selencgraphy

[selencgraphy]

to whom it may concern  

clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫  𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent  word count: 18k Summary:  You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.  notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.

Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.

A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:

“You looked like you had a long night.”

No name. No heart. Just that.

You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you—phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices—but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.

And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.

Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.

You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”

He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”

Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”

“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.

“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.

You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.

You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie—striped, loud, undeniably Clark—is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.

He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.

“Clark—careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.

He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.

“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry, I’m late—Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”

You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk—specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.

Except… it’s not.

Then he clears his throat—loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel—and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”

You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”

He flashes you the smile again—crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.

And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.

You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is— He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.

You flinch. “You good?”

“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”

Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.

You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.

You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.

You don’t say it aloud—not even to yourself—but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.

It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.

He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.

…Could he?

You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.

You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.

Just in case.

-

You forget about the note by lunch.

Mostly.

The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts—phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.

By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.

But this time, the note reads:

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”

You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand. 

You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it—thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.

And someone else had read it. Which means…

Your eyes flick up. Around.

The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.

And then—Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.

You stare for a second too long.

He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.

Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.

You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all.  So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it? 

You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.

The loops. The slight leftward tilt.

Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.

You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.

You don’t say anything.

-

Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder—Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.

“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”

You open your mouth—just barely—ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.

“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”

The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”

Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”

Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.

You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.

Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.

Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.

You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.

-

The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.

Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.

You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.

Clark gets up to grab it before you can.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”

He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”

You pause. “Why?”

“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”

You snort before you can stop it.

It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.

“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage. 

Clark looks up instantly.

You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”

You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.

“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”

The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.

You blink. “Clark—”

“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”

He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.

-

The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.

Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.

“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.

It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.

You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.

You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.

Like armor.

-

By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.

This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.

“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.

You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.

“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”

“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”

“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.

Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.

And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.

He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.

“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”

The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”

“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”

He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.

“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.

“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.

The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered. 

You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.

Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”

You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”

She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.

Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.

He’d meant it.

Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.

You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.

He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.

You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.

You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.

-

You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.

Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.

You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.

-

You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”

He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”

“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”

You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.

And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.

You don’t call him on it.

Not yet.

-

Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.

His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.

He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.

You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.

And his hands.

God, his hands.

You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.

You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.

He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.

It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.

You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”

And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.

-

You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.

It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.

You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.

“Then tell me in person.” 

You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.

So this time, you let him find something waiting.

And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.

-

The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.

You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.

So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.

“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”

You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.

You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But you know he’ll see it.

You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.

Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.

You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.

Watching you.

His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.

Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.

And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.

-

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.

But still—you dress carefully.

You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.

You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.

The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.

It’s also empty.

You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.

The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.

And then—

Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.

Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.

Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.

You just go quiet.

-

The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.

You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.

“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.

Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.

What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.

And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.

He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.

Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.

But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.

He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.

You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.

-

That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.

The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.

You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.

You unfold it slowly.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”

The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur.  You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?

You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.

-

What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.

He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.

And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.

Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely. 

He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.

-

It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.

First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.

You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.

And then he lands.

Superman.

Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.

You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.

And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.

It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.

Like Clark says it.

It stuns you more than the explosion did.

You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.

Sweetheart.

You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.

Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.

And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.

But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.

And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.

Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.

…Sort of.

-

You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

But it means something now.

You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.

Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.

“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.

You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark.”

A beat.

You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.

-

You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.

“He called me sweetheart.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”

“No. Superman.”

Her chewing slows.

You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”

Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”

You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”

“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.

But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.

Sweetheart.

It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.

The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.

You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—

You might fall right through it.

-

Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.

The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.

His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.

Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.

“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”

You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.

You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.

And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.

“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”

You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?

But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.

“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”

Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.

Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.

The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”

Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.

You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.

The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.

You think about the phrases he’s used before.

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

And now:

“Her work actually matters.”

All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.

You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.

It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—

You can’t stop.

-

It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.

Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.

“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”

You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier.  That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.

At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.

“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”

You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.

The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.

You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.

It’s exact.

You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.

You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”

You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.

He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.

You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.

He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.

You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.

“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”

You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you. 

Then you go.

-

That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.

The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface. 

There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.

Clark Kent.

And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.

-

The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.

Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.

Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching. 

You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”

You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”

He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.

“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”

He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”

You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”

“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”

You watch him. Wait. 

And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.

“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”

You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”

Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.

You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”

Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.

“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.

“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”

“But?” you press, gently.

He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.

You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”

Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”

A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”

He freezes.

You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”

And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.

But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.

You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.

“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”

You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”

He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”

You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”

And your heart flutters all over again.

-

Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.

You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.

But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now. 

“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.

You blink. “What?”

��A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”

You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”

“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois—”

“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”

Your stomach flips.

“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”

You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.

“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”

You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”

“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”

You snort. “So your type.”

“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”

You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.

-

The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.

But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.

When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.

You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.

The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.

You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.

So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.

And he is.

The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.

He looks like Superman.

No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.

And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”

He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”

You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.

Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”

You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”

Clark nods, but you’re not finished.

“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”

You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.

Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.

He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.

“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.

“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”

You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.

You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.

His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”

You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.

His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.

“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone.  “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”

A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”

You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.

“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.

“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”

“I kept every one,” you whisper.

His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.

Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.

“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.

-

The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.

Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.

When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.

You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”

He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”

You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping. 

Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.

He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.

Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.

You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.

You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.

You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.

That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.

-

The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.

But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.

Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.

But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.

And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.

But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.

You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.

“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.

You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”

You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.

“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.

Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.

Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.

You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.

You raise a brow. “What?”

He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”

But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.

His lips twitch. “Late night.”

“Editing from home?”

He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.

“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”

You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.

He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”

You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.

But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.

And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”

He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.

He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.

And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.

-

That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.

You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.

You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.

You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.

No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.

You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.

“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.

You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.

Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.

Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.

You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.

So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.

-

You’re not official.

Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.

It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.

And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.

Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.

You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.

-

You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.

He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.

You don’t ask.

You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.

-

The third kiss happens on your couch.

You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.

He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.

Then his phone buzzes.

He stiffens.

You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.

Regret. Apology. Something deeper.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”

You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.

“But—”

“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”

And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.

-

It happens again. And again.

Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.

You never ask. You don’t need to.

Because he always comes back.

-

One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.

Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”

You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.

You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.

His eyes finally meet yours.

“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”

You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.

You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.

And he lets you.

-

The night starts quiet.

Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.

Just… there.

It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.

Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.

He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.

You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.

He leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.

His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.

You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

And then something shifts.

Not emotional—physical.

Clark stands.

He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.

You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.

Your heart thunders.

“Clark—”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.

His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.

“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.

You nod, breath catching. “You?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.

Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You don’t want him to either.

Not yet.

His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.

You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.

“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”

You shudder.

His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.

He looks up at you from the floor.

You nearly forget how to breathe.

“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”

And then he does.

He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.

You whimper.

He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.

By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.

Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.

His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.

“Clark—”

He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”

You do.

You let him wreck you.

He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.

“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”

You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.

You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.

He rises slowly.

His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.

And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.

“Come here,” you whisper.

He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.

But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.

“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”

You blink. “Clark, I—”

He kisses you again—soft, lingering.

“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”

Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.

He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.

“Clark—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.

You cry out, hips jolting.

He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.

You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.

“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”

You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.

And he doesn’t stop.

He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.

But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.

His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”

Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.

“God, Clark…”

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”

He nudges in slow.

The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.

You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.

“You okay?”

“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”

You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.

The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.

And then something shifts.

Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.

“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He thrusts harder.

Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”

You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.

He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.

“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”

You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.

And you’re almost there too.

You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.

His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”

You moan so loud it makes him flinch.

And then he breaks.

One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.

Clark’s back arches.

His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.

“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”

“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”

Your body goes taut.

A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.

Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.

The lights flicker again.

The candle sputters once and steadies.

He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.

Not like it should be.

You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.

After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.

Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.

“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.

“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”

You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”

He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

A moment passes.

Then another.

“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”

Clark freezes. “…Did I?”

You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”

His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”

You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”

He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.

You grin. File it away.

Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.

-

Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.

You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.

Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.

-

In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.

Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.

Clark is flipping pancakes.

Barefoot.

Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.

“Morning,” he says without turning.

You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”

“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”

You hum.

Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.

-

You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.

You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.

You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”

“Figured?” you repeat.

He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”

You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.

Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.

-

That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.

You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.

You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.

Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.

-

The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.

You brace for impact.

But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.

You didn’t even see him move.

You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”

“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”

He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”

Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.

-

And still… you don’t say it.

You don’t ask.

Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.

He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.

You know.

You know.

And he knows you know.

Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.

When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.

He’s protecting something.

And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.

You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.

But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

-

The morning feels ordinary.

There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.

And then the screens change.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.

You look up.

And everything shifts.

The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.

Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.

The camera jolts—and then there he is.

Superman.

Thrown through a brick wall.

You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.

He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.

He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.

You stop breathing.

“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.

“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.

“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”

You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.

That’s your boyfriend.

That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.

He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.

He’s not getting up.

You freeze.

The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.

Your hands start to shake.

You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.

A part of you already has.

A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.

You don’t know what the enemy is.

Alien, maybe. Or worse.

But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.

You want to run.

You want to be there.

But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.

Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.

Not like you do.

Your vision blurs.

You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.

But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.

And you cry.

Quietly.

You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.

The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.

The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.

You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.

Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”

“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”

“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”

Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.

You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

He’s hurt.

And he’s still out there.

Fighting.

Alone.

You can’t just sit here.

You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”

Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”

“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”

Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”

“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”

Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”

You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.

-

Downtown is a war zone.

The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.

You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.

The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.

The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.

Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.

And then…

Him.

He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.

But not untouched.

He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.

He’s hurt.

He’s so clearly hurt.

And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.

Just him.

And you.

The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.

And something deeper behind it.

You know know. 

And he is letting you know.

But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.

Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”

His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”

Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.

You’re not writing.

You’re just watching.

Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.

He looks tired.

But more than that—he looks like Clark.

And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.

You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.

But you stay rooted.

When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.

You nod. “Are you?”

He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”

It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.

You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.

I know.

I’m not leaving.

You don’t have to say it.

When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.

Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”

Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”

You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.

-

You fake calm.

You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.

But the second you’re alone?

You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.

You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.

You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.

And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.

You pause halfway through the doorway.

He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.

He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”

He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”

You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes. 

A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”

He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.

You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”

That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.

“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.

His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.

When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.

His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.

You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.

It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.

You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.

He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.

You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.

He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.

You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.

“Are you scared?” he whispers.

Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”

He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.

The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.

Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.

And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.

Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.

The city buzzes somewhere far away.

He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”

Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”

He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.

And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.

-

You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.

Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.

It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.

He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.

You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”

Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”

“You’re bulletproof.”

“I get cold emotionally.”

You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”

“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”

You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.

You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”

“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”

“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.

You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”

He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”

You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.

Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”

“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”

“I’m saying you’re better.”

He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.

His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.

“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Soon.”

“You’ll come back?”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.  “Every time.”

You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.

You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.

“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.

You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.

And now you know. Now you see him too.

All of him.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-

tags:  @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)

[selencgraphy]

Domestic | Jake 'Hangman' Seresin

A/N: Heyyyyyyy guys <3 here's my first TGM fic that's ever hit the dash, and ofc it had to be my favorite douchebagJake Seresin!!!! but ugh the idiots in love fic lmfao. Rivals to roommates to lovers but the catch is they're literally so dense they don't know they're in love <3 UGH I LOVE LOVE! Also thank u to my lover in christ @anxietyandtacos for reading this for me and being a hoe <3

Summary: Moving in with Jake Seresin was the last thing you'd wanted to do, but you were out of options. Turns out, life is nice with Jake, if anything, you both enjoy being a little domestic.

Warnings: Spelling and grammar errors (I am who I am), cursing, 2nd person POV, mentions of violence, Jake get's smacked a few times, Rooster and Nat supremacy bye, kissing, hand holding, mentions of hazing (not fraternity level fucked up hazing NEVER THAT!), idiots in love like honestly truly Smut: tongue kissing, spitting, handjobs, jake cums in his pants, oral (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, praise, cowgirl (WOO HOO!), spanking/slapping (tee hee!), creampie (unprotected p in v)

Word Count: 12.4k

Jake Seresin x Fem!Aviator!Reader

This man is such a douchebag i love him <3

Reader's Callsign is Hellfire

Living with one of your co-workers was usually a recipe for disaster, especially when said co-worker was an overconfident douchebag with a Texan twang that irritated you beyond belief. 

Moving in with Jake Seresin was a last ditch effort to move off base after the dagger squad had become a permanent addition to North Island following the success of their first high-risk mission surrounding the destruction of an unsanctioned uranium enrichment overseas.

For the most part, everyone worked very well together. Mainly because the group had learned to swallow their pride and get over their differences when they were in the air. Of course there were still several petty fights and arguments over the comms systems, and several repercussions surrounding mission reports, locker clean outs, and physical torture—being the workouts Maverick had them doing in ninety degree heat. 

You were one of the last members of the squad to look for an apartment, mainly because you hadn’t had the time. Unfortunately for you, one of the most infamous Admirals at North Island happened to be your father, and based on his callsign alone, it was evident that he wasn’t exactly America’s sweetheart. 

Inferno had served almost his entire adult life in the Navy, he graduated at the top of his Top Gun class, had led the Pacific Fleet with Admiral Kazinsky for some time and was currently in the running to take over the Fleet following Iceman’s passing. Upon the news that you’d been selected as one of the elite pilots to be called back to Top Gun he was thrilled.

That was for many reasons, the first being he got to spend more time with his favorite child—something that he wouldn’t admit in front of your siblings, but everyone knew it to be true. You’d followed in his footsteps and joined the Navy, while your brother did the same thing, he wasn’t an Aviator, he chose the mechanical engineering route as an Aviation Machinist. 

The second reason was because he practically lived to torture Aviators in the Top Gun program. With you here, he was able to double down on them, and use you as one of his many pawns in his schemes—to be fair, they weren’t terrible, usually just a bit of sanctioned hazing for the newest recruits. 

But as much as you enjoyed spending time with your father and participating in him reigning hell throughout North Island while simultaneously pissing off other Admirals—especially Cyclone, you also needed to find your own space. 

Moving back in with your parents was not an option, especially with the fact that your younger sister and her husband also lived in their pool house. Not that you had anything against them, but being around your very loud and very energetic family twenty-four seven was like your own personal hell. You liked to spend time with them, then head home to decompress.

So when you started looking for a place to live, you quickly learned that the housing options were slim, and several of the places you’d considered had long waitlists because of the constant influx of military personnel in the area.

Either that or they were overly expensive for a lackluster space, or a downright shitty place.

After complaining at the Hard Deck, Javy jokingly commented that Jake was looking for a roommate, it was somewhat of a joke because you couldn’t stand Jake, and vice versa. You’d met at North Island several years ago, and you were the reason he finished second in the class.

The rivalry should’ve died down in the years that you hadn’t worked with one another, but anytime you’d cross paths—even briefly, you couldn’t help but bring it up. Opting to call him ‘Number 2’ with a wicked smile on your face. As two Top Gun graduates it wasn’t uncommon for you to cross paths, your squadrons had worked together on a few missions in the past, and you couldn’t help but bring up the old nickname.

It was better than calling him Hangman or Bagman, you were the only one who could call him Number 2, it was almost special.

Jake had scoffed at Javy’s joke, however upon meeting your pleading eyes, he realized that you were actually considering it. He was genuinely looking for a roommate, rent in San Diego was far from cheap, even with his salary and basic housing allowance. 

Besides he originally moved into the two bedroom, two bathroom apartment with Javy, but Javy had recently moved in with his girlfriend which left the room vacant. 

That day at the Hard Deck you grimmaced before swallowing your pride and asking Jake if he actually needed a roommate, you hated the barracks, and you’d tried staying with your family but it was too overstimulating after having long days of work. You’d even agreed to stop calling him Number 2 for a week—he tried indefinitely but you wouldn’t budge.

It also helped that Natasha, Javy, and Mickey took the time to actually convince him to consider it.

You moved in three days later, and you’d spent most of that Saturday bossing him around. He was already over your shit, then he watched as you rearranged the kitchen—his kitchen—and that left him flabbergasted. You complained that the counters were too cluttered and there wasn’t enough genuine open space.

Jake didn’t care if the counters seemed cluttered to you, everything was clean and everything had its place. Then suddenly, you were like a tornado, knocking everything out of place.

Not to mention your piles that you made, gathering everything like some kind of hamster storing their food for the winter—or like a packrat hiding their stash of goods. You had several piles around the kitchen and dining space, going through each and every one of them—making smaller piles—then finally reorganizing it all and putting the new mixture of his things and your things away. It also bothered him how easily you could just mix your belongings and his—like you were there to stay.

Of course, you’d only agreed to living with him for six months, you paid the first month’s rent up front, and told him that if things didn’t work out, you’d pack your things and find somewhere else to live—either that or you’d kick his ass first then leave.

To make matters worse, two months into living together, Jake Seresin realized he actually enjoyed you being there. Even if you cleaned like an absolute maniac, you also cooked, offered to help with the laundry, and forced him to watch terribly predictable horror movies with you. It was kind of nice in a domestic way.

He hadn’t expected that—at all.

Actually, he expected it to be something similar to your callsign—Hellfire. 

You’d gotten the callsign in flight school for several reasons, of course a major one being you were Inferno’s daughter, and where there was an Inferno, Hellfire followed. It was also because you had your father’s attitude and unfortunately for most of your instructors, his temperament as well. It wasn’t a secret that your father spent his early days of his career a bit out of control, disobeying orders and walking a thin line—you followed suit.

Jake expected living with you to truly be his own living hell. You were annoying as ever, that hadn’t changed, but there was also a sense of serenity with you that had completely blindsided him.

Of course it made perfect sense that after a long day of work anyone would want to relax, but with you, you’d spent all of your time off in a pretty peaceful state. Your usual attitude and smartass remarks were at a minimum, it was rare that you’d make an off-handed remark to him—which was a complete shock for the first few weeks.

If you weren’t such a smartass on base, he’d even consider you a genuine friend.

Hell, he knew you two were friends, even if neither of you would ever admit it out loud. 

You enjoyed living in the apartment, it was a nice space—although it did take some time for you to ‘cozy’ it up, prior to adding your own personal touches, the apartment lacked that extra warmth. It was definitely a man’s apartment, and it even smelled like Jake—that much you didn’t mind. He smelled nice, even after a long day of dogfight drills and Maverick’s usual torture.

It did piss you off that he insisted on using the overhead lights in the place. They made sense in the kitchen, but in the living room? That’s where you drew the line. Eventually you’d dragged him to the local Goodwill to look for lamps that had ‘spunk’ and ‘character’, settling on three different ones after arguing in the middle of the aisle like two crazy people. 

You also yelled at him inside of the local hardware store when he tried to buy lightbulbs that were a cool white light instead of a warm yellow hue. 

That’s also when you found out that he only had one lamp in his bedroom, and it had the bright white bulb in it. You snuck into his bedroom and replaced the light bulb the next morning when he was at the gym.

The first month of living together was full of adjustments on both of your ends, you both had to get used to one another’s schedules and routines. Not to mention the few arguments over how you cleaned, Jake practically storming off into his room to avoid seeing the chaotic mess. You also hated Jake’s cooking, you called it bland and tasteless—which he argued were complete synonyms.

His spice cabinet was embarrassing, so the next trip to the grocery store, you’d bought almost one of every spice in the aisle. Meanwhile he made comments about never needing most of them, but you simply shushed him with your signature glare. There was also the utensil issue, apparently Javy had purchased most of their silverware and upon moving out he and his girlfriend had completely forgotten to buy some—so he’d stolen it from Jake.

He was nice enough to leave two spoons, two forks, and two butter knives. 

So you had to buy silverware as well, and an actual set of kitchen knives considering your sister had stolen yours. 

To his dismay, Jake actually enjoyed shopping with you. The first few trips to the stores were absolute disasters. You drove, which he already hated because you had road rage and a tendency to speed and weave through traffic like a maniac. Then you two would argue in the aisles, going back and forth about what you needed and didn’t need, eventually you’d shush him over and over again until he’d roll his eyes and stop fighting back.

But, things got easier once you two managed to formulate a routine of sorts.

The first major part was that Jake drove. If you needed to go to the store, to the dry cleaners, to drop something off on base, anything that involved you two traveling together and carpooling—Jake was the one driving. 

Then you’d opted to only do your deep cleans when he was at the gym on sunday mornings, that way you had two hours to make your piles and sift through them without his overbearing, controlling, clean-freak nature. 

You usually cooked, you hated his cooking, although you did force him to sit with you on nights that you were both home, and eventually, he started helping and asking for directions. He was still working on the whole ‘seasoning with your heart’ thing, but turns out, he’s a pretty good sous chef.

He vacuumed, you hated vacuuming. But you mopped the kitchen because he hated mopping.

Both of you would play rock paper scissors when it came to dusting. It was the shittiest chore in the house. 

You both cleaned your own spaces, you with the hallway bathroom and bedroom, him with his bedroom and ensuite. He would only clean the hallway bathroom when everyone would come over because he hated people in his bathroom, so it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. 

One and a half months into living together is also when you found out that he had an array of hair products, which was funny considering his hair was relatively short. You’d caught him one morning heavily concentrated on his hair, two brushes and a comb on the bathroom counter alongside a jar of pommade and something in a spray bottle. 

You laughed at him for twenty minutes over it. 

Learning one another’s routines did help with your combined routine though. Jake knew that on your days off, you didn’t want to be bothered before ten in the morning, meanwhile he was up and ready to leave to the gym by seven. Even if you were awake, you were not a morning person, he eventually got used to your silence as you’d walk into the kitchen and start brewing a pot of coffee.

After work, he would come home and shower first, you’d focus on getting dinner started because you hated showering before cooking because you’d be left smelling like whatever you’d cooked after. It worked too because it guaranteed that you would both get hot water for your showers—also something you’d fought about during the first month of living together.

Every night after about seven you were usually quiet, at first it was alarming to him, because you’d never been quiet—not at work and not at the bar or anywhere else the dagger squad would go together. 

You also liked to watch movies during that time. He hadn’t really expected you to enjoy watching movies the way you did, and turns out, you had quite a few streaming subscriptions, some you paid for outright, others were your siblings that you’d been using long enough that they had profiles specifically for you. 

A month into living with each other you’d invited him to watch a movie with you. It was a bit awkward at first, mainly because Jake didn’t know what to say or do. You weren’t exactly the best of friends, and sitting in what should’ve been a comfortable silence was uncomfortable for him. Or at least it was until you’d kicked your sock-clad feet into his lap and tossed him the other end of the oversized throw blanket. 

Since then, it was an almost nightly tradition when you two were home together. When everyone would go out, or either of you would go out, you wouldn’t watch anything, but when you were both home, he didn’t need to be told to join you, he just did.

You both have been living together for almost five months at this point. 

Within the span of five months you’d pretty much turned his entire apartment around. Before you moved in it was just a regular apartment with standard furniture and a few decorations here and there, he liked to keep things minimal—his logic stood at ‘the less things, the less there is to clean’. 

That logic had been swept out of the door, you’d decorated the entire place, opting for funky rugs with different colors and patterns, your plants were scattered around the living room and kitchen closer to any windows, several knick knacks also lined the window sills, and there were three new shelves in the living room that housed his books and yours, all neatly separated and on display—much to his dismay—especially the romance novels.

His two grey sofas now had throw blankets folded over them with a series of decorative pillows in odd shapes and sizes, and the lamps you’d thrifted all sat in their own designated corners of the large common space. You made it a rule to not use the overhead light as well—and you’d forced him to take the lightbulbs out. 

The walls also had numerous photos and prints now, the wall closest to the front door had a corkboard with different pinned polaroids of the dagger squad that Natasha had taken during one of your beach days—you both agreed it made the most sense to hang photos of your shared friends. You had a collection of classic horror movie inspired prints that sat on the wall around the TV—which you also forced Jake to mount. 

The space felt warm, inviting, and lived-in.

Hell, he’d even taken after your eclectic decorating in his own room, adding a few more knick knacks and lamps. 

You both were comfortable in your routine, and you had boundaries already set, such as your hookup protocol. Whenever the other person was bringing someone home, it had to be approved, mainly because neither of you wanted to hear the other person having sex or deal with the awkward aftermath of a one night stand walking out to see you or Jake in the apartment.

It worked well, and for the first two months you both stuck to it. However, now, neither of you ever really texted one another about bringing someone home.

Jake was under the impression that you just opted to hook up at someone else’s place, and you were under the same impression about him. 

Neither of you had been having casual sex with anyone, you just didn’t feel the need to.

It was odd for Jake to not pursue hookups, he was the former king of one night stands, he’d pick up a new girl every few days for the hell of it. Plus the sex was also a great stress reliever for him. Occasionally he’d sleep with the same girl for a few weeks at a time, but when they’d get too clingy he’d break things off.

But now? Now it was like he didn’t care about the sex.

He also wasn’t as stressed as he used to be, part of him knew it was because of you—but he didn’t want to admit that.

You weren’t huge on casual sex, but you did dabble here and there. At least you used to dabble here and there, every few weeks you’d have a one night stand then spend the next day venting to Natasha about it. Most of the time the conversations revolved around the sex being mediocre for you because of the lack of an emotional connection.

She’d laugh at you, teasing you for needing to be emotionally invested in someone to enjoy sleeping with them, but you know she meant no genuine harm in it. You were just one of the people that needed that connection to really feel satisfied. 

Sure your hookups could make you cum, but that was it, you’d have sex, have a mediocre orgasm, then kick the person out—or you’d get dressed and leave.

Everyone around you and Jake noticed the shift and subtle changes between the both of you. It was obvious to them all, but for some reason you and Jake seemed to be incredibly oblivious to the elephant in the room.

It started a few months ago, something as simple as you two showing up to the Hard Deck together.

Everyone watched as he got out first, rounded the truck, then opened your door for you. Meanwhile you were smiling at him with one of your signature ‘Hellfire’ grins. The same look that everyone knew meant you were up to something.

The windows near the pool tables being adjacent to the parking lot that you two were in was a pure coincidence. But it gave the entire dagger squad a front row seat to whatever show you were about to put on. 

To everyone’s surprise, you grasped Jake’s hand and let him help you out of the truck. Then again it was a somewhat lifted truck that you constantly made fun of him about—something about being from Texas and having a very ‘Texan’ truck. 

The most shocking part of it all though was the way that you grasped his hand, practically pulling him behind you as you walked towards the bar. It didn’t help that you weren’t in your usual Khakis, instead wearing a red sundress that had Jake’s eyes on your figure the entire time. Then you looked back and smiled at him, clearly making a joke that had him laughing and shaking his head.

You’d dropped his hand once the both of you had walked into the bar, your eyes scanning the crowd, spotting the Daggers, Jake making a beeline towards them. You opted to head to the bar, ordering another round for your friends while simultaneously spotting your brother—pulling him into a bone crushing hug.

He didn’t hesitate to ask about Jake.

“So, is the pretty boy finally your boyfriend? Seen you two walking in together” you rolled your eyes at Dante, shrugging.

“No, why would he be? We’re friends I guess, although sometimes I wanna kill him. Like straight up wring his throat” your hands moved in a choking motion for a second before you and your brother bursted into laughter.

“Please, my wife wants to wring my throat like six days a week, I think it’s part of the age ol Inferno family charm. Besides, that man looks at you like you hung the stars, and he’s even volunteered to help with Dad’s hazing fiascos on base just to impress him and spend more time with you—“ you shook your head, interrupting him.

“Uh no, he does that because he’s a total show off! We literally live together, I don’t see how he’d ever want to spend more time with me!”

Your brother laughed, shaking his head at you “you’re so smart but so dumb at the same time. Mark my words little miss Hellfire, we’ll be at your wedding in a few years.”

You scoffed “please, I’d rather jump off a bridge than marry Jake Seresin.”

Dante shook his head at you, raising a single brow—in this exact moment he looked just like your father. “Yeah right, sure, that man is literally looking at you right now like you’re the love of his life—look” he then nodded in the direction of the pool tables, you glanced over your shoulder, making eye contact with Jake, raising a single brow.

Then he shrugged, raising his brow—a silent challenge. You scoffed and looked away.

“Please, he’s probably plotting on how he’s gonna piss me off tonight, then annoy me with apologies on the drive back home.”

Your brother nodded slowly “...so the same thing a boyfriend would do?” 

You rolled your eyes again, shoving him while shaking your head.

Before you could respond, Penny placed a few drinks on the bar, whistling to catch your attention. “Here’s that round beautiful!, also when were you gonna tell me about you and Hangman? I saw you two lovebirds smiling at the door! Does Mav know?”

Your eyes widened as you shook your head, feeling the familiar blushing heat overtake your features.

“We aren’t together—oh my god please don’t tell Mav if you think we’re together, I don’t think I’d survive the embarrassment from him, it’s bad enough that I have to fly ops drills with him now that Harvard and Halo are both on leave. God—Mav literally gave me shit a few days ago because I told Bagman to screw off mid-air.”

Penny slowly nodded, exchanging a knowing look with your brother before she shrugged. “If you say so, but your boyfriend and Coyote are heading over here, probably for those drinks”

Then you looked over your shoulder, immediately making eye contact with Jake—again. 

There were other signs of the change in your previous tension filled rivalry relationship as well. The quick-witted quips had turned into flirty remarks on and off base. At first you assumed it was his new way of annoying you, but eventually, you’d gotten used to it and the comments didn’t bother you as much.

You’d take the time to adjust your flight suit on days that were scorching hot while standing on the tarmac and the second Jake would walk by, you’d hear his comments and whistles.

“Looking light a sight for sore eyes today Hellfire, better stop tugging on that zipper before you give us the show I’ve been waiting for”

Or “If you wanted to take your clothes off for me all you had to do was ask”

Once, when you were telling Phoenix that you were excited to take a cold shower he’d even offered to join you. Then he elbowed you playfully and kept walking.

Hell, you’d gone to the grocery store together once and he asked if you wanted a cream pie from him. Then he had the nerve to ask if you preferred to be painted like a toaster strudel while holding both boxes up. 

Jake had said it loud enough in the aisle that a group of teenagers started laughing. That day you nearly slapped him before practically dragging him out of the snack aisle—what made matters worse is he always criticized everything in the snack aisle, but somehow decided that on a random Sunday afternoon, he’d terrorize you instead.

The one singular time you agreed to go to the state fair with everyone, all of you had been drinking and laughing with one another for hours on end. It was in the middle of the spring, a day that wasn’t too hot or too cold, and the longer you all were there, the drunker you’d gotten.

Randomly, Jake had asked you if you preferred riding fast or slow. It wasn’t smooth at all, but it was enough to earn a loud scoff, followed by you hitting him with the large stuffed panda that you’d won after beating everyone at a dart balloon popping game.

“Oh come on! The line didn’t even land! Stop hitting me baby!” he yelled, letting out a dramatic scream as if you’d actually done any damage, then his hands were up, guarding his face while he mumbled about how perfect it was and how ‘his face couldn’t afford the damage’. 

“Stop being a freak Bagman!” he shook his head at your shouting “but I’m only down to get freaky with you baby!” he yelled back in a sing-song voice, earning several looks from the other adults and teenagers walking through the fair—thankfully most of the people with their children had already left.

Bradley and Javy both shared a look before bursting into laughter, meanwhile Mickey and Reuben tried to egg Jake on, ignoring your death glares. 

Bob and Natasha were off getting funnel cakes for everyone, which left you to suffer with the group of drunken idiots. (Granted, they were your drunken idiots)

You forced them all onto the tilt-a-whirl and they’d nearly thrown up during the ride. All letting out high-pitched screams each time their carts spun faster and faster. 

During their time on the ride Bob and Nat had gotten back with the funnel cakes, both of them exchanging a confused expression at the sight of you practically fuming, watching the rest of their friend group squeal like little kids on the ride—Rooster holding onto his stomach while trying not to throw up. 

Mickey had his hands in the air, cheering. Reuben and Javy both were panicking—trying to make sure no one threw up because they’d all managed to squeeze into one of the carts together. The ride instructor said it only seated four max—now they were all smushed with Rooster and Hangman who both looked ready to puke. 

Bob asked if you were alright, considering how pissed you looked. Then you vented to him for five minutes about how annoying everyone was, and how weird Jake was acting—which he’d already noticed but clearly you were oblivious to the evident shift in emotions. Bob shrugged, offering “have you considered the possibility that maybe Bagman might actually be romantically interested in you? And vice versa?”

You blinked a few times, for a couple of minutes you were contemplating it—maybe Bob did have a point. Then as you glanced back over at Jake, who was now standing up from the ride, blinking several times—trying to regain his balance, you shook your head. “No, I don’t think that’s it.”

Bob sighed, shaking his head then looked at Natasha. “They’re hopeless.”

You didn’t hear his comment, not when you were already making your way towards the area full of wooden outdoor tables. Then Jake practically tackled you, his arms wrapping around your waist while he pulled your back against his chest, a wide smile on his face as he rested his head on your shoulder. 

“That ride was killer Sweetheart, gotta say—you’re an evil woman.” You nodded your head, rolling your eyes while smiling, laughing at him as he held you in place. 

Everyone stared in shock. What no one understood was why you weren’t cursing Jake out anymore, each time anyone would bring up the possibility of you or him having feelings for one another, you’d simply shrug them off, saying it wasn’t true—because for some odd reason, you didn’t think it was.

The shift in dynamic was confusing to everyone except for you and Jake.

Today was no different, you’d all opted to go midnight mini-golfing because the several drinks you’d had at the Hard Deck left you all a little too tipsy to call it a night. Plus Maverick had given the squad the day off tomorrow. So after much deliberation, you all agreed that it would be fun to try out the new mini-golfing place half an hour from base. 

Squeezing into several ubers, was hilarious to most of you. Instead of opting for the Uber XL options, you guys somehow assumed ordering two regular Ubers would be fine. Both cars ended up being Priuses. 

You were squished in the backseat with Jake and Javy while Natasha sat in the front, except you’d managed to beat Jake at rock paper scissors, forcing him to take the middle seat which led to you practically being halfway in his lap, your left thigh completely draped over his right. Meanwhile your head leaned against his shoulder while you laughed at Javy’s jokes.

Nat looked at you and Jake from the rear-view mirror, a single brow raised at your closeness. She’d been skeptical about the two of you for a few weeks now, but she knew if anything had really happened you would’ve told her. Maybe you really were that oblivious.

It didn’t help that Jake looked down at you, mumbling your name not your callsign to catch your attention. You glanced up at him, faces inches apart while holding eye contact. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then he shook his head, mumbling a quiet ‘nevermind’ before giving you a kiss on the top of your head.

Javy’s brows knit together at the motion. He met Natasha’s gaze through the rear view mirror, double checking if she’d seen it too. Sure, he was drunk—but he wasn’t that drunk. There was no way in hell Hangman would ever be kissing the top of Hellfire’s head. 

Not in a million god damn years.

Once everyone actually arrived at the mini-golfing spot and tumbled out of the small ubers like clowns leaving a clown car, everyone mostly walked in a large group, but you and Jake were side by side in the back, hands gently brushing against one another with each step. Then you absentmindedly grabbed his hand, intertwining your fingers while walking towards the payment booth.

There was already a line of drunk adults waiting to be assisted, so everyone moved to the end of the line in one large cluster of sorts. 

No one said anything about you and Jake holding hands, but everyone noticed. They always did.

Mickey and Reuben exchanged a knowing look. Natasha and Bob did the same thing before shrugging, then Coyote and Rooster blinked several times, squinting with their jaws dropped as if this was the craziest thing they’d ever witnessed.

These are all aviators that have been in real-time active combat and somehow the most shocking thing was the sight of you and Jake not only getting along, but being rather close.

Mickey was the first to crack, he leaned closer to Reuben a harsh whisper as he faced away from you and Jake, looking towards the neon-colored booth with several black lights facing it. “Are you seeing them too? I’m not losing it right? Like that’s actually happening?” 

Reuben nodded, looking back at you and Jake for another brief moment. “You think they finally slept together?”

Coyote interrupted, clearing his throat while interjecting himself between the two men, shaking his head. “No way they have, Hangman hasn’t told me anything—and trust me when I say he tells me everything. Also, he keeps saying he’s not into her—but then he’s kissing her on the forehead like they’re an old married couple”

You leaned your head against Jake’s shoulder again, now looking up at him, eyes tracing his side profile as you spoke “Bagman, you’ve got pretty eyes.” Your words slurred a little from the one too many drinks, and you couldn’t stop the dopey smile on your face while you looked at him.

He nodded his head, looking at you with a brow raised “you flirting with me Hellfire? Don’t you know it’s frowned upon to fraternize with your fellow Aviators?” Jake laughed at his own joke, a wide smile on his face as his eyes trailed your features. “You’ve got pretty eyes too, got a little twinkle to them.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head while you looked away from him, hand still intertwined with his. 

Maybe this was just the liquor and your newfound friendship with Jake, all you knew was you enjoyed the closeness. He didn’t let go of your hand either, even offering a reassuring squeeze as you all moved forward in line.

Everyone was talking about mini-golf, Coyote and Rooster going back and forth about how they were great golfers, so mini-golf would be a walk in the park for them. Meanwhile Natasha shook her head, rolling her eyes while reminding them both that they were two large men who were playing golf with small putters on a course much tinier than they were used to.

They scoffed, brushing her off, even betting that they’d do the best. 

One hour into being out they both quickly realized they were terrible at mini-golf. Rooster looked bulky and awkward trying to drunkenly maneuver around the course, meanwhile Coyote kept over extending his shots, the golf balls flying all over the place, he’d even lost a few in the small man-made ponds and rivers. 

Now, two hours in, everyone was still drinking and you and Natasha had been tied for first place. 

Jake had also helped you with a few hits, his hands on your hips, angling them slightly while he spoke directly into your ear, his low southern drawl giving you goosebumps as he directed your movements.

Everyone tried their best not to acknowledge it, well, everyone that was focusing—which would’ve just been Natasha and Bob, the rest of the squad were too drunk to care about whatever was going on between you and Hangman.

Bradley and Javy were shotgunning beers as if they were twenty-one and the president of a fraternity. Both chest bumping after finishing their drinks before swinging their puts around a little too frantically as they headed towards the next course.

Then Fanboy tripped over one of the small bird-house-esque obstacles, he’d gone face forward into the turf, which had everyone erupting in laughter. He got up quickly, giving everyone two thumbs up before realizing his nose was bleeding. 

Your eyes widened, now stepping away from Jake whose hand had been around your waist, resting gently along your hip. For a second it felt like he didn’t want to let you go, but you gently pushed him away to rush over to Mickey, shaking your head at him while he awkwardly pinched his nose, flashing you a bloody smile.

“Are you shitting me Mick?” you couldn’t help but laugh at him, now digging through your purse, grabbing some tissues and handing them to him before looking over at Reuben who was laughing so hard he’d been hunched over gripping his chest, still laughing.

“Payback, chop chop, it’s time to head home! Fanboy’s officially cut off” you were laughing as you spoke, one hand rubbing gentle circles into Mickey’s back while he pinched his nose with the small stack of slightly crumpled tissues. He was still smiling, eyes hooded, the drunken haze very evident on his features. 

Reuben slowly stood up, still letting out a few laughs, shaking his head while he pointed directly to Mickey “you are an absolute legend man!” 

Bob and Natasha exchanged a look, both sighing as he pulled out his phone, now opening the Uber app—Bob was always the most responsible one on these outings, even after a few drinks. “Don’t worry, Hellfire, I’m calling the uber now. You heading back with them?”

You nodded your head at him. “Yeah, I’ll make sure they get in alright—these two morons might end up killing each other if we let them go alone” you giggled as you glanced between Mickey and Reuben. Both of them exchanged a look before bursting into a fit of laughter, what made it worse was now Reuben was falling over the same miniature house, except he’d managed to land directly on his ass, groaning at the impact.

“I can head back with them, that way Hangman can make sure you get in alright plus you two live together so it makes the most sense—Rooster and Nix are gonna head back with Coyote.” Bob motioned behind him, your eyes following his hand.

You looked over at Coyote and Rooster who were still in their frat-boy era, now trying to coordinate a handshake while drunkenly laughing together, then they both paused, belching loudly.

“Geez, Nat you sure you wanna deal with that?” 

She laughed, shrugging a bit before looking over at them. That’s when you noticed the smile on her face as she looked directly at Bradley, your brows knit together—eyes wide. Before you knew it, you were gasping, catching everyone's attention, then you muttered out an apology, clearing your throat while giggling.

“Phoenix! We have a lot to talk about tomorrow!” 

She blinked a few times, then her eyes widened as she watched your eyes jump from her to Bradley. “Don’t get me started!” both of her brows raised as she looked from you to Jake, which only confused you, there wasn’t anything going on between you and Hangman—at least you think there’s nothing going on there.

You’re friends—ish?

“Alright everyone, as much as we would all love to stay here until someone else gets hurt, our rides are here.” Bob announced, then he called out to Bradley and Javy, who turned so fast they’d managed to smack into one another. 

Maybe midnight mini-golf wasn’t the best idea.

Bob shook his head, pausing before looking back at you. “Hellfire, do you need me to call you a ride?” 

You shook your head, digging through your pockets, eventually finding your phone in one of them. “No, it’s okay—I’ll be fine with Number 2 over there! Be careful getting home guys! Text the group chat when you’re in okay! Or, I guess Bob and Nat text us?”

