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helloimhereforabit · 7 days ago

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This was SO SO GOOD. Heavy hitter but in all the right ways 😭

three steps behind ━ jake seresin

inspired by: from the dining table — harry styles word count: 4,905 words pairing: jake "hangman" seresin x wife!reader synopsis: you wore the dress. he wore a t-shirt. you waited ninety-seven minutes. he smiled like nothing was wrong. and when you said you were tired, he still thought love was enough. content warning: angst, hurt no comfort, established relationship, slow unraveling, quiet arguments, miscommunication, emotional neglect, anniversary gone wrong, divorce mention, crying in the kitchen, tired love, second person pov, no happy ending author's note: after months away, i'm back on here. new account, clean slate. i don’t really know what i expected coming back, but this story just… came out. it’s quiet, kind of heavy, and maybe a little too honest. if you’ve ever loved someone who stopped noticing, or stayed when it started to feel lonely, i hope this sits with you in the right way. thank you for reading. kofi︱request︱masterlist

The Hard Deck was surprisingly peaceful tonight. The usual buzz of laughter and boots on hardwood had softened into something low and steady, like background noise you stopped noticing after a while.

A few off-duty pilots leaned over pool tables, murmuring bets and half-hearted trash talk. At the bar, Penny was drying a glass with the edge of a towel, listening to some guy talk about a maintenance delay like it was the worst thing in the world.

She gave a polite nod, patient as ever, then slid a drink across the counter without missing a beat. Someone near the jukebox tried and failed to pick a new song, letting an old Eagles track roll into the next without interruption.

The sliding doors were pulled open to let the breeze in, warm with salt and the smell of beer that had settled into the floorboards over time. Nobody was in a rush. The place felt lived-in, a little tired, like everyone inside was just waiting for something, though no one would say what.

Then, there was you. You were tucked into one of the corner booths, half-shadowed and easy to miss unless someone was looking. Your glass had been empty for a while, the condensation long gone, leaving behind a wet ring on the table that you'd started tracing with your finger just to pass the time.

Every now and then, Penny glanced your way, her expression unreadable but not unkind. She hadn’t asked if you wanted another drink. Maybe she already knew the answer. You weren’t drinking to pass time. You were drinking to wait.

It had been about an hour and thirty-seven minutes now. You’d stopped checking your phone after the first hour, but the math still came easy.

At twenty minutes, you told yourself he was just running late. At forty, you told yourself not to be dramatic. At the hour mark, you stopped pretending it didn’t hurt. You didn’t even have a text to read twice. Just silence, and the soft hum of people living their lives around you, none of them holding their breath the way you were.

You watched the front door every time it opened, even though you told yourself not to. You tried to act like you were just out, just sitting, just another person here to pass the time, but your body gave you away, the stillness, the way your eyes lifted every time boots hit the floor, the slight shift in your posture when someone tall walked in and didn’t look your way.

No one noticed, or maybe they did, but pretended not to. Either way, you stayed seated. You hadn’t waited this long just to leave before the ending.

You’d spent the day trying not to look too eager. Picked out an outfit hours earlier than you needed to, changed it twice, then changed back. You even curled your lashes, which you rarely did, and gave yourself more time in the mirror than usual, just in case tonight meant something.

There was a part of you, quietly hopeful, that thought maybe this anniversary would be different. A dinner reservation somewhere a little dressed up, candles on the table, maybe real conversation, and no phones between you. The kind of night you only get if someone plans it like they mean it.

But he hadn’t wanted that. When you asked, gently, if you should dress up, he just laughed and said, “We’re going to the Hard Deck, not a wedding.”

You hesitated for half a second, then smiled, because what else were you going to do? You said sure, of course, that’s fine.

It’s not a bad place, it really isn’t. Penny keeps the drinks cold and the music tolerable. The fries are good. It’s not fancy, but it’s not supposed to be. Still, part of you had pictured something else.

Even now, you keep glancing down at your hands like maybe the booth would change, maybe the place would feel more special if he walked through the door smiling and apologizing for being late.

You told yourself not to care so much about things like dinner spots and ambiance, that what mattered was him showing up, being here with you, but the thing was...he still wasn’t. And somehow, that mattered more than the venue ever could.

With that gentle dragging sound they usually made, the doors opened, and then a chorus of well-known voices and unapologetic laughing rolled in. You knew who it was without having to look. The Dagger squad always moved as if they owned the space, making noise unintentionally and moving effortlessly in a way that hurt more tonight than normal.

Still, your eyes found him, like they always did. He was walking in with the others, head tilted back in a half-laugh, one hand motioning as he told some story you couldn’t hear.

