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sleekervae · 23 days ago

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Solo Mode [4] jackson wang x fem!oc

Masterlist

Pairing: jackson wang/fem!oc

Summary: locked out

Warnings: strong language, alcohol consumption, coding speak

Word Count: 4.7k

Heather sat stiffly on the edge of Jackson’s couch, boots kicked off beside the legs like she was afraid they might scuff the floor. The place was nicer than she expected—sleek, minimal, curated to hell and back. It wasn’t sterile, though. It was lived-in, warm even. That pissed her off.

The walls were dotted with framed tour photos—Jackson on stage mid-jump, sweat-streaked and grinning under neon lights; the other members of Got7 tangled in laughter in some backstage candid. Solo-era promo shots were scattered like intentional accidents: one moody black-and-white print of him staring off-camera, shirt half-unbuttoned, of course. There were vinyls mounted like trophies, and a shelf with a few fan-made trinkets—a stuffed alpaca wearing his logo tee, a cup sleeve from some café event. His whole career, laid out like a museum exhibit.

Heather’s eye twitched.

Must be nice, she thought bitterly, folding her arms. A whole shrine to your own ego.

In the open-concept kitchen, Jackson moved around like this was a sleepover. He was boiling water in a glass kettle, pulling mugs from a cabinet so organized it hurt her soul. Everything matched. Of course it did.

“You okay with peppermint?” he called over.

“It’s fine,” she said, dry as dust.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes flicking down to her stockinged feet and then back up to her face. “You look uncomfortable.”

“That’s because I am.”

“Right. Well, if it helps, I’m only, like… thirty percent judging you.”

Heather gave him a look that could cut through bulletproof glass.

Jackson snorted and turned back to the kettle. “Hey, relax Murder Eyes. I'm only messing with you.”

She rolled her own eyes, leaning back against the couch—but only a little. Not enough to get cozy. No way in hell she was letting her body think this was a place of rest. Especially not with the smell of whatever cologne he used still clinging to the air like a warning.

God, even his throw pillows were color-coordinated. She hated him.

Mostly.

A little.

Maybe.

But that was neither here nor there. What mattered was surviving the next however-many minutes until Louis showed up with her spare keys. Then she could get back into her apartment, her fortress of solitude, and forget this awkward detour ever happened.

Her eyes drifted to a photo on a nearby shelf—Jackson laughing with some older man, arm slung around his shoulder like they were brothers. His father?

It startled her how human he looked in that photo. Not curated. Not charming. Just… real.

That pissed her off even more.

Jackson set the mug in front of her like he didn’t trust her not to bolt. Heather accepted it reluctantly, her fingers curling around the ceramic for warmth more than politeness.

He dropped into a leather armchair across from her, elbows on knees, hands clasped around his own tea. A beat passed in silence, just the soft hum of his air purifier and the distant sound of a faucet dripping in the kitchen.

Heather cleared her throat. “So… you’re like… an actual famous person?”

Jackson snorted, eyes lifting to hers. “That sounded physically painful for you.”

“It was,” she said, deadpan. “Don’t let it inflate your ego.”

“Too late,” he said with a crooked smile.

She sipped her tea—minty, sharp, calming despite herself. “I figured you were just a wanna-be influencer or something.”

“Ouch,” he said. “I’ve been insulted in interviews, but that’s a first.”

“So, what’s the deal then?” she pressed, arching a brow. “Popstar by night, nuisance by early morning?”

He leaned back slightly, mug in one hand, the other pushing hair out of his face. “Started with a group—back in Korea. GOT7. We toured a lot. Did the whole polished, choreographed, eat-sleep-practice-repeat thing for years. Then solo projects. My own label. A world tour that felt like it aged me a decade.”

“Wait.” She leaned forward a little. “You have a label? Like—a real one?”

Jackson nodded. “Team Wang.”

She blinked. “Can I be honest?”

“Always.”

“That’s so fucking cringe,” she said, deadpan. “I’m sorry.”