They both nodded, then the group started heading back towards the initial booth to return the puts, most of the golf balls were now long gone, something that you’d apologize profusely for once you turned everything in.

Jake helped Rooster and Coyote into their ride, Nat shaking her head as she climbed into the front seat while mumbling apologies for the two drunken idiots in the back seat. Meanwhile Bob managed to grab more napkins from the woman behind the golf counter for Mickey, who was getting into the car while still holding his bloody nose as Reuben practically flailed himself into the backseat.

“Good luck Bobert!” he laughed at the nickname, shaking his head at you before getting into the car and waving goodbye. 

Once everyone else was in, you glanced over at Jake who was scrolling through his phone. “Alright sweetheart, looks like we’ve got eight minutes to kill. Apparently those esteemed pilots managed to snag the closest rides here. Unless of course, you count me, y’know what they say about saving horses.”

He tried to be serious, but the second you made eye contact, the both of you were bursting into a fit of laughter. You shook your head at him while smiling.

“Seriously? You think that was smooth or something? No offense Bagman, but I don’t think you’d be able to handle me giving you a ride.”

Jake’s eyes widened slightly, meanwhile you gave him a flirty smile and a shrug. It was a challenge, that much he knew. You were both overly competitive, it’s one of the major reasons you couldn’t get along when you’d first met—hell it was the entire reason you two were even friends now.

Neither of you said anything else during the wait, it was a comfortable silence, you leaned into him while he wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you closer to his side. 

By the time the both of you had gotten home, it was a little past three. 

You were in his bed before four. 

The second you’d walked into your shared apartment, he was on you. As soon as the door shut, he had you pinned against it, looking down at you in a lustful drunken haze, eyes slightly hooded while he smirked. 

You raised a single brow. Eyes moving from his blue irises to his lips—that’s all the confirmation he needed, his lips were on yours in seconds. You weren’t sure what happened or what changed tonight, but something shifted between the both of you—the previous gradual change had now fully tipped the scales.

Jake Seresin kissed you as if you were the oxygen he needed to breathe. One of his hands firmly held your waist, the other caressed the side of your face, thumb on your chin, lightly tugging against your bottom lip for a brief moment—just long enough for him to slip his tongue between your lips. 

Your hands gripped his shirt as you did your best to keep up with him, but it was clear this was one competition you wouldn’t be winning. So you shoved him back slightly, biting his bottom lip as he pulled away, your eyes meeting his again.

He licked his lips as he nodded, eyes stuck on your kiss-swollen lips “what was that you said earlier? You wanna go for a ride?” his voice was deeper than usual, and it had you biting your bottom lip and nodding.

If anyone were to ask you how you ended up half-naked in Jake Seresin’s bed with him between your thighs? You wouldn’t have a proper answer. One day you couldn’t stand the man, the next he was leaving bruising kisses along your body, then biting into the plush skin of your thighs. 

You looked down at him, biting your bottom lip as he ran his tongue along the bite mark on your inner thigh. He was already looking up at you, steely blue eyes on yours while he kissed a trail along your inner thighs, the way he stared at you was downright filthy.

Your clothes and his were in a scattered mess, trailing from the living room to his bedroom, your panties now dangling from your left ankle while he spread your thighs even further, moaning at the sight of your glistening core. 

“Fuck—wanted to taste you for so long baby” your eyes widened at the confession, but before you could say anything, Jake’s tongue was already lapping at your cunt. With zero hesitation he rapidly flicked his tongue along your swollen clit, your back immediately arching, one hand grasping his sheets, the other in his hair, tugging on the blonde strands.

He moaned against you, alternating between fast movements to slowly, deliberately trailing his tongue along your clit. He was practically french kissing your cunt—the motions had you whimpering. 

Jake didn’t care about the obscene wet sounds coming from his mouth against your pussy, if anything it turned him on even more. He focused on your clit—gauging your reactions to different speeds and pressures, doing his best to build a rhythm that would push you over the edge. 

Then he paused, biting his bottom lip at the low whine you let out.

“Jake—don’t tease me”

His cock had never been harder in his life. Jake Seresin had never once cum in his pants from going down on a woman—but today that might change. With the way you were tugging on his hair and whining his name and the taste of your cunt on his tongue—he was seconds away from finishing.

He nodded his head “don’t worry Sweetheart, I’ll give you what you need.” then one of the hands holding your thighs in place moved, now sliding into the apex of your thighs, right below his tongue. 

The feeling of one of Jake’s fingers fucking into you had you moaning his name desperately. You were practically begging for more already, rolling your hips against him. 

Jake nodded his head “fuck, you’re so tight baby—gonna feel so good wrapped around my cock. Pretty girl, you need more don’t you” 

You didn’t hesitate to moan “Fuck—yeah please-please Jake” his name sounded absolutely filthy leaving your lips in a desperate plea. 

Then he was wrapping his lips around your clit, hollowing his cheeks and harshly sucking on the swollen pearl while sliding a second finger into you, the combined sensation had your eyes rolling back, hips rocking against his face and fingers, trying to chase your high that he was dangling right in front of you.

He sped his fingers up, curling them slightly—just enough to have you moaning his name again. 

You were begging to cum, moaning a slurred mixture of pleas and his name. 

Jake didn’t care about anything else in this exact moment except for making you cum. What pushed you over the edge was the feeling of him slipping a third finger inside of you—your thighs practically caging him in—back arching off the bed, eyes squeezed shut.

“Jake—oh fuck! Oh fuck—Jake—” 

He moaned against you, a deep guttural moan as his entire body stiffened up, then it happened. Jake’s eyes widened as he kept his motions up, prolonging your orgasm for as long as he could—letting you wrap your hands in his hair and cage him in with your thighs.

When you finally pushed him away, he licked his lips, slowly sliding his fingers out of you, free hand gently caressing your hip—thumb rubbing half moons along the soft skin as you slightly winced from your own sensitivity. 

You were out of breath as you watched him sit up, the bottom half of his face covered in your slick while he tried to steady hsi breathing. Then your eyes were trailing along his body, Jake had always been muscular—that much you knew, and of course he was easy on the eyes, but you’d never seen him like this.

Chest rapidly rising and falling, a red flush to his skin, lips swollen, lust evident in his gaze. Then your eyes trailed even lower, taking in the defined ridges of his abdomen, and the trail of hair that led to the waistband of his briefs. However, nothing prepared you for the sight of his half-hard bulge below the grey Calvins with a dark patch evident on them.

“Did you—?” he shushed you, shaking his head, now looking slightly embarrassed as he looked away from you.

“Fuck, don’t ask me that—y’know I did. I’ve never—it’s never happened—shit don’t laugh at me baby” His drunken rambling was cute, it was clear that Jake was embarrassed, but he did little to nothing to hide it from you—he was comfortable around you and that had your heart doing somersaults.

You did your best to stop laughing at him, biting your bottom lip while raising both brows. “Yeah, never had pussy this good?” you tried to be serious, but you laughed again, and that caused Jake to laugh as he shook his head at you.

“You’re the bane of my existence y’know that? No wonder they call you Hellfire, you’re terrible” he nodded as he spoke, shifting slightly, trying to ignore the fact that he was getting hard again. Something about this—how intimate it was—was sending his caveman brain into overdrive. 

Then you were sitting up, grasping his hand, pulling him towards you. Once he was on top of you, you rolled over, the two of you in a fit of laughter at your lack of finesse—you blamed that on the drinks.  

Eventually you managed to properly straddle him, now unclasping your bra, tossing it across the room. His eyes widened at the sight of your tits, he licked his lips, looking at one, then the other, already imagining biting into them—maybe he had a thing for biting—Jake was discovering a lot about himself tonight.

You didn’t hesitate to tug on his briefs a bit, sliding them down just enough to grasp his cock, laughing at the sticky wetness to it, raising both brows at him as you wrapped your hand around his length, hand pumping along it as he gasped. You could feel how hard he already was—but based on his reactions, he wasn’t there just yet.

“F-fuck, you’re gonna kill me baby” 

You smiled at that, “not before I get my ride, how else am I gonna save a horse?”

His moan was animalistic, Jake covered his face with both hands, muffling his own moans while your hand moved faster, wrist slightly twisting, adding to the sensation. It didn’t help that you were slotted directly behind his cock, giving yourself the perfect view of it—and he had the perfect view of you. 

When he moved his hands, he watched as you spit onto it, a thin string of spit leaving your tongue, landing on the head of his cock, you quickly used it to move your hand even faster now. Then you looked at him, holding eye contact as you spit again.

Jake had to start doing mental math to stop himself from cumming. He was in his head calculating the force behind pulling four G’s in-air. 

This was a side of you that he knew nothing about—he’d never once in his life heard you talk about your sex life, nor did he know if you were actually out hooking up with people—but he didn’t care—not at this moment when you were jerking him off like a vixen straight out of a porno.

“Is now a bad time to say I’d wear one of your hats if you asked me to—not tonight though—I think you might go into shock or something” your light hearted tone, giggles, mixed with the fact that you were suggesting wearing one of his cowboy hats while simultaneously jerking him off had him squeezing his eyes shut, taking in a sharp intake of breath and thinking of Maverick—doing his best not to cum again.

It was terrible, having to think of your mission instructor just to avoid cumming for the second time in one night—Jake was humiliated—which might’ve been making the situation even worse.

“Why the face?” he blinked a few times at the question, taking a deep breath.

“Sweetheart, do you realize how sexy you are right now? I’m over here five seconds away from cumming—again. Between me and you, I’ve gotta think about Mav to stop myself from finishing”

You paused your movements, eyes widening before bursting into a fit of laughter, head thrown back with a wide smile on your face. “Hangman! Seriously?!” he nodded, rolling his lips inward and taking a deep breath.

“So, if you could, I’d like that ride—before I end up embarrassing myself twice tonight.”

You nodded at him, grasping his cock again, now sliding your body forward, lining him up with your dripping entrance, then you were taking his cock—slowly at first. You moaned at the stretch, toes curling, eyes rolling back slightly. It was obvious that he was big—but feeling him stretching you out was euphoric.

Then he grasped your waist, biting his bottom lip, trying not to buck his hips into you. 

By the time you had him fully sheathed in your cunt, you were slightly out of breath, now leaning backward slightly, hands resting on his toned thighs, your head thrown back while you adjusted to the feeling of him. “You’re so fuckin big—fuck me.” 

Jake was on cloud nine, his head practically spinning. He must’ve died and gone to Heaven—and the exact moment he was asking himself if this could get any better, you were lifting yourself off of his cock, using his thighs to brace yourself, then slamming back down.

He expected you to take it slow, but you had your own ideas. 

When you said he wouldn’t be able to handle you riding him—he now realized you might’ve been right.

You bounced on his cock without a care in the world, too cock drunk to think about anything but fucking Jake Seresin. Hips rapidly moving up and down along him, skin slapping against skin as your cunt practically swallowed him—soaking him in your essence.

He bit his bottom lip, moaning at the sight of your bodies connected, his cock practically shining, covered in a thin layer of your slick while you rode him. At this rate, he could hardly remember his own name, hands moving from your hips to your tits, he was testing the waters now, landing a gentle but firm slap to one of them, earning a choked moan from you.

The sting only intensified your pleasure, you moved one hand now, sliding it between your own thighs, two fingers rubbing circles into your clit—walls fluttering around his cock at the sensation. Jake’s hips bucked into you uncontrollably. 

Before he could start apologizing, you looked at him again, still fucking yourself against him, still rubbing your clit, and letting him play with your tits. “Fuck—do it again Jake—please”

He was in heaven. This was it—or he was in Hell and you’d be torturing him for eternity—using him for your pleasure. Actually—that wouldn’t be torture, not when he felt like every nerve ending in his body was on fire and all he could focus on was the slick vice grip your cunt had him in.

Jake planted his feet on the mattress, one hand firm against your waist-grip bruising—then he started fucking up into you, meeting each and every one of your movements. 

You were a whining, moaning mess. It wasn’t long before you were practically begging him to cum—asking him for permission. That had his mind hazy again.

“Fuck, y’wanna cum baby?” His voice was strained, deep, and that texan drawl was driving you crazy. “Yeah, keep taking this cock—fuck just like that—such a good fuckin girl—best pussy I’ve ever had—Fuck—” Jake’s words were strained, at this point he hardly knew what he was saying, his filter was gone, all he could focus on was your pleasure and his. He pushed your hand out of the way, using his thumb to rub hard circles into your clit.

That sent you over the edge, you practically fell forward as you came, moaning his name like a prayer, cunt clenching around him so tight that he couldn’t hold it—you felt his cock twitch inside of you then he was coating your walls in ropes of cum—the warmth spreading throughout you.

It took a few minutes for both of you to fully come down from your shared high. You rested your head against his chest, eyes fluttering shut while you caught your breath.

“Seresin—I’ve never been fucked that good before”

He laughed at your hoarse voice, nodding his head while he massaged your scalp with one hand. “Pretty sure you fucked me, not the opposite”

That had both of you laughing again.

Eventually you slowly slid off of him, biting down against his shoulder as you winced. Then you were rolling onto your back, looking at the ceiling, biting your bottom lip and laughing. He slipped out of the bed, heading to the bathroom for a few minutes. 

When Jake came out you were already half asleep, a dopey smile on your face while you looked at him, it had his heart racing. You looked so beautiful, the warm glow of the light against your skin made you look like a renaissance painting, all soft edges and sweet smiles—the definition of beauty itself. 

He had a pair of pajama pants slung low on his hips, then he was back between your thighs, gently maneuvering your body around, a warm washcloth between your thighs as he cleaned you up, taking a mental picture of his cum leaking out of you—something he’d think about later when it was just him alone at night.

Eventually when he was finished, he handed you one of his older PT shirts, ‘NAVY’ across the front in bold letters, the shirt was definitely one that he didn’t wear often—you knew that based on the fact that it was actually an oversized shirt. Jake Seresin was the kind of guy to only wear fitted t-shirts, showing off his body that he’d ‘spent so long curating’. 

You sat up in his bed, looking at him for a few seconds, finally sobering up—well from the drinks—admittedly you were still a little cockdrunk and fucked out.

“You wanna watch a movie?” he smiled at you, nodding his head. 

“Nothing I’d want more.”

Both of you expected the next day to be awkward, when you’d woken up on the sofa, tangled together under your usual blankets with the TV displaying an ‘are you still watching’ screen. But neither of you felt awkward about the previous night, you’d had sex—arguably amazing sex, and that was it.

He gently got off of you, helping you off the sofa with a wink. You raised a single brow “don’t get any ideas Seresin, my thighs are on fire” then you laughed, shrugging before walking off to your bathroom. 

Jake watched you walk off, his eyes trailing your figure, brows knit together, trying to process his own feelings. Sure you were still his annoying overly competitive friend—but you weren’t just his friend. You acting so casually also didn’t help, not a single awkward laugh or moment of eye contact. You’d gotten up and made a joke about it, and that was it.

Before he could dwell on it, the doorbell rang. He glanced over at the clock you forced him to mount near the kitchen, it was barely nine, who the hell would be showing up to your place at nine in the morning?

When Jake opened the door, the sight of Natasha in a pair of sweatpants, blacked out sunglasses, and a very oversized ‘Margarittavillle’ t-shirt told him everything he needed to know. Especially considering that was the same shirt Rooster wore to the gym all the time. 

They exchanged a knowing look. Natasha’s brows knit together as she noticed Jake’s half-naked form, her eyes trailing him skeptically. Then she noticed the evident reddish purple bite-marked shaped bruise on his shoulder. 

“Long night Hangman?” 

He nodded “You too Phoenix?”

She nodded. He then stepped to the side, making room for Phoenix to come into the apartment, which she gladly did, mumbling a ‘thanks’ while Jake shut the door behind her, locking it then scratching the back of his neck.

“So, are you here to debrief with Hellfire over your freaked out sex with Rooster? Is now a bad time to make a joke about his coc—” 

“Jake Seresin! If you finish that sentence I’ll personally kick your ass!” you shouted from the hallway bathroom, now stepping into view, pointing your toothbrush directly at him, both brows raised—shooting him a warning look. He knew that look well, it was better than the usual warning glare though—that one was a little scary.

Nat sat on the smaller sofa, raising a brow as she took in your disheveled appearance. Most notably the Navy t-shirt you had on that hardly even covered anything—it had just enough give to keep your bits hidden, but the second you turned around, she was flashed the bottom of your ass.

“Put some pants on Fire! Your ass is out!” 

Ten minutes later you were mostly dressed and brewing a pot of coffee, Jake decided to skip the gym for the first time in a very long time, instead he actually joined you and Phoenix for the debrief. Mainly because he wanted to be nosey about their relationship. 

While you stood in front of the coffee pot, he slid right behind you, hands on your waist while he kissed the side of your exposed neck—your hair all braided into two thick braids now. You giggled a bit at the feeling, trying to hold in your smile, lightly swatting at him.

“Stop it Jake!” your giggles gave you away, he then wrapped his hands around your waist, holding you against his chest. 

“C’mon baby—can’t I just be sweet and doting?” 

You scoffed, pushing him away while shaking your head. “No, don’t make me start doing my weekly deep clean early!” his eyes widened at the threat, shaking his head.

“Please—God please no. The piles are crazy! It drives me insane! It makes no sense!” 

You shrugged, now turning back, grabbing three mugs from the cupboard above you. “It makes perfect sense, you’re just mister neat freak, although you’re not very neat when it comes to se—” his hand was over your mouth, you laughed against it, while he blushed.

“None of that! Jesus—Phoenix is here!” 

You pushed his hand away, shrugging while pouring each cup of coffee, then you grabbed the milk that you’d gotten out already, pouring some into his coffee and dropping a singular cube of sugar into it—the way he liked it. He’d told you that a few months ago, said his mom drank it like that, so he did too.

Then you focused on making yours and Phoenix’s, adding the vanilla coffee creamer in until both cups were the right color. He shook his head at the sight.

“Y’know how much sugar is in that shit? It’s terrible for you Sweetheart.”

You raised a single brow “what are you, my almond mom? As a top Naval Aviator who was number one in my Top Gun class, I think I'll be okay drinking coffee with vanilla creamer. Besides, if it kills me at least I’ll die happy—not depressed with bitter nasty coffee.”

Then you were grabbing the mugs and walking past him, walking around the kitchen island, heading over to the sofas, handing Phoenix her mug before taking a seat in your usual spot on the couch, wrapping yourself in a blanket then taking a sip of your coffee.

You and Phoenix both looked back at Jake who was leaning against the kitchen island with his coffee in hand. 

“We’re not including you in our debrief if you stand there like a creep Bagman.” You hummed in agreement with Natasha. Jake let out a dramatic sigh before walking over and sitting on the couch beside you, using one hand to lift your legs into his lap.

“Are you two together? Everyone on the squad wants to know. Even Mav” 

You and Jake exchanged a confused look, then you both looked back at Nat.

“No, why would they think that?” You shrugged as you spoke.

Jake spoke at the same time as you “No, who said that?”

Natasha slowly nodded her head at the interaction. “You two are like heavily domestic, and we’re at that age where two people who are heavily domestic are usually in a relationship. I mean look at this apartment, it’s all warm and cozy and screams ‘I let my girlfriend decorate’. You two hold hands in public now, you laugh and smile at each other? You haven't been chewed out about arguing during ops for like two months now! Y’know Mick asked Inferno if he knew his daughter was in a relationship”

Your eyes widened at her last sentence. Everything else hadn’t bothered you, you didn’t really notice the shift in your relationship with Jake—honestly you liked the shift. But Mickey telling your overbearing nutcase father that you were in a relationship? That was a problem in and of itself.

“I wouldn’t say we’re heavily domestic, I dunno, we just get each other.” Jake spoke with a shrug, the same oblivious nature that you had evident in his tone. Natasha sighed and shook her head, pinching her nose bridge slightly as she finally slipped off her hangover sunglasses. 

“You two are hopeless. Nothing about your current dynamic screams relationship to either of you?” 

You and Jake exchanged a look, then you both shook your heads. 

“No.” followed by “Nope.” 

Natasha didn’t get it—she truly didn’t understand either of you. She was currently sitting in your shared apartment, that you’d practically bullied Hangman into redecorating, you constantly bossed him around and he responded as if he liked it. You two had your arguments and disagreements—but nothing was major anymore and you both simply brushed things off. 

Holding hands in public was one thing, but she’d literally watched him kiss your head in an uber as if it was a normal gesture? If any of the daggers kissed her head she’d probably smack them.

You two naturally gravitate towards one another now, then the fact that you’d both managed to fall into a regular routine while living together, spending quality time with one another—completely dropping all of your previous hookups. Now you’d clearly had sex with one another, and somehow, someway, you two were still convinced that there was no romantic inkling in your dynamic?

Natasha had a headache already, and you two were making it worse.

“You two are morons. Anyways, now it’s time to talk about why I’m a moron.” 

The three of you laughed together. Then Natasha went into her story-telling mode, and she’d even given you and Jake all of the details on her and Bradley’s changing dynamic. 

They’d been friends since flight school, and they kept in touch, to the point that she’d been genuinely mad at him when he hadn’t told her that he was finally stateside again following the original assignment and callback to Top Gun.

“But here’s the thing, I don’t know if I’m genuinely into him, or if I’m just lonely and crave a relationship and domesticity! We’ve been friends for a long time, it’s not like you just randomly develop romantic feelings for your friends.” 

She sighed as she spoke, now slumping into the sofa, her mug on the coffee table while she wrapped herself in another one of the throw blankets, a pillow in her lap.

“Actually, it’s pretty common to randomly develop feelings for your friends, especially as you get older and realize that they have genuine traits that you like—plus Bradleys not exactly ugly. I’m sorry but he’s fucking fine, that man is like a 6’2 wall of muscle, and have you seen his hands?” 

She nodded as you spoke, meanwhile Jake scoffed. 

You glanced at him, raising a brow “is there a problem Twosie?” He rolled his eyes at the nickname.

“Of all the names you have, I told you not to call me Twosie, it sounds like I’m a damn child.” you shrugged at him.

“Oh well, don’t throw a fit like one then. Now why are you scoffing, what are you gonna disagree that Bradley’s not super sexy? He’s like sex on legs.” Jake rolled his eyes at that comment. “Anyways, back to what I was saying before the Ken doll interrupted me. Bradley Bradshaw is a catch, and honestly Nat, with the way he looks at you whenever you two talk? I wouldn’t be shocked if he has a thing for you too.”

Jake nodded his head at that “yeah, that man looks at you like a lovesick puppy.”

“So he looks at me the way you look at Hellfire?” Natasha spoke with such a matter of fact tone that she had you actually thinking about how Jake looked at you. Everyone was constantly saying that the way he looked at you meant something—but you just didn’t see it.

“I do not look at her like a lovesick puppy.”

She rolled her eyes “yeah, sure Bagman. Back to me now.”

The three of you spent the rest of the morning and afternoon talking, eventually you’d also called Mickey and Reuben to get their advice on the situation, both of them agreeing that Natasha very clearly had romantic feelings for Bradley. Hell, the second you texted Bob, he sent a thumbs up, followed by ‘yeah, she’s into him.’

Eventually Natasha left, and you were back with just Jake.

Your brows knit together as you sat on the couch again, now staring at him.

“Jake?” he nodded his head, eyes practically glued to the TV as he scrolled through Netflix, looking for something interesting to watch tonight. You told him to pick once because you always pick, so now, once in a blue moon he cashes in his ‘it’s my turn to pick’ card.

You cleared your throat, he got the message and turned to look at you. Your brows were knit together, a confused expression on your face, while you looked at him.

“Yeah? What’s the matter sweetheart?” He sounded so concerned, and that only added into the confusion you were feeling.

“Are we in a relationship?”

Jake shook his head “uh no, we’ve never even been on a date.” Then he started thinking, you two had never really been on a date, neither of you had asked one another out.

But you did go to restaurants together, and you dragged him to several art galleries, the two of you drove to the beach to watch the sunset, you went to the movies together, whenever he saw something that you might like he jotted it down for later, taking you as a surprise.

Hell, just last weekend Jake had woken you up early, forced you to get ready just to drive two hours away to go cherry picking with him because he’d overheard you mention cherry picking season to your sisters on FaceTime two weeks prior. 

Then when you’d gotten there, he paid for everything and let you drag him around the entire orchard while he carried an eight pound bucket of cherries. Once you’d gotten home, he also helped clean each of them, and helped you bake for nearly five hours before taking you to your parents house to drop off several pies.

Jake had also managed to meet your mother, he already knew Inferno—but showing up to his house with his daughter in tow was something he hadn’t exactly thought through, so he was grateful that the man was on base. 

He also understood why you didn’t enjoy living with your very loud, very rambunctious family. They were all amazing, and he fit right in—which your mother teased you about—-but between the yelling, children running around, animals all over the place, and your brother’s family showing up as well, it made sense why you liked having your own slice of peace.

Your mother had also told Jake that he really liked him with you—which at the time, he simply shrugged off with a smile. Not wanting to get into the whole ‘we’re friends’ debacle with the woman that managed to stay married to a man as intense as your father for over twenty years.

Not to mention, the woman had also managed to raise your psychotic self—although Jake liked you for who you were.

His eyes widened “holy shit, we have been on dates—like a lot of dates. Wait, I think we are in a relationship—when’s the last time you’ve had sex—outside of last night.”

You shrugged, trying to think back on it “I think like three or four months ago now? I dunno, I just stopped having casual sex with people—I didn't really want to anymore.”

Jake nodded “yeah, actually. It’s been a few months. I preferred one night stands for the stress relief, but I haven't really been stressed in a while.”

“Isn’t that also around the time that we started getting close?” He nodded again with a light hum. 

Then he glanced around the apartment, thinking about what Phoenix had said, it hadn’t really bothered him when you started redecorating, and sure he’d argue a bit, but for the most part he just did what you told him when it came to moving things, mounting things, and rearranging.

All of your stuff was mixed with his stuff outside of your separate bedrooms. He didn’t mind, usually he would’ve—but with you it was different.

“Listen Sweetheart, I know we’re not friends. That much is for sure.”

His tone wasn’t venomous, not in the slightest. He sounded sincere, and almost vulnerable. But Jake was right, you weren’t friends. This was different—much different. 

Mick, Reuben, and Bob were your friends. You would never sleep with them—drunk or not. You also wouldn’t do their laundry willingly or cook dinner for them, or spend your decompressing time with them. 

Natasha was right, you and Jake were downright domestic.

Even after having sex with him, there was nothing awkward, there wasn’t a single sense of regret in either of your bodies. There was no awkward ‘oh this was a mistake we’re never speaking about this again!’ conversation. It felt normal, you felt normal.

“Jake, I think we’re in a relationship.” 

He nodded his head “yeah, no, that tracks. Considering you’re the only woman I want to spend my free time with, actually, if we’re being honest, I wanna spend all of my time with you. It’s part of the reason I’m always kissing your dad’s ass.” 

You laughed at him, smiling “don’t worry Bagman, I like spending my time with you too—otherwise I would’ve kicked your ass and stolen your apartment. But I think I just made it our apartment instead.” 

“We should’ve had sex sooner then.”

“Jake Seresin!” you paused, eyes widening “oh my god—my dad probably already thinks you’re my boyfriend. I’m so sorry for what Inferno’s gonna put you through.” 

He shrugged “it’s fine, I made it through the Hellfire, I’m sure I can handle the Inferno.” 

“Have you seen the way he hazes new Top Gun recruits? Not sure if you’re really ready for what Inferno’s gonna put you through.” you smiled at him, pulling him into a kiss.

Fin. 

-

Thanks for reading my lovers <3 As always feedback is appreciated!

[selencgraphy]

Domestic | Jake 'Hangman' Seresin

A/N: Heyyyyyyy guys <3 here's my first TGM fic that's ever hit the dash, and ofc it had to be my favorite douchebagJake Seresin!!!! but ugh the idiots in love fic lmfao. Rivals to roommates to lovers but the catch is they're literally so dense they don't know they're in love <3 UGH I LOVE LOVE! Also thank u to my lover in christ @anxietyandtacos for reading this for me and being a hoe <3

Summary: Moving in with Jake Seresin was the last thing you'd wanted to do, but you were out of options. Turns out, life is nice with Jake, if anything, you both enjoy being a little domestic.

Warnings: Spelling and grammar errors (I am who I am), cursing, 2nd person POV, mentions of violence, Jake get's smacked a few times, Rooster and Nat supremacy bye, kissing, hand holding, mentions of hazing (not fraternity level fucked up hazing NEVER THAT!), idiots in love like honestly truly Smut: tongue kissing, spitting, handjobs, jake cums in his pants, oral (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, praise, cowgirl (WOO HOO!), spanking/slapping (tee hee!), creampie (unprotected p in v)

Word Count: 12.4k

Jake Seresin x Fem!Aviator!Reader

This man is such a douchebag i love him <3

Reader's Callsign is Hellfire

Living with one of your co-workers was usually a recipe for disaster, especially when said co-worker was an overconfident douchebag with a Texan twang that irritated you beyond belief. 

Moving in with Jake Seresin was a last ditch effort to move off base after the dagger squad had become a permanent addition to North Island following the success of their first high-risk mission surrounding the destruction of an unsanctioned uranium enrichment overseas.

For the most part, everyone worked very well together. Mainly because the group had learned to swallow their pride and get over their differences when they were in the air. Of course there were still several petty fights and arguments over the comms systems, and several repercussions surrounding mission reports, locker clean outs, and physical torture—being the workouts Maverick had them doing in ninety degree heat. 

You were one of the last members of the squad to look for an apartment, mainly because you hadn’t had the time. Unfortunately for you, one of the most infamous Admirals at North Island happened to be your father, and based on his callsign alone, it was evident that he wasn’t exactly America’s sweetheart. 

Inferno had served almost his entire adult life in the Navy, he graduated at the top of his Top Gun class, had led the Pacific Fleet with Admiral Kazinsky for some time and was currently in the running to take over the Fleet following Iceman’s passing. Upon the news that you’d been selected as one of the elite pilots to be called back to Top Gun he was thrilled.

That was for many reasons, the first being he got to spend more time with his favorite child—something that he wouldn’t admit in front of your siblings, but everyone knew it to be true. You’d followed in his footsteps and joined the Navy, while your brother did the same thing, he wasn’t an Aviator, he chose the mechanical engineering route as an Aviation Machinist. 

The second reason was because he practically lived to torture Aviators in the Top Gun program. With you here, he was able to double down on them, and use you as one of his many pawns in his schemes—to be fair, they weren’t terrible, usually just a bit of sanctioned hazing for the newest recruits. 

But as much as you enjoyed spending time with your father and participating in him reigning hell throughout North Island while simultaneously pissing off other Admirals—especially Cyclone, you also needed to find your own space. 

Moving back in with your parents was not an option, especially with the fact that your younger sister and her husband also lived in their pool house. Not that you had anything against them, but being around your very loud and very energetic family twenty-four seven was like your own personal hell. You liked to spend time with them, then head home to decompress.

So when you started looking for a place to live, you quickly learned that the housing options were slim, and several of the places you’d considered had long waitlists because of the constant influx of military personnel in the area.

Either that or they were overly expensive for a lackluster space, or a downright shitty place.

After complaining at the Hard Deck, Javy jokingly commented that Jake was looking for a roommate, it was somewhat of a joke because you couldn’t stand Jake, and vice versa. You’d met at North Island several years ago, and you were the reason he finished second in the class.

The rivalry should’ve died down in the years that you hadn’t worked with one another, but anytime you’d cross paths—even briefly, you couldn’t help but bring it up. Opting to call him ‘Number 2’ with a wicked smile on your face. As two Top Gun graduates it wasn’t uncommon for you to cross paths, your squadrons had worked together on a few missions in the past, and you couldn’t help but bring up the old nickname.

It was better than calling him Hangman or Bagman, you were the only one who could call him Number 2, it was almost special.

Jake had scoffed at Javy’s joke, however upon meeting your pleading eyes, he realized that you were actually considering it. He was genuinely looking for a roommate, rent in San Diego was far from cheap, even with his salary and basic housing allowance. 

Besides he originally moved into the two bedroom, two bathroom apartment with Javy, but Javy had recently moved in with his girlfriend which left the room vacant. 

That day at the Hard Deck you grimmaced before swallowing your pride and asking Jake if he actually needed a roommate, you hated the barracks, and you’d tried staying with your family but it was too overstimulating after having long days of work. You’d even agreed to stop calling him Number 2 for a week—he tried indefinitely but you wouldn’t budge.

It also helped that Natasha, Javy, and Mickey took the time to actually convince him to consider it.

You moved in three days later, and you’d spent most of that Saturday bossing him around. He was already over your shit, then he watched as you rearranged the kitchen—his kitchen—and that left him flabbergasted. You complained that the counters were too cluttered and there wasn’t enough genuine open space.

Jake didn’t care if the counters seemed cluttered to you, everything was clean and everything had its place. Then suddenly, you were like a tornado, knocking everything out of place.

Not to mention your piles that you made, gathering everything like some kind of hamster storing their food for the winter—or like a packrat hiding their stash of goods. You had several piles around the kitchen and dining space, going through each and every one of them—making smaller piles—then finally reorganizing it all and putting the new mixture of his things and your things away. It also bothered him how easily you could just mix your belongings and his—like you were there to stay.

Of course, you’d only agreed to living with him for six months, you paid the first month’s rent up front, and told him that if things didn’t work out, you’d pack your things and find somewhere else to live—either that or you’d kick his ass first then leave.

To make matters worse, two months into living together, Jake Seresin realized he actually enjoyed you being there. Even if you cleaned like an absolute maniac, you also cooked, offered to help with the laundry, and forced him to watch terribly predictable horror movies with you. It was kind of nice in a domestic way.

He hadn’t expected that—at all.

Actually, he expected it to be something similar to your callsign—Hellfire. 

You’d gotten the callsign in flight school for several reasons, of course a major one being you were Inferno’s daughter, and where there was an Inferno, Hellfire followed. It was also because you had your father’s attitude and unfortunately for most of your instructors, his temperament as well. It wasn’t a secret that your father spent his early days of his career a bit out of control, disobeying orders and walking a thin line—you followed suit.

Jake expected living with you to truly be his own living hell. You were annoying as ever, that hadn’t changed, but there was also a sense of serenity with you that had completely blindsided him.

Of course it made perfect sense that after a long day of work anyone would want to relax, but with you, you’d spent all of your time off in a pretty peaceful state. Your usual attitude and smartass remarks were at a minimum, it was rare that you’d make an off-handed remark to him—which was a complete shock for the first few weeks.

If you weren’t such a smartass on base, he’d even consider you a genuine friend.

Hell, he knew you two were friends, even if neither of you would ever admit it out loud. 

You enjoyed living in the apartment, it was a nice space—although it did take some time for you to ‘cozy’ it up, prior to adding your own personal touches, the apartment lacked that extra warmth. It was definitely a man’s apartment, and it even smelled like Jake—that much you didn’t mind. He smelled nice, even after a long day of dogfight drills and Maverick’s usual torture.

It did piss you off that he insisted on using the overhead lights in the place. They made sense in the kitchen, but in the living room? That’s where you drew the line. Eventually you’d dragged him to the local Goodwill to look for lamps that had ‘spunk’ and ‘character’, settling on three different ones after arguing in the middle of the aisle like two crazy people. 

You also yelled at him inside of the local hardware store when he tried to buy lightbulbs that were a cool white light instead of a warm yellow hue. 

That’s also when you found out that he only had one lamp in his bedroom, and it had the bright white bulb in it. You snuck into his bedroom and replaced the light bulb the next morning when he was at the gym.

The first month of living together was full of adjustments on both of your ends, you both had to get used to one another’s schedules and routines. Not to mention the few arguments over how you cleaned, Jake practically storming off into his room to avoid seeing the chaotic mess. You also hated Jake’s cooking, you called it bland and tasteless—which he argued were complete synonyms.

His spice cabinet was embarrassing, so the next trip to the grocery store, you’d bought almost one of every spice in the aisle. Meanwhile he made comments about never needing most of them, but you simply shushed him with your signature glare. There was also the utensil issue, apparently Javy had purchased most of their silverware and upon moving out he and his girlfriend had completely forgotten to buy some—so he’d stolen it from Jake.

He was nice enough to leave two spoons, two forks, and two butter knives. 

So you had to buy silverware as well, and an actual set of kitchen knives considering your sister had stolen yours. 

To his dismay, Jake actually enjoyed shopping with you. The first few trips to the stores were absolute disasters. You drove, which he already hated because you had road rage and a tendency to speed and weave through traffic like a maniac. Then you two would argue in the aisles, going back and forth about what you needed and didn’t need, eventually you’d shush him over and over again until he’d roll his eyes and stop fighting back.

But, things got easier once you two managed to formulate a routine of sorts.

The first major part was that Jake drove. If you needed to go to the store, to the dry cleaners, to drop something off on base, anything that involved you two traveling together and carpooling—Jake was the one driving. 

Then you’d opted to only do your deep cleans when he was at the gym on sunday mornings, that way you had two hours to make your piles and sift through them without his overbearing, controlling, clean-freak nature. 

You usually cooked, you hated his cooking, although you did force him to sit with you on nights that you were both home, and eventually, he started helping and asking for directions. He was still working on the whole ‘seasoning with your heart’ thing, but turns out, he’s a pretty good sous chef.

He vacuumed, you hated vacuuming. But you mopped the kitchen because he hated mopping.

Both of you would play rock paper scissors when it came to dusting. It was the shittiest chore in the house. 

You both cleaned your own spaces, you with the hallway bathroom and bedroom, him with his bedroom and ensuite. He would only clean the hallway bathroom when everyone would come over because he hated people in his bathroom, so it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. 

One and a half months into living together is also when you found out that he had an array of hair products, which was funny considering his hair was relatively short. You’d caught him one morning heavily concentrated on his hair, two brushes and a comb on the bathroom counter alongside a jar of pommade and something in a spray bottle. 

You laughed at him for twenty minutes over it. 

Learning one another’s routines did help with your combined routine though. Jake knew that on your days off, you didn’t want to be bothered before ten in the morning, meanwhile he was up and ready to leave to the gym by seven. Even if you were awake, you were not a morning person, he eventually got used to your silence as you’d walk into the kitchen and start brewing a pot of coffee.

After work, he would come home and shower first, you’d focus on getting dinner started because you hated showering before cooking because you’d be left smelling like whatever you’d cooked after. It worked too because it guaranteed that you would both get hot water for your showers—also something you’d fought about during the first month of living together.

Every night after about seven you were usually quiet, at first it was alarming to him, because you’d never been quiet—not at work and not at the bar or anywhere else the dagger squad would go together. 

You also liked to watch movies during that time. He hadn’t really expected you to enjoy watching movies the way you did, and turns out, you had quite a few streaming subscriptions, some you paid for outright, others were your siblings that you’d been using long enough that they had profiles specifically for you. 

A month into living with each other you’d invited him to watch a movie with you. It was a bit awkward at first, mainly because Jake didn’t know what to say or do. You weren’t exactly the best of friends, and sitting in what should’ve been a comfortable silence was uncomfortable for him. Or at least it was until you’d kicked your sock-clad feet into his lap and tossed him the other end of the oversized throw blanket. 

Since then, it was an almost nightly tradition when you two were home together. When everyone would go out, or either of you would go out, you wouldn’t watch anything, but when you were both home, he didn’t need to be told to join you, he just did.

You both have been living together for almost five months at this point. 

Within the span of five months you’d pretty much turned his entire apartment around. Before you moved in it was just a regular apartment with standard furniture and a few decorations here and there, he liked to keep things minimal—his logic stood at ‘the less things, the less there is to clean’. 

That logic had been swept out of the door, you’d decorated the entire place, opting for funky rugs with different colors and patterns, your plants were scattered around the living room and kitchen closer to any windows, several knick knacks also lined the window sills, and there were three new shelves in the living room that housed his books and yours, all neatly separated and on display—much to his dismay—especially the romance novels.

His two grey sofas now had throw blankets folded over them with a series of decorative pillows in odd shapes and sizes, and the lamps you’d thrifted all sat in their own designated corners of the large common space. You made it a rule to not use the overhead light as well—and you’d forced him to take the lightbulbs out. 

The walls also had numerous photos and prints now, the wall closest to the front door had a corkboard with different pinned polaroids of the dagger squad that Natasha had taken during one of your beach days—you both agreed it made the most sense to hang photos of your shared friends. You had a collection of classic horror movie inspired prints that sat on the wall around the TV—which you also forced Jake to mount. 

The space felt warm, inviting, and lived-in.

Hell, he’d even taken after your eclectic decorating in his own room, adding a few more knick knacks and lamps. 

You both were comfortable in your routine, and you had boundaries already set, such as your hookup protocol. Whenever the other person was bringing someone home, it had to be approved, mainly because neither of you wanted to hear the other person having sex or deal with the awkward aftermath of a one night stand walking out to see you or Jake in the apartment.

It worked well, and for the first two months you both stuck to it. However, now, neither of you ever really texted one another about bringing someone home.

Jake was under the impression that you just opted to hook up at someone else’s place, and you were under the same impression about him. 

Neither of you had been having casual sex with anyone, you just didn’t feel the need to.

