t stay. People with ghosts behind their smiles and cities tucked beneath their eyes didn’t settle for dim bars and broken men. They drifted. And you — you didn’t get to be the anchor. You were just the stop between storms.

Still, that touch lingered. You carried it in your palms, felt it each time you wiped a glass or struck a match for someone’s cigarette. It was ridiculous, but it was real.

She kept coming back.

And she stayed longer now. Sometimes until the chairs were stacked, the lights were low, and the city outside felt like a distant memory. The bar became a world of its own — dim, quiet, and raw. It wasn’t much, but in those hours, it was enough.

She talked more. Sometimes barely above a whisper, like her truths might vanish if she spoke too loud.

“I used to dance,” she said one night, her eyes drifting toward the dusty speaker playing Chet Baker in the background. “Ballet, jazz, contemporary. I used to move like I had somewhere to go.”

“What happened?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

She shrugged, took a sip of her drink. “Life. A cracked rib, an empty wallet, a man who said he loved me and left bruises instead.”

Your grip tightened around the bar rag, the fabric digging into your palm.

She didn’t cry. Winter never cried. But her voice wavered when she added, “I wanted to leave Seoul. Change my name. Become someone else. But I never left. The city clung to me. Or maybe I clung to it.”

You told her things too. Not all at once. In pieces.

How you used to sketch buildings in the margins of your notebooks. How you’d once dreamed of architecture school, of leaving behind a legacy of glass and steel. How your hands, once meant to build, now just poured.

She listened. Really listened. Her gaze never wandered. She absorbed everything like it mattered.

And for the first time in years, you didn’t feel invisible.

One night, she leaned closer, her chin resting against the back of her hand. Her eyes held yours, and for a moment, the bar faded away.

“Do you believe in second chances?” she asked.

You paused, then glanced at her. “No,” you answered honestly. “But I believe in people who need them.”

That earned you the faintest of smiles.

The night deepened.

You were cleaning up, stacking glasses, when she moved from her stool and walked behind the bar. You didn’t stop her. She stood beside you in that quiet space that only two people carrying too much can share without words.

She picked up a lemon wedge, rolled it between her fingers, then set it down.

“I don’t think I’m the kind of girl you should want,” she said. “I ruin things.”

You laughed under your breath. Not at her. At the irony.

“I’ve been broken for a long time, Winter,” you murmured. “Maybe ruined things just fit together easier.”

She looked at you for a long time.

And then she kissed you.

Not deeply. Not hungrily. Just… softly. Like she was asking a question she didn’t expect an answer to.

Her lips were cold from her drink, but her breath was warm.

You didn’t kiss her back. Not yet. But your hands twitched like they wanted to. You were scared, and she felt it. She pulled away, but not far. Just enough to see you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” she said. “I just don’t want to feel alone tonight.”

So you let her stay.

You locked the door. Dimmed the lights. The two of you sat on the floor of the bar with your backs against the liquor shelf, drinking straight from the bottle, knees almost touching.

She talked about stars she’d never seen. Oceans she wanted to visit. Names she’d tried on in her head but never spoken aloud.

You talked about your father. How he used to build model trains and let you help. How he died before you graduated. How you stopped drawing after that.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was something else.

It was survival, woven between sips of whiskey and unfinished stories.

And when she finally leaned against your shoulder and drifted off — her breath steady, her chest rising slow — you realized you weren’t afraid anymore.

You were something worse.

You were hopeful.

And hope was dangerous.

Because girls like Winter didn’t stay.

But she stayed that night.

And when she left, the door didn’t close completely.

It stayed ajar, like an invitation — or maybe a warning.

You didn’t know which.

But when she walked back in the next night, her eyes searching for yours, you knew you were already in too deep.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” you said, your voice low.

She smiled, but it was tinged with something sad. “Neither did I.”

She stepped closer, and this time, her hand found yours.

The bar was empty, but it felt full.

And then, without a word, she kissed you again — harder this time, like she wasn’t afraid to pull you under.

You kissed her back.

And everything else fell away.