To her surprise, Jackson let out a low laugh. “Fair. But it looks great on sweatshirts.”

"Priorities." Heather raised an eyebrow, despite herself. “And now you’re… here.”

“Now I’m recovering,” he said simply. “Trying to write again. Trying to find something that feels like mine. Something I can breathe in.”

The rawness in his voice wasn’t theatrical. It hit her sideways. Just a breath of it, and it felt too intimate. Too real.

He saw her flinch from the sincerity and, perhaps out of mercy, offered a smirk to soften it.

“I’m not always shirtless and drunk, you know,” he added.

“I’ve only seen evidence to the contrary,” she shot back.

“Fair.” He took a sip, then gestured toward her with the rim of his mug. “What about you? What’s your deal, Murder Eyes?”

She blinked. “Me?”

“No, the other woman who threatened to glass me for playing Cardi B.”

Heather looked down into her tea, bracing. “I code. I architect frameworks for logic systems and interactive mechanics.”

Jackson stared at her. “I understood maybe three of those words.”

She shrugged. “I write software. Mostly mechanics for video games.”

"You make video games?"

"Yes."

He nodded. “That's pretty badass.”

Heather squinted at him. “Are you—complimenting me?”

“Relax,” he said, grinning. “I’ll balance it out later with something patronizing.”

She exhaled through her nose—close to a laugh.

He took another sip. “So, you like it?”

“I like when I’m left alone to do it.”

“Touché.”

They sat in a rare, quiet moment. For once, no thumping bass, no biting remarks. Just two exhausted people with cooling tea and cracked defenses.

Jackson nudged his mug with his thumb, watching the steam curl up before glancing over at her.

“So,” he said, voice softer now. “How’d you get into all that coding shit?”

Heather shrugged one shoulder. “Needed an elective in high school, and computer sciences was the only one with spots left. Figured I’d coast through it while doing something else with my life.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

She cracked a faint smirk. “And I was dead wrong. I got sucked in. There was something about making things work the way I wanted. Tweaking, fixing, breaking it on purpose just to rebuild it better. It was… addicting.”

He watched her with a kind of quiet interest she didn’t like being on the receiving end of.

“And you just stuck with it?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Turns out I’m good at it. Also turns out tech bros hate when a woman walks into a room and knows more than they do. So I stayed.”

Jackson grinned, low and appreciative. “Bet they love that.”

“They absolutely fucking don’t,” she muttered, sipping her tea.

Another beat of silence.

“I get that,” he said after a pause. “The needing to prove yourself part. Everyone thinks the industry’s all glitz. But it’s mostly just surviving long enough to still want to make anything.”

Heather looked over at him, expression unreadable. “Is that why you’re here? Hiding from the glitz so you can want to make stuff?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looked back down into his mug.

“Something like that.”

Heather shifted on the couch, her hands gripping the edge of her mug a little too tightly, feeling the heat from the tea radiating against her palms. Jackson was saying something else, but the words blurred as her mind took a sharp turn inward.

She was relaxing. Fucking relaxing.

Her pulse had slowed, her breathing had evened out, and for a second—just a second—she felt like she could just… breathe in the space he was occupying. Maybe even let herself exist in it without feeling like an intruder. But no. That was the kind of shit that made you weak. Comfortable. Soft. She didn’t do soft. She wasn’t even sure what it was anymore—softness, comfort, or just letting a guy like Jackson Wang take up space in her head.

He was annoying. Entitled. Cocky. Too fucking nice for someone who should’ve been a walking red flag.

But Jesus, he was attractive. So fucking attractive, it was making her brain short circuit. Eyes were piercing, dark, peeking out under the mess of air hanging so perfectly over his forehead. It was stupid. He was stupid. And she had a thousand better things to focus on than being distracted by a guy whose most challenging problem was probably choosing a gym to go to or figuring out which VIP table to sit at.

She cursed under her breath, mentally slapping herself.

Don’t fucking do this. She was smarter than this. She didn’t let things like looks trip her up. She didn’t need to get caught in the orbit of someone like him.