It was odd for Jake to not pursue hookups, he was the former king of one night stands, he’d pick up a new girl every few days for the hell of it. Plus the sex was also a great stress reliever for him. Occasionally he’d sleep with the same girl for a few weeks at a time, but when they’d get too clingy he’d break things off.

But now? Now it was like he didn’t care about the sex.

He also wasn’t as stressed as he used to be, part of him knew it was because of you—but he didn’t want to admit that.

You weren’t huge on casual sex, but you did dabble here and there. At least you used to dabble here and there, every few weeks you’d have a one night stand then spend the next day venting to Natasha about it. Most of the time the conversations revolved around the sex being mediocre for you because of the lack of an emotional connection.

She’d laugh at you, teasing you for needing to be emotionally invested in someone to enjoy sleeping with them, but you know she meant no genuine harm in it. You were just one of the people that needed that connection to really feel satisfied. 

Sure your hookups could make you cum, but that was it, you’d have sex, have a mediocre orgasm, then kick the person out—or you’d get dressed and leave.

Everyone around you and Jake noticed the shift and subtle changes between the both of you. It was obvious to them all, but for some reason you and Jake seemed to be incredibly oblivious to the elephant in the room.

It started a few months ago, something as simple as you two showing up to the Hard Deck together.

Everyone watched as he got out first, rounded the truck, then opened your door for you. Meanwhile you were smiling at him with one of your signature ‘Hellfire’ grins. The same look that everyone knew meant you were up to something.

The windows near the pool tables being adjacent to the parking lot that you two were in was a pure coincidence. But it gave the entire dagger squad a front row seat to whatever show you were about to put on. 

To everyone’s surprise, you grasped Jake’s hand and let him help you out of the truck. Then again it was a somewhat lifted truck that you constantly made fun of him about—something about being from Texas and having a very ‘Texan’ truck. 

The most shocking part of it all though was the way that you grasped his hand, practically pulling him behind you as you walked towards the bar. It didn’t help that you weren’t in your usual Khakis, instead wearing a red sundress that had Jake’s eyes on your figure the entire time. Then you looked back and smiled at him, clearly making a joke that had him laughing and shaking his head.

You’d dropped his hand once the both of you had walked into the bar, your eyes scanning the crowd, spotting the Daggers, Jake making a beeline towards them. You opted to head to the bar, ordering another round for your friends while simultaneously spotting your brother—pulling him into a bone crushing hug.

He didn’t hesitate to ask about Jake.

“So, is the pretty boy finally your boyfriend? Seen you two walking in together” you rolled your eyes at Dante, shrugging.

“No, why would he be? We’re friends I guess, although sometimes I wanna kill him. Like straight up wring his throat” your hands moved in a choking motion for a second before you and your brother bursted into laughter.

“Please, my wife wants to wring my throat like six days a week, I think it’s part of the age ol Inferno family charm. Besides, that man looks at you like you hung the stars, and he’s even volunteered to help with Dad’s hazing fiascos on base just to impress him and spend more time with you—“ you shook your head, interrupting him.

“Uh no, he does that because he’s a total show off! We literally live together, I don’t see how he’d ever want to spend more time with me!”

Your brother laughed, shaking his head at you “you’re so smart but so dumb at the same time. Mark my words little miss Hellfire, we’ll be at your wedding in a few years.”

You scoffed “please, I’d rather jump off a bridge than marry Jake Seresin.”

Dante shook his head at you, raising a single brow—in this exact moment he looked just like your father. “Yeah right, sure, that man is literally looking at you right now like you’re the love of his life—look” he then nodded in the direction of the pool tables, you glanced over your shoulder, making eye contact with Jake, raising a single brow.

Then he shrugged, raising his brow—a silent challenge. You scoffed and looked away.

“Please, he’s probably plotting on how he’s gonna piss me off tonight, then annoy me with apologies on the drive back home.”

Your brother nodded slowly “...so the same thing a boyfriend would do?” 

You rolled your eyes again, shoving him while shaking your head.

Before you could respond, Penny placed a few drinks on the bar, whistling to catch your attention. “Here’s that round beautiful!, also when were you gonna tell me about you and Hangman? I saw you two lovebirds smiling at the door! Does Mav know?”

Your eyes widened as you shook your head, feeling the familiar blushing heat overtake your features.

��We aren’t together—oh my god please don’t tell Mav if you think we’re together, I don’t think I’d survive the embarrassment from him, it’s bad enough that I have to fly ops drills with him now that Harvard and Halo are both on leave. God—Mav literally gave me shit a few days ago because I told Bagman to screw off mid-air.”

Penny slowly nodded, exchanging a knowing look with your brother before she shrugged. “If you say so, but your boyfriend and Coyote are heading over here, probably for those drinks”

Then you looked over your shoulder, immediately making eye contact with Jake—again. 

There were other signs of the change in your previous tension filled rivalry relationship as well. The quick-witted quips had turned into flirty remarks on and off base. At first you assumed it was his new way of annoying you, but eventually, you’d gotten used to it and the comments didn’t bother you as much.

You’d take the time to adjust your flight suit on days that were scorching hot while standing on the tarmac and the second Jake would walk by, you’d hear his comments and whistles.

“Looking light a sight for sore eyes today Hellfire, better stop tugging on that zipper before you give us the show I’ve been waiting for”

Or “If you wanted to take your clothes off for me all you had to do was ask”

Once, when you were telling Phoenix that you were excited to take a cold shower he’d even offered to join you. Then he elbowed you playfully and kept walking.

Hell, you’d gone to the grocery store together once and he asked if you wanted a cream pie from him. Then he had the nerve to ask if you preferred to be painted like a toaster strudel while holding both boxes up. 

Jake had said it loud enough in the aisle that a group of teenagers started laughing. That day you nearly slapped him before practically dragging him out of the snack aisle—what made matters worse is he always criticized everything in the snack aisle, but somehow decided that on a random Sunday afternoon, he’d terrorize you instead.

The one singular time you agreed to go to the state fair with everyone, all of you had been drinking and laughing with one another for hours on end. It was in the middle of the spring, a day that wasn’t too hot or too cold, and the longer you all were there, the drunker you’d gotten.

Randomly, Jake had asked you if you preferred riding fast or slow. It wasn’t smooth at all, but it was enough to earn a loud scoff, followed by you hitting him with the large stuffed panda that you’d won after beating everyone at a dart balloon popping game.

“Oh come on! The line didn’t even land! Stop hitting me baby!” he yelled, letting out a dramatic scream as if you’d actually done any damage, then his hands were up, guarding his face while he mumbled about how perfect it was and how ‘his face couldn’t afford the damage’. 

“Stop being a freak Bagman!” he shook his head at your shouting “but I’m only down to get freaky with you baby!” he yelled back in a sing-song voice, earning several looks from the other adults and teenagers walking through the fair—thankfully most of the people with their children had already left.

Bradley and Javy both shared a look before bursting into laughter, meanwhile Mickey and Reuben tried to egg Jake on, ignoring your death glares. 

Bob and Natasha were off getting funnel cakes for everyone, which left you to suffer with the group of drunken idiots. (Granted, they were your drunken idiots)

You forced them all onto the tilt-a-whirl and they’d nearly thrown up during the ride. All letting out high-pitched screams each time their carts spun faster and faster. 

During their time on the ride Bob and Nat had gotten back with the funnel cakes, both of them exchanging a confused expression at the sight of you practically fuming, watching the rest of their friend group squeal like little kids on the ride—Rooster holding onto his stomach while trying not to throw up. 

Mickey had his hands in the air, cheering. Reuben and Javy both were panicking—trying to make sure no one threw up because they’d all managed to squeeze into one of the carts together. The ride instructor said it only seated four max—now they were all smushed with Rooster and Hangman who both looked ready to puke. 

Bob asked if you were alright, considering how pissed you looked. Then you vented to him for five minutes about how annoying everyone was, and how weird Jake was acting—which he’d already noticed but clearly you were oblivious to the evident shift in emotions. Bob shrugged, offering “have you considered the possibility that maybe Bagman might actually be romantically interested in you? And vice versa?”

You blinked a few times, for a couple of minutes you were contemplating it—maybe Bob did have a point. Then as you glanced back over at Jake, who was now standing up from the ride, blinking several times—trying to regain his balance, you shook your head. “No, I don’t think that’s it.”

Bob sighed, shaking his head then looked at Natasha. “They’re hopeless.”

You didn’t hear his comment, not when you were already making your way towards the area full of wooden outdoor tables. Then Jake practically tackled you, his arms wrapping around your waist while he pulled your back against his chest, a wide smile on his face as he rested his head on your shoulder. 

“That ride was killer Sweetheart, gotta say—you’re an evil woman.” You nodded your head, rolling your eyes while smiling, laughing at him as he held you in place. 

Everyone stared in shock. What no one understood was why you weren’t cursing Jake out anymore, each time anyone would bring up the possibility of you or him having feelings for one another, you’d simply shrug them off, saying it wasn’t true—because for some odd reason, you didn’t think it was.

The shift in dynamic was confusing to everyone except for you and Jake.

Today was no different, you’d all opted to go midnight mini-golfing because the several drinks you’d had at the Hard Deck left you all a little too tipsy to call it a night. Plus Maverick had given the squad the day off tomorrow. So after much deliberation, you all agreed that it would be fun to try out the new mini-golfing place half an hour from base. 

Squeezing into several ubers, was hilarious to most of you. Instead of opting for the Uber XL options, you guys somehow assumed ordering two regular Ubers would be fine. Both cars ended up being Priuses. 

You were squished in the backseat with Jake and Javy while Natasha sat in the front, except you’d managed to beat Jake at rock paper scissors, forcing him to take the middle seat which led to you practically being halfway in his lap, your left thigh completely draped over his right. Meanwhile your head leaned against his shoulder while you laughed at Javy’s jokes.

Nat looked at you and Jake from the rear-view mirror, a single brow raised at your closeness. She’d been skeptical about the two of you for a few weeks now, but she knew if anything had really happened you would’ve told her. Maybe you really were that oblivious.

It didn’t help that Jake looked down at you, mumbling your name not your callsign to catch your attention. You glanced up at him, faces inches apart while holding eye contact. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then he shook his head, mumbling a quiet ‘nevermind’ before giving you a kiss on the top of your head.

Javy’s brows knit together at the motion. He met Natasha’s gaze through the rear view mirror, double checking if she’d seen it too. Sure, he was drunk—but he wasn’t that drunk. There was no way in hell Hangman would ever be kissing the top of Hellfire’s head. 

Not in a million god damn years.

Once everyone actually arrived at the mini-golfing spot and tumbled out of the small ubers like clowns leaving a clown car, everyone mostly walked in a large group, but you and Jake were side by side in the back, hands gently brushing against one another with each step. Then you absentmindedly grabbed his hand, intertwining your fingers while walking towards the payment booth.

There was already a line of drunk adults waiting to be assisted, so everyone moved to the end of the line in one large cluster of sorts. 

No one said anything about you and Jake holding hands, but everyone noticed. They always did.

Mickey and Reuben exchanged a knowing look. Natasha and Bob did the same thing before shrugging, then Coyote and Rooster blinked several times, squinting with their jaws dropped as if this was the craziest thing they’d ever witnessed.

These are all aviators that have been in real-time active combat and somehow the most shocking thing was the sight of you and Jake not only getting along, but being rather close.

Mickey was the first to crack, he leaned closer to Reuben a harsh whisper as he faced away from you and Jake, looking towards the neon-colored booth with several black lights facing it. “Are you seeing them too? I’m not losing it right? Like that’s actually happening?” 

Reuben nodded, looking back at you and Jake for another brief moment. “You think they finally slept together?”

Coyote interrupted, clearing his throat while interjecting himself between the two men, shaking his head. “No way they have, Hangman hasn’t told me anything—and trust me when I say he tells me everything. Also, he keeps saying he’s not into her—but then he’s kissing her on the forehead like they’re an old married couple”

You leaned your head against Jake’s shoulder again, now looking up at him, eyes tracing his side profile as you spoke “Bagman, you’ve got pretty eyes.” Your words slurred a little from the one too many drinks, and you couldn’t stop the dopey smile on your face while you looked at him.

He nodded his head, looking at you with a brow raised “you flirting with me Hellfire? Don’t you know it’s frowned upon to fraternize with your fellow Aviators?” Jake laughed at his own joke, a wide smile on his face as his eyes trailed your features. “You’ve got pretty eyes too, got a little twinkle to them.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head while you looked away from him, hand still intertwined with his. 

Maybe this was just the liquor and your newfound friendship with Jake, all you knew was you enjoyed the closeness. He didn’t let go of your hand either, even offering a reassuring squeeze as you all moved forward in line.

Everyone was talking about mini-golf, Coyote and Rooster going back and forth about how they were great golfers, so mini-golf would be a walk in the park for them. Meanwhile Natasha shook her head, rolling her eyes while reminding them both that they were two large men who were playing golf with small putters on a course much tinier than they were used to.

They scoffed, brushing her off, even betting that they’d do the best. 

One hour into being out they both quickly realized they were terrible at mini-golf. Rooster looked bulky and awkward trying to drunkenly maneuver around the course, meanwhile Coyote kept over extending his shots, the golf balls flying all over the place, he’d even lost a few in the small man-made ponds and rivers. 

Now, two hours in, everyone was still drinking and you and Natasha had been tied for first place. 

Jake had also helped you with a few hits, his hands on your hips, angling them slightly while he spoke directly into your ear, his low southern drawl giving you goosebumps as he directed your movements.

Everyone tried their best not to acknowledge it, well, everyone that was focusing—which would’ve just been Natasha and Bob, the rest of the squad were too drunk to care about whatever was going on between you and Hangman.

Bradley and Javy were shotgunning beers as if they were twenty-one and the president of a fraternity. Both chest bumping after finishing their drinks before swinging their puts around a little too frantically as they headed towards the next course.

Then Fanboy tripped over one of the small bird-house-esque obstacles, he’d gone face forward into the turf, which had everyone erupting in laughter. He got up quickly, giving everyone two thumbs up before realizing his nose was bleeding. 

Your eyes widened, now stepping away from Jake whose hand had been around your waist, resting gently along your hip. For a second it felt like he didn’t want to let you go, but you gently pushed him away to rush over to Mickey, shaking your head at him while he awkwardly pinched his nose, flashing you a bloody smile.

“Are you shitting me Mick?” you couldn’t help but laugh at him, now digging through your purse, grabbing some tissues and handing them to him before looking over at Reuben who was laughing so hard he’d been hunched over gripping his chest, still laughing.

“Payback, chop chop, it’s time to head home! Fanboy’s officially cut off” you were laughing as you spoke, one hand rubbing gentle circles into Mickey’s back while he pinched his nose with the small stack of slightly crumpled tissues. He was still smiling, eyes hooded, the drunken haze very evident on his features. 

Reuben slowly stood up, still letting out a few laughs, shaking his head while he pointed directly to Mickey “you are an absolute legend man!” 

Bob and Natasha exchanged a look, both sighing as he pulled out his phone, now opening the Uber app—Bob was always the most responsible one on these outings, even after a few drinks. “Don’t worry, Hellfire, I’m calling the uber now. You heading back with them?”

You nodded your head at him. “Yeah, I’ll make sure they get in alright—these two morons might end up killing each other if we let them go alone” you giggled as you glanced between Mickey and Reuben. Both of them exchanged a look before bursting into a fit of laughter, what made it worse was now Reuben was falling over the same miniature house, except he’d managed to land directly on his ass, groaning at the impact.

“I can head back with them, that way Hangman can make sure you get in alright plus you two live together so it makes the most sense—Rooster and Nix are gonna head back with Coyote.” Bob motioned behind him, your eyes following his hand.

You looked over at Coyote and Rooster who were still in their frat-boy era, now trying to coordinate a handshake while drunkenly laughing together, then they both paused, belching loudly.

“Geez, Nat you sure you wanna deal with that?” 

She laughed, shrugging a bit before looking over at them. That’s when you noticed the smile on her face as she looked directly at Bradley, your brows knit together—eyes wide. Before you knew it, you were gasping, catching everyone's attention, then you muttered out an apology, clearing your throat while giggling.

“Phoenix! We have a lot to talk about tomorrow!” 

She blinked a few times, then her eyes widened as she watched your eyes jump from her to Bradley. “Don’t get me started!” both of her brows raised as she looked from you to Jake, which only confused you, there wasn’t anything going on between you and Hangman—at least you think there’s nothing going on there.

You’re friends—ish?

“Alright everyone, as much as we would all love to stay here until someone else gets hurt, our rides are here.” Bob announced, then he called out to Bradley and Javy, who turned so fast they’d managed to smack into one another. 

Maybe midnight mini-golf wasn’t the best idea.

Bob shook his head, pausing before looking back at you. “Hellfire, do you need me to call you a ride?” 

You shook your head, digging through your pockets, eventually finding your phone in one of them. “No, it’s okay—I’ll be fine with Number 2 over there! Be careful getting home guys! Text the group chat when you’re in okay! Or, I guess Bob and Nat text us?”

They both nodded, then the group started heading back towards the initial booth to return the puts, most of the golf balls were now long gone, something that you’d apologize profusely for once you turned everything in.

Jake helped Rooster and Coyote into their ride, Nat shaking her head as she climbed into the front seat while mumbling apologies for the two drunken idiots in the back seat. Meanwhile Bob managed to grab more napkins from the woman behind the golf counter for Mickey, who was getting into the car while still holding his bloody nose as Reuben practically flailed himself into the backseat.

“Good luck Bobert!” he laughed at the nickname, shaking his head at you before getting into the car and waving goodbye. 

Once everyone else was in, you glanced over at Jake who was scrolling through his phone. “Alright sweetheart, looks like we’ve got eight minutes to kill. Apparently those esteemed pilots managed to snag the closest rides here. Unless of course, you count me, y’know what they say about saving horses.”

He tried to be serious, but the second you made eye contact, the both of you were bursting into a fit of laughter. You shook your head at him while smiling.

“Seriously? You think that was smooth or something? No offense Bagman, but I don’t think you’d be able to handle me giving you a ride.”

Jake’s eyes widened slightly, meanwhile you gave him a flirty smile and a shrug. It was a challenge, that much he knew. You were both overly competitive, it’s one of the major reasons you couldn’t get along when you’d first met—hell it was the entire reason you two were even friends now.

Neither of you said anything else during the wait, it was a comfortable silence, you leaned into him while he wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you closer to his side. 

By the time the both of you had gotten home, it was a little past three. 

You were in his bed before four. 

The second you’d walked into your shared apartment, he was on you. As soon as the door shut, he had you pinned against it, looking down at you in a lustful drunken haze, eyes slightly hooded while he smirked. 

You raised a single brow. Eyes moving from his blue irises to his lips—that’s all the confirmation he needed, his lips were on yours in seconds. You weren’t sure what happened or what changed tonight, but something shifted between the both of you—the previous gradual change had now fully tipped the scales.

Jake Seresin kissed you as if you were the oxygen he needed to breathe. One of his hands firmly held your waist, the other caressed the side of your face, thumb on your chin, lightly tugging against your bottom lip for a brief moment—just long enough for him to slip his tongue between your lips. 

Your hands gripped his shirt as you did your best to keep up with him, but it was clear this was one competition you wouldn’t be winning. So you shoved him back slightly, biting his bottom lip as he pulled away, your eyes meeting his again.

He licked his lips as he nodded, eyes stuck on your kiss-swollen lips “what was that you said earlier? You wanna go for a ride?” his voice was deeper than usual, and it had you biting your bottom lip and nodding.

If anyone were to ask you how you ended up half-naked in Jake Seresin’s bed with him between your thighs? You wouldn’t have a proper answer. One day you couldn’t stand the man, the next he was leaving bruising kisses along your body, then biting into the plush skin of your thighs. 

You looked down at him, biting your bottom lip as he ran his tongue along the bite mark on your inner thigh. He was already looking up at you, steely blue eyes on yours while he kissed a trail along your inner thighs, the way he stared at you was downright filthy.

Your clothes and his were in a scattered mess, trailing from the living room to his bedroom, your panties now dangling from your left ankle while he spread your thighs even further, moaning at the sight of your glistening core. 

“Fuck—wanted to taste you for so long baby” your eyes widened at the confession, but before you could say anything, Jake’s tongue was already lapping at your cunt. With zero hesitation he rapidly flicked his tongue along your swollen clit, your back immediately arching, one hand grasping his sheets, the other in his hair, tugging on the blonde strands.

He moaned against you, alternating between fast movements to slowly, deliberately trailing his tongue along your clit. He was practically french kissing your cunt—the motions had you whimpering. 

Jake didn’t care about the obscene wet sounds coming from his mouth against your pussy, if anything it turned him on even more. He focused on your clit—gauging your reactions to different speeds and pressures, doing his best to build a rhythm that would push you over the edge. 

Then he paused, biting his bottom lip at the low whine you let out.

“Jake—don’t tease me”

His cock had never been harder in his life. Jake Seresin had never once cum in his pants from going down on a woman—but today that might change. With the way you were tugging on his hair and whining his name and the taste of your cunt on his tongue—he was seconds away from finishing.

He nodded his head “don’t worry Sweetheart, I’ll give you what you need.” then one of the hands holding your thighs in place moved, now sliding into the apex of your thighs, right below his tongue. 

The feeling of one of Jake’s fingers fucking into you had you moaning his name desperately. You were practically begging for more already, rolling your hips against him. 

Jake nodded his head “fuck, you’re so tight baby—gonna feel so good wrapped around my cock. Pretty girl, you need more don’t you” 

You didn’t hesitate to moan “Fuck—yeah please-please Jake” his name sounded absolutely filthy leaving your lips in a desperate plea. 

Then he was wrapping his lips around your clit, hollowing his cheeks and harshly sucking on the swollen pearl while sliding a second finger into you, the combined sensation had your eyes rolling back, hips rocking against his face and fingers, trying to chase your high that he was dangling right in front of you.

He sped his fingers up, curling them slightly—just enough to have you moaning his name again. 

You were begging to cum, moaning a slurred mixture of pleas and his name. 

Jake didn’t care about anything else in this exact moment except for making you cum. What pushed you over the edge was the feeling of him slipping a third finger inside of you—your thighs practically caging him in—back arching off the bed, eyes squeezed shut.

“Jake—oh fuck! Oh fuck—Jake—” 

He moaned against you, a deep guttural moan as his entire body stiffened up, then it happened. Jake’s eyes widened as he kept his motions up, prolonging your orgasm for as long as he could—letting you wrap your hands in his hair and cage him in with your thighs.

When you finally pushed him away, he licked his lips, slowly sliding his fingers out of you, free hand gently caressing your hip—thumb rubbing half moons along the soft skin as you slightly winced from your own sensitivity. 

You were out of breath as you watched him sit up, the bottom half of his face covered in your slick while he tried to steady hsi breathing. Then your eyes were trailing along his body, Jake had always been muscular—that much you knew, and of course he was easy on the eyes, but you’d never seen him like this.

Chest rapidly rising and falling, a red flush to his skin, lips swollen, lust evident in his gaze. Then your eyes trailed even lower, taking in the defined ridges of his abdomen, and the trail of hair that led to the waistband of his briefs. However, nothing prepared you for the sight of his half-hard bulge below the grey Calvins with a dark patch evident on them.

“Did you—?” he shushed you, shaking his head, now looking slightly embarrassed as he looked away from you.

“Fuck, don’t ask me that—y’know I did. I’ve never—it’s never happened—shit don’t laugh at me baby” His drunken rambling was cute, it was clear that Jake was embarrassed, but he did little to nothing to hide it from you—he was comfortable around you and that had your heart doing somersaults.

You did your best to stop laughing at him, biting your bottom lip while raising both brows. “Yeah, never had pussy this good?” you tried to be serious, but you laughed again, and that caused Jake to laugh as he shook his head at you.

“You’re the bane of my existence y’know that? No wonder they call you Hellfire, you’re terrible” he nodded as he spoke, shifting slightly, trying to ignore the fact that he was getting hard again. Something about this—how intimate it was—was sending his caveman brain into overdrive. 

Then you were sitting up, grasping his hand, pulling him towards you. Once he was on top of you, you rolled over, the two of you in a fit of laughter at your lack of finesse—you blamed that on the drinks.  

Eventually you managed to properly straddle him, now unclasping your bra, tossing it across the room. His eyes widened at the sight of your tits, he licked his lips, looking at one, then the other, already imagining biting into them—maybe he had a thing for biting—Jake was discovering a lot about himself tonight.

You didn’t hesitate to tug on his briefs a bit, sliding them down just enough to grasp his cock, laughing at the sticky wetness to it, raising both brows at him as you wrapped your hand around his length, hand pumping along it as he gasped. You could feel how hard he already was—but based on his reactions, he wasn’t there just yet.

“F-fuck, you’re gonna kill me baby” 

You smiled at that, “not before I get my ride, how else am I gonna save a horse?”

His moan was animalistic, Jake covered his face with both hands, muffling his own moans while your hand moved faster, wrist slightly twisting, adding to the sensation. It didn’t help that you were slotted directly behind his cock, giving yourself the perfect view of it—and he had the perfect view of you. 

When he moved his hands, he watched as you spit onto it, a thin string of spit leaving your tongue, landing on the head of his cock, you quickly used it to move your hand even faster now. Then you looked at him, holding eye contact as you spit again.

Jake had to start doing mental math to stop himself from cumming. He was in his head calculating the force behind pulling four G’s in-air. 

This was a side of you that he knew nothing about—he’d never once in his life heard you talk about your sex life, nor did he know if you were actually out hooking up with people—but he didn’t care—not at this moment when you were jerking him off like a vixen straight out of a porno.

“Is now a bad time to say I’d wear one of your hats if you asked me to—not tonight though—I think you might go into shock or something” your light hearted tone, giggles, mixed with the fact that you were suggesting wearing one of his cowboy hats while simultaneously jerking him off had him squeezing his eyes shut, taking in a sharp intake of breath and thinking of Maverick—doing his best not to cum again.

It was terrible, having to think of your mission instructor just to avoid cumming for the second time in one night—Jake was humiliated—which might’ve been making the situation even worse.

“Why the face?” he blinked a few times at the question, taking a deep breath.

“Sweetheart, do you realize how sexy you are right now? I’m over here five seconds away from cumming—again. Between me and you, I’ve gotta think about Mav to stop myself from finishing”

You paused your movements, eyes widening before bursting into a fit of laughter, head thrown back with a wide smile on your face. “Hangman! Seriously?!” he nodded, rolling his lips inward and taking a deep breath.

“So, if you could, I’d like that ride—before I end up embarrassing myself twice tonight.”

You nodded at him, grasping his cock again, now sliding your body forward, lining him up with your dripping entrance, then you were taking his cock—slowly at first. You moaned at the stretch, toes curling, eyes rolling back slightly. It was obvious that he was big—but feeling him stretching you out was euphoric.

Then he grasped your waist, biting his bottom lip, trying not to buck his hips into you. 

By the time you had him fully sheathed in your cunt, you were slightly out of breath, now leaning backward slightly, hands resting on his toned thighs, your head thrown back while you adjusted to the feeling of him. “You’re so fuckin big—fuck me.” 

Jake was on cloud nine, his head practically spinning. He must’ve died and gone to Heaven—and the exact moment he was asking himself if this could get any better, you were lifting yourself off of his cock, using his thighs to brace yourself, then slamming back down.

He expected you to take it slow, but you had your own ideas. 

When you said he wouldn’t be able to handle you riding him—he now realized you might’ve been right.

You bounced on his cock without a care in the world, too cock drunk to think about anything but fucking Jake Seresin. Hips rapidly moving up and down along him, skin slapping against skin as your cunt practically swallowed him—soaking him in your essence.

He bit his bottom lip, moaning at the sight of your bodies connected, his cock practically shining, covered in a thin layer of your slick while you rode him. At this rate, he could hardly remember his own name, hands moving from your hips to your tits, he was testing the waters now, landing a gentle but firm slap to one of them, earning a choked moan from you.

The sting only intensified your pleasure, you moved one hand now, sliding it between your own thighs, two fingers rubbing circles into your clit—walls fluttering around his cock at the sensation. Jake’s hips bucked into you uncontrollably. 

Before he could start apologizing, you looked at him again, still fucking yourself against him, still rubbing your clit, and letting him play with your tits. “Fuck—do it again Jake—please”

He was in heaven. This was it—or he was in Hell and you’d be torturing him for eternity—using him for your pleasure. Actually—that wouldn’t be torture, not when he felt like every nerve ending in his body was on fire and all he could focus on was the slick vice grip your cunt had him in.

Jake planted his feet on the mattress, one hand firm against your waist-grip bruising—then he started fucking up into you, meeting each and every one of your movements. 

You were a whining, moaning mess. It wasn’t long before you were practically begging him to cum—asking him for permission. That had his mind hazy again.

“Fuck, y’wanna cum baby?” His voice was strained, deep, and that texan drawl was driving you crazy. “Yeah, keep taking this cock—fuck just like that—such a good fuckin girl—best pussy I’ve ever had—Fuck—” Jake’s words were strained, at this point he hardly knew what he was saying, his filter was gone, all he could focus on was your pleasure and his. He pushed your hand out of the way, using his thumb to rub hard circles into your clit.

That sent you over the edge, you practically fell forward as you came, moaning his name like a prayer, cunt clenching around him so tight that he couldn’t hold it—you felt his cock twitch inside of you then he was coating your walls in ropes of cum—the warmth spreading throughout you.

It took a few minutes for both of you to fully come down from your shared high. You rested your head against his chest, eyes fluttering shut while you caught your breath.

“Seresin—I’ve never been fucked that good before”

He laughed at your hoarse voice, nodding his head while he massaged your scalp with one hand. “Pretty sure you fucked me, not the opposite”

That had both of you laughing again.

Eventually you slowly slid off of him, biting down against his shoulder as you winced. Then you were rolling onto your back, looking at the ceiling, biting your bottom lip and laughing. He slipped out of the bed, heading to the bathroom for a few minutes. 

When Jake came out you were already half asleep, a dopey smile on your face while you looked at him, it had his heart racing. You looked so beautiful, the warm glow of the light against your skin made you look like a renaissance painting, all soft edges and sweet smiles—the definition of beauty itself. 

He had a pair of pajama pants slung low on his hips, then he was back between your thighs, gently maneuvering your body around, a warm washcloth between your thighs as he cleaned you up, taking a mental picture of his cum leaking out of you—something he’d think about later when it was just him alone at night.

Eventually when he was finished, he handed you one of his older PT shirts, ‘NAVY’ across the front in bold letters, the shirt was definitely one that he didn’t wear often—you knew that based on the fact that it was actually an oversized shirt. Jake Seresin was the kind of guy to only wear fitted t-shirts, showing off his body that he’d ‘spent so long curating’. 

You sat up in his bed, looking at him for a few seconds, finally sobering up—well from the drinks—admittedly you were still a little cockdrunk and fucked out.

“You wanna watch a movie?” he smiled at you, nodding his head. 

“Nothing I’d want more.”

Both of you expected the next day to be awkward, when you’d woken up on the sofa, tangled together under your usual blankets with the TV displaying an ‘are you still watching’ screen. But neither of you felt awkward about the previous night, you’d had sex—arguably amazing sex, and that was it.

He gently got off of you, helping you off the sofa with a wink. You raised a single brow “don’t get any ideas Seresin, my thighs are on fire” then you laughed, shrugging before walking off to your bathroom. 

Jake watched you walk off, his eyes trailing your figure, brows knit together, trying to process his own feelings. Sure you were still his annoying overly competitive friend—but you weren’t just his friend. You acting so casually also didn’t help, not a single awkward laugh or moment of eye contact. You’d gotten up and made a joke about it, and that was it.

Before he could dwell on it, the doorbell rang. He glanced over at the clock you forced him to mount near the kitchen, it was barely nine, who the hell would be showing up to your place at nine in the morning?

When Jake opened the door, the sight of Natasha in a pair of sweatpants, blacked out sunglasses, and a very oversized ‘Margarittavillle’ t-shirt told him everything he needed to know. Especially considering that was the same shirt Rooster wore to the gym all the time. 

They exchanged a knowing look. Natasha’s brows knit together as she noticed Jake’s half-naked form, her eyes trailing him skeptically. Then she noticed the evident reddish purple bite-marked shaped bruise on his shoulder. 

“Long night Hangman?” 

He nodded “You too Phoenix?”

She nodded. He then stepped to the side, making room for Phoenix to come into the apartment, which she gladly did, mumbling a ‘thanks’ while Jake shut the door behind her, locking it then scratching the back of his neck.

“So, are you here to debrief with Hellfire over your freaked out sex with Rooster? Is now a bad time to make a joke about his coc—” 

“Jake Seresin! If you finish that sentence I’ll personally kick your ass!” you shouted from the hallway bathroom, now stepping into view, pointing your toothbrush directly at him, both brows raised—shooting him a warning look. He knew that look well, it was better than the usual warning glare though—that one was a little scary.

Nat sat on the smaller sofa, raising a brow as she took in your disheveled appearance. Most notably the Navy t-shirt you had on that hardly even covered anything—it had just enough give to keep your bits hidden, but the second you turned around, she was flashed the bottom of your ass.

“Put some pants on Fire! Your ass is out!” 

Ten minutes later you were mostly dressed and brewing a pot of coffee, Jake decided to skip the gym for the first time in a very long time, instead he actually joined you and Phoenix for the debrief. Mainly because he wanted to be nosey about their relationship. 

While you stood in front of the coffee pot, he slid right behind you, hands on your waist while he kissed the side of your exposed neck—your hair all braided into two thick braids now. You giggled a bit at the feeling, trying to hold in your smile, lightly swatting at him.

“Stop it Jake!” your giggles gave you away, he then wrapped his hands around your waist, holding you against his chest. 

“C’mon baby—can’t I just be sweet and doting?” 

You scoffed, pushing him away while shaking your head. “No, don’t make me start doing my weekly deep clean early!” his eyes widened at the threat, shaking his head.

“Please—God please no. The piles are crazy! It drives me insane! It makes no sense!” 

You shrugged, now turning back, grabbing three mugs from the cupboard above you. “It makes perfect sense, you’re just mister neat freak, although you’re not very neat when it comes to se—” his hand was over your mouth, you laughed against it, while he blushed.

“None of that! Jesus—Phoenix is here!” 

You pushed his hand away, shrugging while pouring each cup of coffee, then you grabbed the milk that you’d gotten out already, pouring some into his coffee and dropping a singular cube of sugar into it—the way he liked it. He’d told you that a few months ago, said his mom drank it like that, so he did too.

Then you focused on making yours and Phoenix’s, adding the vanilla coffee creamer in until both cups were the right color. He shook his head at the sight.

“Y’know how much sugar is in that shit? It’s terrible for you Sweetheart.”

You raised a single brow “what are you, my almond mom? As a top Naval Aviator who was number one in my Top Gun class, I think I'll be okay drinking coffee with vanilla creamer. Besides, if it kills me at least I’ll die happy—not depressed with bitter nasty coffee.”

Then you were grabbing the mugs and walking past him, walking around the kitchen island, heading over to the sofas, handing Phoenix her mug before taking a seat in your usual spot on the couch, wrapping yourself in a blanket then taking a sip of your coffee.

You and Phoenix both looked back at Jake who was leaning against the kitchen island with his coffee in hand. 

“We’re not including you in our debrief if you stand there like a creep Bagman.” You hummed in agreement with Natasha. Jake let out a dramatic sigh before walking over and sitting on the couch beside you, using one hand to lift your legs into his lap.

“Are you two together? Everyone on the squad wants to know. Even Mav” 

You and Jake exchanged a confused look, then you both looked back at Nat.

“No, why would they think that?” You shrugged as you spoke.

Jake spoke at the same time as you “No, who said that?”

Natasha slowly nodded her head at the interaction. “You two are like heavily domestic, and we’re at that age where two people who are heavily domestic are usually in a relationship. I mean look at this apartment, it’s all warm and cozy and screams ‘I let my girlfriend decorate’. You two hold hands in public now, you laugh and smile at each other? You haven't been chewed out about arguing during ops for like two months now! Y’know Mick asked Inferno if he knew his daughter was in a relationship”

Your eyes widened at her last sentence. Everything else hadn’t bothered you, you didn’t really notice the shift in your relationship with Jake—honestly you liked the shift. But Mickey telling your overbearing nutcase father that you were in a relationship? That was a problem in and of itself.

“I wouldn’t say we’re heavily domestic, I dunno, we just get each other.” Jake spoke with a shrug, the same oblivious nature that you had evident in his tone. Natasha sighed and shook her head, pinching her nose bridge slightly as she finally slipped off her hangover sunglasses. 

“You two are hopeless. Nothing about your current dynamic screams relationship to either of you?” 

You and Jake exchanged a look, then you both shook your heads. 

“No.” followed by “Nope.” 

Natasha didn’t get it—she truly didn’t understand either of you. She was currently sitting in your shared apartment, that you’d practically bullied Hangman into redecorating, you constantly bossed him around and he responded as if he liked it. You two had your arguments and disagreements—but nothing was major anymore and you both simply brushed things off. 

Holding hands in public was one thing, but she’d literally watched him kiss your head in an uber as if it was a normal gesture? If any of the daggers kissed her head she’d probably smack them.

You two naturally gravitate towards one another now, then the fact that you’d both managed to fall into a regular routine while living together, spending quality time with one another—completely dropping all of your previous hookups. Now you’d clearly had sex with one another, and somehow, someway, you two were still convinced that there was no romantic inkling in your dynamic?

Natasha had a headache already, and you two were making it worse.

“You two are morons. Anyways, now it’s time to talk about why I’m a moron.” 

The three of you laughed together. Then Natasha went into her story-telling mode, and she’d even given you and Jake all of the details on her and Bradley’s changing dynamic. 

They’d been friends since flight school, and they kept in touch, to the point that she’d been genuinely mad at him when he hadn’t told her that he was finally stateside again following the original assignment and callback to Top Gun.

“But here’s the thing, I don’t know if I’m genuinely into him, or if I’m just lonely and crave a relationship and domesticity! We’ve been friends for a long time, it’s not like you just randomly develop romantic feelings for your friends.” 

She sighed as she spoke, now slumping into the sofa, her mug on the coffee table while she wrapped herself in another one of the throw blankets, a pillow in her lap.

“Actually, it’s pretty common to randomly develop feelings for your friends, especially as you get older and realize that they have genuine traits that you like—plus Bradleys not exactly ugly. I’m sorry but he’s fucking fine, that man is like a 6’2 wall of muscle, and have you seen his hands?” 

She nodded as you spoke, meanwhile Jake scoffed. 

You glanced at him, raising a brow “is there a problem Twosie?” He rolled his eyes at the nickname.

“Of all the names you have, I told you not to call me Twosie, it sounds like I’m a damn child.” you shrugged at him.

“Oh well, don’t throw a fit like one then. Now why are you scoffing, what are you gonna disagree that Bradley’s not super sexy? He’s like sex on legs.” Jake rolled his eyes at that comment. “Anyways, back to what I was saying before the Ken doll interrupted me. Bradley Bradshaw is a catch, and honestly Nat, with the way he looks at you whenever you two talk? I wouldn’t be shocked if he has a thing for you too.”

Jake nodded his head at that “yeah, that man looks at you like a lovesick puppy.”

“So he looks at me the way you look at Hellfire?” Natasha spoke with such a matter of fact tone that she had you actually thinking about how Jake looked at you. Everyone was constantly saying that the way he looked at you meant something—but you just didn’t see it.

“I do not look at her like a lovesick puppy.”

She rolled her eyes “yeah, sure Bagman. Back to me now.”

The three of you spent the rest of the morning and afternoon talking, eventually you’d also called Mickey and Reuben to get their advice on the situation, both of them agreeing that Natasha very clearly had romantic feelings for Bradley. Hell, the second you texted Bob, he sent a thumbs up, followed by ‘yeah, she’s into him.’

Eventually Natasha left, and you were back with just Jake.

Your brows knit together as you sat on the couch again, now staring at him.

“Jake?” he nodded his head, eyes practically glued to the TV as he scrolled through Netflix, looking for something interesting to watch tonight. You told him to pick once because you always pick, so now, once in a blue moon he cashes in his ‘it’s my turn to pick’ card.

You cleared your throat, he got the message and turned to look at you. Your brows were knit together, a confused expression on your face, while you looked at him.

“Yeah? What’s the matter sweetheart?” He sounded so concerned, and that only added into the confusion you were feeling.

“Are we in a relationship?”

Jake shook his head “uh no, we’ve never even been on a date.” Then he started thinking, you two had never really been on a date, neither of you had asked one another out.

But you did go to restaurants together, and you dragged him to several art galleries, the two of you drove to the beach to watch the sunset, you went to the movies together, whenever he saw something that you might like he jotted it down for later, taking you as a surprise.

Hell, just last weekend Jake had woken you up early, forced you to get ready just to drive two hours away to go cherry picking with him because he’d overheard you mention cherry picking season to your sisters on FaceTime two weeks prior. 

Then when you’d gotten there, he paid for everything and let you drag him around the entire orchard while he carried an eight pound bucket of cherries. Once you’d gotten home, he also helped clean each of them, and helped you bake for nearly five hours before taking you to your parents house to drop off several pies.

Jake had also managed to meet your mother, he already knew Inferno—but showing up to his house with his daughter in tow was something he hadn’t exactly thought through, so he was grateful that the man was on base. 