She pulls back, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and desire. Her breath is shallow, her lips trembling as they part to speak. “I want to show you something,” she whispers, her voice low, almost fragile, like it might shatter if she spoke too loud.

You don’t hesitate. You nod, the weight of her gaze pulling you forward. Her fingers brush against yours, cold but electric, as she leads you to a small room in the back of the bar. The door creaks shut behind you, the sound echoing in the dimly lit space. The air is thick with anticipation, heavy with the scent of old wood and something unspoken.

The room is small, barely more than a storage closet. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with dusty bottles and forgotten supplies. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting a soft, yellow glow over everything. Winter stands in the center of it all, her back to you, her shoulders tense.

She turns slowly, her eyes meeting yours. There’s a vulnerability in them that you’ve never seen before. “I’ve been running for so long,” she says, her voice trembling. “From him. From myself. But when I’m with you, I feel… I feel like I can stop. Like I can breathe.”

Your heart aches for her. Without thinking, you step closer, your hands reaching out to cup her face. Her skin is cold, but it warms beneath your touch. “You don’t have to run anymore,” you murmur, your thumbs brushing gently over her cheeks. “Not from me.”

She leans into your touch, her eyes closing for a moment. When she opens them again, there’s a fire there, a hunger that burns through the fear. “I want to trust you,” she says, her voice a whisper. “But I’m scared. Scared that I’ll ruin this. Scared that I’ll ruin you.”

You shake your head, your hands sliding down to rest on her shoulders. “You won’t ruin me,” you say firmly. “And you’re not alone anymore. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re scared of, you don’t have to face it alone. Not anymore.”

Her breath hitches, and for a moment, she just looks at you. Then, without warning, she kisses you. It’s not soft, like before. It’s deep, desperate, fueled by a hunger that’s been buried for far too long. Her hands clutch at your shirt, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your arms wrapping around her, holding her as if she might disappear.

Her lips are cold, but they warm quickly, melting against yours. The kiss is wild, unrelenting, a storm that sweeps you both away. She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against yours. “I need you,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I need to feel something real. Please.”

You don’t need to be asked twice. Your hands slide down her sides, feeling the way her body trembles beneath your touch. She’s delicate, fragile, but there’s a strength in her that’s undeniable. She’s a survivor, and in this moment, she’s choosing to live.

Your lips find hers again, and the kiss deepens. Her hands are everywhere, tugging at your clothes, seeking the warmth of your skin. You let her take control, let her guide the pace, because this is her moment. Her need. And you’re more than willing to give her whatever she needs.

Her fingers fumble with the buttons of your shirt, and you help her, shrugging it off and letting it fall to the floor. Her hands splay across your chest, her touch sending shivers down your spine. She’s hesitant at first, as if she’s afraid to touch you, but then her fingers dig into your skin, her nails leaving faint marks in their wake.

“You’re real,” she murmurs, her voice filled with awe. “You’re here. You’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m here,” you assure her, your hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She kisses you again, her lips moving against yours with a desperation that’s almost painful. Her hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, and you let her unbutton them, let her push them down until they pool at your feet.

She’s trembling, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. “I’ve never felt like this before,” she admits, her voice barely audible. “I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you.”

Her words are a plea, a confession, and you can’t ignore them. Your hands move to the hem of her shirt, and you pull it over her head, revealing the soft, pale skin beneath. She’s beautiful, her body a map of scars and stories, each one a testament to her strength.

Your lips find her neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against her skin. She gasps, her hands tangling in your hair, holding you close. “I need you,” she whispers again, her voice breaking. “Please.”

You lift her, carrying her to the small, makeshift cot in the corner of the room. She’s light in your arms, her body fitting perfectly against yours. You lay her down gently, your eyes never leaving hers. “Are you sure?” you ask, your voice low, rough with desire.

She nods, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and need. “I’m sure,” she says, her voice trembling. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You kiss her again, your hands exploring every inch of her body. She’s responsive, her hips arching up to meet your touch. She’s desperate, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as you strip away the last of her clothing.

Her body is a revelation, a masterpiece of curves and softness. You kiss your way down her neck, her chest, her stomach, savoring every gasp, every moan that escapes her lips. When your mouth finally finds her, she nearly comes undone, her hands clutching at the sheets, her back arching off the cot.