And there it was, that smile. The one that had made you say yes when he got down on one knee with a ring that didn’t fit the first time. The one that had made your mother cry at the wedding. The one that used to come home to you.

You’d been married for three years today, and somehow, that smile still had the power to stop your heart, and then let it fall straight through your ribs when he never looked toward the booth where you sat waiting.

Now, it was just the same smile he gave to everyone else. The one he wore when he was surrounded by people who didn’t know he was late to dinner with his wife. Who didn’t ask why she’d been sitting alone for almost two hours.

He didn’t scan the room, didn’t check his phone, didn’t look like a man who’d forgotten something. He looked like a man who thought he’d shown up right on time.

Eventually, he broke off from the group and wandered over like he wasn’t late. Like this was just when he said he’d be here. You saw him before he saw you, wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans, nothing new, nothing clean-shaven or thoughtful.

He hadn’t changed, and maybe he didn’t think he had to. You looked down at your dress, then back up at him, and something in your chest folded in on itself a little.

He slid into the booth across from you, leaned back like he was settling in, not even a flicker of awareness on his face. “Hey, baby,” he said, like it hadn’t been almost two hours since he said he’d meet you. His eyes ran over you slowly, and he smiled in that way that used to feel like everything. “You look good. Real good. Didn’t know we were dressing up tonight.”

You smiled, just barely. Enough to hide behind. You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there, hands in your lap, nails pressing into your palms while you pretended your eyes weren’t glassy. He didn’t notice. He reached for a drink menu like everything was fine, like this was just another night and not your third anniversary, not the night you thought he’d try, not the night you’d been hoping might feel different.

He didn’t say anything about the wait. Just leaned back, stretched his arm across the top of the booth, and said, “God, I’m starving. We barely had time to breathe today. Did I tell you about that mess with the fueling crew?”

You shook your head, reached for another fry. It tasted off. A little cold, a little too stiff around the edges. You chewed slowly, nodded like you were listening.

“So I’m coming in, right? Just a standard touch-and-go, and these guys have the fuel truck parked in the worst damn spot. I had to wave off at the last second, nearly clipping the whole left side. Everyone was losing their minds.” He laughed like it was the best part of his day. “But I still stuck the landing. Clean as hell.”

“Sounds like it,” you said quietly, eyes down on your plate. You picked at the fries, stacking two side by side, like that would make them taste better.

Jake reached for one of his own, tossed it in his mouth, then kept going. “And then in the ready room, Phoenix tries to say it would’ve been her best time if she hadn’t had to circle. I told her she’s just mad because I beat her by a second and a half.” He grinned at that, proud in the way he always was when he thought he’d won something.

You gave a small smile. “She probably is.”

He didn’t notice the edge in your voice, or maybe he did and chose to ignore it. He just kept eating, kept talking, kept filling the space with his own words like they were enough, like you weren’t still trying to feel something other than disappointment.

You kept nodding, kept smiling just enough. Your hands stayed busy with the fries, breaking them in half, lining them up, pretending they were more than just something to do. He was still talking, now about something Fanboy said in the locker room, something stupid and loud that had the whole squad laughing.

You gave a soft laugh, because you were supposed to. It wasn’t fake, it just didn’t come from anywhere deep.

He reached across the table and stole one of your fries without asking. “Yours are better than mine,” he said with a grin.

“They’re the same fries,” you murmured.

He chuckled, then grabbed his drink and leaned back again like he was perfectly at home. “I’m just saying. Maybe you’ve got the lucky batch.” He looked around the bar, like he just now realized how full it had gotten. “We should’ve gotten here earlier. The place was packed when we walked in.”

You looked at him for a second. Just looked, and he didn’t meet your eyes. “Yeah,” you said. “Would’ve been nice.”

“Alright,” he said, setting his glass down harder than he meant to. “What’s going on with you?”

You blinked, looked up from the plate, from the last fry you hadn’t touched. “What?”

“You’re being weird.” He huffed a breath, sat back again. “You’ve barely said two words since I got here. You’re just… quiet.”

You stared at him, then let your eyes drop to the table. “I’ve said plenty.”

“Yeah, sure, if you count one-word replies and fake laughs.”

You swallowed, tried to keep your voice steady. “Jake, I waited here for almost two hours.”

His jaw tightened. “I told you we had a long day.”

You looked at him again. Not angry, but just tired. “I know.”

He stared at you for a second, like he was waiting for more. Like he thought that should’ve been enough to explain everything.

You breathed out slowly. “Can we just go home?”