He also understood why you didn’t enjoy living with your very loud, very rambunctious family. They were all amazing, and he fit right in—which your mother teased you about—-but between the yelling, children running around, animals all over the place, and your brother’s family showing up as well, it made sense why you liked having your own slice of peace.

Your mother had also told Jake that he really liked him with you—which at the time, he simply shrugged off with a smile. Not wanting to get into the whole ‘we’re friends’ debacle with the woman that managed to stay married to a man as intense as your father for over twenty years.

Not to mention, the woman had also managed to raise your psychotic self—although Jake liked you for who you were.

His eyes widened “holy shit, we have been on dates—like a lot of dates. Wait, I think we are in a relationship—when’s the last time you’ve had sex—outside of last night.”

You shrugged, trying to think back on it “I think like three or four months ago now? I dunno, I just stopped having casual sex with people—I didn't really want to anymore.”

Jake nodded “yeah, actually. It’s been a few months. I preferred one night stands for the stress relief, but I haven't really been stressed in a while.”

“Isn’t that also around the time that we started getting close?” He nodded again with a light hum. 

Then he glanced around the apartment, thinking about what Phoenix had said, it hadn’t really bothered him when you started redecorating, and sure he’d argue a bit, but for the most part he just did what you told him when it came to moving things, mounting things, and rearranging.

All of your stuff was mixed with his stuff outside of your separate bedrooms. He didn’t mind, usually he would’ve—but with you it was different.

“Listen Sweetheart, I know we’re not friends. That much is for sure.”

His tone wasn’t venomous, not in the slightest. He sounded sincere, and almost vulnerable. But Jake was right, you weren’t friends. This was different—much different. 

Mick, Reuben, and Bob were your friends. You would never sleep with them—drunk or not. You also wouldn’t do their laundry willingly or cook dinner for them, or spend your decompressing time with them. 

Natasha was right, you and Jake were downright domestic.

Even after having sex with him, there was nothing awkward, there wasn’t a single sense of regret in either of your bodies. There was no awkward ‘oh this was a mistake we’re never speaking about this again!’ conversation. It felt normal, you felt normal.

“Jake, I think we’re in a relationship.” 

He nodded his head “yeah, no, that tracks. Considering you’re the only woman I want to spend my free time with, actually, if we’re being honest, I wanna spend all of my time with you. It’s part of the reason I’m always kissing your dad’s ass.” 

You laughed at him, smiling “don’t worry Bagman, I like spending my time with you too—otherwise I would’ve kicked your ass and stolen your apartment. But I think I just made it our apartment instead.” 

“We should’ve had sex sooner then.”

“Jake Seresin!” you paused, eyes widening “oh my god—my dad probably already thinks you’re my boyfriend. I’m so sorry for what Inferno’s gonna put you through.” 

He shrugged “it’s fine, I made it through the Hellfire, I’m sure I can handle the Inferno.” 

“Have you seen the way he hazes new Top Gun recruits? Not sure if you’re really ready for what Inferno’s gonna put you through.” you smiled at him, pulling him into a kiss.

Fin. 

-

Thanks for reading my lovers <3 As always feedback is appreciated!

[selencgraphy]

the sillies

[selencgraphy]

— ☆ stop avoiding me.

clark kent x superhero!reader

btw reader is also a journalist, they are coworkers. god i wanna watch the movie again and write endless fluff with this guy. im sooooo happy laksjskaks.

cw : alcohol

so you really didn't mean for anyone to find out, much less him. truly, you meant to keep it a secret. you have been able to for all your life, you were assured your workplace would be a walk in the park too.

you just didn't expect another superhero— correction, you did not expect superman, of all the superheroes, to be your coworker.

it all began with a relatively good week for everyone, perry being in a miraculously good mood, everyone agreeing for a relaxing end to the week. that is how you and your coworkers ended up in that small treasure of a bar that jimmy of all people had discovered.

you sat hunched by the bar, looking at the bartender to quickly pass over the drink.

"that bad of a week hm?" clark made himself comfortable on a barstool beside you and shook his head as a response to the bartender if he needed a drink.

"no. i just need something quick before jimmy starts." you said as you look over your shoulder, staring at the said person already wooing a women, you just don't know how he does it.

but you did have a bad week. your work has been going great, you got leads and there has been no writer's block to make you go insane. no, its your superhero life that has been giving you a tough time.

on top of dealing with things ten times your size, superman was on your ass, desperate to form a rapport while you were desperate to avoid. you were relatively new to this savior scene and wanted to avoid being forced into a group that'd require socialising and tolerating. besides, what is that name? justice gang?

that and another embarrassing reason, but lets not get into that right now.

clark follows your gaze as he laughed softly. you whisper a thanks to the bartender before taking a huge gulp of your drink, then pausing at the sight of clarks folded sleeves.

you bite back a sigh as you looked away hurriedly, alcohol and beautiful men are not a good mix for you. because you lose it, you lose it quick. and you can't, because you don't know when your other duty might have a need for you again.

"why aren't you drinking?" you asked, casually, just wanting to distract your mind, "gotta be somewhere?"

he looked away from jimmy back to you and shrugged with a shake of his head, "no its nothing like that. I'd just like to wake up without a hangover."

"lightweight?"

he gives you a pointed look in response to your tease and you just look away with a breathy chuckle, "you just look like it."

"i look like im a lightweight? me?"

"i mean have you looked at you, clark?"

he just laughed with a shake of his head before he beckoned the bartender with a flick of his fingers, ordering the same as your drink.

"don't call it peer pressure later, kent."

"no darling, im just making a point."

"darling?" you whip your head slowly with a disbelieving chuckle, "not a drop in and already drunk?"

"i need to be drunk to call you that?"

"you—" you bit your lip as you looked away with a growing grin, nodding for a refill while clark downed his.

"when did you get so suave?" you shake your head, refusing to meet his eyes that are twinkling too much under the bar lights.

"maybe i have always been. you just needed to give me a chance." your confident grin faltered for a moment, his words causing your heart to do weird little jumps. you poke your cheek with your tongue before smiling, somewhat tempting and knowing.

you thanked the liquor for its courage, you could never pull this off sober.

you got off the stool and stepped closer, head tilting along with his. "so i take it all those morning coffee were more than just a friendly coworker thing?"

"i thought i was being obvious that it was more than just a friendly coworker thing." his cheeks had started to blush red despite the display of confidence, eyes wandering to your lips.

"well it was my understanding that you were nice to everyone."

"kind, kind should be the word." he hummed as he stared down at you, his hand raising to get closer to you, "i'm only nice to you."

your nose scrunched up as you bit back a smile, words like that might have no effect on you had they come from some other guy. but you just don't know what it is about clark that even words that would normally make you cringe, instead just makes you giddy.

"is th—"

"yeeeeesssss!" both of your head snaps towards the crowded table, where jimmy is in an.... arm wrestling competition? and he's winning, very clearly with the way he's pulling his whole bodyweight.

"what...?" you mumbled and your brows raised as jimmy yelled in victory, "wow. he's totally drunk huh?"

unfortunately, its like he heard you even with all the noise. his eyes stopped on you and clark, lips widening in that obnoxious grin and you groan to yourself.

that is how you found yourself sitting across clark, his hand in yours while everyone gathered with amusement and excitement brimming in their eyes. you pretended to ignore the warmth his hand carried and looked at clark with a dry smile.

"i expect a fair fight, clark." and maybe he would have lost to you, he can't really go all out of course and also the attention was already getting to him. but the challenge in your eyes sparked a little something in him.

and it started. both of you, hidden superheros, decided to just put a bit of your strength. but both hands stay solid, unmoving. your smile falters with his, eyes locking with his— but still, maybe he's just really strong. so you put just a bit more, so does he. and again, neither he moves nor you. that's when your eyes narrow and so does his.

unreal blue eyes, huge physique, personality like that of a golden retriever, messy black hair that you want to touch— that is so, so familiar.

and so, just to test this risky theory in your mind that just sprang up, you up your strength. a feeling pools in your gut, like you already the answer to something, you just can't look it in the eye.

a normal man can't take on that kinda strength, and you feel his unreal strength push you back. a normal man can't. superman can.

realisation dawns on both of you at the same moment, eyes widening in sync with his. you withdraw your strength a moment later than him, resulting in your hand pushing his down, unintentionally winning.

lois grins wide and hugs you from behind, but her words are like background noise to you, just like everyone else's. you smile awkwardly and hastily get off the chair, giving clark a pointed stare you excuse yourself.

your feet takes you to the rooftop of that building with him following closely behind. pushing the door open, you walk a certain distance before whipping around with a confused frown.

"how—"

clark takes off his glasses with a sigh and suddenly it clicks in, like an annoying puzzle finally falling in place. unlike your superhero self, superman's face is not hidden and you have had the opportunity (and blessing) to see his face upclose, so it did weird you out how you never connected the dots between clark and him.

you truly don't know how to act, this is clark, your coworker with whom you were just flirting and also superman who you avoid every damn day.

your mouth opens and closes a couple of times, somehow more awkward than him. you begin to rub your face in resignation and he approaches you with small, cautious steps. he is thrown off too by this revelation, but all he sees is finally a chance to meet the kind superhero who had caught his eye.

it kinda sets his heart running at the fact that the person he likes and the superhero he admires, are one and the same.

"look, i know this is... very surprising—"

"it was the glasses."

"...yes. t-that too." he clears his throat and tries again, though his mind is a bit blank at the moment, literally short circuiting, still he gets the words out, "but i mean- its good right? we know each other now so you don't have to avoid me out there."

"its-" you bite your lips before huffing out a sigh, "its not that. its just i don't work well in a team, especially in a team named justice gang. seriously who came up with that?" you question with a confused scrunch of your nose thats borderline judgemental.

clark's lips tug up as he shakes his head, "in my defense im not officially a part of it, yet. and also, guy came up with that."

"that ugly bowl cut?" they let him name the team? "huh. no wonder." your brows raised in understanding as if it finally makes sense.

"but, why? i mean, i don't want to push your boundaries. but i just want to know...and help." he said earnestly, and even you could see tye resistance it took for him to not step closer, "if i could. tell me if at any point i did something to upset you or someone else— "

"no. no its not- its not your fault, clark." you shake your head with a defeated smile, looking away for a moment as you contemplated whether to just put it out as it is. it is embarrassing, to say the least. so you suck it up and face him.

"i... im new to this, you know, superhero scene. i saved and helped wherever i could, but it wasn't fighting monsters. i couldn't— i didn't have that courage to go out there and fight. like you do." you said softly, eyes on your fidgety hands, "it was scary. what if i messed up? what if i just... couldn't save in time? the questions scared me. but then, then you came swooping in. a literal sunshine." you giggle and his ears reddened, gulping as quietly as he could.

"you... were my inspiration. you gave me hope and the courage i needed. i just didn't expect you to notice me the moment i stepped into the scene." you scratched your brows as you clear your throat, now is the more embarrassing part, "i just... i didn't know how to act around you. you know, as superman. i became clumsy whenever i saw you nearing me and it pissed me off."

"oh."

"yeah. oh. i know. i know it sounds very embarrassing. so well, that is it. thats why i couldn't. i just froze up and became a klutz whenever you appeared— oh my god why are you so red?" your eyes widen slightly, taken aback by the concerning amount of blushing on his part.

"are you okay, clark?"

"yeah- yeah i- oh my god— i just need a minute." he needs more than a minute.

the person he has been mad about at work, trying to impress, figuring out your favorites, your likes and dislikes, buying you flowers just to see you smile, waiting like a lost puppy after work to drop you home just so he could get a few more minutes, seizing up when you get close— and now, its revealed, that same person is a mess because of him?

he needs an hour to process this.

"oh my god you are so blushing." you begin to laugh, a contagious one bubbling out of your lips and he needs to hide his face behind his palm, smiling like an idiot.

"stop."

"you're sooo red."

"come on—"

"come on, kent, you can't be that obvious."

"you're so mean."

you're downright cackling now, and so is he. it feels nice, to finally not shy away, to share the secrets of your identity with someone. but its even funnier, all this time you had been mutually pining after each other at work, while actively playing cat and mouse at the other work.

soon laughter begins to die down and only soft smiles are on both of your lips. he walks towards you, now with less caution and more familiarity. his hands find yours, encasings it in his warmth as he stares down at you, hope hiding behind the mirth in his eyes.

"no more running away?"

"only if you keep bowl cut away from me."

"well he's a nice guy—"

"justice gang?"

"—with questionable tastes." you chuckle softly and his eyes follow, lips pulling into a wider smile that makes his dimple pop. god those dimples.

"and... how does a date sound?" his soft voice was barely more than a whisper, even after the shared moment he still carried some nervousness. it was adorable, truly.

"about time you asked." you grinned as your hands slowly brushed up his chest and found purchase at the base of his neck, while his hands wrapped around your waist.

with a gentle tug he pulled you towards him, his lips capturing yours in a sweet kiss. his hold tightens as the kiss deepens, hands caressing your back. he pulls away only to give you one peck after another, as if he was savoring his hard earned time getting to know you.

soon the rapid pace of your heart slowed to a steady beat. because everything was just right. the way he treats you, holds you, kisses you— it tells you what a sweet lover he is. he yearns to cherish and that is evident in the warmth his eyes hold.

how can life not be right with a man like him?

[selencgraphy]

Bruce doesn’t mean to fall asleep on the couch.

He’s just resting his eyes. That’s all. The living room is warm and quiet, the fireplace humming softly. His book is still open on his chest, and the throw blanket Alfred left on the armrest somehow ended up over his legs.

He wakes up to weight. Small, shifting, warm weight.

Cass is curled up on one side of him, knees tucked into his hip like a cat. Tim has claimed the other end of the couch, feet in Bruce’s lap, earbuds in, head tipped back and mouth slightly open in the kind of deep sleep only caffeine withdrawal can produce.

Jason’s on the floor, back against the couch, sharing popcorn with Duke as they watch some loud, low-quality horror movie. Stephanie is lying facedown on the rug with a bowl of grapes beside her. She’s not eating them, just throwing them at Damian every few minutes. He catches each one without looking up from his book.

Dick walks in with bags from that bakery Bruce likes but never goes to himself, and says, “Hey, Dad.”

Bruce should say something. Tell them to go home. Or at least use coasters.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he shifts slightly, careful not to wake Cass or dislodge Tim’s legs, and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

This isn’t what he thought family would look like.

It’s louder. Messier. Theres's music playing from three different speakers. Someone else smells like gun powder and cinnamon. There’s glitter on the coffee table. There’s a dent in the ceiling no one will admit to causing.

But no one’s yelling. No one’s walking away.

They’re here.

They’re staying.

And Bruce… he’s starting to believe that maybe he doesn’t have to earn this over and over again. Maybe they love him just as he is, not as he was trying to be. Maybe he doesn’t need to be perfect for them to choose him.

There’s a pause in the movie. Jason asks, "You good?”

Bruce looks around at them—all of them, here, safe, alive—and nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m good.”

Jason throws popcorn at him anyway.

[selencgraphy]

Over the years, the batfam has slowly noticed, why exactly Dick's mom had nicknamed him robin. Ofcourse he was born on the first day of spring and is always flitting about, but there's more...robin-like traits that have long since cemented his original robin status

Bruce, rushing to check up on his newly adopted child, Dick, who just walked into a glass door with eyes wide open: Chum? Why did you just walk into glass?

Dick: What glass?

Bruce: I-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jason, watching teen, newly discowing!Dick pack up his stuff to move out: Why do you have that hoard?

Dick, shoving his collection of shiny objects, including but not limited to, pins, buttons, spoons, forks, medals and trophies, into a bag: What hoard?

Jason:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tim, traumatized after having seen Dick dance in front of Barbara at a ball: Why would you willingly do that? Was that a mating dance?

Dick: A what? I'm not a bird, Tim

Tim: ok

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damian, looking disgruntled as Dick spoonfeeds him some porridge: Why must you insist on this, Richard? I am 10, not 4

Dick: But you work so hard for patrol and school everyday!

Documentary playing in the background: And the Mama Bird will feed it's chick until it is big enough to hunt on it own....

Damian: ...

Damian: Tt. Fine, you may.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Duke, on a rare night patrol, batting Batman!Dick away after the fifth time he tried to cover him with his cape: Dude quit it

Dick: But you're vulnerable at night because of your suit!

Duke, suddenly remembering how birds will try to cover their chicks with their wings to keep them safe: I owe tim so many churros

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And also, ofcourse, the many, many times Bruce has seen them all huddling together around Dick like they actually are robin chicks huddling around a robin mama

[selencgraphy]

Something Steady

pairing; jake seresin x fanboy's little sister!reader

summary; after a rough year, you move in with your half-brother, Mickey, just trying to stay afloat. The last thing you expect is to fall for Jake Seresin—the one guy Mickey told you to avoid. But healing is messy, and somehow, so is falling in love.

word count; 17.5k (i am so sorry)

warnings; drug use, angst, mention of past SA (nothing graphic), overprotective!fanboy, age gap (reader is twenty-three and jake is thirty-four) violence (mickey pushes jake), emotional breakdowns, sexual themes, no usage of y/n, reader is kind of a little shit but she's hurting, mickey is kinda mean sorry, let me know if i missed something

a/n; i feel like a permanent warning on my stories should be that i have no knowledge of the military as i'm not even american, i came here for the hot shirtless pilots so every reference is based on vibes and confusing google searches lol also, the pictures are for aesthetic porpuses, there's not really a description of the reader. one more thing, sorry if the flirting is a little cringe, i'm not really good at that stuff lol

masterlist

Mickey García paced the length of his living room, phone pressed to his ear, his thumb running a nervous path along the edge of his watch. He’d called three times. On the fourth, you finally picked up with a sigh that was more theatrical than annoyed.

“What, Mickey?”

“You got the ticket, right?” he asked, ignoring the tone, trying not to get drawn into the usual power play. You were good at that—had been since you were little. Deflect, charm, push buttons. It worked on everyone.

Except him.

“I told you, I don’t want to move to San Diego,” you said, the irritation sharp now. “You can’t actually make me do this.”

Mickey stopped pacing. He took a breath and looked out the window, watching the sun bleed into the horizon. “You don’t get it,” he said, low. “I’m not asking.”

You laughed. “Jesus, you sound like Mom. Is this about the party thing again? I told you, I was just tired. And maybe a little high, not a big deal.”

“You haven’t answered Mom’s calls in weeks,” he snapped, sharper than intended. “You’re skipping class, hanging with people you won’t even name. You don’t even sound like yourself anymore.”

There was a pause. Just enough of one to let something slip. But you caught it, clinging to pride like a safety vest. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Mickey’s voice went quiet. “And I’m done pretending like you are. You land tomorrow. I’ll be there.”

“You’re such a control freak,” you muttered, but your voice wavered in the way that always betrayed you.

He didn’t say goodbye. Just ended the call, phone still clutched in his hand as he stared into the gathering dark. He didn’t know what the hell had happened in the last year—something had cracked in you, that much was clear. You partied harder than before. Acted like nothing touched you. You’d always been spoiled, a little entitled from living in your dad’s mansion with your endless wardrobe and perfect, expensive smile. Mickey had rolled his eyes at your drama more times than he could count. But now… he wasn’t rolling his eyes anymore. He was scared.

You’re gonna hate me for this, he thought, but I’d rather you hate me here, alive, than whatever the hell you’re turning into alone.

An hour later, the Hard Deck was buzzing. Neon lights danced off the bar top, and a salty breeze swept through the open doors. Jake was already there, leaning against the bar like he belonged to it, beer in hand, eyes always scanning, always calculating. Phoenix sat nearby, tossing peanuts into her mouth with idle precision. Rooster and Payback argued over who actually won the last round of pool while Coyote racked up the next game.

Mickey walked in slower than usual. His mind was still in Boston.

Jake spotted him first. “Fanboy,” he drawled, lifting his bottle in greeting. “Damn, man. You look like you just got chewed out by a nun.”

Mickey gave a half-smile and joined the group, dragging a stool toward the bar. “Something like that.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “Everything okay?”

Mickey hesitated. The words hovered for a beat too long. He hadn’t planned to say anything—there was no reason for them to know yet. But his guard was down. His chest still tight from the call.

“My sister’s coming to stay with me for a while,” he said, the sentence dropping between them like a brick.

Everyone blinked. Rooster leaned in. “Wait, you have a sister?”

Jake let out a low whistle. “You kept that quiet. Is she older or younger?”

“Younger,” Mickey replied before he could stop himself.

“Hot?” Jake smirked, tone light and cocky. Typical.

Mickey’s head turned fast, and the look in his eyes wasn’t playful. It wasn’t even annoyed. It was ice.

Jake’s smirk faltered.

“Stay away from her, Seresin.”

That tone—cold, serious, final—landed with a thud. Jake leaned back a little. Even Phoenix paused, her peanut halfway to her mouth.

“Damn, alright,” Jake said, hands raised. “Message received.”

Rooster let out a low chuckle, trying to ease the tension. “You didn’t even tell us you had a sister, man. What gives?”

Mickey ran a hand over the back of his neck. He didn’t want to get into it. He didn’t want their pity or their concern. And more than anything, he didn’t want them asking questions he couldn’t answer.

“It’s complicated,” he muttered. “She’s... going through some stuff. My mom doesn’t know how to handle it, and I don’t trust her dad to give a shit. So she’s coming here. I’ll keep an eye on her. That’s all.”

He didn’t mention how he'd begged your mom to let you stay with him before thinking about just shoving you into rehab. How she’d resisted until she didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t say how he'd watched you slowly start to unravel, hiding behind clothes and money and empty nights filled with nothing good.

Jake didn’t say anything for a while. Then he knocked back the rest of his beer and clapped Mickey on the shoulder. “Well,” he said, with a slow grin that didn’t reach his eyes, “guess we’ll find out how good you are at being a big brother.”

Mickey gave him a look that said don’t test me—and Jake, surprisingly, didn’t.

San Diego International Airport was humid and crowded, and Mickey was already regretting wearing a jacket.

He stood just past the baggage claim with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, refreshing the flight tracker app like it would somehow make you land faster. The terminal buzzed around him, full of sleepy tourists and business types yapping on Bluetooth. He scanned the crowd again, pulse quickening in that familiar way he hated — not fear, exactly, but that mix of dread and responsibility that had been simmering in his chest since he booked your ticket.

And then he saw you.

You were hard to miss — sleek sunglasses, an oversized cashmere hoodie that probably cost more than his rent, and a Louis Vuitton duffel slung over your shoulder like a gym bag. You walked like you didn’t need help from anyone and you dared the world to suggest otherwise.

He waved you over. “Hey.”

You didn’t hug him. Just rolled your eyes behind your sunglasses and shifted your bag on your shoulder. “Jesus, I thought California was supposed to be sunny.”

“It is. You’re just cursed,” Mickey said flatly, grabbing your suitcase.

“I could’ve booked a hotel, you know. You didn’t need to play bodyguard.”

Mickey gritted his teeth, choosing silence. You were already in a mood, and it had only been thirty seconds.

He didn’t say what he really wanted to — You would’ve never shown up if I hadn’t dragged you. You think you’re fine, but you’ve been unraveling for months. Instead, he just led the way to the parking garage, ignoring the dramatic sigh you let out when you saw his car wasn’t valet-level luxury.

The drive was quiet. Not peaceful. Just… loaded.

You stared out the window, legs tucked under you like you were back in your old penthouse, not riding shotgun in your brother’s slightly beat-up SUV. Mickey drummed his fingers on the steering wheel the whole ride, half expecting you to bolt at the next red light.

You didn’t. But you sure as hell didn’t make it easy.

“So,” you said finally, tone bored, “am I supposed to get a schedule or something? Like do I check in with you at night so you can make sure I haven’t OD’d?”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, jaw ticking. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.”

You turned to him with a smirk that didn’t reach your eyes. “You mean call it like it is?”

“I mean pretend like this is a joke,” he snapped. “You may not like it, but you’re here now. So maybe don’t treat me like the asshole for giving a shit.”

That shut you up for a moment.

Mickey’s apartment wasn’t much — two-bedroom, sparsely decorated, tidy but lived in. A stack of mail sat on the counter. His keys hit the hook by the door with a practiced flick. He watched you step in and look around like you’d just walked into a gas station bathroom.

“This is how you’re living?”

“Yup,” Mickey said, tossing your suitcase toward the hallway. “It’s not Daddy’s Malibu compound, but it’s clean, and you’ll survive.”

You looked around again, arms crossed, unimpressed. “It smells like takeout and old socks.”

“Then it’ll feel like home in no time.”

He was trying, and you knew it. That was maybe the worst part — watching him pretend like this could work, like he could handle you when no one else ever had.

You sat down on the couch with a huff, pulling your hoodie sleeves over your hands. “Fine. But I’m not doing dishes.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and headed for the kitchen. “Just don’t set the place on fire, and we’ll call it even.”

The shower had helped — a little. You stood in the hallway in one of Mickey’s oversized t-shirts, damp hair sticking to your neck, socks slipping on the hardwood floor. The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the occasional groan of old pipes. He was in his room, probably scrolling through Navy emails or pretending he wasn’t regretting this whole thing.

You weren’t tired, not really. Not in the way that meant sleep. So you wandered.

The place was cleaner than you expected. Sparse. Functional. The furniture was mismatched in a way that suggested Mickey had only recently started giving a shit about what went where. Still, it had a heartbeat. There were little signs of him everywhere — an old Nirvana poster thumbtacked above the TV, half-melted candles on the bookshelf, a note on the fridge in your mom’s handwriting that just said Buy bananas. It was stupid, but something about that note made your chest ache.

You turned toward the hallway and spotted it — the bookshelf tucked near the second bedroom. It was more like a catchall; some framed certificates, old cracked mugs, a couple of medals in dusty display boxes. And tucked between two thick folders of flight documents, there was a small leather photo album. One of those that looked like it belonged to someone’s mother, not a thirty-year-old naval aviator.

You pulled it out gently, fingertips grazing the cover. It smelled faintly like dust and the vanilla air freshener Mickey probably thought you wouldn’t notice.

The first picture was of you.

You couldn’t have been more than five — tiny and grinning, missing your two front teeth, wearing an expensive sundress no kid should be wearing, and sitting in Mickey’s lap on the front porch of your childhood home. He was maybe fourteen in the picture, already lanky and long-limbed, arms wrapped awkwardly around you like he wasn’t sure how to hold something so breakable.

You kept flipping. Birthday parties. Beach trips. Some photo booth strip from a summer carnival you barely remembered — but there you were, cheeks painted with glitter, holding a cotton candy half your size while Mickey made a face at the camera beside you.

You sat down on the floor, back against the wall, legs pulled to your chest.

That little girl — she hadn’t been afraid of anything. She hadn’t known what it meant to drink just to feel okay. She hadn’t woken up with her ears ringing from the bass of a frat house and a headache that wasn’t just from the music. She hadn’t learned yet how to smile while disassociating. She hadn’t touched anything stronger than candy, let alone molly, or whatever someone offered her at the last party just to get her out of her own head.

Back then, happy didn’t come in capsules. It came from the sun on your skin and the sound of Mickey teasing you and the sugar rush from a cherry Slurpee. You didn’t need to pretend. You didn’t need to disappear to feel okay.

Now?

Now, the only time you felt close to that girl — truly close — was thirty minutes into a hit of MDMA, body warm, brain finally quiet, like someone had dimmed the lights on your thoughts. That was the only time you could breathe and mean it. The only time you could smile and not feel like it was cracking your face open.

You shut the album, heart thudding too loudly in your chest.

This place was supposed to be safe. Mickey meant well. But safety didn’t fix the part of you that already felt too far gone. It didn’t undo the night that stole everything. It didn’t erase the months after, when you tried to tell someone — anyone — and realized how easy it was for people not to believe you when you had a reputation for being too much, too dramatic, too spoiled.

But here you were. In a second bedroom filled with clean sheets and too many memories. Living under the same roof as your big brother.

[...]

The lunchtime buzz in the mess hall was the usual mix of shouting, metal trays clattering, and the unmistakable stink of over-steamed broccoli. Mickey sat at the end of the long table with a fork in hand and zero appetite, mind somewhere far from the overcooked chicken breast on his tray. His leg bounced under the table like it was keeping time with a song no one else could hear.

Rooster noticed first.

“You good, Fanboy?” he asked, popping a grape into his mouth. “You’ve been in a mood all week. Thought you were gonna take Payback’s head off during drills this morning.”

“That was one time,” Mickey muttered.

“That was today,” Payback shot back, deadpan, leaning on his elbows. “And you yelled at me for sneezing.”

“You sneezed in my ear during a dive turn. That’s how people die, man.”

Jake, seated across from them, grinned behind his fork. “I don’t know, García. You’re twitchier than usual. Something going on at home?”

Mickey’s jaw clenched. Goddamn it. He hadn’t meant to open any doors. Not here. Not with them.

Phoenix raised an eyebrow as she picked at her mashed potatoes. “You’ve been off, dude. And we’ve all been pretending not to notice out of the kindness of our hearts.”

“But now we’re bored,” Rooster added helpfully.

Mickey sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s just… complicated, okay? Family stuff.”

Jake leaned forward, sensing blood in the water. “Ohhh, is this about the sister you forgot to mention for, what, the entire time we’ve known you?”

“You never asked,” Mickey deflected.

Jake raised both brows. “You literally never gave us a hint that she existed. Not a single mention.”

Phoenix smirked. “And judging by the way you snapped the other night when Jake so much as breathed near the topic, I’m guessing this isn’t your average sibling dynamic.”

Mickey groaned, leaning back in his chair. He’d hoped they'd forget. No such luck.

“She’s staying with me,” he muttered.

The table went quiet.

Payback blinked. “Wait, like— living with you?”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?” Phoenix asked, voice lighter now, intrigued.

“Don’t know yet. A while.”

Jake bit back a grin. “Let me guess. Hot. Younger. Attitude problem?”

Mickey’s eyes snapped up, sharp. “Don’t.”

Rooster chuckled. “Man, relax. We’re just asking.”

“You don’t get it,” Mickey said, stabbing a piece of chicken with unnecessary force. “She’s not... like us. She didn’t grow up around this. She’s not military. She’s spoiled, she’s stubborn, and she’s been through some shit, okay? She’s complicated. I’m trying to keep her out of trouble.”

“You think we’re gonna drag her into trouble?” Phoenix asked, feigning offense.

“I think you’re nosy,” Mickey shot back. “Especially you,” he added, glaring at Jake.

Jake gave him a lopsided smile. “I’m wounded.”

“You’re on a damn watchlist, Seresin.”

“Jealousy's a bad look on you, García.”

“Alright, alright,” Rooster cut in, chuckling. “Look, we’re not gonna ambush her or anything. But maybe introducing her wouldn’t kill you. She’s new in town, right? Let her meet some people who aren’t you.”

“Yeah,” Payback added, “let her decide who she wants to be around.”

Mickey opened his mouth to protest but paused. You had been quiet that morning. Quieter than usual. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you to be around people who weren’t just his anxious, hovering self.

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered.

Jake leaned back in his seat, looking far too smug. “Tell her I’m charming in person.”

Mickey pointed his fork at him. “You show up at my place, I’ll break your nose.”

Jake winked. “Promises, promises.”

Mickey didn’t expect the apartment to be dark.

It wasn’t late — barely past six — but the lights were all off and the place was dead quiet when he unlocked the door. No music, no TV, not even the faint hum of a podcast playing from the bathroom like usual. He felt a flicker of unease as he stepped inside, keys clinking into the dish by the door.

“Hey,” he called out. “You home?”

Silence.

He dropped his bag and moved toward the hallway, his footsteps loud against the floor. A strange scent hit him — not quite smoke, not quite perfume, something almost chemical buried beneath the faint sweetness of the candle he’d left burning earlier. His stomach dropped.

He said your name once. Then he saw you.

You were lying flat on the living room floor, arms splayed out, palms up like you were waiting for stigmata. The glow of the streetlights outside spilled across your face, casting your features in soft gold. For one terrifying second, he thought you were dead.

“Jesus Christ—!” He dropped to his knees beside you, heart in his throat, hand going straight to your shoulder. “Hey—hey, talk to me—wake up—”

You blinked.

Then you giggled.

A stupid, airy, bright little sound like nothing in the world had ever gone wrong. “Mickeeeeey,” you sang, eyes glassy and wide, lips curved in a dreamy smile. “You’re home.”

He sat back on his heels, blinking like he couldn’t believe it. “What the fuck? I thought you were— I thought—”

“I was listening to music,” you said like it explained everything. “This song came on and I was like, wow, I am made of stardust.”

He stared at you. Speechless. You were beaming, cheeks flushed, limbs loose like all the tension in your body had evaporated. He knew that look. He’d seen it in college dorm rooms, in house parties, in bathrooms with doors half-closed and too much laughter inside.

“What did you take?” he asked, low and tight.

You blinked slowly. “Nothing bad. Just a little pick-me-up. It’s not like I’m strung out on the couch watching Family Guy reruns and eating cat food, relax.”

“Not funny.”

“I thought it was.”

He got up and started pacing. He needed to move or he was going to scream. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I’m fine. You need to chill out. You’re always—tense,” you said, stretching the word out with a flourish. “Like your whole body is one big angry muscle.”

Mickey exhaled through his nose and stopped pacing long enough to look at you again. You looked happy. Genuinely happy. It scared the shit out of him.

He ran a hand down his face. “You’ve been here a week.”

“And I haven’t broken anything,” you replied cheerfully. “Or dyed the dog pink or gotten arrested. That’s progress.”

“We don’t have a dog.”

“Exactly.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t cut out for this. He didn’t know how to help without making things worse. You weren’t the same kid he used to swing around the backyard or sneak candy to when Mom wasn’t looking. You were... this. Floating. Untouchable. Somewhere halfway between laughter and collapse.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you need to meet some people.”

You tilted your head. “Are you trying to set me up?”

He rolled his eyes. “No. I just—my team. My friends. They’ve been asking about you.”

You squinted at him, smile still lingering. “You told your fighter pilot friends about me?”

“By accident. Kind of. Look, they’re good people. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but I think it’d be good for you to meet someone that isn’t me. Just… get out of the apartment. Be around people who aren’t ghosts.”

Your face shifted. Not a lot. Just a flicker, like a cloud passing over the moon.

“I don’t want pity.”

“It’s not pity.”

“Or babysitters.”

“It’s not that either.”

You went quiet for a moment, eyes on the ceiling. Then: “Are any of them hot?”

Mickey groaned. “Don’t make me regret this.”

You grinned lazily. “No promises.”

[...]

The crash was never as sweet as the climb.

You sat on the edge of the bed Mickey had so graciously given you, chin in your hand, staring at your reflection in the vanity mirror like it owed you something. Your eyes were bloodshot, skin duller now, lips pressed together in a tight line as you tried to will yourself into giving a damn about your appearance.

Your hair was a mess. Your head ached. And now that the chemical high had worn off, everything felt heavier — like the air around you had thickened and your body was moving through soup. Your fingers dug through the tangled mess of your makeup bag, retrieving an old tube of mascara and a half-used highlighter stick like armor.

You didn’t care about meeting Mickey’s team. You didn’t care about much of anything. But pissing him off a little? That still had its charm.

There was a knock on your door — a quick, two-beat rhythm like he didn’t want to actually come in unless he had to.

“You alive?” Mickey called through the wood.

“Unfortunately,” you muttered, swiping concealer under your eyes.

The door creaked open anyway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, looking at you like he was trying to solve a math problem with too many missing variables.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

You rolled your eyes. “You say that like it’s a real option.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not. You’d just get weird and sulky and guilt me into going anyway.”

Mickey sighed. “Why do you always assume I have an agenda?”

“Because you do,” you said, standing to grab your boots. “And you suck at hiding it.”

He watched you lace them up. Your movements were jerky, uncoordinated — the residual molly still whispering through your veins, soft enough now that all it left behind was a low-grade crash and an irritable ache behind your eyes.

“You’re coming down,” he said quietly.

You shot him a look. “Congratulations, Sherlock. Want a merit badge?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. Just stood there, steady and exasperated. “You can’t keep doing this.”

You stood too, smoothing your skirt, fixing your top in the mirror. “And yet, here I am. Upright. Breathing. What a miracle.”

Mickey didn’t say anything. The quiet between you expanded like fog.

You turned to him after a beat, chin tilted high. “So… which of your little pilot friends am I supposed to impress tonight?”

He blinked. “None of them. You’re just coming to hang out. Be normal.”

“Define normal.”

“No flirting. No games. Don’t embarrass me.”

“Oh, that’s cute,” you said, grabbing your jacket from the hook. “You think I care about your reputation.”

Mickey rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m serious. This isn’t Boston. These people matter to me.”

Your hand froze on the zipper. For a second, something like guilt flickered in your chest — short-lived, quickly buried.

“I’m not going to wreck your life,” you said, quieter this time. “I just want a drink and maybe someone to talk to who doesn’t treat me like I’m about to shatter.”

“You want someone who doesn’t care.”

You looked at him. And for a heartbeat, didn’t deny it.

He exhaled. “Just… behave, alright?”

You grinned again, slow and deliberate. “I’ll be on my best.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have a best.”

“Exactly.”

It was the golden hour — the kind of California sunset that made even the dust in the parking lot look cinematic. Mickey stepped out of the car with the tight, protective posture of someone already bracing for a migraine.

You followed with the slow, deliberate grace of someone used to being noticed. Your outfit wasn’t over the top — not exactly — but it hugged you right in all the places that made older women frown and men take longer sips of their beer.

The second the door opened, the familiar mix of music, laughter, and bar chatter hit you like a wave. You took a breath, slid your sunglasses up to rest on your head, and plastered on a small, unreadable smile.

Mickey scanned the bar quickly, eyes finding the Daggers crowded around their usual table near the back corner — beers in hand, casual and relaxed, half-tuned into the end of a college football game on the screen above.

Jake was the first to notice.

His eyes flicked toward the entrance — and then stopped. Froze, really. The bottle in his hand lingered at his lips as his gaze trailed from the top of your head to the tips of your boots and back again, slow and unhurried. His smirk formed instantly, a kind of reflex — easy, smooth, dangerous.

“Well, well,” he muttered, just loud enough for the table to hear. “That’s not who I thought García was bringing.”

Coyote turned, did a double take, then gave a low whistle. “No way that’s your sister.”

Mickey didn’t answer. His jaw was already set like concrete.

“Holy shit,” Payback said, eyebrows raised. “You were hiding that from us?”

Phoenix blinked, surprised, her drink halfway to her mouth. “Wait—she’s your sister?”

Bob, ever polite, tried not to stare too long — which made him even more obvious.

Bradley chuckled. “I see now why you kept her a secret. Damn.”

Mickey led you toward the table with a kind of reluctant march, shoulders tight, expression somewhere between this was a mistake and God, please behave.

You, of course, were glowing. You lived for this kind of attention — the looks, the tension, the static in the air that followed you like heat lightning.

“Everyone,” Mickey said tightly, “this is my sister.”

You gave them a honeyed smile. “Half-sister, technically.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, arms draped casually along the backrest, eyes never leaving you. “So you’re the girl we’ve been warned about.”

“Oh?” you said, head tilting. “What exactly did Mickey say?”

“That you’re off-limits,” Jake replied, voice smooth as bourbon. “But I’m very bad at following instructions.”

Mickey’s eyes went straight to murder. “Seresin.”

Jake held his hands up in mock surrender. “Just making conversation.”

Coyote leaned toward Phoenix and whispered, “This is gonna be fun.”

You pulled out the empty chair next to Bob and sat down like you’d been part of the group for years. “So,” you said, crossing one leg over the other, “which one of you actually flies the planes, and which ones are just here to look hot in sunglasses?”

The table laughed — except for Mickey, who sat down beside you, looking like he wanted to crawl under it.

Jake’s grin widened. “Well, sweetheart, lucky for you, I do both.”

Mickey looked directly at Phoenix, desperate. “If I die tonight, you know who to blame.”

Phoenix sipped her drink. “Honestly? You had this coming.”

It didn’t take long.

One drink in, and you were already bored of group conversation. The Daggers were nice — charming, even — but they all talked in shorthand. Inside jokes, old stories, the kind of ease that came from years in cockpits and bars together. You didn’t mind. You knew how to entertain yourself.

Especially when you had someone like him around.

You caught Jake’s eye across the table, your smile slow and unmistakably deliberate. The kind that asked a question without saying a word.

He raised an eyebrow — just one — and tipped his beer slightly toward the door leading to the deck.

You answered by standing.

Outside, the sun was low and golden, casting everything in a soft haze. The ocean breeze lifted your hair as you leaned against the worn wooden railing. Jake followed a second later, steps slow, almost amused.

“I figured you’d come find me eventually,” you said without turning.

“You figured right,” he said, leaning beside you, arms resting on the rail, just enough space between your shoulders to be maddening.

“Let me guess.” You glanced at him. “This is your usual move?”

“Not quite. Usually they come find me.”

You huffed a laugh, eyes flicking back to the horizon. “God, you’re cocky.”

He tilted his head. “And you like it.”

You didn’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel like you were winning. Then, with a sideways glance: “I think Mickey might actually explode.”

“He looks like he’s holding in a sneeze and a stroke at the same time,” Jake agreed, chuckling.

You smiled. “Serves him right for dragging me here like a stray cat.”