Her head snapped back to the present when she realized Jackson was watching her, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

"Everything alright?" he asked, the casualness of it only making her more aware of how off-kilter she was.

She nodded, forcing a tight smile that didn’t even come close to reaching her eyes. “Yeah, just... tired.”

The answer came too fast, too clipped. But it was enough to keep him from asking more.

Heather shook her head, trying to shake off the mental fog that had settled in. She was getting too comfortable. Too relaxed—and that wasn’t something she was going to indulge in.

After a moment, she cleared her throat and leaned back in the couch, looking up at Jackson like she was the one in control. “So... are you planning on pulling another all-nighter? Should I prepare my headphones for the noise?”

Jackson shot her a look, half-amused and half-curious, and leaned back in his chair. "If I do, are you going to hack my Spotify?"

"Obviously not," she shot back quickly, her voice dry. "I'd just take my handy axe and cut a hole in your wall."

Jackson raised an eyebrow, taking her in as if weighing her threat. “Like any other rational human would.”

“Of course," Heather replied flatly, her lips twitching just the slightest bit as she fought the urge to smile. "I mean, why waste time with subtlety when you can just commit property damage?”

For a moment, there was quiet between them. Then Jackson laughed, a low, quiet thing, but it was genuine. Fuck, even his laugh is hot. There was something about it—something that made Heather almost forget how much she really didn’t want to be here, letting this conversation linger longer than necessary.

But she couldn’t help it, could she? He made everything seem almost... too easy. Too natural.

Heather tried to ignore the way the sound had settled in her chest, reverberating there. She didn’t want to be charmed by him, didn’t want to let her brain short-circuit over the stupidest little things. She certainly didn’t want to feel the inexplicable urge to lean closer when she should’ve been planning her escape.

She’d never been the type to lean into that kind of comfort. It was dangerous. It was the first step to letting herself become like everyone else who let their guards down, believing that the person they were with would stay—wouldn’t hurt them once they had enough power over their heads.

But here she was, staring at him, feeling some sense of... what? Not comfort, no. But something that was making her want to stay a little longer.

“Guess I’ll just wait for my rescuer,” she said again, this time a little more forcefully, hoping the change in her tone would break the moment. "And you get back to whatever self-destructive workaholic bullshit you have going on."

Jackson raised his eyebrows at her, the smirk still there, but there was something more now—something unspoken, like he wasn’t quite as amused as he had been a few moments ago. For once, it felt like he was holding back just as much as she was.

“I guess I’ll do that,” he said, leaning back in his chair again, his gaze lingering on her just a little longer than necessary. "You hungry?”

Heather blinked, a bit caught off guard by the casualness of the question. She wasn’t used to people offering to share food with her, not in a way that didn’t feel like an obligation or a power play. And this—this felt like both.

Her stomach twisted, reminding her that it hadn’t had anything substantial to eat all day. A granola bar and the apology breakfast didn’t quite count as a meal, but she wasn’t about to admit that to him. Not when she already felt out of place in his space, like an uninvited guest who’d overstayed her welcome.

“I’m good,” she said quickly, a little too quickly. She barely stopped herself from crossing her arms, an unconscious shield she hated. “I’m fine, really.”

Jackson tilted his head, studying her for a moment, the slight furrow in his brow suggesting that he wasn’t buying it. But then, as if it was nothing, he shrugged, the careless motion feeling a little too natural on him.

“Alright.” he said, clearly not offended. “I'm hungry, anyway. And I don't feel like cooking, so if you're in the mood for anything in particular...” His grin was light, almost teasing, but there was something behind it, something in the way he phrased it that made Heather feel like she was being quietly pushed into something she wasn’t ready for.

“I’ll be fine.” She couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling creeping in, that strange mix of not wanting to be toouncomfortable and also not wanting to be so damned polite. It wasn’t about the food, not really. It was about being in this space, in his space, as if this was something more than a chance encounter.

But Louis was still taking his sweet time, and the rumbling in her stomach didn’t care about her pride or the fact that she was here at all. She had barely eaten anything today, and her body was beginning to get louder in its complaints.