That softened him, but only for a second. “Seriously? We just got here.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him, the way you used to when he knew what you meant without you having to say it. Tonight, he looked back like he didn’t recognize it at all.

He rubbed a hand along his jaw, annoyed now. “You could’ve just said something if you didn’t want to come. I wouldn’t’ve dragged you out.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s not that I didn’t want to come.”

“Then what is it?” His voice dropped, still low but tighter, like he was trying not to make a scene. “You’ve been off all night, acting like I did something wrong just by showing up.”

You blinked at him. For a second, you didn’t speak, and when you finally did, your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “You forgot, Jake.”

He looked confused. “Forgot what?”

You just looked at him.

There was a beat of silence where you watched it land, the way his face shifted, not in shock, not even guilt, just realization, slow and heavy. He swore under his breath, leaned back in the booth like he needed to buy himself a second.

“I didn’t forget,” he said, but he didn’t sound sure.

You picked up your bag, not rushed, not dramatic. Just done.

“I don’t want to do this here.”

Jake ran a hand through his hair, then stood up with a muttered “Fine,” and followed you out, the same way he always did when he couldn’t figure out why you were upset, but wanted to win the fight anyway.

He paid without looking at the bill, and didn't even wait for his change. He just pulled his wallet out, dropped a few bills on the counter, and left the rest behind like he couldn’t stand to stay a second longer. You followed a few steps behind, quiet, eyes lowered. The door swung shut behind you and the air outside felt heavier than it had before.

You looked up for a second. The sky didn’t give you much. Just a dull stretch of gray and a low haze sitting over everything. No stars. No moon. Just a tired kind of sky, the kind that wasn’t angry or storming, just done. It felt familiar in a way you wished it didn’t. There was nothing left to look at, so you dropped your gaze and caught sight of him already walking ahead.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t say anything. Just moved toward the car like the conversation was over, like the argument didn’t even count. You kept your pace steady, didn’t rush, didn’t trail. When you reached the car, he didn’t bother with the door.

You opened it yourself, slid into the passenger seat, and pulled the belt across your chest without a word. He got in right after, his door slamming harder than necessary. The sound echoed louder than it should have.

Neither of you said anything. He started the engine, hand steady on the wheel, eyes on the road like that was the only thing that mattered. You looked out the window, watching the streetlights blur past.

The silence between you wasn’t new. It had been growing in small, quiet ways for a while now, showing up in missed calls, short replies, and late arrivals. You’d just never sat in it like this before.

The car moved through the night, headlights cutting through the dark like it owed you something. You didn’t speak, and neither did he, but maybe that said more than anything either of you could have come up with.

The drive wasn’t long, but it felt endless. When he pulled into the driveway, he didn’t kill the engine right away. Just sat there for a moment with his hands on the wheel, like maybe he was waiting for you to say something, or maybe trying to decide if he would. You didn’t look at him. You just unbuckled your seatbelt, pushed open the door, and stepped out.

Inside the house, the lights were still off. You didn’t bother turning them on. You kicked your shoes off at the door and walked straight to the kitchen, opening the fridge even though you weren’t hungry. It was just something to do. You heard him behind you, keys hitting the counter harder than they needed to.

“I didn’t forget,” he said again, from somewhere behind you.

You kept your back to him. “You didn’t remember either.”

There was a pause. He let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I said I was sorry.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You closed the fridge, leaned your hands against the counter, kept your head low. You weren’t ready to yell. You didn’t even want to. You just wanted something to make sense. Something to feel like it mattered to him the way it still, somehow, mattered to you.

He stepped further into the room, pacing a little now. “I’ve had a hell of a week. You know that.”

“I know,” you said softly, turning toward him. “I know you’re tired. I just thought maybe today… maybe this one day wouldn’t get pushed to the side.”

He scoffed under his breath and shook his head, pacing once across the living room before turning back toward you. “So that’s it? One bad night and you’re acting like I don’t give a damn about you?”

You didn’t answer right away. You watched him speak, watched the way he filled the room with sound but never really with presence. That has started to happen more often lately. He was there, but not really. Like a shadow of himself that still moved, still talked, still showed up, but only halfway.

He threw his hands a little. “You knew I had a packed week. Command’s been on our asses since Monday, and today just got away from me. You think I wanted to show up late? You think I meant for it to go like this?”

You swallowed, barely audible over his voice. “You didn’t even text.”

That stopped him for a second. His mouth opened like he had a comeback, but nothing came out right away. So instead, he shrugged, like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “I figured I’d just get there and explain. I didn’t think you’d sit there and count every damn minute.”

“I wasn’t counting,” you said quietly. “I was hoping.”