Jake gave you a once-over, slower this time. Not crude — more curious, like he was trying to figure out what, exactly, your angle was. “So what’s your story, princess?”

You arched a brow. “Princess?”

“You reek of money, attitude, and boredom.”

“Are you flirting with me or writing my biography?”

He laughed — full and unguarded. “Can’t it be both?”

You shrugged. “You tell me.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you like he wanted to read every page of the mess you were pretending not to be.

“You know,” he said finally, “Mickey warned me to stay away from you.”

You smirked, turning to face him fully. “Then you should probably run.”

He stepped closer — not quite touching, but close enough to make the air feel warmer between you. “Too late for that.”

From inside, you could feel eyes watching. Maybe Phoenix, maybe your brother. But out here, in the fading light and quiet laughter of strangers, you didn’t care.

You grinned, all teeth and mischief. “Careful, Hangman. I break things.”

He smiled right back, slow and easy. “Good thing I’ve never been fragile.”

The deck door creaked open with a bang, and the breeze carried in the familiar weight of someone annoyed on purpose.

You didn’t even need to turn around.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for Jake to hear, “here comes the bodyguard.”

Jake chuckled, low and unbothered, sipping from his bottle as he leaned casually against the rail beside you. “That’s my cue.”

Mickey’s footsteps were heavy, his frown practically audible as he stopped a few feet away, arms crossed in full older-brother stance. “Seriously?” he said, voice sharp and incredulous. “We’ve been here ten minutes.”

You didn’t move. Just tilted your chin, met his glare with a pointed arch of your brow. “You need to calm your tits, Mickey.”

Jake snorted, nearly choking on his drink.

Mickey’s mouth fell open slightly, his annoyance flickering into disbelief. “Are you—Did you seriously just—”

“Yes,” you said, slowly and clearly, “I did. You’re at, like, an eleven and I need you at a five.”

“She’s not wrong.” Jake cleared his throat, straightening.

Mickey shot him a glare. “Not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

You finally turned to face your brother fully, your expression drier than the San Diego air. “We’re standing. We’re talking. You didn’t walk out here to find me grinding on him under a neon sign.”

Jake wiggled his brows. “Not yet, anyway.”

You grinned. “Down, cowboy.”

Mickey looked between the two of you, frustration visibly warring with his desire not to have a coronary.

“You told me you’d behave,” he said to you.

“I am behaving,” you insisted. “You’re just not used to seeing me sober-ish and flirty.”

Jake leaned back on his elbows, amused. “So this is the toned-down version?”

You gave him a dazzling, innocent smile. “Depends. You got a pool table around here?”

Jake whistled low under his breath. “Damn, Mickey. You said she was trouble, but you didn’t say she was fun.”

Mickey’s face did that thing it always did right before he short-circuited — the twitch of his jaw, the tightening of his eyes. You stepped forward and gently patted his chest, as if he were a stressed-out golden retriever.

“Relax,” you said with faux sympathy. “I promise I won’t ruin your image. Unless you want me to.”

“You are the worst.”

“I’m the prettiest.”

Jake grinned, completely sold now. “This is gonna be a good summer.”

Mickey groaned and turned around, muttering something in Spanish as he headed back inside — leaving you and Jake in your quiet bubble once more, the sun casting long shadows across the deck, and the smell of beer and salt air wrapped thick in the space between you.

You looked at Jake. “So, where were we?”

He smirked. “I think you were about to show me your pool skills.”

[...]

The ride back to Mickey’s place was quiet.

Not awkward, exactly — just… still. The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled, not right away. The radio hummed low, some indie playlist Mickey probably didn’t remember putting on, and the city passed outside the window in soft blurs of neon and streetlight.

You sat curled against the door, one leg tucked up under you, cheek resting on your hand as you stared out into the night.

Your mind was still at the Hard Deck.

Still replaying the way Jake Seresin had looked at you — all heat and humor, like he couldn’t decide whether to flirt or take a bite. The way his voice had curled low when he teased you, that smooth drawl that made everything sound like a promise you weren’t sure he’d keep.

God, he was hot. Not just “bar guy hot” — real hot. The kind that filled out a t-shirt just right, who probably smelled like jet fuel and aftershave and trouble you couldn’t wait to touch.

You sighed before you could stop yourself.

Mickey didn’t look over, but you saw the way his hands tensed a little on the wheel.

“You should be careful with him,” he said suddenly, like he’d been chewing on it all the way from the parking lot.

You blinked, then turned toward him slowly. “With who?”

He didn’t answer right away, just flicked the turn signal and took the next exit like he was stalling. Then: “Jake.”

You stared at him for a beat. “Wow. Subtle.”

He glanced at you sideways. “I mean it.”

You rolled your eyes and let your head fall back against the seat. “You don’t think he’s too old for me, do you?” you teased lightly, trying to deflect — but your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Mickey sighed. “I think you’ve got a history of going for the kind of guys who know exactly what to say to get under your skin, and I think Jake’s smarter than most.”

You didn’t respond.

“I know you think I’m just being overprotective—”

“You are being overprotective.”

“—but I’ve seen how guys like him work. I train with him. I fly with him. And I’m telling you, he’s not looking for anything complicated.”

“And you think I’m complicated?” you asked, voice a little sharper than before.

“I think you’re not in a place where you need another person who’s just gonna blow through your life and leave smoke behind.”

You stared at the windshield, jaw tight. He didn’t mean it to hurt. But it still did.

“I’m not asking for your permission,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he said just as softly. “I’m just asking you not to get hurt again.” You didn’t answer. The car rolled into the lot, headlights cutting across the pavement.

And suddenly, you weren’t thinking about Jake’s smirk or his arms or the way he leaned a little too close. You were thinking about Boston. About the after. The way one bad night turned into a dozen blurry ones. How easily the lines blurred between fun and escape, between warm and numb.

You were thinking about how much you hated feeling seen.

Mickey parked, killed the engine, and sat back. You opened the door without a word, stepping out into the night air.

You didn’t say goodnight.

And he didn’t expect you to.

The next morning, the apartment was too quiet.

It hit you the moment you stepped out of Mickey’s too-neat guest room and into the stillness of his little kitchen, barefoot and disoriented. Morning light filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting sharp, uneven lines across the tile floor. Somewhere outside, a neighbor's dog barked. A car alarm chirped once. Then nothing.

The silence made your skin crawl.

Mickey was already gone — early base shift, he'd said the night before with that same clipped voice he used when he didn’t want to be pressed further. The TV remote sat untouched on the coffee table. The fridge hummed softly, indifferent to your restlessness.

You wandered back to your room.

At first, it was just to grab your phone. But your fingers itched before you even reached for it — a familiar, gnawing heat low in your stomach and crawling up your spine.

You sat on the edge of the bed, opened your suitcase, and began digging.

Pills. Maybe you’d stashed something in a side pocket. Maybe one last tab. Just something to take the edge off.

Your fingers flew faster, rifling through layers of expensive clothes you didn’t even like, travel-sized makeup bags, crumpled receipts from airports you barely remembered. Your heart kicked up, not from fear — not yet — but from hope. Desperate, stupid hope.

But there was nothing.

You checked the lining. You checked your purse. You even got on your knees and stuck your hand under the bed like maybe it had just… fallen out.

Still nothing.

You sat back hard, spine hitting the edge of the mattress. The silence was louder now, almost mocking.

“Fuck,” you whispered into the room.

The craving wasn’t overwhelming yet — but it was coming. You could feel it curling around the base of your skull, tightening just a little. It always started like this: a whisper of discomfort. A flicker of boredom. Then the sudden, jarring awareness that your body wanted something it couldn’t have.

You glanced at your phone.

Couldn’t exactly search "MDMA dealer in San Diego" and get Yelp reviews. You didn’t know anyone here. Not well enough, anyway. And you sure as hell weren’t about to ask any of Mickey’s uptight military buddies.

Your thumb hovered over your contacts. You had a guy back home in Boston. Always reliable. Always delivered. But flying anything across state lines was stupid, and Mickey was already suspicious. He’d see right through you.

You dropped the phone on the bed, hard, and exhaled through your teeth.

The problem wasn’t that you needed it every day.

The problem was that the days without it felt wrong.

Empty. Like the colors were off, the volume turned down, and your own skin didn’t fit right.

You rubbed your hands over your face, groaning. This was going to suck.

You needed to figure something out. But not now. Not yet. Maybe a shower. Maybe some food. Maybe—

You blinked, staring at the wall.

Maybe something to distract you.

You lay back against the bed, arms spread, staring at the ceiling like it might offer you answers. It didn’t. Just white paint and one lazy ceiling fan spinning too slow to matter.

The craving was louder now. Sharper.

It gnawed at the edges of your thoughts, tugged on your nerves like a frayed thread. Not full-blown panic — not yet — but you could feel your body buzzing with the lack. A low, jittery hum beneath your skin. It made everything feel too still. Too quiet. Like you might peel out of your own bones if you didn’t do something.

Anything.

You closed your eyes, tried to breathe.

That didn’t help either.

Instead, Jake’s face flashed behind your eyelids. That smirk. The way he’d leaned back against the railing last night like he had all the time in the world to wait for you to come to him. The way his voice dragged across words like doll and trouble and made them sound filthy.

You swallowed hard, your thighs pressing together.

Maybe you couldn’t score right now — but there were other ways to shut your brain up. Other ways to flood your system with something sharp and hot and head-spinning.

Jake Seresin wasn’t just hot. He was magnetic. Confident in that cocky, half-charming, half-infuriating way that made women roll their eyes even as they edged closer. And he knew it. You could tell by the way he looked at you — like he already had your number, like he’d read every dirty thought you’d tried not to have and was just waiting for you to make the first move.

God, what he could probably do with those hands. With that mouth.

You shifted again, frustration prickling beneath your skin. The room felt stuffy. The air too thick. You sat up and yanked off your hoodie like it was suffocating you, tossing it to the floor in one dramatic motion.

You didn’t want to want him. You weren’t here to hook up with some cocky Navy pilot just because you were bored and spinning out. But then again…

What the hell else was there to do?

You got to your feet, pacing now. The silence of the apartment closed in tighter. No texts. No plans. No high. No anything.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, staring at your reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. Your hair was a mess. Last night’s makeup smudged just enough to give you that effortless, undone look — the kind that screamed: Yes, I’m trouble, and I’m already bored.

You tilted your head. A slow, dangerous smile curled at your lips.

If Mickey didn’t want you talking to Jake, maybe that was exactly who you should be talking to.

Not because you cared what your brother thought.

And not because Jake might actually be worth your time.

But because it would feel good — even for a little while — to be the one in control again.

To take something for yourself, since no one else had let you choose a damn thing in over a year.

You picked your phone up from the bed, your thumb hovering over the screen.

You didn’t have Jake’s number.

Yet.

Mickey came home just after seven.

You were already on the couch, legs curled under you, pretending to scroll through your phone while some muted reality show flashed across the screen. You barely looked up when he came through the door, dropped his keys into the dish by the fridge, and kicked off his boots with a tired grunt.

He didn’t say much — just offered a distracted hey as he passed behind the couch. You caught a faint whiff of his laundry detergent and the sweat of a long day on base.

“Dinner?” he asked, disappearing into the kitchen.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat.”

“I said I’m not hungry, Mom.”

He muttered something under his breath and let it drop. The fridge opened, then closed. A cabinet slammed. The microwave beeped twice. You waited, watching the seconds tick by on the oven clock.

When he finally sank onto the armchair with a plastic bowl of leftover rice and something that vaguely smelled like chicken, you knew your window had opened.

He set his phone on the end table.

Unlocked.

Idiot.

“Long day?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head.

He nodded, mouth full. “Fucking exhausting.”

You smiled — just a little — and leaned back into the cushions. “You should shower. Relax a little.”

Mickey squinted at you, suspicious.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you said innocently. “You look like you could use it.”

He narrowed his eyes but didn’t argue. A minute later, he was headed toward the bathroom, peeling off his shirt as he went. The sound of water running came soon after.

Mickey’s phone buzzed on the end table.

You didn’t move right away.

The apartment was quiet again — that same heavy stillness you’d woken up to — only now it felt less like a trap and more like a challenge. You listened to the water running behind the bathroom door, counted the seconds between footsteps. He was rinsing his hair. You had time.

You slid your hand over the side of the couch and picked up the phone.

Still unlocked.

You didn’t even have to guess the passcode — not when Mickey was dumb enough to use your birthday. Same four digits he’d been using since you were both kids. You typed it in, and the screen opened without a fight.

Messages. Contacts. Scroll.

There he was: Jake 🤡.

You rolled your eyes at the name but couldn’t help the little spark of excitement that lit in your chest. You tapped the contact, stared at the number, and copied it into your own phone without a second thought. You didn’t need to dig through their conversations. You already knew enough.

Jake Seresin was cocky, smooth, and undeniably hot — the kind of man who flirted like it was a second language and smirked like he’d already undressed you in his head. If Mickey didn’t want you anywhere near him, well… that just made it all the more tempting.

You opened a new message, pasted in the number, and let your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second. A slow grin curled on your lips.

Then, you started typing:

guess who stole your number, flyboy?

You stared at it for half a second longer, then hit send.

No regrets.

You tossed Mickey’s phone back onto the table with an innocent little thud just as the bathroom door creaked open. Steam spilled out behind him.

He looked at you warily. “You’re still sitting there?”

“Where else would I be?” you said, all sugar and sunshine. “Just having a quiet night in.”

He gave you a look but didn’t say anything.

Your own phone vibrated in your hand.

You didn’t check it — not yet. But the smile that played on your lips was impossible to hide.

Whatever came next?

You were ready for it.

Or at least, you thought you were.

Your phone buzzed again in your hand.

You didn’t even pretend not to look this time.

Unknown Number: Stole my number, huh? Should I be flattered or concerned?

Three dots blinked beneath the message before you could type a response.

And here I was thinking Fanboy's little sister would be all sugar and good manners. Didn’t peg you for a thief, sweetheart.

You smirked, heart tapping a little faster. Another message popped in right behind the last:

Let me guess... bored in San Diego and looking for a distraction? Careful. I’m not exactly the safe kind.

Short pause. Then:

But I am flattered. And curious. What exactly do you want to forget tonight, trouble?

The message sat there like a challenge — not crude, not overly bold — but threaded with just enough heat to make your breath catch. Just enough interest to let you know you’d hooked him. But it wasn’t desperate. It was Jake Seresin through and through: smooth, self-assured, respectful… with a hint of danger curling at the edges.

The ball was in your court now.

And he knew you’d serve it back.

The Hard Deck was already buzzing when you walked in.

Late enough that the sunlight had gone soft and golden through the high windows, early enough that the crowd was still easy to scan. You spotted him almost immediately — leaning against the bar, back half-turned, a beer bottle resting casually in one hand like it belonged there. His posture was easy, relaxed, but you caught the way his eyes flicked up the second you stepped through the door.

Bingo.

You didn’t slow down.

You knew what you looked like — tight black tank top, denim skirt that hit mid-thigh, your hair pinned up in that careless, sexy kind of way that looked like it had taken no effort but absolutely had. Lip gloss shining, confidence dialed high. No Mickey to chaperone. Just you and your cravings, and Jake Seresin standing like a sin waiting to happen. Phoenix spotted you first.

Her brows lifted in surprise — not unkind, just curious — and then flicked quickly toward Jake. Bob followed her gaze, his expression unreadable behind his glasses.

You didn’t look at them.

You walked right up to Jake, your heels clicking softly across the wooden floor, and stopped just close enough to skim the edge of his personal space. His mouth tugged into a slow, amused smile.

“Well, well,” he drawled, giving you a once-over that burned without lingering. “Look who came all the way down here just to flirt with danger.”

You tilted your head, eyes glittering. “What can I say? I’ve got a thing for danger... especially when it answers my texts.”

Jake chuckled, low in his throat. “Fanboy know you’re out here stirring up trouble?”

You leaned in a little, letting your arm brush his as you propped your elbows on the bar. “What Mickey doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

“Careful,” he said, voice dipping, “you’re starting to sound like a bad idea.”

“Maybe I am,” you said sweetly, lips curling. “Maybe I’m just really good at pretending otherwise.”

His brow twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or worried. “You always come on this strong, or am I just special?”

You smiled with your teeth this time. “You’re very pretty, Jake. I like pretty things. Don’t take it too personally.”

He studied you for a beat, the beer forgotten in his hand. The way you smiled — wide, reckless, like you weren’t afraid of anything — it didn’t read as naive. If anything, you looked like someone chasing a high, someone trying to outrun something invisible. But Jake wasn’t the type to go digging through people’s shadows. He just assumed this was your way of poking the bear.

And hell, maybe it was.

Still, something about the intensity in your eyes made him shift slightly.

“You want a drink?” he asked eventually, more gentle than flirty.

“I want whatever gets me to the fun part faster,” you replied, licking a bit of gloss from your bottom lip.

Phoenix turned slightly in her seat, watching from the corner of her eye. Bob said nothing, but you could feel his attention too.

Jake exhaled through his nose — half amused, half uncertain — and finally gestured to the bartender.

“All right, sweetheart. One drink,” he said. “But don’t expect me to carry you out if you start swinging at a jukebox.”

You grinned, that adrenaline prickle crawling up your spine again — not quite as sharp as a pill under the tongue, but close. Close enough.

“Deal,” you said, and tapped his bottle with your fingernail.

The night was warm, heavy with salt air and the low hum of laughter still trailing from inside the Hard Deck. The stars were faint behind the haze of city glow, and the parking lot lights cast long, golden shadows against the pavement.

Your back hit the side of Jake’s truck with a soft thud.

His mouth was on yours before you could finish laughing — all teeth and heat and hands that gripped your waist like he’d been starving. He kissed like he flew: confident, calculated, a little reckless. Your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, pressing flush against him like maybe he could drown out everything you didn’t want to feel.

And for a minute, he did.

Jake let out a low groan when you nipped at his lip, like the sound had been trapped behind his teeth all night. His hands slid down to your thighs, lifting just slightly, and you laughed against his mouth.

“Well,” you whispered, breathless, “that didn’t take long.”

Jake chuckled against your skin, lips brushing your jaw, your neck. “I warned you,” he muttered.

“Good,” you whispered, your voice sultry, teasing. “Let's go to your place, or we can do it here.” You reached for his belt.

Jake froze.

The shift was subtle, but instant. His hands stilled. His lips hovered, no longer moving. And then, carefully — too carefully — he stepped back.

You blinked at him, confused. Your chest was rising and falling like you’d just run a mile.

“What—?”

“Don’t,” he said softly, lifting his hand, not quite touching you anymore. “Just… don’t.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t what?”

Jake exhaled, like the weight of what he was about to say had been sitting on him for a while. “You’re gorgeous. And I like you. God help me, I really like you.” His voice was tight, jaw clenched. “But I can’t do this. Not like this. Not in my truck outside a damn bar. Not when you’re Mickey’s little sister.”

“Oh, now you care?” you snapped, your tone turning sharp. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it five seconds ago when your tongue was halfway down my throat.”

“Yeah, well,” Jake muttered, running a hand through his hair, stepping another inch back, “five seconds ago I wasn’t picturing Mickey finding out and trying to take my head off with a wrench.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “Is that what this is? You scared of my brother?”

“I respect your brother,” Jake corrected. “And I’m not going to disrespect him by hooking up with you in the goddamn parking lot.”

You looked at him like he’d slapped you.

“Oh, I see,” you said slowly, voice ice-cold. “So I’m a hookup now?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Seresin?” you shot back. “Because from where I’m standing, it kinda sounds like you’re saying you’re into me but not enough to actually do anything about it.”

Jake opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked like he might try again — but he didn’t.

Your lips curled, bitter and bright.

“Whatever,” you muttered. “I’ve had better makeouts anyway.”

You pushed past him, heels clicking on the pavement, your pulse thudding hot behind your ribs. You didn’t look back — not when he called your name, not when he didn’t.

You were already burning.

And you knew where to find something that would put the fire out.

The Uber pulled up outside your brother’s apartment, but you never got out. You just clicked “change destination,” slid across the back seat like you’d done it a hundred times before, and fed the driver the name of a club Mickey would never set foot in — too loud, too flashy, too full of the very people he didn’t trust you to be around.

Your fingers hovered over your phone screen for a second.

You turned it off.

Let it vanish into your bag like it didn’t exist, like you didn’t exist — at least not the version of you Mickey wanted so badly to believe was still there.

By the time you stepped into the pulsing darkness of the club, the bass had already stitched itself into your bones. Red and blue lights spun across the walls like a kaleidoscope of chaos, and the air smelled like sweat and sweet liquor and something artificial you could never quite name but always recognized.

You moved like you belonged.

Past the crowd at the entrance, past the line at the bar. Eyes followed you, some curious, some hungry. But you weren’t here for that. Not tonight.

You scanned the bodies.

You knew the signs — you’d learned them the hard way. The guy leaning on the railing above the dance floor, hoodie pulled low over his eyes despite the heat. The girl in fishnets by the bathroom who hadn’t stopped twitching. The cluster of people too calm in a place designed for chaos.

You found him tucked into a booth behind the DJ setup. Skinny, pale, with rings on every finger and pupils like dinner plates.

You slid in beside him.

“Boston girl,” you said smoothly, just loud enough for him to hear. “Looking to get nostalgic.”

He looked you over once — top to heels — and smirked. “Molly?”

Your smile was slow, almost grateful. “You got it.”

He pulled a little zip bag from his pocket, already palming one capsule into your hand like it was nothing.

You tucked it into your purse, fingers brushing the cool plastic like it was a secret no one could touch.

“You new in town?” he asked, already eyeing you like he wanted more than your cash.

“Something like that,” you said, standing.

The music hit you like a wave as you turned back toward the floor. Your pulse was already racing. Not from the drug — not yet — but from the promise of it. From knowing that in twenty minutes, everything would melt. The ache in your chest. The heat under your skin. The bitter taste of Jake’s rejection still clinging to your tongue.

You’d feel better soon.

You always did.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Mickey stood in the center of the living room, phone clutched tight in his hand, staring at the still-closed door to your bedroom.

He'd already knocked — twice. No answer.

Now he pushed it open, dread curling low in his stomach, half-expecting to find you face-down in bed, headphones on, refusing to engage with the world like usual.

The bed was empty.

The window was shut. No note. No texts.

No you.

He cursed under his breath, already dialing. First your number — straight to voicemail.

"Goddamnit."

Then again. Then again.

By the fourth call, his voice was shaking.

He dialed Phoenix next.

"Yeah?"

"Is she with you?" he barked, not even bothering to say your name.

Phoenix sounded confused. "What? No—wait, who? Your sister?"

"Yes. She’s not here. She’s not picking up."

There was a pause. Then: “She was at the Hard Deck earlier.”

Mickey stopped cold. “What?” His heart dropped straight through the floor, not bothering to let Nat finish.

He hung up without another word, grabbing his keys from the counter so fast he nearly knocked over the lamp.

She could be anywhere. With anyone. With Jake.

His fists clenched.

He didn’t care how good a pilot Jake was or how many pull-ups he could do in a row — if he’d laid a finger on you—

The lock clicked behind him.

The door creaked open.

You stepped inside like nothing was wrong — purse swinging, cheeks still a little flushed from the night, eyeliner smudged just enough to look deliberate. Your hair was a mess. Your heels clicked softly against the hardwood. And you froze the moment you saw Mickey standing in the middle of the room, jaw tight, eyes blazing.

"Where the hell were you?" he snapped.

"Out," you said breezily, slipping off your shoes like you hadn’t just given him a heart attack.

"Don't," he warned, voice low. “Don’t play this game with me.”

You crossed your arms, rolling your eyes. “I’m not playing anything, Mickey.”

“You turned off your phone. You didn’t leave a note. I thought you were dead in a fucking alley!”

“I’m not,” you said simply. “Clearly.”

“I swear to God, if you were with Jake—"

You laughed — a sharp, humorless sound. “Relax. You’ve got nothing to worry about,” you bit out, brushing past him toward the kitchen. “Jake doesn’t want me.”

Mickey blinked, thrown for a moment.

You kept talking, your voice light, almost sing-song. “Turns out your precious wingman has a conscience. Or maybe he just thought I was too much. Either way, he slammed the brakes before anything fun happened.”

Mickey stared at you, stunned.

There was something brittle beneath your words. Something off. But he didn’t know how to name it. Didn’t know how to reach you.

So instead, he just said, “Good. Because if he had touched you—"

“Jesus,” you muttered, yanking open the fridge like it had personally offended you. “What are you gonna do, Mick? Ground me?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m two seconds away from locking you in this goddamn apartment until you stop acting like the whole world’s your playground.”

You slammed the fridge shut. “Then maybe I’ll just leave again.”

And for a second — a real second — he didn’t know if you meant it.

The silence was sharp.

You looked at each other, two sides of the same storm. Then you turned on your heel and disappeared into your room, door slamming behind you.

Mickey stood there for a long time after.

Not mad.

Just scared.

Your door slammed harder than you intended. The echo of it cracked through the silence, followed by the sound of your own uneven breathing.

The click of the lock was automatic. A reflex. You didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to see the hurt flickering behind Mickey’s anger. You didn’t want to feel anything at all.

You stood in the middle of the room, still dressed from the night — glitter smeared along your collarbone, lashes barely hanging on, heels abandoned by the foot of the bed. Your purse hit the mattress, and from it, the little plastic bag slipped free.

There it was.

One capsule left. Just one.

You sat down slowly, like the weight of the day had finally caught up. Your fingers curled around the bag, staring through it like you might find something else inside. Something other than a cheap promise of escape. Something you hadn’t already taken a dozen times before.

But it was just molly. Just powder.

Just the only thing that still gave you a few hours of peace.

Your fingers tightened around it.

You didn’t even mean to cry.

It started soft — a prickling behind your eyes. Then came the sting. The burn. The tightness in your throat. You pressed your palm to your mouth like you could shove it down, but your shoulders started to shake anyway.

“I don’t wanna be like this,” you whispered into the dark.

The room didn’t care. It sat there in silence — still and clean and unfamiliar. No party. No music. No soft laughter or sweaty dance floors. Just you and a twin-sized bed and a framed photo of Mickey with his squad on the wall. And the echo of your guilt ricocheting through your chest like shrapnel.

You lay back, the capsule still clutched in your hand, blinking up at the ceiling.

You didn’t mean to think about it.

But you saw it again anyway.

That night. That party. The moment everything shifted.

The laugh you forced, the way your skin crawled, the flashes of hands you never invited, voices you couldn’t focus on, your own pulse like a scream in your ears. You blinked hard, willing the memory away, biting the inside of your cheek to chase something real, something present, something now.

Mickey didn’t know.

He thought you were doing it for attention.

You almost laughed at that — but it caught somewhere in your chest, jagged and sour. You didn’t want to make him mad. You didn’t want to keep worrying him. He was trying. You could see it. He’d brought you here, changed his whole life just to watch over you. And you? You kept fucking up.

You turned onto your side, curled up around the stupid plastic bag like it was something holy.

“I don’t wanna be a mess,” you whispered again. “I just… don’t know how not to be.”

Your tears soaked the edge of the pillow. You didn’t bother to wipe them away.

You didn’t take the molly.

Not yet.

But you didn’t put it away, either.

You just held it in your fist until your fingers ached and your breathing finally slowed, and the silence swallowed you whole.

[...]

The light seeped through the blinds in thin, golden stripes across the room, landing on your cheek like a soft, slow reminder that the world had kept spinning while you slept. Your eyes fluttered open, crusted and raw, and your throat was tight from all the crying — that ugly kind of crying that comes from the pit of your stomach, the kind you don’t admit to later.

Your head throbbed dully. Not quite a hangover, not quite a high. Just… aftermath.

You were still in last night’s clothes, one arm tangled under the pillow, the other curled protectively around the little plastic bag you never ended up using. It lay limp and warm in your fist, like a secret you weren’t ready to give up yet.

You stared at the ceiling for a long time, unmoving. You felt… hollow. Not broken. Not dramatic. Just the echo of yourself, stretched too thin.

Eventually, you reached for your phone on the nightstand, blinking hard as the screen lit up.

3 missed calls — Mickey

1 new message — Jake Seresin

Your stomach fluttered — unhelpfully. You sat up slowly, thumb hovering for a second before you tapped into the message.

Jake Seresin:

Sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You got under my skin, not gonna lie.

If you’re still talking to me, I’d like to make it up to you. Breakfast? Just you and me.

You stared at it.

The words didn’t make sense right away. You read them again. And again.

Jake. Apologizing.

The same Jake your brother warned you to stay the hell away from. The one who looked at you like he wanted to tear your clothes off, then pulled back like you were something fragile. Like he was the one who had something to lose.

Breakfast.

You should’ve rolled your eyes. Should’ve scoffed and deleted it.

But you didn’t.

Your lips curled — not quite a smile. Just the beginning of one. A tug at the corner of your mouth, a twitch of something almost light.

You didn’t reply. Not yet.

Instead, you got up.

Peeling off your wrinkled clothes, splashing water on your face, brushing through your tangled hair. You looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the girl who’d sobbed herself to sleep with drugs in her hand — but she was still in there. Still lingering around the edges.

Still holding on.

Still trying.

Maybe she deserved pancakes.

You were halfway through tying your boots when Mickey emerged from his bedroom, shirtless, towel draped over one shoulder and wet hair curling at the ends. He blinked blearily at you standing by the door, dressed — brushed, jacket in hand — like someone who’d been up for hours.

His brows pulled together.

“You’re going out?”

You didn’t look up as you tightened the laces. “Yeah.”

He ran a hand down his face, squinting at the clock on the microwave. “It’s not even nine.”

You stood, grabbing your phone and sliding it into your bag. “I didn’t realize I needed clearance to leave.”

“That’s not what I said.”

You finally met his eyes, your expression unreadable — calm, if a little cool. “I’m not going to burn the place down. Or run away. Or whatever scenario you’re playing in your head.”

Mickey opened his mouth, then shut it. He sighed. “I just—Christ, I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Then don’t.”

He studied you carefully. You weren’t dressed like you were going clubbing. Weren’t trembling or twitchy like the other night. No signs of a hangover. Just jeans, a jacket, mascara, and a soft tinge of pink on your cheeks.

You looked… normal.

Better than normal, even.

“Where are you going?” he asked, gently this time.

You paused with your hand on the doorknob. “Breakfast.”

A beat.

“Alone?”

You smiled, slow and infuriatingly evasive. “You said you didn’t want to fight.”

“Right,” he muttered, running a hand through his still-damp curls. “You’re not a prisoner. I get it.”

“Glad we agree.”

You slipped out the door before he could say anything else.

But Mickey stood there a moment longer, staring at the closed door, heart thumping with unease.

He trusted you.

He wanted to trust you.

But something in your voice — that lilt of confidence — didn’t sound like nothing.

And he’d known you long enough to recognize the glint in your eye when you were up to something.

jake's pov -

Jake sat at a table near the window, fingers curled around a steaming mug of coffee he hadn’t really touched. The café was small — charming, even. Brick walls, worn wood floors, low music humming from the speakers. A place you chose, not him. That alone said something. Not the kind of spot for someone looking to seduce or impress.

He checked his watch. Ten minutes early.

Typical.

He wasn’t nervous — not exactly. But something about this whole thing had his leg bouncing under the table, and he couldn’t shake the memory of your mouth on his, your fingers tugging at his collar, the way you’d looked at him like you wanted to ruin him just to see if he’d let you.

He almost had.

He would’ve.

Jake rubbed a hand over his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose.

What the hell are you doing, Seresin?

You weren’t just a pretty face in a crowded bar. You weren’t just another girl looking for attention. You were Mickey’s little sister — the same Mickey who once tackled a guy at a dive bar for making a rude comment about Phoenix.

And Jake had tried. God, he’d tried.

But then you walked into the Hard Deck like you owned the whole damn place, tossed your hair over your shoulder, and gave him that smile — the kind that was born to cause problems. And he hadn’t stood a chance.

That kiss had been a bad idea. The best kind. Messy, hungry, and full of something neither of you had named yet. And then the way you whispered it — Let’s go to your place — like a dare, like you knew he’d cave.

And he almost had.

But then he saw Mickey’s face in the back of his mind, and guilt sucker-punched the want right out of him. Not for long, but long enough.

Jake sighed and leaned back in the chair, lifting the mug to his lips just to give his hands something to do. Bitter, lukewarm coffee.

He glanced toward the door.

You weren’t the first woman to tempt him into trouble — but you were the first who made it feel like it might be worth the consequences.

And that scared the shit out of him.

He didn’t know what your deal was yet. There was something behind your eyes. Something sharp and sweet and sad all at once. You didn’t flirt like someone playing a game. You flirted like someone trying to survive.

It made him want to know more.

It made him want to keep you from whatever the hell you were running from — even if he had no business trying.

His phone buzzed on the table. A message from Phoenix: You really about to have breakfast with Fanboy’s sister? You got a death wish or just a kink for chaos?

Jake smirked, typing back with one hand: Wouldn’t you like to know.

And that’s when he saw you.

Through the window. Head tilted, sunglasses slipping down your nose. Hair pulled back with zero effort and still looking like something out of a music video. You paused outside the door, smoothing down your jacket and pulling out your lip gloss, like you hadn’t made him sweat just 48 hours ago.

He was done for.

Again.

The bell above the café door chimed, and Jake forced himself not to sit up straighter. You stepped inside like the morning belonged to you, like the air adjusted itself around your presence. Casual, confident, smug in a way that wasn’t entirely performative. Or maybe it was. He couldn’t tell — and that intrigued him more than he’d like to admit.

Your sunglasses slid up to rest on your head, revealing those sharp eyes that scanned the room like you were bored already, even though the corner of your mouth twitched the moment you saw him.

You made your way to the table, tugging your jacket off one shoulder in that unconsciously flirtatious way he was starting to suspect was very conscious.

“You waited,” you said, dropping into the chair across from him like this wasn’t a potential landmine wrapped in brunch plans.

Jake smirked, lifting his mug. “Well, I was raised right.”

“Debatable.”

“Fair,” he admitted, setting the cup down. “But I did apologize.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You did. That’s a first.”

He chuckled under his breath. “What can I say? You bring out the manners in me.”

“I’d rather bring out something else.” Your voice was low, lazy. Testing him.

Jake’s smile faltered — not in disapproval, but because his pulse had just quickened, and he hated that you noticed. You always noticed.

“Thought we were doing pancakes, not phone sex,” he drawled, folding his hands on the table.

“Can’t a girl multitask?” You leaned forward just enough for him to smell whatever perfume you were wearing — something warm, almost sweet, laced with a hint of trouble.

Jake swallowed hard.

“You’re dangerous.”

You raised a brow. “Now you sound like my brother.”

“God, don’t say that. This moment was almost enjoyable.”

You laughed — real and bright — and for a moment, Jake forgot about all the reasons this was supposed to be a bad idea. You looked better than you did at night. That glow in your skin wasn’t club lighting; it was daylight and fresh coffee and something softer than your usual shield of sarcasm.

“Thanks for texting,” you said finally, a little quieter, fiddling with the sugar packet in front of you.

Jake tilted his head. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually want me to.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrugged, but it was evasive. “You pulled away last time. Guys don’t usually do that unless they’re embarrassed. Or bored. Or liars.”

Jake frowned, leaning in just slightly. “I pulled away because I’ve still got a few morals left. Because Mickey would kill me if he found out. Because I’m not trying to mess you up more than you already are.”

The last part slipped out. Too honest. Too fast.

Your expression didn’t shift much, but something in your eyes darkened.

Just a flicker.

“I’m not a charity case,” you said smoothly, but your tone lost some of its heat.

“I never said you were.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, thick but not suffocating.

Jake sighed, leaning back and signaling the waitress with two fingers. “Let’s eat. I’ve got a feeling I’m gonna need something sweet to survive this.”

You smirked again. “I hear you already survived my brother’s fists. You’ll be fine.”

“Yet somehow,” he said, smiling right back, “you’re scarier than he is.”

And just like that, the tension thinned. The thread between you taut, but not fraying. A truce — temporary or not, neither of you cared to define it. Not yet.

The waitress had just walked away with their order — two coffees, one black, one swimming in cream and sugar, and a split stack of pancakes — when you spoke again. Your voice was different this time. Quieter. Less like you were trying to win something.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” you said, not looking at him.

Jake blinked. “For what?”

You didn’t answer immediately. You traced the rim of your water glass with your finger, as if trying to line up the words just right. “Last night. I… wasn’t in a great place. And I thought maybe if I just distracted myself — if I pushed hard enough — I could make everything shut up for a little while.”

Your gaze flicked up to meet his. Steady. Unflinching. “It wasn’t fair to do that to you.”

Jake didn’t say anything at first. He hadn’t expected it — the apology, the clarity, the self-awareness so rarely seen beneath your usual armor of charm and sharp wit. It threw him.

“You didn’t do anything I didn’t want,” he said slowly, watching you. “But… I appreciate you saying that.”

You nodded. “I know what it looks like. I flirt, I push, I act like I don’t care. But I do. And I know I shouldn’t use people to feel better. I’m trying not to be that girl.”

Something about the way you said it — not ashamed, but tired — made his chest tighten.

You were still wearing lip gloss and still sitting like you knew you were the hottest person in the room, but your walls had slipped just enough for him to see the ache behind your eyes. Not for attention. Not for drama. But for quiet.

For peace.

Jake leaned back in his seat and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Okay,” he said.

You blinked. “Okay?”

He nodded. “Okay. We start fresh. No expectations, no guilt. Just… pancakes.”

You smiled, soft and surprised. “You’re kind of decent sometimes.”

Jake grinned. “Don’t spread that around. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

A silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t heavy this time. It felt like the first moment neither of you was performing.

Not hiding.

Just breathing.

And Jake knew — this was why he didn’t walk away.

Not because of the thrill, or Mickey’s warning, or the chase.

But because for the first time in a long time, someone looked right at him, not past him, and still sat across the table anyway.

By the time the pancakes arrived, the mood had lightened. You were halfway through yours, picking the blueberries off the top and popping them into your mouth one by one, when Jake finally asked the question that had been simmering in the back of his mind.

“So,” he said, slicing through his stack with exaggerated concentration. “Mickey.”

You snorted. “That’s a hell of a way to ruin pancakes.”

Jake smirked. “I just mean — he’s got this whole overprotective-big-brother thing going on, and don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive, but… you’re not a kid.”

You glanced at him, expression unreadable.

Jake went on, carefully. “You don’t act like a little sister. You act like someone who’s been running her own show for a while now. So why is he acting like you need a full-time bodyguard?”

You set your fork down. Not hard — just deliberately. You didn’t seem offended. More… thoughtful.

“Because Mickey only sees what he wants to see,” you said after a moment. “He sees the bratty little girl who had everything handed to her and complained when the ribbon wasn’t the color she wanted.”

Jake raised a brow. “Was it pink?”

You almost smiled. “It was lavender.”

He laughed, then sobered a little as he leaned in. “He cares, you know.”

“I know,” you said, quieter now. “But caring doesn’t mean understanding.”

Jake didn’t push. He let the silence sit between you for a moment, giving you space. You filled it anyway.

“He thinks I’m some spoiled mess who’s just acting out for attention. And maybe part of me is. I mean, I was a mess this year. Still am, sometimes.” You poked at a corner of your pancake. “It’s been… rough.”

Jake watched you. Not judging. Just listening.

“Rough how?” he asked gently.

Your mouth twisted like you were considering how much to give. Then, a shrug.

Jake watched as you swirled a blueberry through a pool of syrup, your expression unreadable. He decided to try again — gently. “So… your dad.”

Your eyes flicked up, a little wary now.

Jake raised a hand in surrender. “You don’t have to answer. I just… Mickey never talks about him. Like, ever.”

A beat passed. Then, with a sigh, you leaned back in your chair.

“He doesn’t like him,” you said simply. “Mickey’s never liked him. My dad’s… intense. Controlling, yeah, probably. Old-school to the bone. But he loves us. And I love him.”

There was a softness to your voice, like you were defending someone others didn’t understand.

“I know he expects too much, and I know he doesn’t always say things the right way. But he gave me everything. He raised me to be strong — to never settle. Mickey thinks I’m brainwashed. He doesn’t get that it’s not all black and white.”

Jake nodded slowly, taking that in. “So Mickey resents him.”

“He resents me, too, sometimes,” you said, almost too casually. “I got the life he didn’t want. Fancy schools, private cars, champagne brunches. And all I ever wanted was to be at the beach with my brother, making sandcastles.”

There it was — a flash of something raw. Unpolished. Honest.

“Have you ever talked to anyone about all that?” he asked.

You blinked. “Like…?”

“Like a therapist. Someone trained to untangle all the shit your family dumped on you.”

You scoffed. “What, and be told I have daddy issues? No thanks.”

Jake smiled softly. “You said it’s been a rough year. You ever think maybe it doesn’t have to keep being rough?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him, brows drawn, like no one had ever said it to you that way before.

Then, “Why do you care?”

Jake paused. That was a loaded question, and you both knew it.

He could give you a dozen answers. Because he liked you. Because you challenged him. Because behind the gloss and sarcasm and perfect posture, he saw a girl who didn’t really want to fall apart — she just didn’t know how else to hold on.

Instead, he said, “Because someone should.”

You looked at him for a long time, mouth parted slightly like you were going to say something. But the words never came. Not then.