“Fine,” she muttered, almost against her better judgment. “I guess... I could go for a slice of pizza. No pineapple, though.”

Jackson’s smile widened, and for a second, she almost forgot why she had resisted in the first place.

“Pineapple’s banned from my place,” he said, tapping the screen of his phone with a sudden intensity as he made the order. “Pizza it is. Are you vegetarian?”

"Nope."

"Thank god for that."

Heather snorted before she could stop herself. “Would I be shunned to the streets if I was?”

“You never know.” His grin was almost teasing now, the kind of playful smirk she hated—and yet found herself tolerating.

As the minutes passed and the silence lingered between them, she realized she was actually... kind of looking forward to the pizza. Just a little. Not because it was Jackson ordering it, but because she was hungry. That much was undeniable.

Still, the feeling that this wasn’t quite normal gnawed at her. Why was she letting this happen? She wasn’t some awkward college student crashing at his place. She wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this stupid, random interaction.

But the conversation, and Jackson, kept coming back, and the weirdest part? She was kind of okay with it.

The pizza came sometime around dusk, the scent cutting through whatever emotional stalemate Heather had tried to construct in her head. She tried not to look too eager when Jackson handed her a plate, but the first bite made her eyes close involuntarily. She hadn't realized how hungry she really was.

They ate in the living room, side by side on the couch with a careful cushion of space between them. The TV played something ambient and forgettable—some nature documentary with sweeping violin music and whispery narration—but neither of them paid much attention. Conversation kept circling back. Not deep, not intense. Just enough to keep it going.

Jackson listened more than she expected him to. He asked questions that didn’t feel performative, like he actually cared to hear her answers. About her job. Her family, vaguely. Her favorite horror game mechanics and her hot take on why remakes should just be banned outright.

He laughed when she said that. Not polite laughter. Actual, full-bodied, caught-off-guard laughter. And damn it, she noticed again how attractive his laugh was—how warm and unfiltered it felt. Like he hadn’t learned to be careful with it.

By the time the sun dipped below the skyline and the last of the amber glow faded from his windows, Jackson returned from his kitchen holding a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other.

“Just to take the edge off,” he said, offering one glass to her with a raised brow.

Heather hesitated. “I’m technically still locked out. Probably shouldn’t be drinking.”

“Technically,” he echoed, “you’re a guest under duress. You deserve wine.”

She rolled her eyes but took the glass. “So noble of you.”

“I try.”

They clinked glasses like it was some kind of truce. Heather wasn’t sure what they were settling, but the wine was smooth, rich, and better than anything she would’ve picked out for herself. Of course he had good wine. Of course.

Conversation drifted again, quieter this time, with the world outside going dim. They were sitting closer now. She hadn’t meant to close the distance—maybe he hadn’t either—but somehow, they’d both tilted toward each other in those small, barely noticeable ways: the way knees angled inward, the lean of an elbow against the couch, the casual reach for the wine bottle to refill her glass without asking.

Heather found herself watching the lines of his profile in the soft light. The clean slope of his jaw. The shadows beneath his cheekbones. It should’ve been easy to dismiss him as just another too-pretty, too-polished celebrity. But there was something disarming about the way he sat with her now. Relaxed. Unscripted.

And worst of all, she was relaxing, too.

She wouldn’t admit it out loud—hell no—but something about the moment made her feel weirdly grounded. Maybe it was the wine, or the food, or the company that wasn’t pushing for more than she wanted to give.

Maybe she just didn’t hate him as much as she thought.

Jackson was saying something about how he learned to cook during lockdown—“Not well, but I can sauté things now without setting off the alarm”—and Heather found herself smiling again, genuine and slow.

When their eyes met, something static passed between them. Not a full-blown spark, not yet. But a quiet flicker.

She looked away first. Not because she was flustered. Just... cautious. Always cautious.

Still, she didn’t move away. And neither did he.

“My sister is never gonna let me live this down,” she muttered, half to herself.