Your voice cracked a little on the last word, and for a second, it went quiet again. He looked away, jaw tense, hands on his hips like he was trying to breathe through it, like this was harder for him than it was for you. That stung in a way you didn’t have words for.

“You always do this,” he muttered, not quite looking at you. “Turn every little thing into something it’s not.”

You stared at him for a moment, blinking like you couldn’t believe what you just heard.

“Every little thing?” you repeated, voice flat. “Is that what this is?”

He ran a hand through his hair again, frustrated. “Come on, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You took a slow breath, stepped away from the counter. “You showed up almost two hours late. On our anniversary. No message. No call. Nothing. And then you sat there, talking about yourself like I hadn’t been sitting alone the entire time.” Your voice stayed even, but it was starting to push. “You think that’s a little thing?”

Jake looked at you, finally really looked, and for a second he didn’t have anything to say.

“I put on a dress,” you said, quieter now, like you were almost saying it to yourself. “I sat at that table thinking maybe this time would be different. That maybe you’d remember before the last minute, maybe you’d actually want to show up and not just be there.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped in first.

“And I’m not talking about the Hard Deck. I’m not even mad about that,” you said. “It could’ve been burgers in the truck. It could’ve been a walk. I just wanted to feel like you cared enough to try.”

The silence between you stretched out again, but this time it felt different. He looked stuck between anger and guilt, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“You really think I don’t care?” he asked, like the words offended him.

And for the first time tonight, you didn’t look away. “I think you only care when it’s easy.”

Jake let out a short, bitter laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “That’s bullshit.”

Your arms folded before you even realized. “Is it?”

He stepped forward, shoulders squared now. “You’re acting like I don’t show up for you at all, like I haven’t been breaking my back trying to keep everything together lately.”

“I never asked you to keep everything together,” you snapped, voice rising before you could stop it. “I asked you to be there. For this. For me.”

“I am here.”

“No, Jake,” you said, louder now. “You’re standing in the room, but you’re not here. Not where it counts.”

His hands went to his hips again, pacing a few steps before turning back toward you, eyes sharp now. “So what, I miss dinner and suddenly I’m the villain? You act like I don’t care, like I didn’t want this marriage too.”

“You didn’t miss dinner, Jake. You missed all of it. You missed me sitting there thinking maybe tonight would be the night you show up on time, say something that sounds like you still see me.”

He raised his voice then, something in him finally snapping. “What do you want from me?!”

And that hit harder than you expected. You stared at him, chest tight, hands cold at your sides.

“I want you to stop acting like loving me is something you have to schedule around.”

He opened his mouth again, but you weren’t done this time. The words came fast, your voice not yelling now, but loud enough to shake the quiet between you.

“I want to stop feeling like I have to earn my place in my own marriage.”

That landed. He looked at you, stunned for a second, like he didn’t know who you were. Like maybe he’d finally heard you, but still, he didn’t step closer.

“I’m tired, Jake,” you said, and your voice broke right through the middle.

His mouth opened, but the words didn’t come fast enough. You didn’t wait.

“I’m tired of waiting for you to notice I’m not okay. I’m tired of pretending this feels normal when it doesn’t. I’m tired of being the only one who remembers things like tonight. And I’m so tired of feeling like I have to apologize for wanting more from the person I married.”

Jake looked at you, his face hard but his eyes uncertain now. “I’m doing the best I can—”

“Are you?” you cut in, quieter, breath shaking as you blinked back the tears. “Because it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m begging you for scraps of attention while you show up late and still act like I should be grateful.”

He looked away for a second, jaw tight, and dragged a hand over his face. “You always do this. Twist things around like I don’t care. Like I don’t try.”

“I don’t want to twist things,” you said, the words tumbling out, softer now but raw. “I want to believe you. I want to believe you still care the way you used to. But you don’t even look at me the same. And maybe that’s normal after time, maybe it is, but I can’t be the only one trying to keep us from fading.”

Your voice cracked again and the tears finally slipped down your cheeks, quiet and unchecked. Jake saw them, but he didn’t move toward you. He just stood there, like he didn’t know what to do with them, like they were a problem he didn’t sign up to solve.

“I miss you,” you whispered.

Jake’s hands went to his hips again, pacing like he couldn't sit still in it, like he needed to keep moving so it wouldn’t catch up to him. “You think this is easy for me? You think I like coming home to this? To you looking at me like I’m never enough?”

You flinched, then straightened. “I never said you weren’t enough.”

“Then what is this?” he shouted. “You corner me the second we walk through the door, throw every single thing I’ve done wrong in my face, and now what? I’m the bad guy because I’m not good at anniversaries?”