You just picked up your fork again, stabbed a piece of pancake, and said, “Fine. Next time you make out with me, lead with that line.”

Jake grinned. “See? Progress.”

Jake watched you across the table as you leaned forward to snag the last blueberry off your plate, mumbling something about how it was the best part. You looked more relaxed now — still guarded, still carefully composed — but there was a softness around the edges that hadn’t been there when you first walked in.

And he saw it now. Saw you.

Not just the girl with the smirk and the perfect lipstick and the don’t-touch-me confidence. But the version underneath it — the one who’d been hurt and hadn’t figured out how to talk about it yet. The one who’d spent so long trying to live up to expectations that she didn’t know who she was when everything fell apart.

And he got it. God, he got it.

He had sisters. Three of them. Different personalities, different lives — but he knew their tells. Knew what it looked like when something was off, when a smile was a little too bright or the silence was just a little too long. If one of them had been spiraling the way you were, trying to distract yourself with parties or pills or people — he’d burn the world down to pull them out.

And Mickey… he wasn’t wrong for being protective. But he wasn’t seeing it clearly either. He still looked at you and saw a spoiled little sister with too much eyeliner and not enough boundaries. But Jake — Jake was starting to see the cracks forming beneath the surface. The weight of something that had nothing to do with privilege, and everything to do with pain.

You were two seconds away from a cry for help — except you were so good at pretending you didn’t need saving that most people wouldn’t even notice.

But he did.

He saw you.

And now that he did, he wasn’t sure he could unsee it.

Not sure he wanted to.

The ride back to Mickey’s place was quiet in the easy kind of way, with the windows cracked open just enough to let in the golden breeze of late afternoon. You rested your head against the passenger window, lashes casting soft shadows on your cheeks, a peaceful expression replacing the sharpness you usually wore like armor. Jake kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely in his lap, resisting the urge to reach for yours. Not because he didn’t want to — he just didn’t want to break the stillness you seemed to need.

When he pulled up to the curb, you didn’t immediately move. You just sat there, eyes forward, lips pursed in thought. Then you turned to him, gaze searching his face like you were trying to memorize it.

“Thanks,” you said softly, voice still a little hoarse from the morning’s crying. “For breakfast. And for not being a dick about last night.”

Jake smiled faintly. “You’re welcome. And for the record, I was dangerously close to being a dick. But… I’m glad I wasn’t.”

You smirked. “It wouldn’t have worked anyway. I’d still be thinking about you.”

That pulled a laugh from him — quiet, low, genuine. “Jesus, you’re dangerous.”

“Maybe,” you said as you pushed the door open. “But I’m working on it.”

Jake watched you walk toward the building, his smile fading into something softer, more contemplative. He didn’t know exactly what was coming next for you — but he had a feeling you were finally heading toward it with your eyes open.

your pov -

You had barely stepped inside when Mickey’s voice cut through the living room like a warning shot.

“That better not have been Seresin’s truck.”

You let out a groan and dropped your bag on the kitchen counter, peeling off your jacket like the conversation wasn’t already circling like a hawk overhead. “Good afternoon to you too, Mickey.”

He was already standing by the couch, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Don’t play with me. I know what his truck looks like. Tell me you weren’t with him.”

You arched a brow and turned to the fridge. “You’re making it sound like I came back with a neck tattoo and a police escort.”

“I told you to stay away from him,” Mickey said, stepping closer. His voice was lower now, but sharp around the edges. “He’s too old for you. And he’s—”

“A grown man who listens better than you do?” you shot back, spinning to face him, eyes blazing.

Mickey blinked. That stopped him cold.

You took a breath. “I had breakfast with Jake. We talked. And it helped. That’s all.” He opened his mouth to argue, but you lifted a hand to stop him. “And before you start lecturing me, just—listen. I’ve decided to go to therapy.”

He froze. “What?”

You nodded. “I don’t want to keep feeling like this. Like I’m unraveling all the time. I’m gonna try to get better.” You crossed your arms, but your tone was calm — not defensive, not flippant. Just… real. “Not for you. Not for Dad. For me.”

There was a long beat of silence. Mickey’s face shifted — confusion first, then something softer, like hope dressed in disbelief.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

You turned away again, heading for your room, the heaviness still in your chest but lifted just enough to let in a breath.

Maybe it wasn’t a full step forward.

But it was something.

[...]

It had been three months.

Three months of early morning therapy sessions twice a week, of slowly learning how to speak without flinching at your own thoughts. You’d stopped picking at your cuticles. Started showering without guilt. Some days you even forgot to check how many hours you’d gone without crying. It wasn’t linear — it never was — but you were steady now. Lighter.

Mickey had started looking at you differently. Less like a ticking time bomb, more like a person. Sometimes, after dinner, he’d say something like “I’m proud of you” without looking at you directly, as if the words burned his tongue a little on the way out. You’d roll your eyes, but secretly you’d store them up like gold.

And then there was Jake.

Your relationship with him had shifted in that quiet, subtle way things do when two people stop pretending. You didn’t flirt like you used to — not to stir chaos or chase a thrill. Now, when you teased him, it was slow, soft, like a habit you weren’t ready to break.

He let you.

He didn’t push, didn’t chase. But he never backed away either.

You saw him most weekends now — at the Hard Deck, at bonfires with the Daggers, or when he and the rest brought takeout after long training days. He always made sure to save you the last fry or bring you your drink exactly the way you liked it. He never made a big deal out of it, but it was the kind of thing you noticed. The kind of thing you used to dream of having and didn’t think you deserved anymore.

But the pill was still there.

Tucked in a tiny ziplock bag inside your old makeup pouch, hidden behind a row of unused lipsticks. You hadn’t touched it. You hadn’t needed it — not in the way you used to. But you hadn’t flushed it either.

It was a safety net, or maybe a threat. A ghost of a promise you hadn’t yet made peace with.

Some nights, when the silence got too loud, you’d unzip the pouch and just… look at it. Like it might talk back. Like it might still offer you something that no longer lived in your body.

You were healing. Slowly. Not perfectly.

And Jake — Jake was still there.

Today, you were headed to a beach hangout with the squad. Phoenix had texted you that it was low-key and Mickey had rolled his eyes the whole way out the door like he knew damn well Jake would offer to drive you. Which, of course, he did.

And now, Jake’s truck rumbled beside the curb, his elbow perched on the open window, aviators pushed up into his hair as he waved you over like you were the main event.

“You always this slow or just trying to make an entrance?” he smirked.

You grinned, flipping him off as you climbed in. “I like to keep my fans waiting.”

Jake laughed — full and easy. It vibrated through you in a way that wasn’t quite dangerous anymore.

Just warm.

The salty tang of the ocean mixed with the sharp scent of sunscreen as you and Jake stepped onto the warm sand, the sun dipping lazily toward the horizon. The beach was alive with the easy chatter of the Daggers sprawled on blankets and beach chairs, coolers open and laughter riding the sea breeze.

Mickey was there, arms folded, wearing his usual scowl that softened only when you caught his eye. Rooster was tossing a frisbee, while Phoenix and Payback were in a heated debate over who should be on charge of the playlist. Coyote and Bob were setting up a small grill, the promise of burgers wafting through the air.

And then, just like an unexpected encore, Maverick and Penny arrived, their presence causing a ripple of smiles and nods. Penny, with her bright eyes and easy laugh, pulled you into a quick hug, whispering, “Glad you made it.”

Jake’s grip found your hand as you wandered toward the water’s edge, the sand cool between your toes. “Look at you,” he said softly. “All calm and collected.”

You nudged him playfully. “Careful, or I’ll start thinking you like me.”

He laughed, the sound deep and sure. “I already do.”

The day unfolded in waves—impromptu games of volleyball, shared stories around the grill, and the gentle ease of being surrounded by people who felt like family. Mickey’s protective gaze lingered longer than usual, but you caught Jake’s knowing glance and squeezed his hand, silently telling him everything was okay.

Mickey stood a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over his chest, a careful mask drawn over his usual scowl. His eyes never left you and Jake as they laughed together, the sunlight catching in your hair and the ease between you both so strikingly different from the guarded version of you he’d known for months.

On one hand, there was relief — a quiet, aching relief that you were smiling like this again, really smiling, not just the brittle kind that masked pain. He could see it in the way your eyes sparkled when Jake teased you, the way you leaned into him without hesitation. For the first time in a long time, you looked like you belonged somewhere. Like you were safe.

But in the other hand, there was a stubborn knot of worry twisting tighter with every passing minute. Jake — the man Mickey had warned you against, the guy he’d kept at arm’s length for so long — he had a way of pushing boundaries. A way of stirring things up, and Mickey wasn’t sure if that would help or hurt the fragile progress you’d made.

What if Jake saw you as nothing more than a game? What if the cracks Mickey knew were still deep inside you got worse because of some careless mistake? The thought was unbearable.

Yet, watching you now, so alive and laughing, Mickey couldn’t bring himself to speak up. Not when this moment was so rare and so real.

He took a breath, fighting the impulse to call you back, to remind you to be careful — to protect you, even from yourself.

Instead, he let the waves crash at his feet and hoped that maybe, just maybe, this time things could be different.

You wandered away from the main group, toes sinking into the cool, damp sand where the waves curled toward the shore. The orange glow of sunset stretched across the water like melted gold, and behind you, the murmur of laughter and music from the bonfire faded into background noise. You heard someone win a round of cornhole, someone else yelling about a burger being undercooked.

Jake followed without needing to be asked. His steps were quieter now, more careful. He fell into stride beside you, close enough that your arms brushed, his eyes flicking sideways every few seconds like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say something, or if this was one of those moments where the silence mattered more.

“You okay?” he asked finally.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… taking it in.”

“You seemed quiet for a second.”

You glanced up at him, then back at the water. “Quiet doesn’t always mean bad.”

“I know,” he said. “Just means you’re thinking.”

“Too much.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. The truth was, your head had been spinning all day—not from the anxiety that used to cloud every moment, but from something new. Or maybe something old returning, something you weren’t sure you deserved: peace. Happiness. Him.

“It’s weird,” you murmured. “I’ve spent so long trying not to feel anything… that now that I’m starting to feel again, I don’t know what to do with it. Some of it’s good. Some of it’s terrifying.”

Jake didn’t say anything right away. He just nodded, like he understood more than you expected him to.

“You know, I’ve been around a lot of people who fake it,” he said softly. “Smile wide, act like everything’s fine. But it’s different with you. You don’t fake anything.”

You scoffed lightly. “You don’t know me that well.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I want to.”

That made your stomach twist. Not from fear, for once — but from how badly you wanted that too.

You stopped walking, facing the water. He stood next to you, close but not crowding, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” you said. It came out so quiet you weren’t sure he heard.

Jake turned his head toward you. “You won’t.”

“I’m still a mess.”

“So am I,” he said simply. “But I like being around you. That’s not going anywhere.”

You glanced up at him, at the soft lines around his mouth, the easy confidence in his stance, the steady look in his eyes. He was a hurricane when you met him — sharp and full of swagger. But now, he felt like the eye of the storm.

Safe. Warm.

You weren’t expecting to see him again so soon.

It was barely noon and you’d just shuffled into the kitchen with sleep still in your eyes, wearing one of Mickey’s old hoodies and clutching a mug of lukewarm coffee like it was a lifeline. The apartment was quiet — your brother already gone for the day, base schedule pinned to the fridge like he was daring you to forget it.

You heard the buzz of your phone on the counter and squinted at the screen.

Jake Seresin I hope you’re free tonight, because I have a plan. And before you ask — no, it doesn’t involve the Hard Deck or tequila.

You stared at the message for a second, then typed back.

You Color me intrigued. What kind of plan? Jake Seresin A real one. I want to cook for you. At my place. Just us. What do you say?

You bit your lip, a slow smile blooming before you could stop it. A homecooked meal? From Jake “Hangman” Seresin? That had no business making your stomach flip the way it did, but here you were — pressing your cold coffee against your cheek to cool yourself down.

You Pick me up at 7. Jake Seresin Done. Wear something comfy. You’ll want to stay a while.

You stared at that last message longer than you should’ve, heart thudding just a little harder.

Later, as the sun started to dip and you brushed on a little mascara in the mirror, Mickey poked his head into the hallway, eyes squinting with suspicion.

“You’re going out?” he asked.

You didn’t look at him, just kept applying gloss like it was war paint. “Yeah. Nat invited me to dinner. Just the two of us.”

“Since when do you and Nat hang out alone?”

You turned, flashing him a lazy smirk. “Since we've had enough testosterone lingering in the air of the Hard Deck.”

He groaned. “That’s rude.” He narrowed his eyes but let it go with a huff. “Just… don’t be stupid, okay?”

“Always such a vote of confidence, Mickey.”

“Seriously. You’ve been doing better. Don’t do anything dumb tonight.”

You offered a mock-salute. “Yes, Captain Buzzkill.”

He left for his room muttering under his breath, and ten minutes later, you were sliding into Jake’s truck.

He looked up from the driver’s seat, taking one look at you and smiling that smile — the one that always felt like it reached beneath your ribs and stayed there.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“Hi,” you breathed, tugging your hoodie sleeves down over your palms to hide the way your fingers trembled. It wasn’t fear. It was… hope.

The drive was easy. No music, just the open window and warm evening air rolling in, your hair whipping softly around your face. Jake kept glancing at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were there.

When he opened the front door to his place, the scent hit you first — garlic, something roasted, and a faint citrus that felt like summer.

“You cooked?” you asked, half-teasing.

“I cook,” he said, almost offended. “I can do more than microwave.”

“You’re gonna make someone a good husband one day.”

“Someone?” he echoed, stepping close. “Thought I was cooking for someone tonight.”

You looked up at him. “You are.”

And just like that, whatever this thing was between you — delicate and messy and impossible — tilted forward, slow and certain.

Jake’s kitchen was surprisingly neat. Not spotless, but lived-in — a dishtowel slung over the oven handle, a few spice jars scattered near the stove, an open bottle of wine breathing on the counter. The dining table was small but set thoughtfully, two plates already served, candles flickering low in mismatched holders.

“You didn’t have to go all out,” you said, stepping further in, taking it all in with quiet amusement.

He grinned as he reached for your jacket. “You deserve someone going all out for you.”

Your heart clenched a little — a tiny, unfamiliar ache. You swallowed it down as he handed you a glass of wine and motioned for you to sit.

Dinner was pasta — garlic butter shrimp over fresh linguine with roasted veggies on the side — and it was actually really good. Jake didn’t even gloat. Much.

“Okay, I’m impressed,” you admitted around a bite. “Like, this is date-three-level cooking. You skipped ahead.”

Jake raised a brow as he twirled his fork. “Bold of you to assume this isn’t date three. In my mind, we’ve had at least three emotional dates by now.”

You laughed, nudging his foot under the table. “That’s not how it works.”

“Sure it is. Emotional whiplash, unresolved tension, a beach hangout, plus one steamy kiss? We’re practically in a Hallmark movie.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile pulling at your lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

That smile lingered through the rest of the meal. The conversation slipped between soft jokes and genuine moments — you told him about your failed attempts at baking, and he confessed he once lit his sleeve on fire trying to flambé something he couldn’t even pronounce.

After dinner, Jake cleared the plates, but wouldn’t let you help. “My house, my rules,” he said, bumping your hip lightly as he passed.

You ended up on the couch, knees tucked beneath you, sipping the last of your wine while Jake sank down beside you with a low sigh.

For a few minutes, the quiet settled. His hand found your ankle, thumb brushing in small circles. A movie played in the background, muted, but you weren’t really watching it.

You turned toward him slowly. “Jake?”

He looked over, his expression soft. “Yeah?”

“I really like you.”

It came out quieter than you meant it to — a little unsteady, like you weren’t quite sure how to say it without sounding like you were asking for too much.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “I like you too.”

Relief flooded your chest, warm and unfamiliar.

“But…” he added gently, rubbing his hand along his jaw. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little… conflicted.”

You blinked. “Because of Mickey.”

Jake nodded slowly. “He’s not just a teammate. He’s… well, he’s Fanboy. The guy I trust with my six in the air. He’s loud, obnoxious, sometimes annoyingly smart — and also fiercely loyal.”

You looked down at your wine glass.

“But then there’s you,” Jake continued. “And I like being around you. I like you, full stop. And I haven’t felt this way about anyone in… hell, maybe ever.”

He reached out, gently tilting your chin so your eyes met his again.

“I don’t want to lie about it. I don’t want to sneak around. But I also don’t want to stop seeing you just because of him.”

You exhaled, slow and careful. “I get it. He’ll lose his mind.”

“He might,” Jake said with a lopsided grin. “But maybe he’ll also realize that you’re not a little girl anymore. And that I’m not trying to play games.”

“You sure?” you teased softly. “Because this feels dangerously close to a game of emotional chicken.”

Jake chuckled. “I’m in it for the long haul, sweetheart. I’ll deal with your brother when it’s time.”

“And in the meantime?”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your cheek before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze again.

“In the meantime, I’m sitting here with the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, trying not to kiss her again.”

click to continue reading

[selencgraphy]

Three for One

pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader

summary; Jake Seresin never planned on kids—until he fell for a woman who came with two. Now he’s fighting for something more than love: a place in their family.

word count; 7.9k (yikes)

warnings; jake is in his late-thirties in this one, a bit angsty but nothing big, domestic!jake, the daggers giving him a hard time, english is not my first language happy ending!!!

a/n; i've just started writing for jake but i can't stop lol, i also can't stop writing him as a softie, if you have any other concepts requests are open!! thank you for reading <3

masterlist

Jake Seresin never wanted kids. Not in the casual, maybe-one-day kind of way, but in the firm, I’ll-pass-on-the-whole-diaper-and-daycare-deal kind of way. He liked his life just fine the way it was—clean, uncomplicated, and blissfully quiet. He was content to play the role of the charming, overenthusiastic uncle who showed up twice a year with expensive gifts, got everyone riled up on sugar and bad jokes, and then peaced out before bedtime. It was perfect. No PTA meetings, no meltdowns over mismatched socks, and certainly no existential parenting panic at two a.m. He wasn’t built for the full-time responsibility of small, emotionally complex humans. That was for other people.

And yet—here he was.

It was eight in the damn morning. On a Sunday. He was sitting in a flimsy folding chair that might have been made of recycled soda cans, parked on the sidelines of a grassy field that was already too hot, too dusty, and too full of screaming parents. He sipped burnt coffee from a paper cup that was somehow both scalding and lukewarm. And next to him sat a fifteen-year-old girl with crossed arms, a withering stare, and the kind of quiet contempt usually reserved for people who talk during movies. Olive. Your daughter. She hadn’t said a word to him since they’d arrived—unless eye rolls counted as conversation, in which case they were having a spirited debate.

Jake shifted in his seat and dared a glance at her. She was scrolling on her phone, earbuds in, gaze flicking up occasionally just to make sure he didn’t get any bright ideas about speaking.

Right, he thought. Definitely would push me off a cliff if she thought she could get away with it.

Maybe he was being dramatic.

But maybe not.

After all, she had muttered “God help us” under her breath when he offered her a donut that morning. He was trying, damn it. He’d gotten up early, worn the team shirt (even though he didn’t know what sport this even was until last night), and brought snacks. Snacks! That had to count for something.

He sighed and looked back toward the field, where your son—Matthew—was running after the ball like his life depended on it. Jake smiled a little despite himself. The kid had hustle. Grit. And sure, maybe he hadn’t said more than three words to Jake all week, but he also hadn’t told him to go to hell. Yet.

Progress. Probably.

Jake leaned back, trying to ignore the way Olive turned slightly away from him, as like even their folding chairs touching might contaminate her. This wasn’t exactly the version of his life he’d pictured for himself.

And yet—he hadn’t thought about leaving once.

You met exactly a year ago. Jake swears the moment you walked into the Hard Deck—laughing at something your friend said, eyes scanning the room like you belonged there—his whole world shifted on its axis. By the time you made your way over and introduced yourself, it was already over for him. Completely and hopelessly gone.

The version of him that had once thrived on casual flings and a phone full of first names and vague memories? Dead on arrival. The guy who used to change numbers every few months just to keep things light, to make sure no one ever got too close—that guy hadn’t stood a chance the moment you smiled at him.

Jake didn’t fall often. But with you, he didn’t fall.

He plummeted.

He didn’t care that you were divorced, or that you came with two kids and a complicated past shaped by an ex-husband who barely remembered to call on birthdays, let alone show up. None of it scared him off. Because you were worth it. You were worth early mornings and cold bleachers, worth waking up at six a.m. just to watch your ten-year-old sprint in the wrong direction on the soccer field with mismatched socks and untied cleats. You were worth every withering stare and dramatic sigh your teenage daughter aimed his way, as if his very existence was a personal offense. You were worth the nights spent helping with school projects he didn’t understand, sitting through animated movies he didn’t care about, and learning how to braid hair badly but with genuine effort.

You were messy and real and grounded, and he had never wanted anything more.

He was in love with you—undeniably, irreversibly, the kind of love that settled into his bones and made everything before you feel like a half-lived life. Truly, madly, deeply. But even in the glow of that certainty, Jake understood something crystal clear: no matter how deeply you loved him back, it wouldn’t be enough if he couldn’t find a way into the hearts of your children. Sooner or later, that unspoken wall would become too heavy for even the strongest love to carry.

And he couldn’t let that happen.

Not when—for the first time in his life—he was certain he’d found someone worth becoming more for. Someone who made him want to be softer, better, different.

You were the one. And he was determined to prove it… not just to you, but to the two people who mattered most to you in the world.

"You did so well! That was a great game, sweetheart!" you beamed, pulling your son into a hug the second he was close enough—not caring that he was dripping with sweat, covered in mud, and tracking grass across your shoes. He grinned, breathless and proud, his cheeks flushed from the effort.

"Nice job, buddy," Jake added, clapping a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. "You were the only one who scored a goal out there."

He said it just loud enough for a few nearby parents to hear, smirking when a couple of them shot him thinly veiled looks of irritation. Was it petty? Maybe. But he was riding high on team spirit—and frankly, their kids had sucked a little.

To be fair, so had Matthew, but Jake wasn’t about to let accuracy cost him stepdad points.

"You're such a liar," Olive muttered under her breath, arms crossed and tone dripping with teenage disdain. "He almost scored for the other team more times than his own."

Jake raised an eyebrow but wisely said nothing.

"Honey, that’s enough," you said evenly, not missing a beat. Your voice was calm, practiced, the kind of tone that had been honed over years of parenting and wasn’t up for debate. "Why don’t you be helpful and take out the earbuds—maybe start folding the chairs?"

Olive sighed dramatically, like you'd asked her to lift a car instead of clean up after her own brother’s game. But she yanked out one earbud anyway and trudged toward the chairs, muttering something about child labor under her breath.

Jake watched the whole exchange with cautious admiration. You handled her like a pro—firm, loving, and entirely unshaken. Honestly? It was kind of hot.

“Thanks for coming, Jake!” Matthew grinned up at him, cheeks still pink from running, his voice full of that unfiltered, ten-year-old sincerity that made Jake’s chest tighten just a little. Then he turned and took off toward the car, eager to help his sister load up the gear.

Jake’s eyes lingered on him for a second longer than necessary, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t much—but it was something. A crack in the wall. A win.

“One down, one to go,” you teased beside him, slipping your hand into his just long enough to give it a squeeze and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Jake turned his head, not fast enough to catch your lips, but just in time to catch the warmth still lingering in your smile before you walked away to help your kids.

And God help him—he felt like he’d just been handed a trophy.

[...]

“Who would've thought a fifteen-year-old would be your downfall?” Rooster laughed, clapping a heavy hand on Jake’s shoulder as he took a long sip of his beer. “Hangman, taken down by a teenager. It's almost poetic.”

Jake rolled his eyes, leaning back in the patio chair with a groan. “Wait until you meet her—then we can talk.”

Rooster smirked. “What’d you even do to make her hate your guts so much? Steal her charger? Eat the last slice of pizza?”

“Nothing!” Jake threw his hands up in defeat. “I’ve been on my best fucking behavior since day one. I’ve carried grocery bags, I’ve watched musicals, I sat through a three-hour cheer competition in a gym that smelled like feet. And the most I’ve gotten out of her—the most—was a stiff, one-armed side hug after I gave her Taylor Swift concert tickets for her birthday.”

Rooster nearly choked on his drink. “You gave her Eras Tour tickets and she hugged you like you were a tax auditor?”

Jake stared off into the distance, hollow. “Didn’t even make eye contact.”

Rooster whistled low. “Brutal. You’re in deep.”

Jake shook his head. “Deeper than I’ve ever been. And I can’t even bribe my way out of it.”

“And what are you gonna do?” Phoenix asked, raising an eyebrow over her drink as she leaned back in her chair.

Jake let out a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his soul. “I have no idea. None. But if I can’t get her to at least stop rolling her eyes and groaning every time I walk into the room, I can kiss my beautiful girlfriend goodbye.”

Phoenix smirked. “That dramatic, huh?”

Jake nodded grimly. “She doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. I walk in, she sighs like I just ruined her whole life. I say good morning, she looks at me like I’ve personally offended her entire bloodline.”

Phoenix snorted. “Yeah. That sounds about right for fifteen.”

“I’m fighting for my life out here,” Jake muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she’s winning.”

Phoenix leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Okay, so… maybe stop trying so hard.”

Jake blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it,” she said, shrugging. “Teenagers can smell desperation from a mile away. If you’re going in guns blazing with snacks and fake enthusiasm, she’s gonna see right through you. Ease off. Give her space.”

“She has space,” Jake argued. “She has an entire closed door between us at all times.”

Rooster laughed. “That’s not space, man. That’s a fortress.”

Phoenix smirked. “Which you’re not getting into by showing up with concert tickets and forced smiles. You need to stop trying to impress her and start trying to understand her.”

Jake slumped in his chair. “I don’t even speak teenager. She talks in memes and sarcasm. I tried asking her about school and she hit me with a ‘that’s crazy’ and walked away.”

Rooster raised his beer. “Classic.”

“Okay, what do you know about her?” Phoenix asked, cutting in more seriously now. “What does she like—besides Taylor Swift?”

Jake thought for a second. “Um. She likes… sketching. I’ve seen her doodling in a notebook. She listens to those true crime podcasts. And she watches these weird movies where no one smiles and everyone stares out windows a lot.”

“So she’s an artsy, brooding little gremlin,” Rooster said, nodding thoughtfully. “Got it.”

Phoenix rolled her eyes. “She’s fifteen. It’s basically a requirement.”

Jake tilted his head, something shifting behind his eyes. “She had a pencil in her bun the other day. I asked about it and she looked at me like I was interrupting a sacred ritual. But she didn’t roll her eyes. Just kind of… blinked. And then walked off.”

Phoenix grinned. “That’s not nothing. Find a way in through that—her art. Ask her about it without being weird or fake. Be curious, not performative.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “You think she’ll talk to me if I ask about what she’s drawing?”

“She might,” Phoenix said. “Or she might grunt and leave the room. Either way, don’t take it personally. Just show up. Be consistent. Let her see you’re not going anywhere.”

Rooster leaned in. “And don’t try to be cool. You’re not.”

“Hey!” Jake protested.

“You’re Hangman, not ‘cool stepdad TikTok guy.’ Know your lane.”

Jake huffed a laugh, then shook his head. “You guys are the worst support group.”

Phoenix raised her glass. “And yet, here we are—saving your ass one reluctant teenager at a time.”

Jake smiled, just a little. “One day, if she ever stops sighing when I breathe, I’ll buy you both dinner.”

“I want steak,” Phoenix said.

“I want her to not call you cringe at the table,” Rooster added.

Jake leaned back and sighed. “God, I’m doomed.”

But there was a flicker of something behind the complaint. Hope, maybe. Determination.

Because maybe he was doomed.

But he was going to keep trying anyway.

[...]

Jake pushed the cart with one hand, the other resting comfortably on your lower back as you wandered down the cereal aisle. It was a lazy kind of Sunday afternoon, the store humming with the sound of rolling wheels, distant chatter, and the occasional beeping of price scanners. The fluorescents buzzed overhead, but you didn’t seem to notice, happily weighing two boxes of granola like the fate of the world depended on it.

“This one has flaxseed,” you said, holding up a box. “That’s supposed to be good for digestion, right?”

Jake leaned over to glance at it. “Sounds like it tastes like mulch.”

You laughed—warm, unbothered, familiar. The sound settled in his chest like something sacred. “It does. But Matthew likes it for some reason.”

Jake tossed the box into the cart with a dramatic sigh. “Of course he does. The child eats like a seventy-year-old yoga instructor.”

You snorted, nudging him with your hip. “He’s trying to be healthy.”

“Right,” Jake said, steering the cart around the corner. “And Olive only eats organic chicken and lives off sarcasm.”

You didn’t say anything right away, but you reached out and took his hand, giving it a light squeeze. The simple gesture—casual, instinctive—hit him harder than he expected.

Jake glanced sideways at you as you pushed the cart together, and something in his chest gave a quiet, almost painful tug. The way your hair fell loosely down your back. The curve of your smile as you scanned a list on your phone. The comfort in how you moved beside him like he’d always been there.

This was your life—grocery runs, granola debates, two kids and a household full of routines he was slowly learning to fit into. It was ordinary and messy and sometimes chaotic.

And he wanted it. God, he wanted it.

He’d never imagined himself here—debating flaxseed cereal and comparing price-per-ounce on almond milk—but standing next to you, stealing a kiss near the end of aisle seven like it was nothing, Jake knew with stunning clarity:

He couldn’t lose this. He wouldn’t.

He’d take a hundred awkward side-hugs from Olive and sit through every chaotic soccer game Matthew played if it meant he could keep showing up next to you like this. Laughing in grocery stores. Holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re staring,” you said softly, eyes flicking up from your phone, amused.

Jake smiled, a little slower, a little softer. “I just like watching you do normal things.”

You tilted your head, skeptical. “Normal like… read cereal labels?”

“Exactly like that,” he said, pulling you a little closer by the cart. “You’re hot when you’re being responsible.” You laughed again, shaking your head as you continued down the aisle.

“Careful, Seresin. You keep talking like that, and I’ll make you do the budgeting next time.”

Jake chuckled, following after you, already reaching for the next item on your list.

And in his mind, he was already planning dinner for four.

[...]

Jake didn’t get much detail—just a rushed call from the school saying you’d been stuck dealing with a work emergency and couldn’t make it in time to pick up Olive. It was already past six, and her practice had ended twenty minutes ago. Without thinking, Jake had grabbed his keys and left his half-full grocery bags on the counter.

He didn’t even turn off the engine when he spotted her sitting on the curb outside the gym, arms crossed, hoodie pulled over her head, glaring at the pavement like it had personally offended her.

“Hey,” he called as he rolled the window down. “Sorry I’m late.”

She didn’t answer, just stood and yanked the car door open. Slammed it shut behind her like she was hoping it might shatter. Jake swallowed whatever sarcasm was on his tongue and pulled away from the curb.

The silence lasted a good two minutes.

“Do you want to grab something to eat on the way back?” he asked carefully, glancing at her. “I know your mom won’t be home for a bit."

“No.”

“Alright,” he said slowly, trying to keep his tone neutral. “You don’t have to bite my head off. I’m just trying to help.”

“I didn’t ask for help,” Olive muttered, eyes fixed on her phone.

Jake’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Look, I get that I’m not your favorite person—”

“You’re not even a person to me,” she snapped, not looking up. “You’re just some guy my mom is dating who thinks buying popcorn and giving rides makes him part of the family.”

Jake exhaled hard through his nose. He made a sharp right and pulled over to the side of the road, throwing the truck into park with more force than necessary.

“What are you doing?” she asked, finally looking up.

“We’re not doing this passive-aggressive bullshit in the car,” he said flatly, turning to face her. “You don’t like me? Fine. But at least be honest about why instead of pretending I’m invisible.”

She blinked at him, stunned for a second, then shoved her phone into her hoodie pocket. “You want honesty? Okay.”

Jake raised his eyebrows, bracing himself.

“You’re not my father,” she said, her voice rising with each word. “You’re not even close. And you never will be. You can keep pretending like this happy family thing is gonna work, but it’s not. My dad doesn’t even care enough to call. He forgot my birthday. Again. So no, Jake, I don’t need another guy pretending to care when it’s convenient.”

The car went quiet, her words hanging in the air like smoke.

Jake blinked, stunned silent—not by her anger, but by the pain behind it. “Olive…” he started, but his voice caught.

She shook her head, eyes glossy now, but she blinked the tears away before they could fall. “Just drive.”

He wanted to say something—anything—but everything that came to mind felt like it would make things worse. So he shifted the truck back into gear and pulled away from the curb, the silence between them sharper than it had been before.

No more words. No music. Just the hum of the engine and the ache in his chest.

They didn’t mend things that night.

But for the first time, Jake saw the truth clearly. Olive wasn’t just angry—she was hurting. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fix it with concert tickets or car rides.

Not yet.

But he wasn't giving up.

You knew something was off the second Jake walked through the door. He didn’t say anything at first—just set his keys on the counter a little too quietly, slipped off his boots, and ran a hand through his hair like he was trying to ground himself.

“Thanks for picking her up,” you said gently, glancing up from the dinner you hadn’t touched. “I know that wasn’t ideal.”

“She’s safe,” he replied, voice low. “But… it wasn’t great.”

Your stomach twisted. “What happened?”

Jake leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest with a sigh. “We had a fight. She… she said some stuff. I didn’t handle it as well as I should’ve.”

You nodded slowly, trying to blink back the sting in your eyes. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Jake looked at you then, really looked at you. You weren’t crying, but you looked tired—bone tired. The kind of tired that didn’t come from work or errands, but from carrying too much for too long.

“She told me I’m not her father,” he said carefully.

“She’s right,” you whispered, pressing your lips together. “You’re not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t bitter. It was honest.

You turned away to busy yourself with clearing the dishes, even though they hadn’t been used. “You know… I didn’t expect my ex and I to stay friends. I didn’t even expect him to be particularly involved. We hadn’t loved each other in years, and ending it was mutual. We were better as two than we were as one.”

Jake stayed quiet, letting you speak.

“But I thought…” You swallowed. “I thought that at the very least, he’d show up for them. I thought no matter what happened between us, he’d still be their dad. And for a while, he was.”

You paused, gripping the edge of the counter like it might anchor you.

“And then one day, the calls stopped. The visits stopped. Olive made excuses for him for a while—said he was busy, said he forgot. But she knew. And Matthew… he still asks if they can call him at bedtime, like maybe tonight he’ll pick up. And every time he doesn’t, I have to lie through my teeth about why.”

Jake’s chest ached.

You finally turned to face him, arms crossed, but not in defiance—just holding yourself together. “Olive’s not mad at you, Jake. Not really. She’s mad at him. But you’re here, and he’s not. So she gives her anger somewhere to go.”

Jake moved toward you, slowly, giving you space to stop him if you needed to. You didn’t.

“I’m doing everything I can to keep them okay,” you said, voice cracking just enough. “But Olive grows colder every day, and Matthew still believes in people who have already left. And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know if I can. Some days I feel like I’m failing them both.”

Jake didn’t say anything at first. Just closed the distance between you and gently pulled you into his arms.

You let yourself fall into him, your forehead resting against his chest, breathing in the calm that always seemed to follow him—even if it wavered sometimes.

“You’re not failing them,” he said softly, his voice vibrating through you.

“You’re doing everything they need, even when they don’t know how to ask for it.”

He paused, then added, “And I’m not going anywhere. Even if Olive wishes I would. Even if she never likes me. I’m still here.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself believe him for a moment. Letting yourself rest, even if just for tonight.

Because if nothing else, you didn’t have to carry it alone anymore.

The next morning passed in the kind of hush that only comes after a storm — not tense, exactly, just careful. Olive had emerged from her room wearing headphones, sunglasses, and the universal look of don’t talk to me unless it’s life or death. Matthew, in contrast, was chatty and barefoot, eating dry cereal out of a mug like it was popcorn.

Jake was at the stove, flipping pancakes with the kind of cautious determination of a man who hadn’t cooked for kids much but really didn’t want to mess it up. You leaned against the counter beside him, sipping coffee, giving him an amused but supportive look every time a pancake came out semi-round.

“Do I get a gold star if these are edible?” he muttered under his breath.

“You get two if no one cries before noon.”

“High stakes,” he said, flipping another one onto the plate.

From the table, Matthew asked, “Do I have to go to school today?”

You raised your eyebrows. “Yes. Nice try.”

Jake turned around with the pancake plate in hand. “Alright, team. Syrup's on the table. Who’s ready to pretend this is better than it looks?”

Matthew cheered and Olive rolled her eyes — but quieter this time, more out of habit than spite. She took a pancake, poured a little syrup, then sat down and picked at it.

You caught the glance she gave Jake — not warm, not soft, but not full of fire either. Neutral. Tired.

He didn’t expect anything. He just sat across from her and let the silence sit.

A few minutes passed before Olive spoke, voice low, eyes not leaving her plate.

“Sorry about yesterday.”

Jake blinked, surprised, but didn’t jump on it. “For what?” he asked gently.

She shrugged. “Being... a lot. I was mad. I still am. But you didn’t deserve all of it.”

He nodded slowly, meeting her halfway. “It’s okay. You’ve got every right to be mad. Just... for what it’s worth, I’m not trying to take anyone’s place. I’m just trying to be around. That’s it.”

Olive didn’t answer, but she didn’t flinch away either. She just nodded once and went back to eating.

Matthew, bless him, completely oblivious to the emotional breakthrough happening five feet away, asked, “Can we watch a movie tonight? The three of us?”

Jake glanced at you. You smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, bud,” Jake said. “We can do that.”

The living room looked a little different when it was dimmed down and filled with soft lamplight and the sound of popcorn popping in the kitchen. The couch was a chaotic mess of mismatched blankets and pillows, a fortress cobbled together by Matthew earlier in the day, complete with a sign made from notebook paper that read: "Cuddle Zone: Entry Requires Snacks." Jake had laughed when he saw it, then took it as a personal challenge and returned from the kitchen with a bowl large enough to feed a small army.

Now, the three of you were curled up in the fortress, the movie halfway through, glowing on the screen in that bluish tint that makes everything else look soft and tired. Matthew had claimed the spot in the middle, legs sprawled across both your laps, his head resting on a cushion balanced between your shoulder and Jake’s arm.

You’d chosen a movie everyone had seen before—an old animated favorite, predictable and comforting. Something that didn’t ask too much of anyone.

Jake had come prepared. He didn’t try too hard, didn’t make any awkward jokes or commentary. He just sat, present and warm, occasionally handing Matthew more popcorn or brushing your knee lightly when he passed the bowl. He wasn’t filling the silence with effort. He was just… there.

And Olive was there too.

She sat curled on the far side of the couch, knees tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, a quiet presence at the edge of the moment. She hadn't said much since dinner, but she hadn't disappeared back into her room either. She’d chosen to be here. That was something.

At one point, Matthew mumbled something about a plot hole in the movie and Jake leaned over, voice conspiratorial. “I mean, the main character is a singing raccoon. I think we passed logical realism a while ago.”

To your surprise, Olive gave a soft snort, barely audible. She caught herself almost immediately and looked down, as if embarrassed.

Jake didn’t push it. He just offered her the popcorn bowl wordlessly.

She took a handful.

It was small. Just a passing exchange. But you felt it—the shift. The subtle way the room warmed just a little more.

You glanced at Jake and found him already looking at you, his expression open and gentle. There was something in his eyes, something that looked like awe. Like peace. Like this. All of this—blankets and popcorn and one-word apologies and fifteen-year-old silence broken by reluctant laughter—it was everything.

Jake had never wanted kids.

But now? He couldn’t imagine not wanting this.

Not the clean, filtered version of family life. Not the perfect dinners or the Instagram-worthy moments. No—he wanted this. The complicated, messy, real-life version. The half-mended relationships, the learning curve, the quiet victories of a single laugh or a shared couch. He wanted every sigh, every sarcastic eye-roll, every awkward moment that came with loving people who didn’t owe him anything.

Because he loved you.

And whether Olive knew it yet or not… he was learning how to love her too. In her own time, in her own language.

The credits started to roll. Matthew blinked up at the screen, then yawned wide and dramatic like he’d just climbed Everest. “I’m not tired,” he said, his voice sleep-drenched.

“You’re literally falling asleep mid-sentence,” you said, brushing his hair back.

“Can I sleep on the couch?” he asked, already halfway curled into your side.

Jake smiled. “I’ll get the good blanket.”

As he stood and stepped toward the hall closet, Olive shifted slightly, pulling her knees up to her chest, her voice soft in the quiet.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” she said.

You looked over at her, surprised. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, not looking at you. “Jake. I know he’s trying. I just… I don’t want him to think he has to do all this just to make us like him.”

You studied her, your heart aching in that complex way only a mother’s heart can. “He doesn’t think that, baby. He’s doing it because he wants to. Because he cares.”

Olive didn’t say anything right away. But when Jake returned with the blanket and tucked it gently around Matthew, she didn’t pull away when his hand brushed hers.

And for the first time, she looked him in the eye and said, “Thanks.”

Just that. A single word. But it was a door cracked open.

Jake gave her a small nod. “Anytime.”

The house had finally settled.