“Please,” she begs, her voice a broken whisper. “I need you.”

You can’t deny her. You move up her body, your lips finding hers again. She’s trembling, her legs wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer. When you finally enter her, she lets out a cry, her nails digging into your back.

She’s tight, warm, and you have to fight to hold back, to keep from losing yourself in the feel of her. But she’s the one who sets the pace, her hips rocking against yours, her breath hot against your ear. “Don’t stop,” she pleads, her voice trembling. “Please, don’t stop.”

You don’t. You couldn’t if you wanted to. She’s everything, her body, her voice, her need. She’s consuming you, leaving no room for anything else. Her hands clutch at your back, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

When she finally comes, it’s with a cry that’s half pain, half pleasure. Her body trembles beneath you, her nails digging into your skin. You follow her over the edge, your own release tearing through you like a wildfire.

For a long moment, you just stay there, wrapped in each other, your breaths mingling in the quiet of the room. She’s trembling, her body pressed tight against yours. “You’re real,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” you assure her, your arms tightening around her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She looks up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and hope. “Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise me you won’t leave.”

“I promise,” you say, your voice firm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She kisses you again, her lips soft against yours. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice trembling. “Thank you for being here.”

You hold her close, your heart aching for her. She’s been through so much, suffered in ways you can’t even imagine. But in this moment, she’s here, with you, and that’s all that matters.

The room is quiet, the air heavy with the weight of what’s just happened. She’s trembling in your arms, her body pressed tight against yours. “I’m scared,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I’m scared of what happens next.”

“Whatever happens,” you say, your voice firm. “We’ll face it together.”

She looks up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and hope. “Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise me we’ll face it together.”

You don’t say a word. You don’t need to. The way you cradle her in your arms, the way your fingers brush against her skin—it’s enough. You lift her effortlessly, her body light against your chest, her breath hot against your neck. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t question. She just clings to you, her arms looping around your shoulders, her face buried in the crook of your neck.

The walk to your apartment is a blur. The city lights blur into streaks of gold and red, the night air cool against your skin, but all you feel is her. Her warmth. Her weight. Her trust. She’s quiet, but you can feel her heart racing, her fingers gripping you tighter with every step.

You reach your door, fumble with the keys, and push it open. The apartment is dim, the moonlight spilling through the blinds, casting long shadows across the floor. You don’t turn on the lights. You don’t need to. The way she looks at you, the way her eyes catch the faint glow—it’s all you need.

You set her down gently, her feet barely touching the ground, and she doesn’t let go. Her hands slide up to your face, her fingers trembling as they trace the line of your jaw. “I’m scared,” she whispers again, her voice barely audible, but the words cut through the silence like a knife.

“Don’t be,” you murmur, your voice low, steady. “I’m here.”

Her lips press against yours, soft at first, tentative, like she’s testing the waters. But when you don’t pull away, when your hands settle on her hips and pull her closer, she deepens the kiss. Her tongue slips past your lips, and the taste of her—whiskey, salt, and something sweet—sends a shiver down your spine. Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and you let her. You let her take what she needs, give her what she’s asking for without words.

You back her up against the wall, your body pinning hers, and she gasps into your mouth, her chest rising and falling with every breath. Her hands slide down your back, nails digging into your skin, and the pain is sharp, immediate. But it’s not unwelcome. It’s a reminder that she’s here, that she’s real, that she needs you as much as you need her.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispers, her voice breaking, and you can hear the fear in it, the uncertainty.

“You won’t,” you promise, your lips brushing against hers. “You could never.”

She kisses you again, harder this time, more desperate, and you match her pace, your hands roaming her body, exploring every curve, every dip. Her breath hitches when your fingers slide beneath the hem of her shirt, tracing the soft skin of her waist, and she arches into your touch, her body begging for more.

You pull her shirt over her head, tossing it aside, and she stands there in nothing but her jeans and a black lace bra that clings to her skin like a second shadow. She’s beautiful, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen, and for a moment, you just stare, drinking her in, memorizing every inch of her.