Jackson smirked. “Why? Because you ended up stuck in an asshole's apartment eating overpriced pizza and drinking pinot noir?”

She gave him a sidelong look. “It sounds so much worse when you say it like that.”

“Or better,” he shrugged, smiling into his glass.

God, she hated how charming he could be.

The second glass of wine was a mistake. Not a full-on regret, just the kind of slow burn decision that made Heather more aware of how close Jackson’s knee was to hers. Of how their shoulders would brush every time she leaned over to refill her glass. Or how warm the room had gotten—though it hadn’t, really. It was her. Her head. Her skin. Her stupid overactive nervous system.

She reminded herself she didn’t like him. Not even a little. He was too much—too charming, too good-looking, too smug. A human ego boost wrapped in nice teeth and excellent cologne. The exact type she’d spent her entire adult life avoiding. And yet…

“You ever play Hollow Sunder?” she asked suddenly, a last-ditch attempt to tether her spiraling brain to something safe and nerdy.

Jackson blinked. “What, like the rogue-lite co-op game that makes COD look like Animal Crossing?”

Her eyes snapped to him. “You’ve actually played it?”

“I’ve beat it. Twice. On hardcore.”

Heather made a noise that could’ve been impressed or skeptical, but either way, she reached for her laptop bag. “Bullshit. No one plays that game on hardcore unless they hate themselves.”

“I had a lot of time alone during quarantine,” he shrugged, watching her boot up the laptop like she’d just challenged him to a duel. “What about you?”

“I speedrun the second campaign. Beat it in under an hour. Co-op makes it more fun, though.”

“Then let’s go,” he said, already grabbing a controller from the media cabinet. “I’ll carry us.”

She snorted. “You wish.”

The game lit up the screen in a blink. Familiar synths and shadowy load screens threw her straight into muscle memory. Heather adjusted her posture, squaring up like she was about to enter a battlefield. Because she was. Casual or not, her blood ran competitive.

Jackson chose the tank class and talked a lot of shit—leaning into his self-appointed role as their frontline hero. She picked a stealth-heavy rogue and made it her life’s purpose to outmaneuver him.

They played fast. Sharp. In sync. Surprisingly in sync. He kept pace with her, learned her rhythm quickly. When she darted ahead to disable traps, he covered her flank without being asked. When she dropped low on health, he tossed her healing buffs before she could complain.

“Alright, not bad,” she muttered when they cleared the first boss fight in record time.

“Not bad?” Jackson gasped, feigning offense. “I’m literally saving your ass every three minutes.”

“I’m the one racking up crits, Wang. Calm down.”

He laughed—again, that laugh. Unfiltered and genuinely amused—and she hated how it chipped away at her resistance.

As the game went on, so did the wine. The couch felt smaller. Or maybe it was just that neither of them had any interest in shifting away. At some point, their arms brushed. At another, his hand dropped to rest lightly on the cushion behind her back.

It wasn’t intentional. But it wasn’t not intentional either.

Heather didn’t comment on it. Didn’t pull away. But her brain wouldn’t shut up. Her thoughts raced ahead to places she refused to follow.

This wasn’t a thing. Couldn’t be a thing.

She was stuck here because of a lost key. That’s it. Temporary inconvenience, not a meet-cute.

Still, when the second campaign started and he turned to her with a low, “Ready, Murder Eyes?”—something unsteady shifted in her chest.

God help her, she was.

The game ended with a final boss takedown so seamless it felt choreographed—one last flourish of steel and light, and the screen dissolved into the end credits. Heather leaned back with a quiet exhale, the kind that released more than breath.

Jackson mirrored her, one hand still loosely wrapped around the controller, thumb absently tapping a nonexistent button. Neither of them spoke. The music from the credits played softly, ambient and strangely intimate in the dim light.

Heather let her gaze shift, unguarded for just a second too long. His cheekbones. His jaw. The way his hair curled slightly at the ends. His hands—strong, careful—resting on the controller like they could crush it if they wanted to. It wasn’t fair. No man should look that composed after four hours of gaming and two glasses of wine.