Matthew had been carried to bed without so much as a protest, half-asleep and mumbling something about needing more popcorn next time. Olive had disappeared into her room without a word, not slamming the door this time, which you counted as a solid win. The movie was long over, the lights dimmed low, and the living room was scattered with the remains of a cozy night: blankets askew, half-full mugs of cocoa on the coffee table, and a trail of popcorn Jake kept crunching underfoot.

“Okay, seriously, how did he get it this everywhere?” Jake asked, stooping to pick a kernel out from between the couch cushions.

“He eats popcorn like a wild animal,” you said, amused as you folded one of the blankets. “It’s part of his charm.”

Jake gave you a look. “Charm, huh? That’s what we’re calling it.”

You tossed a pillow at him. He caught it easily, laughing as he dropped it back onto the couch and crossed the room toward you. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his hair a little messy from where you’d run your fingers through it earlier, and he looked so completely at home it made something in your chest swell.

“You’re beautiful when you’re smug,” you said softly, reaching out to straighten the hem of his shirt just to have a reason to touch him.

Jake leaned in, resting his hands on your waist. “I’m always smug. Does that mean you think I’m always beautiful?”

You grinned. “Don’t fish for compliments.”

“Not fishing,” he said, dipping his head to kiss your cheek. “Just confirming what I already know.”

You laughed quietly, leaning into him, hands slipping beneath his shirt to press against his warm skin. He didn’t flinch or tease — just let out a long, contented breath and wrapped his arms around you like you were the thing grounding him.

There was something sacred in that moment. The late-night hush, the soft rustling of the house settling, the way your bodies fit together like you’d been built to find each other.

Neither of you noticed the hallway light shifting slightly.

Just down the corridor, Olive stood tucked in the shadows outside her bedroom door, barefoot and quiet, the glow from the living room casting long shadows on the floor. She hadn’t meant to spy. She’d gotten up to get water, headphones off for once, and she’d paused when she heard you laugh.

Not your mom-laugh — the one you used when someone spilled juice or told a corny joke. But the real one. The laugh that used to live in old photos and short-lived moments before things got complicated. The laugh that lit up your whole face.

And it wasn’t just that you were laughing.

It was him.

Jake had his arms around you like he didn’t want to be anywhere else. He was smiling into your neck, whispering something that made you swat at him half-heartedly, laughing again like the two of you were the only people in the world. You looked happy.

Not polite-happy. Not “holding-it-together” happy.

Just... happy.

Olive didn’t smile. But she didn’t look away, either. She stood there, quietly watching this version of you, one she didn’t get to see often. One she didn’t know if she even remembered.

And without knowing why, without even wanting to admit it yet, she started to understand something:

Maybe Jake wasn’t trying to take anything from her.

Maybe he was just giving something back to you.

Quietly, she turned and padded back into her room, the door clicking softly behind her.

In the living room, you leaned your forehead against Jake’s and whispered, “Thank you. For tonight. For all of it.”

His thumb traced lazy circles over your hip. “You don’t have to thank me. This is the best part of my day.”

“You say that even when we’re cleaning up popcorn at eleven-thirty at night.”

Jake kissed you again, slower this time. “Especially then.”

[...]

Jake glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to see Olive roll her eyes —again— though this time, there was no venom behind it. Just the practiced exasperation of a teenager being forced into an uncool weekend plan.

“A bar,” she deadpanned, arms crossed, legs kicked up on the back of the front seat. “Seriously?”

Jake smirked, shifting lanes. “It’s not like I’m dropping you off at a biker dive in the middle of nowhere. The Hard Deck has food, good views, and I didn’t feel like cooking. Plus, your mom said she didn’t want you guys surviving off cereal and vending machine snacks while she’s stuck at work.”

“You say that like cereal isn’t an elite meal option,” Olive muttered.

“Reese’s Puffs and orange soda,” Matthew added from the back, proudly. “A classic.”

Jake shook his head, trying not to laugh. “Well, luckily for everyone involved, Penny makes real food. Burgers. Fries. That grilled cheese with the fancy bread you liked last time.”

“I did like that,” Olive said, almost to herself. Then: “Is Phoenix gonna be there?”

“She might be,” Jake said, glancing at her. “Why?”

“She sounds cool.”

Jake tried to hide the pleased smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, she is.”

There was a pause, just long enough to notice. Then Olive spoke again, her tone more curious than challenging. “So… how long have you known them? Phoenix. Rooster. The others.”

Jake blinked, surprised — but not wanting to spook her. “A while now. Since flight school, for some of them. Since Top Gun for most. The Navy’s big, but we all kind of circle back around eventually.”

“Are you all, like, best friends or whatever?” she asked, eyes fixed out the window.

Jake chuckled. “More like siblings. We love each other. We also want to strangle each other sometimes. Rooster leaves wet towels on the floor. Bob color-codes his spices. And Phoenix—well, she has this very charming way of calling me out in front of entire rooms full of people.”

Olive cracked a smile before she could stop herself. “So basically, she’s me.”

“Exactly,” Jake said, grinning. “You’d fit right in.”

Matthew leaned forward between the seats. “Do you fly with them all the time?”

“Not always, but when we’re all stationed together like now, yeah. We train together, run drills. And when we’re lucky, we just sit around Penny’s bar and talk about nothing.”

“That sounds kinda boring,” Matthew said.

“That’s because you’re ten and think ‘fun’ means screaming at soccer practice and losing socks at sleepovers.”

Matthew opened his mouth to object but then nodded. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair.”

They lapsed into an easy silence. The kind that didn’t need to be filled. Jake’s hands rested loosely on the wheel, the salt air drifting in through the open windows as they got closer to the beach. The radio played low in the background — some mellow '90s rock song that Matthew was humming tunelessly along with.

Then Olive spoke again.

“Why’d you even say yes to all this?” she asked, and Jake turned his head slightly.

“To lunch?”

“To… us,” she clarified, not looking at him but not bristling either. “Me. Matthew. All of it. You didn’t sign up for any of this.”

Jake took a moment. He didn’t want to brush it off or make a joke. He owed her more than that.

“I didn’t plan for it,” he said honestly. “I never thought I’d end up in a relationship that came with two extra humans and a whole built-in chaos package. But I met your mom… and suddenly, everything I thought I didn’t want didn’t matter anymore.”

Olive finally turned to look at him. Her expression wasn’t skeptical. Just thoughtful.

Jake smiled, eyes flicking between the road and the mirror. “You and your brother? You’re not some inconvenience I’m putting up with. You’re part of the deal. And not in a bad way.”

Matthew piped up again. “Does that mean I get to be your copilot when you fly?”

“Absolutely not,” Jake said instantly, laughing. “You’d eject us just for fun.”

“I would,” Matthew agreed proudly.

Olive let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “You guys are such idiots.”

Jake didn’t miss the warmth in her voice. The ease. It wasn’t a truce, not quite. But it was something better.

It was normal.

When they pulled into the Hard Deck lot and she unbuckled her seatbelt, Olive paused, hand on the door handle.

“I liked talking like that,” she said quietly. “Don’t make it weird.”

Jake gave her a soft smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She nodded, then opened the door and got out.

Matthew immediately shouted, “LAST ONE TO THE DOOR’S A ROTTEN BURRITO,” and took off sprinting.

Jake followed at a slower pace, the sun warm on his back and something lighter in his chest than he’d felt in weeks.

Progress.

The minute they walked into the Hard Deck, the scent of salt and fried food hit them like a wave—along with the sound of jukebox music, clinking glasses, and the easy, familiar laughter of the Dagger Squad. They were already gathered around their usual corner table by the open windows, nursing cold drinks and arguing over a pool game that had clearly gotten personal.

“There he is!” Rooster called out, tipping his sunglasses down his nose to get a better look. “Look who finally showed up with his entourage.”

Jake shot him a look. “Try not to scare them off in the first ten seconds, Bradshaw.”

Rooster put both hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m charming. Kids love me.”

“Bold of you to assume,” Phoenix said, leaning back in her chair. “Remember your goddaughter cried every time you looked at her for the first six months?”

“She had a very expressive face. I don’t think that was about me.”

Jake glanced sideways at Olive, gauging her reaction. She was standing just a half-step behind him, arms crossed, doing her best unimpressed-teenager impression. But her eyes flicked from face to face, quietly taking everyone in.

Matthew, meanwhile, had already made himself at home.

“Whoa, is that a real fighter pilot?” he whispered loudly to Jake, pointing at Payback as if he were spotting a celebrity in the wild.

Payback grinned. “Guilty.”

“You look like a superhero.”

Jake muttered under his breath, “Hey, I'm also a fighter pilot. And don't feed his ego,” but Payback was already puffing out his chest and striking a mock pose.

“You hear that, Phoenix? Superhero.”

“You fly like a sidekick.”

The laughter that followed was easy, unforced. Jake nudged the kids toward the table. “Everyone, this is Matthew and Olive,” he said. “Be cool.”

“Define ‘cool,’” Fanboy said, eyes twinkling.

Jake gave him a warning glance, but it was too late — Fanboy was already leaning across the table toward Olive. “So… what’s your favorite way to torment Hangman? We’re always looking for new ideas.”

Olive blinked, startled, and then — before she could stop herself — smirked. “Well. His taste in music is awful.”

“I knew it!” Phoenix slapped her hand on the table. “He tries to pretend he doesn’t listen to country on long flights, but I’ve seen the playlists.”

“You made one called ‘Maverick Would Hate This,’” Rooster added, laughing.

“I never claimed to be perfect,” Jake said, deadpan.

“Yeah, well,” Olive said, sliding into a seat with a little more ease now. “Neither did we.”

Jake met your daughter’s eyes — and saw it. That spark of dry humor. The subtle shift. The door staying open, just a little wider than before.

He smiled and slid in beside her.

Matthew had launched into a full monologue about his soccer team and how he definitely would’ve scored a goal last week if the referee hadn’t been “so obviously blind.” Bob listened like it was breaking news, nodding thoughtfully and asking follow-up questions like he was analyzing game tape.

“You’re gonna love Bob,” Jake said under his breath to Olive, handing her a menu. “He’s quiet, but he’s the smartest one here.”

“You say that like it’s hard to believe.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “You trying to roast me in front of my friends?”

Olive didn’t smile exactly — but there was something dangerously close to it tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe.”

Phoenix raised her glass from across the table. “To Jake’s teenage nemesis. You’re already my favorite.”

Jake groaned. “God help me.”

But he was glowing. Everyone could see it.

And Olive, tucked between the teasing and the fries and the general chaos of fighter pilots acting like children, finally looked like she belonged — not just as your daughter, but as part of this.

Part of his world.

Everything was finally settling in. Then his orders came.

The tarmac was already humming with motion by the time you pulled up.

Waves of heat shimmered up off the concrete as the carrier loomed in the distance, the size of it enough to make Matthew’s eyes go wide. Planes gleamed in the morning sun, crews moving with swift, practiced efficiency. Everything smelled like metal, jet fuel, and goodbye.

You stood next to Jake near the open trunk of Rooster’s truck, your hand curled tightly around his. The duffel bag at his feet was heavy — so was the silence.

This wasn’t the first time he’d deployed. He was built for this life, raised for it, molded by it.

But this was the first time he was leaving you.

The first time he was leaving them.

And it felt different. It felt real.

You glanced to your left. Matthew was trailing a few feet behind, eyes locked on the nearby jet being prepped, quietly awestruck. But Olive was still near the car, arms folded, face pulled into that careful blankness she’d been perfecting since the day Jake told her about the assignment.

She’s come, though. That meant something.

Jake glanced down at you, brows drawn. “You okay?”

“No,” you said honestly, because there was no point pretending now. “But I will be.”

He nodded once and leaned in to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering a moment longer than usual. “You’ll hear from me as soon as I can write. I swear.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” You forced a small smile, one hand slipping into the pocket of his flight suit, needing just another second of closeness before it was taken from you.

Then Matthew bounded up beside him. “Hey, Jake?”

Jake turned, crouching to his level. “Yeah, bud?”

“Can I still be in charge of bug killing while you’re gone?”

Jake grinned, eyes shining. “You’re my first choice.”

“And can we—” Matthew hesitated, glancing at you for a second before continuing. “Can we call you sometimes? Even just to say hi?”

Jake’s voice cracked just slightly when he answered. “If I get one of those calls, that’ll be the best part of my day.”

You tousled Matthew’s hair as he nodded and wandered back, already chattering about planes to Rooster nearby. Jake exhaled and reached down for his bag.

“It's time.”

But then—

“Jake!”

His whole body stilled. You turned.

And there she was.

Olive had moved before she even realized it — now jogging across the tarmac, ponytail bouncing, Converse slapping against the pavement. Her face was twisted in something caught between panic and fury, tears brimming and very much not contained.

She didn’t stop until she reached him, and then she threw her arms around his waist so tightly it knocked the breath out of him.

Jake froze for half a second — stunned — and then wrapped his arms around her just as fiercely. His eyes slid shut, his chin dropped to her shoulder.

“Be careful,” Olive mumbled into the fabric of his flight suit, her voice cracking. “I mean it. You have to come back.”

Jake’s hand rose, gentle, to the back of her head. His voice was low and uneven. “I will, kid. I swear.”

“I’m not a kid,” she shot back, tears slipping past her lashes, “but I will not be okay if you don’t come back. So you better.”

He gave a small, choked laugh. “Deal.”

You blinked through tears as you watched them, that hug — tight and trembling — undoing every ounce of distance she’d tried to keep between them for so long. No performance, no pretense. Just a girl scared to lose someone she never meant to love, and a man terrified to leave behind the family he never thought he’d have.

When Olive finally stepped back, her cheeks were wet and she immediately wiped at them with her sleeves. “If you die, I’m gonna be so pissed.”

Jake laughed, raw and real. “That’s fair.”

Rooster called his name then — a signal, one final warning. Jake slung the bag over his shoulder and turned to you. Your arms were already around his neck, holding on like he was a lifeline.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you more,” he said. “Take care of them for me.”

You kissed him like it had to last you six months. Because it did.

And then he stepped away.

He didn’t look back.

Not because he didn’t want to — but because if he did, he might not be able to keep walking.

The three of you stood there on the tarmac, shoulder to shoulder, watching him disappear toward the carrier — a green figure swallowed up by steel and sky.

Matthew took your hand.

Olive took the other.

And even with the ache in your chest, you smiled.

Because for the first time in a long time, it truly felt like family.

[selencgraphy]

Call Sign: Daddy

pairing; jake seresin x wife!reader

summary; Everyone thought Hangman’s biggest secret was his ego—turns out, it’s a wife, two kids, and a killer marshmallow recipe.

word count; 6.6k

warnings; nothing. fluff, fun, the daggers being chaotic and dramatic

a/n; you ask i deliver! here's girl dad!jake! this was SO much fun to write, i love these kinds of pieces. i am SO down to keep writing for this little family or just dad!jake in general (i am incapable of writing anything short i'm sorry)

masterlist

The new house still smelled like paint and sunlight.

Boxes towered in the living room like a cityscape, half-labeled and already a little rumpled from the drive. The front door stood open to let in the sea breeze, and the soft whir of ceiling fans stirred the scent of fresh wood floors and cardboard.

“Daddy! This one!” Cami’s voice rang through the hallway like a firecracker. Her curls bounced as she darted from room to room, barefoot and beaming. “This is definitely the best one.”

Jake, still in a gray t-shirt and jeans dusty from the move, peeked around the corner with a smirk. “Didn’t you say that about the last two?”

She planted her little fists on her hips. “Yeah, but this one’s got the biggest window. And look—” she ran over to it and flung her arms wide, “I can see everything!”

From the kitchen, you laughed softly, adjusting the baby sling on your chest. Lex was snuggled close, soft and warm against your body, her tiny fist curled against your collarbone. She made a sleepy noise but didn’t wake, lulled by the rhythm of your movements and the muffled excitement around her.

“She’s going to change her mind five more times,” you called over your shoulder. “Minimum.”

Jake walked in and leaned against the doorframe, watching you unpack a box labeled Kitchen - Fragile in your handwriting. “That’s generous. I was guessing eight.”

He crossed the room to you, brushing a hand along your spine in that absent, instinctive way he always had—gentle, grounding. “You good?”

“I’m good,” you said, smiling up at him. “Lex is asleep, I haven’t dropped a mug yet, and Cami hasn’t tried to climb on the counters. I’m calling it a win.”

Jake glanced down at Lex, and his whole face softened. He reached out to cradle her head briefly with one palm, then kissed your cheek. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“Flattery doesn’t get you out of assembling the crib again.”

“Worth a shot.”

From down the hall came the unmistakable crash of a box being tipped over, followed by Cami’s delighted giggle. “I’m helping!”

Jake’s eyes closed with a sigh, but he was smiling. “That’s my cue.”

He turned and jogged off in the direction of the chaos, and you watched him go, heart aching a little in that sweet, full way. Seeing him like this—barefoot, hair a little messy, completely wrapped around his daughters—it was everything you’d always wanted for him. For all of you.

“Looks like you’re stuck with us, San Diego,” you whispered to Lex, who sighed in reply.

You went back to unpacking, and in the next room, Jake’s voice rose in a playful protest: “No, honey, that’s not a hammer. That’s a whisk. Where did you even get that?”

Cami shrieked with laughter, and you swore your heart couldn't grow bigger.

The sun had started to dip low in the sky, casting soft gold across the living room floor where half-built furniture lay in various states of disarray. Instruction manuals fluttered open beside tiny screws, wooden pegs, and the mysterious metal contraptions that always seemed necessary but never quite explained themselves.

Jake sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, brow furrowed and tongue caught in the corner of his mouth as he studied the baby dresser. He had gotten the frame halfway done. Maybe. Depending on how generous you were feeling.

Cami, perched on her knees next to him, had a tiny screwdriver clutched in her small hand like it was a magic wand. She wore a tutu over her leggings and one of your old t-shirts, which hung off her shoulders like a dress. Her curls were a riot around her face, and her fingers were smudged with something suspiciously marker-colored.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, Lex still tucked snug to your chest. She was asleep again, her little cheek pressed to your sternum, one leg dangling out of the wrap like she owned the place.

“Okay, Daddy,” Cami said with authority, poking the air like a tiny forewoman. “This piece goes on top of the other piece. Like a sandwich.”

Jake blinked at the board she was pointing to. “That’s the bottom panel, baby.”

“But it looks like the top.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s upside down.”

Cami frowned, then flipped the piece over with both hands. It clunked to the floor, just missing his foot.

“See?” Jake said, trying not to laugh. “Now it’s a bottom that looks like a bottom.”

You bit your lip to hide your smile.

From his spot on the floor, Jake glanced up and caught you watching. He grinned, wide and slow and just a little sheepish. “Hey, darlin’. How’s the supervisor?”

You adjusted Lex’s head gently and whispered, “She’s napping on the job.”

“Slacker,” he murmured with a wink, before turning back to the pieces in front of him.

Cami leaned in close beside him, pressing her head to his arm as she whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was made Jake laugh under his breath, then glance back at you with mock-seriousness.

“She says we should throw away the instructions and just use our feelings.”

“Oh God,” you said, laughing. “That explains so much about you.”

Jake chuckled and ruffled Cami’s curls. “You hear that? Mama’s roasting me again. Typical.”

Cami grinned like she’d won something, then leaned against her father’s shoulder, tucking her tiny feet under her.

For a moment, everything was still.

Golden light spread across the wood floors. The air smelled faintly of new furniture, baby lotion, and the faint salt of the ocean drifting in through the open window. The soft rustle of palm trees outside, the distant echo of a car door down the street, and the occasional creak of the settling house were the only sounds besides Jake humming tunelessly as he tightened a bolt.

Jake leaned back, resting his weight on one palm and looking up at you.

“I know we’re not done unpacking,” he said, voice low and a little rough with feeling, “but it already feels like home.”

You smiled, walking toward him slowly. “That’s because you brought your girls home.”

He reached up and touched your wrist, brushing a finger over the baby’s foot.

“We’re lucky you came with us,” you said.

Jake looked up at you, eyes soft. “No,” he murmured. “I’m lucky you waited for me.”

Cami blinked between the two of you, then laid her cheek against his shoulder again with a sigh. “Okay, but are we building this dresser or what?”

Jake snorted, grabbing a screwdriver. “Yes, boss.”

And with his firstborn on one side, and the rest of his world standing just steps away, Jake Seresin went back to building his life—one drawer at a time.

The California sun beat down on the tarmac, sharp and dry, but not even the heat could keep the familiar buzz of energy from crackling through the air.

Top Gun had changed. Sleeker buildings. A brand-new hangar. The same stretch of runway, but with fresh paint and a higher security presence. What hadn’t changed, though, was the group clustered just outside the ready room, voices overlapping as they swapped stories, insults, and half-serious bets on who’d forget their callsign first.

“—told you, man,” Fanboy was saying as Jake approached, sunglasses perched on his head and a wide grin on his face. “He puked in the rental van. Twice. And then tried to blame it on the dog.”

Coyote laughed, arms crossed. “Please tell me that was your neighbor and not your cousin again.”

“Nope. Cousin.” Mickey smacked a hand to his chest like he was proud. “And I had to deep-clean the whole backseat before I drove out here with Bowie.”

“Wait,” Phoenix cut in, squinting at him. “You brought your dog across the country?”

“Hell yeah, I did.” He pulled out his phone and showed a picture of a scruffy, golden mutt hanging its head out the passenger window, tongue flapping. “Look at that face. He’s the real MVP.”

Rooster whistled low. “You’re braver than me. I left my plants behind.”

“They were fake,” Bob said dryly, getting a chorus of laughs.

Jake slid into the circle with a nod, arms folded, boots scuffing a mark into the concrete. “What, no one’s moved with a houseplant, a dog, and a messy break-up? Come on, you’re telling me I’m the only one who had a peaceful move?”

That earned a few snorts.

Rooster elbowed him lightly. “You’re telling me you didn’t bring anything?”

Jake gave an easy shrug. “Couple duffel bags. My truck. That’s about it.”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “No roommates? No girlfriend clinging to your bumper? No tragic love story in your rearview mirror?”

Jake let out a short laugh. “Nope.”

He didn’t look at Javy. Not directly.

The lie wasn’t heavy—not yet—but it was sharp. Quick. A reflex. The same one he’d used a hundred times over the years. It felt different now, though. Dirtier. Because this time, he wasn’t hiding a fling or dodging a label. He was leaving his family out of the picture.

Not forever. Just… not yet.

Coyote gave a low whistle beside him, too casual to be anything but a cover. “Guess some people travel light,” he said, and if the words held a second meaning, no one noticed but Jake.

“Hangman, a minimalist,” Phoenix said with a scoff. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Jake gave her a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “New year, new me.”

Rooster snorted. “You said that last year.”

“And look how great I turned out.”

They all groaned, but the mood held, rolling easy like a wave that hadn’t quite crested yet.

“Alright,” Maverick’s voice cut across the courtyard from the ready room doors. “Let’s see if you all remember how to fly.”

The squad moved in a pack, still joking as they filtered inside.

Jake walked a beat behind the rest, sunglasses shielding his eyes, the weight of the secret pressing a little more firmly against his ribs. It was only a matter of time before they found out.

But for now?

For now, it was just him, his girls, and the silence between.

[..]

It had been a week since Rooster arrived in San Diego and he was already sick of takeout. His fridge held nothing but mustard, half a lime, and a six-pack of beer. It was time to act like an adult — or at least pretend to.

He pushed his cart through the grocery store with a lazy rhythm, sunglasses tucked into his collar, and a list on his phone that he was half-ignoring. Eggs, coffee, something green… cereal.

He turned into the cereal aisle, already reaching for the same red box he always bought, when a familiar figure ahead caught his eye.

Blond. Tall. Broad shoulders. Back turned.

Rooster paused mid-step.

Seresin?

It looked like Jake — same relaxed posture, same stupidly perfect haircut. But the guy was wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt, not his usual base uniform or something annoyingly designer. Casual. Normal.

Rooster took a step forward, ready to call out a sarcastic, "Didn’t peg you for a Cheerios guy," when the man turned slightly to the side.

And that’s when he saw her.

A baby.

Strapped to his chest in one of those soft, wraparound slings. A tiny baby — maybe six or seven months old, by the size of her — nestled against his chest, dozing peacefully with a pacifier bobbing in her mouth. One of her socks was missing, her little toes peeking out like she’d kicked it off mid-nap.

Rooster froze.

And then—

“Daddy, look! They have the cinnamon ones!”

A second voice. High-pitched, sweet, and excited.

A little girl — maybe five — stood up in the shopping cart seat and waved dramatically at the shelf of cereal boxes like she’d discovered treasure. Her curls bounced as she wiggled, and she wore a pink t-shirt with sparkles on it and denim overalls with a sticker stuck to one leg.

Jake turned to look at her fully, the side of his face now visible, and Rooster’s heart tripped over itself.

No way.

“Alright, alright, Cin-a-mon Swirls it is,” Jake said, stretching to grab the box while carefully balancing the sleeping baby on his chest. “But only if you promise not to sneak handfuls before breakfast again.”

The little girl giggled. “I don’t sneak. I sample.”

Jake laughed under his breath — that soft, genuine laugh Rooster had never heard from him on base — and dropped the box in the cart.

Rooster ducked quickly behind the display of oatmeal, heart hammering.

What the hell did I just walk into?

Those weren’t nieces. That baby was practically grafted to Jake’s chest, and the little girl had his eyes. The same green-gold color. The same crooked grin. The same exact nose.

Rooster peeked around the endcap.

Jake had one hand resting protectively on the baby’s back and the other guiding the cart while she chattered away, telling some elaborate story about a dragon and a breakfast castle. And Jake? He was listening. Actually listening, nodding at the right moments, smiling to himself like this was the best part of his day.

What the—

Rooster stepped back, the shock settling into something sharper. Confusion. Disbelief.

Hangman has kids?

Real kids. Not nieces. Not a girlfriend’s kids. His. There was no mistaking it. That little girl might as well have been a clone.

And he’d said nothing.

Rooster stood frozen, cart forgotten, eyes still locked on the aisle corner where Jake had just turned out of sight, baby and child in tow.

He didn’t approach. Didn’t say a word. He just stood there in the cereal aisle, trying to process the impossible.

Jake Seresin — Hangman — had a secret family.

And now, Rooster wasn’t sure who the hell he’d been working with all this time.

Rooster didn’t remember checking out.

He was pretty sure he paid — probably — because the cashier smiled and told him to have a good day. But everything from the cereal aisle to the parking lot felt like a blur. His brain was short-circuiting, looping through the same impossible images like a broken projector.

Jake. Baby. Little girl. Daddy.

He sat in his Bronco, staring blankly at the wheel. The cinnamon cereal he'd ended up grabbing by accident sat in the passenger seat like evidence.

“This is insane,” he muttered. “This is literally insane.”

He could not be the only one to know this. He didn’t want to be the only one. Someone had to validate this reality — and someone had to help him process what the hell was going on.

Which is how he ended up at the base gym, tossing his keys into a locker with a little too much force, pacing past the row of squat racks, and scanning the room like a man on a mission.

Phoenix.

There she was, finishing up reps on the bench press like a total machine, earbuds in, hair tied back, towel around her neck.

“Hey,” he called, voice slightly too loud.

She didn’t hear.

“Hey!”

Phoenix startled, pulling one earbud out with a scowl. “Jesus, Bradshaw. I almost dropped that on my face.”

“Yeah, okay, sorry,” he said, stepping closer. “I need to talk to you. Right now. Privately.”

She raised one eyebrow and sat up slowly. “What, did someone die?”

“No, but—close. I mean—no. It’s not a death death, it’s just—” He ran a hand through his hair. “Just—can we?”

Phoenix stood, towel in one hand, already skeptical. “Okay, drama queen. Come on.”

They ducked into the hallway outside the locker rooms, still sweaty and smelling faintly like antiseptic and rubber flooring. Phoenix crossed her arms.

“Alright. Spill.”

Rooster opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Shook his head.

“Rooster.”

“I saw Hangman with a baby,” he blurted, eyes wild. “And a kid. Like a five-year-old. And he was grocery shopping with them like it was normal. The baby was strapped to his chest like one of those little marsupial carriers and the kid called him Daddy.”

Phoenix stared.

He waited.

She didn’t blink.

Finally, she said, “What?”

“In the cereal aisle! I thought it was him, and I was about to say hi, but then I saw the baby, and the little girl looked just like him and then she said ‘Daddy’ and I—I panicked, okay? I hid behind the oatmeal.”

“You hid behind the oatmeal?”

“I was caught off guard!”

Phoenix let out a snort-laugh. “Oh my God.”

“I’m serious, Nat. They looked exactly like him. The girl had his eyes. His smile. And he was being all—dad-like. It was weirdly gentle. I didn’t know he had a tone like that.”

Phoenix was quiet for a long second, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “No mention of kids. No ring. No pictures. No weird schedule conflicts. If he has a family, he’s gone to serious lengths to hide it.”

Rooster nodded like a bobblehead. “That’s what I’m saying!”

“Are you sure they weren’t his sister’s kids or something?”

“The baby was drooling all over his shirt and the other one was bossing him around like she owned him. And he was listening. Patiently. Hangman doesn't listen patiently to anyone.”

Phoenix stared into the middle distance.

“...Holy shit,” she said under her breath.

Rooster folded his arms. “So what do we do?”

Phoenix blinked at him. “We?”

“You’re involved now!”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“But you know.”

Phoenix gave him a look. “So what—you want to confront him?”

“No,” Rooster said quickly. “God, no. What if it’s, like, a secret family on purpose? What if it’s some Witness Protection-level thing? Or he’s on the run from the PTA?”

Phoenix barked a laugh. “Okay, calm down, you're not in a TV show.”

“I just—I feel like I stepped into the Twilight Zone,” Rooster muttered.

“And I can’t un-see it. Like, every time he opens his mouth now, I’m going to hear that little girl’s voice saying ‘Daddy.’”

Phoenix scrubbed a hand down her face. “Alright. We sit on it. For now. He’ll crack eventually.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

She gave him a slow, sly smile. “Then we accidentally run into him again. Maybe outside work. Maybe at the grocery store.”

Rooster looked appalled. “You want to stake him out?”

Phoenix shrugged. “What? You already started the recon mission. Might as well finish it.”

Rooster groaned. “This is going to drive me crazy.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Bradshaw,” she said, patting his shoulder. “It already has.”

Jake had been minding his own business. Genuinely. For once.

He’d gotten through the morning flight briefing, his simulation review, and even a cup of coffee without roasting anyone. It was a personal record. But then—suddenly, for no reason at all—Bradley and Natasha started acting weird.

“Hey, Hangman,” Rooster said casually, sliding into the locker bench beside him, half-dressed in his flight gear. “What’d you do this weekend?”

Jake squinted at him, one boot half-laced. “What?”

“Just curious,” Rooster said, far too quickly. “Normal question. People ask each other that.”

Jake stared. “I did laundry. Took the truck in for an oil change. Nothing exciting.”

“Cool, cool,” Phoenix chimed in from across the aisle, leaning against the lockers like a detective interrogating a suspect. “Did you, I don’t know, go to the store?”

“The store?” Jake echoed slowly.

“You know,” Rooster added. “For… groceries.”

Jake blinked. “Yeah. Got some eggs. Why?”

“No reason,” they said in unison.

Jake looked between them, brow furrowing. “Did I miss a memo about getting really into meal prep?”

Phoenix gave a tight smile. “We’re just... interested in nutrition lately.”

Rooster nodded solemnly. “Very into breakfast.”

Jake opened his mouth, paused, then slowly tied his boot. “You guys are so weird today.”

Phoenix pushed off the locker. “So you live around here, then?”

Jake’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Obviously.”

Rooster jumped in. “Yeah, yeah, but like... where?”

Jake pulled his boot tighter. “You wanna come over for dinner, Bradshaw? Is that what this is? You finally caving to my charm?”

“No! I mean—unless you’re offering.” Rooster looked at Phoenix. “He could be offering.”

Jake stood, rolling his eyes. “What is wrong with you two?”

Phoenix played it cool. “Nothing. We’re just making conversation.”

“You’re never just making conversation.”

Rooster crossed his arms. “Maybe we’re trying to be your friends.”

Jake paused mid-zip on his jacket, one eyebrow climbing like it was headed for the stratosphere.

“My friends?” he repeated. “You think this is the first week of kindergarten and we’re picking lunch buddies?”

Phoenix shrugged, entirely unfazed. “Stranger things have happened.”

Jake gave her a long look. “Are you both dying?”

“No.”

“On drugs?”

Rooster smirked. “Only caffeine and a burning need for the truth.”

Jake stared for a beat longer, then shook his head and walked out of the locker room with a muttered, “Y’all are exhausting.”

Phoenix turned to Rooster once he was gone. “Okay, new plan. We’re terrible at this.”

Rooster groaned. “I thought the grocery question was subtle.”

“It wasn’t.”

“He’s too smug. He has secrets and he knows we want to know them.”

Phoenix sighed. “And he’s enjoying the hell out of this.”

Rooster tilted his head thoughtfully. “He might be just confused. That would track.”

They both stood in silence for a moment before Phoenix said, “We need to try again. Cooler. Smarter.”

Rooster gave her a long look. “You gonna say ‘do you have kids’ in Morse code or something?”

Phoenix’s eyes lit up. “...Maybe.”

Jake pushed open the front door with his shoulder, juggling his keys, a bottle of wine, and the pink glittery water bottle Cami had insisted on bringing to preschool. The house smelled faintly of laundry and lemon cleaner, and somewhere in the background, Taylor Swift’s voice floated out from the kitchen speaker.

You were at the counter, barefoot in leggings and one of his old Academy hoodies, hair piled on top of your head like a soft crown of chaos. Lex was in her bouncer on the floor nearby, babbling softly to her toes like they were telling her secrets.

Cami was on the couch with a coloring book and a stack of markers that had no hope of staying uncapped for long.

Jake dropped his keys in the bowl and stepped into the kitchen, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “I survived another day of being interrogated by two weirdos.”

You smiled without looking up from the dishwasher you were loading.

“Phoenix and Rooster.” He opened the fridge and tucked the wine onto the bottom shelf. “They’re acting weird. Like, weirder than usual.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘weird.’”

Jake pulled out a leftover container and leaned against the counter. “Asking where I live, what I did this weekend, if I’ve been to the grocery store. They were so subtle it was almost adorable.”

You bit back a smile. “Huh.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Maybe they already know.”

Jake froze, Tupperware in hand. “Know what?”

You turned and gently nudged the fridge closed with your hip. “About us. About me. About the girls.”

Jake blinked. “How?”

“I don’t know,” you said, scooping up a bib from the table. “Maybe they saw us out. Maybe someone mentioned something. Cami does talk to strangers like they’re long-lost cousins.”

Jake groaned. “Oh God. Did she tell the cashier I’m a Top Gun pilot again?”

“She told the woman at the post office that your call sign is Hangman because you ‘always hang upside down on the monkey bars.’”

He dropped his head to the counter with a muffled laugh. “She’s gonna get me court-martialed.”

You smiled as you stepped closer and gently carded your fingers through his hair. “You said you liked them. The squad.”

“I do,” he mumbled, voice slightly muffled. “Most days.”

“Maybe it’s time they knew the truth.”

Jake lifted his head, watching you carefully. “You think so?”

You tilted your head, soft and teasing. “What’s the worst that could happen? They start calling you Daddy-man?”

Jake winced. “I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

You laughed, warm and easy, and leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Seriously. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about. You have a great life. You have a family who loves you. And a baby with thighs so chunky they deserve their own zip code.”

Jake looked down at Lex, who had stopped babbling long enough to blow a spit bubble.

He sighed. “You’re right.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “I know.”

Cami’s voice floated in from the living room. “Mom! Daddy! Where’s the sparkly purple marker? It’s an emergency!”

Jake shouted back, “Check under the couch! Or in your hair!”

You wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your head against his chest. “Well… when you’re ready, we’re ready too.”

He kissed the top of your head, arms sliding around you with a quiet, grateful squeeze.

The squad had claimed their usual table on the outdoor patio of the base commissary — sun shining, aviators on, trays full of fries and whatever passed for lunch that day. It was the kind of afternoon that made everything feel like summer break, even if they were technically on duty.

“Well, I hope you’re all happy,” Bob was saying dryly as he unwrapped a sandwich. “I checked my mailbox today and it was filled with glitter.”

Fanboy leaned back in his chair, beaming. “You’re welcome. That’s the kind of magic only Bowie and I can bring to a neighborhood.”

“You named the dog after David Bowie?” Phoenix asked, chewing on a carrot stick.

Mickey grinned. “Ziggy Stardog.”

Groans went around the table.

“Unreal,” Coyote muttered. “That’s terrible and I’m impressed.”

“I live to serve.”

Jake was halfway through a burger, content to let the chaos unfold, when Maverick appeared like a ghost with sunglasses, stepping out of nowhere and holding a coffee in one hand like it was sacred.

“Don’t mean to interrupt,” he said, voice easy, “but Penny wanted me to let you all know we’re doing a bonfire tonight. Out by the beach. Her place. Says it’s a welcome-back thing, so don’t bring beer, don’t bring drama, and for the love of God, don’t bring your motorcycles onto the sand again.”

Everyone snickered. Rooster threw his hands up defensively. “That was one time.”

“And it’ll stay that way,” Mav said with a pointed look.

Jake straightened slightly, setting down the last bite of his burger. He glanced around the table, pulse oddly steady. The decision had settled itself sometime that morning between spooning oatmeal into Lex’s mouth and Cami asking—again—when she could meet Daddy’s new friends.

“Mav,” he said, casual but clear. “Is it cool if I bring some people with me?”

The table went quiet.

Maverick blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, sure. That’s fine.”

Jake gave a little smile and nodded. “Appreciate it.”

Everyone stared.

Fanboy was the first to break the silence. “Uh… what people?” He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t even like people.”

Payback looked mildly alarmed. “Are we being replaced?”

Jake just shrugged, reaching for his drink like this was the most normal conversation in the world.

But Phoenix was watching him like a hawk.

And Rooster was actively vibrating with contained energy, a fry halfway to his mouth, completely forgotten.

“You’re being weird again,” Jake said, pointing his straw at Rooster.

“You’re bringing people,” Rooster shot back, eyebrows in the stratosphere.

Phoenix leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, a slow smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “We talking plural as in roommates? Or plural as in… little people who call you Daddy?”

Jake’s eyes flicked to hers, the tiniest tilt of amusement in them. “I’m just saying,” he said evenly, “if I show up with the most beautiful girl at the party, don’t be surprised.”

Rooster choked on his fry.

Phoenix kicked him under the table.

Fanboy looked around, utterly lost. “What is happening?”

Bob squinted suspiciously. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Jake only smirked and stood, brushing the crumbs off his shirt.

“See y’all tonight,” he said, casual as anything. “Save me a seat by the fire.”

And with that, he walked off — calm, unbothered, and just smug enough to make Rooster groan into his hands.

Phoenix leaned back, arms crossed, a gleam in her eyes. “It’s happening.”

Rooster looked haunted. “I knew that baby wasn’t a hallucination.”

Payback stared between them. “What baby?!”

The house smelled like sunscreen, baby lotion, and a little bit of anxiety.

Cami was bouncing from room to room like a ping-pong ball, wearing a sparkly denim jacket over a pink sundress and clutching her favorite plush unicorn in a tiny fist. She kept popping into the bathroom to check her hair in the mirror, then running back to Jake.

“Do I look okay, Daddy?”

Jake crouched to her level, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “You look perfect, honey.”

She beamed for a second, then hesitated. “What if your friends don’t like me?”

Jake blinked. “What?”

Cami twisted the unicorn’s mane around her finger. “What if they think I talk too much? Or that I’m weird?”

Jake’s heart ached in that split-second way it always did when she got serious. He smoothed her curls gently and gave her that look — the one he reserved for bedtime promises and skinned knees.

“They’re gonna love you, bug,” he said softly. “Because you’re smart, and funny, and you make the best marshmallows on the planet.”

Her brow furrowed. “But we haven’t even made them yet—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jake whispered, grinning. “You still win.”

That got a giggle out of her, and she hugged his neck, throwing her little arms around him with enough force to knock him off balance onto the hallway rug.

“I love you, Daddy,” she said into his shoulder.

Jake’s voice caught. “I love you more.”

You stepped out of the nursery then, Lex already strapped to your chest in a soft carrier, cheeks pink and drool bib firmly in place. She was wide awake and blinking like the golden light in the living room was the most interesting thing in the world.

Cami ran to grab her tiny heart-shaped sunglasses from the coffee table. Jake stood and watched you for a second longer than necessary, just taking it all in.

“How’s Lex?” he asked, crossing the room to meet you.

“She’s been cooing at the ceiling fan for fifteen minutes straight,” you said. “I think it’s her soulmate.”

He smiled and reached out to gently fix the strap across your shoulder, his thumb brushing your collarbone.

“You okay?” you asked quietly, looking up at him.

Jake hesitated. “Yeah. I mean... yeah.”

You gave him that look — soft and knowing and full of the kind of patience he still didn’t fully understand how he’d earned.

“It’s not a bad kind of nervous,” he said after a second. “Just… new. I’ve never brought my family to anything like this. Not with coworkers. Javy doesn’t count.”

“He absolutely doesn’t count,” you agreed.

Jake chuckled under his breath, then exhaled, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “I just… this is the part where it’s not just mine anymore, you know? Where they get to know you. The girls. The best parts of me.”