“Don’t stop,” she pleads, her voice trembling, and you don’t. You can’t.

Your hands move to the clasp of her bra, fumbling slightly, but she helps you, her fingers brushing against yours as the fabric falls away. Her breasts are small but perfect, the nipples hard and begging for attention, and you give it to her. Your mouth descends on one, your tongue swirling around the peak, and she gasps, her hands gripping your shoulders for support. Her head falls back, her eyes fluttering shut, and you take your time, exploring every inch of her, making her feel things she’s probably never felt before.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur against her skin, your lips trailing up to her neck, and she shivers, her body trembling under your touch.

“I don’t feel beautiful,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, and it breaks your heart.

“You are,” you insist, your hands cupping her face, forcing her to look at you. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her eyes search yours, and for a moment, she looks like she doesn’t believe you. But then she kisses you again, her lips soft but insistent, and any doubt fades away. She’s here. She’s real. And she’s yours—at least for tonight.

You pick her up again, her legs wrapping around your waist, and carry her to the bed. The mattress dips under your weight as you lay her down, your body hovering over hers, and she looks up at you with those piercing eyes, her lips swollen from your kisses.

“I’m scared,” she whispers again, and this time, you know why. She’s scared of what this means, scared of letting someone in, scared of being vulnerable. But she’s also scared of losing this, of losing you.

“I’m here,” you repeat, your hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She nods, her eyes filling with tears, and you kiss her again, slower this time, more tender. Your hands move to her jeans, unbuttoning them, pulling them down her legs, and she helps you, her body lifting to make it easier. She’s naked now, completely exposed, and she’s beautiful. More beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen.

You strip off your own clothes, your eyes never leaving hers, and when you’re both bare, you pause, giving her a moment to adjust, to process. But she doesn’t need it. Her hands reach for you, pulling you down to her, and you don’t resist.

The first thrust is slow, careful, and she gasps, her nails digging into your back. But she doesn’t tell you to stop. She pulls you closer, her legs wrapping around your waist, and you move inside her, your bodies falling into a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing.

“You feel so good,” she whispers, her voice trembling, and you can feel the truth in her words. She’s tight, warm, and so wet, and you can’t believe you’re inside her, that she’s letting you be this close, this intimate.

“You feel amazing,” you murmur, your lips brushing against hers, and she kisses you again, her body arching into yours.

The pace quickens, the bed creaking beneath you, and she moans, the sound muffled by your mouth. Her hands roam your body, exploring every inch of you, and you let her. You let her take what she needs, give her what she’s asking for without words.

“I’m close,” she whispers, her voice breaking, and you nod, your thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate.

“Let go,” you murmur, your lips brushing against her ear. “I’ve got you.”

And she does. Her body tightens, her nails digging into your skin, and she cries out, her orgasm washing over her like a wave. You follow her, your own release hitting you hard, and for a moment, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of you, lost in each other, and it’s perfect.

When it’s over, you collapse beside her, your bodies tangled together, your breaths mingling. She’s quiet, her eyes closed, but you can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, against your chest.

“I’m scared,” she whispers again, her voice barely audible, and this time, it’s different. She’s not scared of what just happened. She’s scared of what comes next.

“We’ll face it together,” you promise, your hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t need to. Her body curls into yours, her head resting on your chest, and you hold her, your fingers tracing patterns on her skin.

“I’m here,” you murmur, your voice low, steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. The way she clings to you, the way her breath evens out as she drifts off to sleep—it’s enough.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“Let go,” you murmur, your lips brushing against her ear. “I’ve got you.”

When it’s over, you collapse beside her, your bodies tangled together, your breaths mingling. She’s quiet, her eyes closed, but you can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, against your chest.

“I’m scared,” she whispers again, her voice barely audible, and this time, it’s different. She’s not scared of what just happened. She’s scared of what comes next.

“We’ll face it together,” you promise, your hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t need to. Her body curls into yours, her head resting on your chest, and you hold her, your fingers tracing patterns on her skin.

“I’m here,” you murmur, your voice low, steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. The way she clings to you, the way her breath evens out as she drifts off to sleep—it’s enough.

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