Her thoughts turned sideways, veering into territory she had no business entertaining. Thoughts that involved less clothing and a lot more noise. She blinked hard, like it would reset her brain.

Jackson felt her watching. He didn’t look right away, just smiled to himself, slow and unreadable. But when he did turn to her, his gaze caught on her mouth, then drifted—purposefully slow—down to the line of her neck, her collarbone, the place where her shirt dipped and her skin flushed warmer.

His thoughts weren’t much better. He’d been working to keep it casual, keep it friendly. But she laughed like she meant it and cursed like a sailor and played like she was born with a controller in her hand—and now he was wondering what she looked like without that fitted blouse, that taut tension in her shoulders melted away under his hands.

“Jackson—” she started, voice lower than she meant.

And then—

The door buzzer blared.

Both of them jumped slightly, the moment collapsing in on itself like a snapped rubber band.

Heather blinked first, pulling herself upright, hands brushing her jeans like that could clear the static from her body. Jackson stood too, slower, running a hand through his hair with a breath that sounded way too much like a sigh.

“Guess that’s Louis,” he said, moving for the door.

“Took him fucking long enough.” Heather huffed, voice flat.

Jackson answered without a beat, and Louis stood at the door with the air of someone who definitely forgot and was now pretending he didn’t.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, waving one hand like it could clear away the inconvenience of it all. “My aunt’s birthday turned into a whole thing. You know how it is.”

Heather didn’t, actually, but she nodded anyway.

He handed her the spare key with a casual shrug. “Here. Don’t lose it again, yeah? And wire me for a new fob. They’re a pain to replace.”

“Thanks, Louis,” she muttered, taking the key.

He was already halfway back to the elevator.

Now she had her bag slung over her shoulder, boots in one hand, key in the other. No excuses left. She should’ve been walking down the hall by now, letting herself into her own space, regaining some distance—mentally, physically, everything.

But she didn’t move.

She just stood there, planted in the open doorway of Jackson’s apartment, unable to tear her eyes from him. He hadn’t stepped away yet either, one hand braced on the edge of the door, watching her with something unreadable on his face. Something cautious. Something waiting.

It was probably the wine, she told herself. Or the fact that she hadn’t had a real meal in hours. Or the heat still radiating from the game, from the rush of shared victory, from sitting too close for too long.

It was probably everything but him.

Except her gaze dropped to his mouth again, and her pulse went sideways. Her thoughts were still moving at a sprint—images and ideas she had no business entertaining, each one bolder than the last.

She shifted her weight. “Right,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him.

Jackson’s brow lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. He didn’t say anything. Just waited.

Heather clutched her key tighter. “Thanks. For… all of this.”

He nodded once. “Anytime.”

And that was the problem.

Jackson leaned a little on the doorframe, arms folded, one eyebrow raised like he already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask. His voice dropped into something low and teasing.

"You know..." he began, eyes flicking from her key to her face, "since you’ve got a key now... you could stay a little longer. If you wanted."

It was said casually—enough of a joke to be brushed off, but just weighted enough that she felt the floor tilt under her.

Heather blinked. Her brain scrambled for a smartass response, something sharp or sarcastic to slice through the tension curling between them.

But nothing came out.

Instead, her grip loosened on the key, the metal barely catching the light before slipping into her pocket. Her boots thudded to the floor at her side.

She didn’t plan it. She didn’t even fully register the space between them narrowing until she was standing in front of him—so close she could smell the leftover citrus of his cologne, feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

There was a half-second. Maybe less. Just a pause, suspended in something taut and stupidly electric.

Then she kissed him.

It wasn’t soft, not tentative. It was the kind of kiss that made a sharp point of how long she’d been fighting it—how hard she’d tried to keep this exact moment from happening. Her hand found the front of his shirt without thinking, fingers curling into fabric like she needed something solid to hold on to.

Jackson froze—but only for a breath.

Then he kissed her back like he’d been waiting all damn night.

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