You laughed once, sharp and tired. “You’re not bad at anniversaries, Jake. You just don’t care.”

He stared at you, chest rising and falling fast now. “That’s not true.”

“Then what is?” Your voice rose with his, loud now, hoarse. “Because I am standing here telling you I’m hurting and all you do is try to win the argument.”

He stepped toward you, hands up like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry I’m not perfect? That I’m not romantic enough, not soft enough, not whatever-the-hell you built up in your head?”

You stared at him, breathing hard, heart in your throat. You’d been holding the words back for weeks, maybe longer. “I want a divorce.”

The words hit the room like a door slamming shut. No build-up, no lead-in, just the truth, finally out in the open. Jake stopped moving. He looked at you like you’d slapped him.

Jake shook his head like he could physically knock the words out of the air. Like hearing them once had been too much. “No,” he said again, sharper this time. “No, you don’t mean that.”

His voice was thin around the edges, like it couldn’t decide if it was anger or panic.

You stood still, your arms at your sides, your hands curled into fists without thinking. The air in the room felt tight. Too full. You felt like you couldn’t take a deep breath.

Jake took a step forward. “You’re upset. You’re mad. We’ve fought before. This isn’t—this isn’t how this ends.”

You didn’t say anything. You just watched him. He looked like a man trying to stop a fire with his bare hands.

“We can fix this,” he said again, louder now, like volume could glue something broken back together. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. I’ll do better. I’ll fucking try harder.”

Your voice came out sharp, louder than you meant. “Why now?” You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. “Why is it always after I say I’m done that you finally try?”

Jake flinched. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, eyes darting like he needed something to land on. “Don’t do this. You said forever. We said forever.”

You were already crying, but it wasn’t gentle. It was hot and hard and sudden. “I know what I said.”

“I stood in front of you,” he said, stepping closer like that might change something. “You were in that dress. Your hair was pinned back and your hands were shaking. I remember. I remember saying I’d stay. Through everything.”

His voice cracked on the word everything, but he pushed through it, chest rising and falling fast. “I said I’d love every version of you, even when you changed, even when I did. That I’d never walk away, that I’d never stop showing up.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. But all of that should’ve been said hours ago. Weeks ago. Before you had to ask for it.

“Stop,” you said, voice low, strained.

He kept going, stepping closer like he was reaching back through time. “You looked up at me with those eyes and I knew it then. I meant it. I still mean it. I love you—”

“Stop!” you screamed, cutting through his words like glass shattering on tile.

Your voice echoed in the kitchen. It was too loud. Too full of everything you’d been swallowing for months. Jake froze like you’d hit him. His mouth was still half-open, but nothing else came out. His hands were shaking now. Yours were, too.

You wiped at your face roughly, but the tears kept coming anyway. Not from anger. Not even from heartbreak. You were just... done. And he was still three steps behind.

Jake stayed where he was, frozen in the middle of the kitchen like he couldn’t figure out whether to come closer or disappear. His hands slowly dropped to his sides, his eyes still locked on yours, searching your face like he could find a version of you that hadn’t said it. That hadn’t meant it.

Your shoulders rose and fell, shaky from the way your breath came in uneven pulls. You swiped at your cheeks again, slower this time, like maybe it would make it all stop spinning.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you said finally, voice raw. “But I can’t keep pretending this is working.”

Jake moved like his body didn’t want to, taking one small step forward. His voice was quieter now. “So you’re really just giving up.”

You looked at him. Not through him, not around him, but at him.

“I already gave everything I had, Jake,” you said, and your voice didn’t shake this time. It just sounded tired. “You just didn’t notice I was running out.”

He closed his eyes for a second, jaw clenched like he was biting something back. Then he opened them and looked around, like maybe the kitchen, the walls, the clock ticking on the stove might offer some answer he hadn’t thought of, but there was nothing. Just the stale echo of your shouting and the dull hum of the fridge in the background.

“You’re really serious,” he said after a moment, quieter now.

You nodded, your lips parting to speak but nothing coming out right away. When it did, it was softer than either of you expected. “I don’t want to keep resenting you just to stay married to you.”

Jake didn’t say anything.

The silence felt like it had teeth now, heavy and stretching between you both. You didn’t fill it. You just stood there, in the same house where you’d laughed on the floor unpacking dishes, where you’d fallen asleep on the couch more times than you could count, where you thought you'd spend a lifetime.

However, lifetimes don’t always last forever, and not even love was enough if it kept leaving one of you behind.

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake hangman seresxin x reader #jake hangman seresin #ugh #reread #jake seresin x you #glen powell #top gun maverick

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