You stepped in closer, pressing your hand to his chest. “We’ve always been yours, Jake.”

He looked down at you, green eyes a little glassy now. “Yeah,” he said. “But tonight... I guess it starts being real to everyone else, too.”

You smiled. “And that’s a good thing. Because it means more people get to see what I see. That you’re a good man. A good husband. A good dad. And the people who matter? They’ll never forget that.”

Jake swallowed hard and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then one to Lex’s. Then one to your mouth — soft, slow, like a thank-you.

“Alright,” he said, voice lighter. “Let’s go make an entrance.”

“Let’s go blow their minds,” you replied, already grabbing the baby bag.

Cami burst back into the room, sunglasses on upside down. “Do I look like a cool kid?”

Jake scooped her up with a dramatic gasp. “Coolest kid in the whole world.”

Cami giggled into his shoulder.

And just like that, the Seresins stepped out into the soft evening light, hand in hand, baby bouncing, hearts a little nervous, but completely full.

The sun was just beginning to dip behind the horizon when the Seresin family arrived.

The beach behind the Hard Deck glowed in warm amber and rose, the bonfire crackling at the center of it all, with the Daggers scattered around in folding chairs, drinks in hand, laughter rolling easy on the breeze. A cooler full of seltzers sat half-buried in the sand, and someone had already started a playlist that leaned heavy on Fleetwood Mac and bad decisions.

Jake stepped onto the sand first, Lex balanced easily on his hip in a floral romper and a soft pink headband that did absolutely nothing to keep her hair down. She let out a content little sigh and sucked on two fingers like she’d been born for the beach life.

You followed beside him, Cami’s small hand clasped tightly in yours. Her sparkly jacket caught the firelight as she walked, pink sunglasses pushed up into her curls, gripping her unicorn under one arm like backup.

To anyone watching, it was immediate.

They looked like Jake.

Same eyes. Same golden skin. Same confidence — even Cami, who clung to your side but stood tall, taking it all in.

The Daggers didn’t notice them at first.

Not until they got close enough that Bob glanced up and nearly choked on his drink.

Then Rooster turned — already half-expecting it — and froze with his cup halfway to his mouth.

Phoenix elbowed him like don’t say anything stupid but her own jaw had gone slack.

Fanboy actually gasped.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

Coyote just sat there grinning like he’d known all along — because, of course, he had.

Jake stopped just in front of the fire, let the conversations fizzle into stunned silence, and gave them that damn cocky smile — the one they all knew so well — only this time, it was softer. Warmer. The kind of smile that said this is everything to me.

“Evening,” he drawled. “Hope we’re not late.”

Nobody said a word.

Cami peeked around you, her voice small but clear. “Are these the pilot friends?”

Jake looked down at her and nodded. “Sure are, baby.”

You smiled gently at the group, then bent to whisper something in Cami’s ear. She stepped forward a little, still clutching the unicorn, but brave in that way only five-year-olds could be.

“I’m Camila Seresin,” she said proudly. “But you can call me Cami.”

Jake gave a slight nod, then shifted Lex on his hip. “And this little one is Alexandra. Lex, if she likes you.”

Lex burbled in response, blinking sleepily at the circle of stunned adults. Jake’s arm slipped around your waist, pulling you close.

“And this is my wife,” he said, voice soft but certain. “The love of my life. The reason I’m not a complete disaster.”

You gave a small, amused wave. “Hi.”

Phoenix finally blinked. “You’re married?”

“To her?” Payback added, looking between you and Jake like he was trying to process a physics equation with no numbers.

Fanboy leaned forward. “You’re married married. Like… full on?”

“With kids?” Bob choked.

Jake smirked. “Is it that hard to believe?”

“Yes!” they all said in unison.

Coyote just raised his beer and clinked it against Jake’s bottle. “About time, hermano.”

Phoenix gave you a look of genuine bafflement. “I mean, no offense, but you’re… like… stunning. And you married Hangman?”

“I know,” you said with a dramatic sigh. “We all make mistakes.”

Jake pressed a hand to his chest. “Wounded.”

Payback was still staring at Cami, then Lex, then Jake. “They look exactly like you.”

“They should,” Jake said. “Made ‘em myself.”

Phoenix groaned. “Okay, we’re leaving.”

Jake just laughed and tucked Lex’s head against his shoulder. “Cami, wanna roast some marshmallows?”

“Yes please!” she squeaked, already dragging you toward the snack table.

Jake looked around at the still-shocked faces of his squad — his friends now, he supposed — and gave them a rare, genuine smile.

“Welcome to my real life,” he said.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and the flames of the bonfire cast soft flickers across everyone’s faces. Music drifted low from someone’s speaker, mingling with the sound of the waves and the occasional snap of firewood.

It should’ve been a normal night.

But nothing felt normal now that Jake “Hangman” Seresin was casually sitting cross-legged on the sand, marshmallow stick in his hands, helping his five-year-old daughter make the perfect s’more.

“I said not too toasted,” Cami whispered urgently. “Just golden. Like the picture.”

Jake nodded seriously. “Golden. Got it. This is high-stakes work, sweetheart.”

Phoenix nudged Rooster with her foot. “Who is this man?”

Rooster, still visibly reeling, shook his head like it might clear the image in front of him. “I thought he ate protein powder straight out of the tub and slept on a bed of ego.”

“He’s using baby talk, Bradshaw.”

Rooster narrowed his eyes. “And I think the baby just giggled at him.”

“Not the baby,” Fanboy said from behind them. “Me. I’m giggling. This is surreal.”

Across the fire, Jake caught the tail end of the conversation and gave them a smug little look, tossing a marshmallow at Mickey that he expertly dodged.

You were nestled beside Jake on a blanket, Lex sleeping soundly against your chest now that she’d exhausted herself chewing on everyone’s fingers (with permission, of course). You leaned into Jake’s shoulder with a soft smile, watching Cami flit between the snack table and her latest obsession: Bradley Bradshaw.

“Hey, Mr. Rooster?” she called, holding her unicorn in one hand and a half-eaten graham cracker in the other.

Bradley blinked. “Uh, yeah?”

“Can I touch your mustache?”

Jake nearly dropped his beer.

Phoenix howled.

Rooster sat very still. “Um. Sure?”

Cami wandered over and patted it with her little marshmallow-sticky fingers, studying it like a curious scientist.

“It’s soft,” she declared. “Like a cat. You should name it.”

Jake groaned. “Cami.”

“What?” she asked innocently. “It’s just a suggestion.”

Jake shot Rooster a look over her head. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Rooster raised both hands. “Hey. I’m just standing here. With a face.”

You leaned over to whisper, “You’re really going to lose sleep over your daughter flirting with a mustache, aren’t you?”

“She has bad taste,” Jake said grimly.

Before anyone could tease him further, Coyote appeared at Cami’s side with a juice pouch and a twinkle in his eye. “Hey, kiddo. Want to help me find more sticks for the marshmallows?”

“Uncle Javy!” Cami cheered, grabbing the juice and launching herself at him like a tiny cannonball.

Phoenix blinked. “Uncle?”

Jake shrugged. “He’s the only one who knew. Got promoted early.”

“You told Javy?” Rooster cried, scandalized. “You told Javy and not me?”

Coyote slung Cami onto his shoulders with practiced ease. “I’m the trustworthy one.”

Jake smirked. “He didn’t try to follow me home or interrogate me about my grocery list.”

Rooster folded his arms. “That was one time.”

Phoenix grinned. “Still your worst stakeout.”

As the night deepened and the stars came out, the squad began to shift from disbelief into something sweeter: genuine admiration. Watching Jake tuck a blanket around Cami’s legs, kiss the top of her head. Seeing the way Lex instinctively settled in his arms, one tiny hand curled into his shirt. Hearing the way he said darlin’ to you like it meant something old and permanent.

This wasn’t a side of Jake Seresin anyone had expected to see.

But it fit him.

Perfectly.

[selencgraphy]

KEYS & KISSES

Summary: A warm summer night at the local city night market with the Dagger Squad. You and Bob are the only official couple in the group—quietly affectionate, teasing, and fully caught up in the glow of food, games, and late-night laughter. Flirty banter, close calls, and a stolen kiss in a photo booth make for a night neither of you will forget.

Bob Floyd x reader

Word count: 2.5k

A/N: I went to a night market recently so i thought this would be cute lol also don’t be afraid to comment or send asks! i love talking to you guys. update: 300 LIKES OH MY G

Warnings: Light public affection, mild teasing, implied sexual tension, some suggestive language.

masterlist part of boyfriend!bob

The night market bloomed around you like a glowing, living thing—strands of fairy lights zigzagged between vendor tents, casting everything in a golden haze that felt more like a memory than a moment. Music drifted through the warm summer air in patches: a salsa beat from one booth, soft R\&B from another, then K-pop from the boba stand two tents down. The smells alone were dizzying—sweet fried dough, sharp grilled garlic, spiced meats, syrupy fruit.

Bob’s hand was wrapped around yours, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles as you walked slow, side by side. The chatter of families and couples blended with the occasional burst of laughter, but his quiet, steady presence grounded everything. He wasn’t the kind of guy to swing your arm or shout your name across a crowd—he didn’t need to. Just one touch and you knew where home was.

You glanced up at him, the soft tilt of his mouth giving away how much he was enjoying this already. “This is definitely better than base food,” you said, nudging his elbow.

Bob chuckled, low and warm. “You’re only saying that because you smelled dumplings four booths back.”

“And mochi waffles,” you corrected, already scanning for the pink sign you’d seen on the market’s Instagram story earlier. “And boba. And possibly the best deep-fried Oreo in the city.”

“Possibly?” he asked, raising a brow.

“I’m being humble.”

He laughed again, then leaned down just enough to murmur, “You’re cute when you’re on a mission.”

You smiled to yourself, cheeks warming, but before you could deliver a snappy comeback, you heard it

“There they are! The PDA dream team!” Hangman’s voice rang out like a siren, already full of mischief. “Took you two long enough.”

You turned just in time to see the rest of the Dagger Squad weaving through the crowd toward you. Phoenix was leading, her hair pulled back in a loose braid, grinning like she’d just caught you two mid-kiss. Rooster strolled beside her holding a paper tray of skewers, while Payback and Fanboy flanked Coyote, who was balancing two cups of slush in one hand like a circus act.

“Look at this,” Phoenix teased as they approached. “Did you guys stop to make out behind the food truck or something?”

“We were literally five minutes behind you,” Bob said, completely deadpan.

“Exactly,” Rooster smirked. “Long enough for at least three kisses and a suspicious hand placement.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned a little closer into Bob’s side anyway, just to prove a point. His hand slid around your lower back naturally, and you felt more than one dramatic groan ripple through the group.

“I swear to god,” Hangman muttered, already walking toward the nearest stall. “One of these days I’m gonna put you both in separate corners like misbehaving toddlers.”

“And I will misbehave again,” you called after him, catching the delighted laugh Phoenix let out.

Bob’s arm tightened around you for half a second before he leaned in to say, “I think you enjoy tormenting them.”

You grinned. “I know I do.”

With everyone finally gathered, the chaos really began. Phoenix dragged you and Bob to the dumpling stall she’d scoped out earlier while Rooster negotiated with a corn vendor over whether or not spicy mayo counted as “gilding the lily.” Payback and Fanboy went to war over toppings at a Korean corn dog truck, and Coyote somehow convinced all of you to split a massive tray of garlic skewers and grilled pineapple.

At some point, you found yourself holding a little paper cup of bubble tea while Bob tried to decide if he wanted the lychee one or the black sesame.

“You always get lychee,” you reminded him.

“That’s because it’s good,” he said, but still hesitated.

You reached up and popped the lid off yours. “Try mine,” you offered, straw pointed toward his mouth. His eyes flicked to yours—soft, focused, and just a little amused.

“You’re trying to distract me,” he said, but leaned down anyway.

You kept the cup steady as he wrapped his lips around the straw, and you absolutely did not let your brain short-circuit at how gentle he was about it. Or how long it took him to pull back.

“That’s really good,” he said, voice lower than usual.

You blinked once, twice. “Lychee it is, then.”

Behind you, someone let out a long-suffering sigh. “We’re gonna die of diabetes just watching you two,” Hangman complained. “I need something salty before I drown in your sugar.”

Bob didn’t say anything, but his fingers brushed along your wrist as he stepped closer to the drink stall. You followed, heart a little stupid in your chest, and let him buy you a second drink without even asking.

An hour passed in warm, flickering laughter. The squad weaved in and out of booths, trying samples, buying ridiculous snacks, competing over who could handle the spiciest sauce. Hangman made it three bites into a fire chicken skewer before tearing up dramatically and yelling at Rooster for “poisoning” him. You and Bob shared mochi waffles—he held the plate, you fed him bites. Phoenix pretended to vomit. Fanboy took a photo.

There was a claw machine near the middle of the market—a little corner set up with retro arcade games and a glowing pink “Couples Win Twice” banner over a row of plushie challenges. Coyote immediately declared war.

“This is my redemption,” he announced, already cracking his knuckles.

“You say that every time,” Payback said flatly.

“I mean it this time.”

The whole squad joined in—cheering, trash-talking, fake coaching each other through one-dollar attempts to win plushies shaped like sushi rolls and sea otters. You watched Bob feed a coin into the machine, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“You look very serious about this,” you whispered.

“I am,” he said.

“For what? The shrimp or the tiny bear?”

He pointed. “The sea otter.”

You grinned. “For me?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept guiding the claw forward until it dropped, clamped, wobbled, and miraculously held. The otter landed with a *thud* in the chute.

Bob reached down, plucked it out, and turned to hand it to you without fanfare.

“For you,” he said simply.

You took it, heart flipping in your chest. “You’re dangerously good at that.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’ve been training for this moment?”

“I like to be prepared.”

Somewhere behind you, Rooster groaned. “They’re making eye contact again.”

“Don’t look,” Hangman said dramatically. “It’ll blind you.”

You leaned your head against Bob’s shoulder and laughed, the otter plush tucked in the crook of your arm. His hand found your waist again, thumb rubbing absent circles at your side as if he didn’t even notice.

And then, you saw it—the photo booth tucked behind a cotton candy stand, its outside wrapped in string lights and glossy stickers. The sign above it blinked: “4 PICS, 1 STRIP, 30 SECONDS. CUTE AS HELL.”

“Oh, *absolutely*,” you said.

Phoenix followed your gaze. “We’re doing it.”

“All of us?” Rooster asked, brows raised.

Hangman laughed. “No way we’re fitting.”

“We’re making it work,” Phoenix said, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go, Romeo.”

There was some light chaos as everyone piled in. You squeezed between Bob and Phoenix while Rooster practically sat on Coyote’s knee. Fanboy and Payback argued over angles, and Hangman stuck his face directly into the camera for the first shot, grinning like a lunatic.

The four pictures came out ridiculous—someone blinking, someone sneezing, someone definitely giving bunny ears—but everyone was laughing too hard to care.

You tucked the photo strip into your bag and whispered to Bob, “Let’s come back later. Just us.”

He looked down at you, warm and steady. “Yeah. Let’s.”

The crowd had thinned a little, just enough to make walking easier, the voices and music now more of a gentle hum than a roar. You carried your sea otter plush under one arm and your latest prize—a mochi waffle with brown sugar drizzle—in the other. Bob still hadn’t let go of your hand.

The squad wandered ahead in pairs, all half-listening to each other’s conversations, full from too much food, still buzzing from the sugar and noise. Rooster and Coyote were locked in a heated debate about what counted as a “classic fair snack,” while Hangman was trying to bribe Fanboy into giving up the last bite of his Oreo. Phoenix, true to form, drifted between conversations with sharp comebacks and snarky commentary, but every so often you caught her eye and saw that same smirking approval—the look that said: *You’re good for him. He’s good for you.*

Your fingers brushed Bob’s as you walked, and he glanced down at you with a kind of softness that made your chest tighten. You leaned a little closer.

“Photo booth,” you reminded him in a whisper.

“I didn’t forget,” he said, already angling toward the corner where it waited—quiet now, unoccupied, lights still glowing like an invitation.

You paused just before the curtain, shooting a look back at the squad.

They were deep in some kind of fried-food-trading circle. Distracted.

“C’mon,” you murmured, tugging Bob’s hand as you stepped inside.

The curtain rustled shut behind you, and the sounds of the market muffled instantly. Inside, it was just the two of you in a narrow bench seat, lit softly by the camera’s faint glow. You could still hear the bass from one of the nearby food stands, but it was quieter now, like the world outside had gone temporarily still.

You dropped your plush in your lap and reached for the “start” button.

Bob’s arm slid along the back of the seat, his fingers brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. “You want serious or silly?”

You smiled, already leaning in. “I want *us.*”

The first flash caught the two of you smiling at each other, eyes locked.

The second, your nose bumped his, laughter already in your throat.

The third, his hand cradled your jaw, and your mouth was brushing against his in that slow, familiar way that didn’t need permission anymore—it just happened.

The fourth—

You didn’t even register the flash.

Because by then, Bob was kissing you.

Slow, warm, a little hesitant at first, but then deeper—like the quiet fuse that had been burning all night had finally reached the end. His hand slipped to the side of your neck, fingers splayed. Yours curled into the front of his shirt as you kissed him back, mouth open, letting him taste sugar on your lips and press his body just a little closer than the tiny bench allowed.

You pulled back, breathless, and he was staring at you like you were the only thing that existed. Maybe you were.

“That counted as a serious one,” you said quietly.

Bob’s lips curved into a small, dangerous smile—the kind he usually reserved for when no one else was around.

“Let’s take another strip,” he said.

You reached for the button again.

Perfect. Let’s bring this home — one more round through the market’s magic glow, something small and sweet to remember the night, and the quiet, full kind of love you take with you even after the lights go out.

The second strip came out even better than the first.

The photos were a blur of closeness—his mouth on your cheek, your hand buried in his hair, both of you caught mid-laugh and mid-kiss, completely unaware of the camera’s timing. You looked at them in the soft glow of the booth light, your head resting on Bob’s shoulder as he gently ran his thumb down your arm.

“I like these better,” you whispered.

“Me too.”

You folded the strip and tucked it into your wallet like something sacred.

Outside, the market had softened. The loudest crowds were gone now, the music dimmed to a background murmur. The vendors were still glowing beneath the canopies, some packing up, others still flipping batter or handing out skewers to late-night stragglers.

The rest of the squad was easy to find—clustered near a little tent decorated with paper stars and a hanging sign that read **MATCHING KEYCHAINS — PICK YOUR PAIR.**

Phoenix spotted you first and grinned.

“Finally! The lovers return.”

“Did you guys *sneak off* to the booth again?” Rooster called out, fake-shocked.

“Disgusting,” Hangman added, tossing a skewer stick into a trash bin. “They probably took, like, fifteen pictures just making out.”

You shrugged, absolutely unbothered. “Six, actually.”

Bob, ever unflappable, said nothing—just kept his hand firmly at the small of your back, where it had been all night.

Fanboy was flipping through trays of tiny charms while Coyote held up two glow-in-the-dark rockets. “We’re getting matching ones,” Coyote said. “So you’ll all remember I’m the best pilot.”

“You *wish,*” Payback muttered, grabbing the other rocket and holding it up like a trophy.

Phoenix handed you a tray filled with tiny charms—mochi, dumplings, stars, planes, animals with cartoonishly big eyes. “Pick a couple set before they sell out,” she said, already knowing what you were going to choose.

You glanced at Bob, then back at the tray. Your hand hovered before landing on a small plushy dumpling with a sleepy smile.

You held it up to Bob. “You.”

He raised a brow. “And you?”

You lifted a tiny boba cup with blushing cheeks and sparkly eyes. “Obviously.”

A tiny smile curved on his lips. “Perfect.”

The keychain vendor attached each charm to its own silver clip. You hooked the dumpling onto Bob’s backpack, and he clipped the boba to your keys with quiet precision, as if it were something deeply serious.

The rest of the squad got their own too—matching chili peppers for Rooster and Phoenix (she picked it to annoy him), Hangman chose one half of a pink glitter heart while no one took the other (“Rude,” he muttered), and Coyote insisted on a set of matching eggplants just to make Payback regret standing next to him.

The vendor took a group photo before you left—everyone squinting in the soft light, plushies and keychains in hand, laughter caught in the middle of it all.

You didn’t want it to end. But the night eventually pulled you toward the edge of the market, where the sidewalk turned quiet and the air felt cooler.

Bob walked close, his fingers brushing against yours until you laced them together again.

You looked up at him, voice low. “I had fun tonight.”

He glanced down, eyes soft behind his glasses. “Me too.”

The sea otter plush was tucked under your arm again, the little boba keychain swinging off your bag.

You were both full from too much sugar, your lips still tingled faintly from the photo booth, and your heart felt like it had been gently, quietly filled with something golden all night long.

“Hey,” you said, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah?” “You’re still mine tomorrow, right?” He smiled, slow and sure. “Always.”

And you believed him.

Every word.

Every look.

Every touch.

Because Bob Floyd didn’t say things unless he meant them. And tonight? He hadn’t let go of you once.

taglist: @yagurlannastasia

[selencgraphy]

clark is just so big… when you bring him out to the bar and introduce him as your friend, everyone has to look up at him. you notice your girlfriends are a little sweet on him, your guy friends are challenged by him. and he’s perfectly clueless about it while he spends the whole night politely responding to them but his undivided attention is on you. huge, towering, 6’4” guy is infatuated with you. as soon as he notices you’re running low, he’ll refresh your drink. he pays your tab. he asks you how work is going, if you’ve made any friends there. he has to bend over to lean his elbows against the bar to stay eye-level with you. he makes a show of inclining his ear close to you to hear you better over the din. at one point you’re pulled aside to be asked if he’s seeing anyone and you do say no. but you end up going home with him that night and he makes you feel small in other ways

[selencgraphy]

Sugar on the Rim vol. II

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

part one

warnings: heavily implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), smut, oral fem!receiving, nervous but enthusiastically consenting reader

You’d tried to calm your nerves but they couldn’t be helped.

You’re anxious about everything, all of it. What he wants you to do, what he’s expecting you do, whether it’ll hurt, whether you’re ready.

You think you trust Bruce, but you also know that these things are different for men and women. You don’t necessarily expect that he’ll have a mind for what you’ll need, but honestly, neither do you. You don’t know what to do to make this easier for yourself—you don’t know what to do at all. 

You bought the lingerie, you’ve got it on under your clothes and it feels like a costume. You can’t tell if that aids or worsens the anxiety. 

You’re fidgeting with the hem of your skirt and you wish you could quit it, you’re radiating enough nervous energy as it is, you don’t need to be sending him visual cues on top of it. 

Bruce holds your free hand in his as he guides you through the manor, you think it’s a different section than you’ve seen before. His hand engulfs yours unfairly as he leads, but the touch of his skin is so warm and inviting that you can’t tell if your hand is still shaking under it. If it is, he pretends not to notice.

He guides you up the stairs and into a corridor and then another before you arrive at a set of double doors. You’ve never seen double doors on the inside of a house before.

He lets you in ahead of him, and you have a distinct thought that you’re glad he can’t see the look of awe on your face as you walk in. His bedroom has an entire living room inside of it, and altogether it’s bigger than your whole apartment. A maroon couch and matching chairs surround a grand fireplace at the front of the room and the resulting glow from the active embers has the area shrouded in a warm light ahead of the shadows filling the rest.

You glance past the seating at his bed; large and proud. It’s definitely bigger than a king sized, with an overhead canopy and streams of dark burgundy curtains draping down from the corners. There’s another set of closed double doors past the bed, you imagine leading to the bathroom.

The end of the room displays a large window seat that looks like it’s never been used, and vast tinted windows. You look up to find the ceiling higher than you’ve ever seen in a bedroom with a very expensive chandelier hanging over it all.

He takes your arm, steering you out of your wonderment and leads you towards the couch rather than the bed, gesturing for you to sit down with him. You do, quietly glad when he positions himself so that you’re close to each other but not pressed right up against you. He’s able to relax his body more than you’re able to fake it on yourself, and you think your thoughts must be vibrating out of you by now.    

One hand comes to rest on your thigh as his other nudges your cheek towards him. “Hey, nothing’s happening right now. No need to be nervous.”

You nod blankly, but your thoughts are running wild with everything that you very much are nervous about.

He takes your hand in his, rubbing circles with his thumb. 

“You’ve got to relax,” he coos, “Remember what I said?”

You take a breath, “You’re not going to throw me in the deep end.”

“Exactly,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Just wanna make you feel good, right?”

You nod, easing your posture.

He looks you in the eye, “You gonna let me?”

You hum, nodding again.

“Good girl,” he purrs, pulling away.

You quickly find that the distance is not at all what you want, and you decide to push forward—as forward as you can—sitting up again to peel your jacket off. He watches you move with a look in his eyes, you take it for intrigue but it may just as well be something akin to pride. Pride in you? He’s openly flirted, kissed you, and straight up propositioned you for sex—but sure, he’s proud of you for taking your jacket off.

Your nerves transition into insecurity before you can catch them, and you’re starting to feel a little stupid, like a child playing pretend.

You watch tentatively as he tilts his head at you, running his own assessments of your actions. 

“Will you come sit on my lap?” he asks you after a moment. 

You suddenly become acutely aware of the amount of air in your lungs. This feels like a big request and you’re not even sure how to take his meaning. Does he want you to sit sideways? Your back to his front? Or fully straddle him? 

He wants whatever you want, he’d said. What do you want?

You glance down at his thighs, covered by fabric more expensive than you can imagine. Positive confirmation rings through your head immediately, willing you to push yourself forward a little more. 

You reposition yourself over him, straddling his lap in spite of your nerves.

Again, he looks pleased. Happy even. One of his hands comes to stroke soothing patterns across your lower back, the other resting on your waist. 

He makes sure to catch your gaze, “You’ll tell me if you want to stop.” 

He follows when your eyes stray, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

He places a tender kiss on your cheekbone, “How did shopping go?”

“Um, good. It was good. One of the sales girls helped me,” your breath is shaky as he kisses your jawline.

“Yeah? Tell me about it.”

“I, uh, I just went to this little boutique up on third street,” he places another kiss on the column of your throat as you talk. “Um, it took longer than I thought it would. There were so many choices.”

His hands come up to soothe over your ribs, pulling you a little closer as they do. He hums for you to keep talking, his kisses continuing to lower until they’re down to your collarbone, though they remain relatively chaste.

“I—I didn’t really know what to look for,” you admit, breath shaky as you exhale. 

“But you like it?”

“Yeah, I—I do.”

He hums, smiling against your skin. His fingers inch under the seam of your shirt, caressing your waist. “Can I take this off?”

You nod timidly, trying not to seem so on edge with anticipation. You’re not confident that he can’t see right through you.  

He presses another chaste kiss to your neck upon receival of the permission, and your shirt begins to come off slowly, his hands skimming every new bit of skin revealed. As he pulls it over your head, he glances down at the baby pink bralette you’d picked out for yourself.

He groans quietly as he takes in the sight, “Oh, pretty girl. Beautiful girl,” He noses at your chest, leaving little kisses where his lips make contact with your skin, “Look at you. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your stomach flutters as his hair tickles your cheek. His hands roam up your sides, stopping to stroke placid circles along the sides of your breasts.

His touch makes its way around your back, expertly undoing your bra clasp without a second thought. Your bra hangs forward a bit off your shoulders, but he leaves the work of entirely removing it to you. And you do, with more confidence than you’d imagined yourself mustering.

He immediately shows his appreciation, kissing and caressing your chest with lover-like admiration. Your head falls back involuntarily as he noses at your soft skin.

He’s breathing heavy when he pulls back, humming low and deep before lifting you up off his lap to stand. The sudden shift has you a bit thrown off, working to catch up as he kneels down in front of you and repeats his earlier process with your skirt—kissing your thighs and tugging the fabric down bit by bit.

When it’s discarded on the floor you stand only left in your underwear, the lace practically illuminated against your skin.

He looks up at you from his place on the floor and smiles as he takes in the sight of your body. His hands find your hips as he asks you, “Has anyone ever seen you like this before?”

You hesitate for half a second before answering truthfully.

His smile grows, “No, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s nodding, “Yeah, I know.”

As he rises to stand he scoops you up by the back of your thighs and lifts you in the air with no discernable effort. Now at face level with him, you get a bit bolder and lean in to kiss him. He kisses you back, pleased, beginning to walk the two of you over towards the bed.

He sets you down gently atop the soft mattress, kisses pushing you backwards to lie back on the bed. He scoops your wrists up and leisurely moves your arms up above your head. His grip is benign as he releases one hand in favor of holding your jaw. Your kiss is deep and controlled on his part, but in a way that makes you feel light in the head. You like the cloudy-sensation very much.

After a while, he pulls back to look at you with clouded eyes. 

He practically purrs, “You’re such a kind girl. So sweet to everyone, all the time. Will you let me be sweet to you?”

Your breath is shaky as you nod, attempts at hiding your anticipation failing.

He nods back at you with a faux-sympathy across his face. “Let me hear you say it.”

You force air into your lungs, giving you the willpower to speak the words. “Will you touch me? Please?”

The corners of his lips turn up, “Of course, sweet girl.”

He nips at your jaw as his hands travel down, petting the inside of your thighs with a touch so feather light it almost tickles.

Your knee jerks inward towards his hand, your body desperately seeking out more of this new sensation. He obliges, tracing his touch back up, up, up until his hand dips under the lace trim of your panties, skimming over your clit. Your hips flinch back away from him momentarily in surprise, only to press back forward a second later.

He actually laughs at the action, like it’s endearing. You feel a little silly for it, but you’re not given much time to dwell as he persists, brushing against you with a bit more pressure.

He tilts his head, watching your expression carefully with a remarkably pleased look on his own face. “How’s that, sweet girl?”

You nod, beside yourself. “Feels good,” you whimper. “Feels really good..”

You don’t necessarily mean to, but your hips grind up against his touch, your body too mesmerized with the sensation to remember to be embarrassed.

He’s certainly not complaining about it though, his quiet coos encouraging you to chase the feeling. 

He lets you grind up against his hand, taking in the needy look on your face with contentment.

“Poor girl,” he tuts. “Just need somebody to take care of you, huh?”

That makes your cheeks burn, but your attention finds itself more concerned with the urge to squeeze your thighs together.

You whine when he pulls his hand back out of your underwear, only for him to stand resolute in his actions. 

“Not yet, sweet thing,” he hums, pressing you back down to the bed with a light but firm touch when you try to sit up. 

He hushes you gently, murmuring for you to be patient as he shifts his position over you. 

He starts to move down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. The sensation of his lips tracing down your stomach has you feeling butterflies.

By the time he reaches your waistline you’re borderline dizzy from the anticipation, squeezing your legs together in an attempt to alleviate the ache.

He pauses there for a moment, torturously, and noses at the seam of your panties. A whine from you has him chuckling and finally moving to where you need him.

He kisses your clit over your underwear and you’re fighting thoughts of embarrassment over how sure you are he can taste how wet you are over the fabric.

It doesn’t seem to be enough for him though, as he tugs your panties down slowly, kissing your thighs as he goes.

Bruce’s hands hold onto your waist as he eats you out, holding you in place with an easy grip. 

You squirm against the feel of his tongue and you can’t quite figure out what to do with your hands. You almost wish he’d made you keep them above your head but really you’re not sure you’d be able to keep it together if he had. You’re not sure you’re keeping it together now.

He groans against your pussy, and one of your hands flies to grip his hair without permission from your brain. If you’re being honest with yourself though, your brain isn’t really the one calling the shots anymore.

You gasp when he licks a bold stripe, “Bruce—”

He groans again, briefly breaking away from you. “Oh, say that again.”

You sigh out, “Bruce, please.” 

He makes a pleased hum. “Good girl,” he murmurs before diving back in. 

He complies with your pleas generously, giving you more. He’s gradual but resolute as he inserts two fingers into you, giving you the time to adjust. But he’d evidently done a very thorough job prepping you for it, you’re so wet that the initial entry doesn’t sting like you’d expected. No, rather the first thing you register is closer to pleasure. A lot closer.

He begins to pump in and out of you at he continues to suck at your clit, and somewhere during you have a distinct thought of “oh this is it.”

You let out a little gasp and for once, you break out of your own head and just relish in the way his fingers curl inside you.

The way your thighs squeeze around him as you come, doesn’t hinder him one bit, only has him applying his ministrations with more intent. It doesn’t take long for the trembling of your body to give way to full on shaking, your body stuttering beneath him.

He continues working at you the entire way through your orgasm, until you’re flinching from overstimulation. 

He gives you one more lick before looking up at you with hooded eyes. “Y’taste sweet too, you know that?”

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks as he starts to move back up to face-level, kissing the high point of your cheekbone.  

He pulls down on your bottom lip, your slick wet against your mouth.

You open without question, a clouding urge to please him the only thing running through your mind. 

He grumbles a low, pleased sound as you do, moving his hand only to provide room for him to kiss you again.

He sits back up over you and starts unbuttoning his shirt and you realize only now that he’s still fully dressed. 

He glances down to his belt as he undoes the buttons. 

“Will you help me out, sweet girl?”

You blink a couple times before registering the request, still overwhelmed by how quickly and skillfully he’d made you come. 

You struggle a bit to push yourself up into a sitting position, but he supports you by your waist, nipping along your jaw as encouragement.

Your hands shake as you undo the clasp, and while you’re still very much eager, if not moreso, you’re suddenly confronted with the very real possibility that you’re about to have your limits pushed. He ate you out and did a damn good job, stands to reason that he’d want you to return the favor.

So it takes you by surprise when he’s nudging you back against the pillows, removing his pants himself.

He keeps you occupied with an intense kiss as he does, and the distraction so smooth it’s almost like it’s rehearsed. 

You follow his lead easily, though surprised by his lack of desire to get his fill too.

He drapes himself over you nicely, his size easily dwarfing you out. He’s quick to block your chin from tilting down, gently bringing your face back up to meet his. 

He shakes his head lightly, murmuring, “Don’t worry about that. I got you.”

You are worried about it, but you trust Bruce, you know you do now.

You feel the weight of his cock against your stomach, at this exact moment, feeling like not much more than a daunting task.

“S’alright, sweet girl,” he lulls, brushing your hair back. “Okay?”

As heavy as the simple question is, you don’t need to think about it before you’re nodding and moving your hand to hold onto his bicep.

He peppers kisses all over your face as he starts to push in, effectively starting to distract you from the pain of the stretch. He hushes your whines soothingly and kneads at your waist with confident hands.

Your arms lock around his shoulders on instinct, your eyes squeezing shut as you try to convince yourself he’s almost all the way in, but you know you’ve got aways to go.

He pauses halfway, imploring you to open your eyes so he can check up on you properly.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he softly urges.

You will yourself to blink up at him and try to take on the challenge of both him and his gaze. Surely, an impossible task.

But you manage shaky eye contact that occasionally gives way to glancing down at his lips. 

It doesn’t feel good yet, but it only makes you more eager to keep going.

“I’m okay,” you nod, taking a breath. “You can keep going.”

He waits to find that reassurance in your eyes before he continues to push in, bestowing you a deep kiss in reward for your bravery.

Once he’s nearly bottomed out he waits a moment, then begins to rock in and out slowly, letting you get used to a starter of the sensation.

He brushes your hair back, weaving through the strands. “There we go,” he coos as you look down between you. “Doing so good.”

Your gasp is louder than they had been before, and closer to a sigh now. 

He’s fucking you gently, with a decorum that exceeds what you’d earlier told yourself you were stupid for hoping for.

It doesn’t take long at all for his movement to start to feel really good and your grip around his shoulders comes around to a different kind of intensity.

He noses against your jaw, applying kisses whenever  convenient. “‘S that feel good, sweet girl? Hm?”

He hits a particularly deep spot in you immediately after and it makes you borderline squeak. He huffs out a laugh that’s nothing short of affectionate. 

“Yeah?”

He then attacks that spot with extra intention, hitting it absolutely expertly every time. He speeds up a little, lips latched onto your neck as he fucks you nice and deep.

He drops a hand down between you and starts rubbing circles onto your clit with a pace that makes you want to scream.

You can’t help the moan you release when he teeths at your neck, clearly aiming to drive you crazy. But damn if he isn’t going about it the right way.

His circles pick up pace and you can be sure you’re leaving nail marks on his back. He seems to only get more encouraged by your sounds, working you closer and closer to the edge with every whimper.

He finally lets you over after a minute of shamelessly relishing in your moans, himself following close after.

He continues moving in and out of you until you’ve both completely finished, slowly coming to a stop. 

You get a moment to catch your breath before he pulls out delicately. You don’t even realize he’s moved before he���s got his boxers back on and is halfway to the bathroom.

You’re a little alarmed by the sudden shift in proximity, though you guess that’s the playboy experience, isn’t it? After a second you hear water running and assume he’s taking a shower.

You push yourself to sit up fully, minding your achy thighs, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. You glance at the foot of the bed where your underwear lies, then back over by the couch where the rest of your clothes lay discarded. You briefly contemplate how quickly you can get your clothes back on when the bathroom doors open again.

You glance up at Bruce, dazed, who looks surprised himself to see you sitting up. As he makes his way back to the bed you notice the supplies he has in tow and your brain begins to slowly start turning its gears again.

You don’t realize the glass of water in his hand is for you until he’s pushed it into your palm. 

His other hand carries a wet wash cloth that you, again, aren’t able to register the purpose for until it’s in action. 

“Drink,” he tells you as he spreads your knees apart gently, wiping away the mess between your legs with a notable amount of compassion for your sensitivity.

You do, gulping a few as he finishes, tossing the rag in a hamper before setting your glass down on the side table.

Your eyes return to the end of the bed and you nearly decide to get up, but he’s still standing so close to you, you’re not sure this is the right time.

You seem caught halfway between decisions now, you know you do. You’d honestly preferred when you thought he’d just ditched you for a shower because at least then this part wouldn’t be so awkward.

He watches you closely as you deliberate and seems to draw a conclusion about your hesitation rather quickly. His brow pinches as he processes, tilting his head at you. 

“You’ve got to be joking,” he says, bewildered. “Right?”

“I—” you falter, looking to the couch and back to him again. “No?”

He stares at you for a moment with an expression you can’t define.

“Lay down.”

You don’t have a second to process before he’s climbing back in bed too, pulling you down to lay your head on the pillow.

He pulls the covers over you and splays an arm over your waist, clearly firm in his decision for you to stay.

Your eyes are heavy and his bed is so comfortable, it’s difficult for you to even consider either of you wanting you to leave now.

Maybe you’ll just sleep for a little while, get some of your energy back. 

The way he traces soft patterns across your stomach certainly encourages the idea and doesn’t give you much power to resist.

You let your eyes flutter shut to the feather-light touch and listen to the steady deepness of his breaths.

Well, this isn’t so bad either.

🐲 reblogging is an ancient art form, only the strong may master it 🐲

[selencgraphy]

Sugar on the Rim vol. I

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

warnings: implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), mentions of sex, smut in next part

You twist the stem of the wine glass around between your fingers slowly. Your chin rests atop your knees as you stare vacantly at the tiny puddle left of the drink. You could go refill it, but then you’d have to go back out to the main room and man…you really do not want to do that. So you’ll sit here, swiping your tongue across the bumps of the roof of your mouth as if it's a fascinating new discovery.

The creak of hinges has you shooting upright, your back thumping against the stair step behind you. You’re not immediately sure how to act as though it’s normal that you’re sitting in the stairwell outside the fundraiser rather than in it, fraternizing with old and new money alike. You freeze, trying to relax your posture so it doesn’t look like you’re alarmed at the sight of another person, but not so relaxed that you look as bored as you are.

Your neutrality stutters when you glance up to find the host of the fundraiser. The billionaire host of the fundraiser. Bruce Wayne, the billionaire host of the fundraiser. Your posture straightens right back up and your mouth snaps shut as you make eye contact.

Should you stand up? 

No, he’s rich, not royalty. 

You are in his house though—

He looks you over contemplatively, “I don’t know you,” It’s not accusatory, rather he says it like it’s something interesting.

You perk up at that, immediately formulating reasons to justify your presence. “Oh, uh, no—” the words nearly spill out of your mouth all at once. You clear your throat, “I’m just a plus one for my boss—”

“Who’s your boss?” he asks, relaxed. 

“Arthur Mullins.”

He looks to the side, squinting, “Mullins…he’s the executive at Williamson Industries, yes?”

You nod and he returns the gesture, slower, like he’s processing through something. “I’m Bruce,” he says warmly after a moment, holding his hand out to you.

You nod before you can even think to get any words to come out, “I—yeah, I know,” you accept his hand, shaking it as you tell him your name.

There’s a slight glint in his eye when he hears your name, and he repeats it quietly to himself. “A pretty name.”

“Oh, it’s just…” Just your name. But rather than fill him in on that fascinating tidbit, you let the sentence die off.

He smiles kindly anyway, “What are you doing in here? Party’s out there, or so they tell me.”

“I…I’m hiding in here,” you admit sheepishly.

He leans in towards you slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ll let you in on a secret—so am I,” he smiles at you like it’s easy.

Your grin matches his, “It’s your party,”

“That’s why I need to hide.” He tilts his head, “Doesn’t give you much of an excuse though, does it?”

“I don’t know anybody here.”

He puckers his bottom lip contemplatively, “Your boss.”

You shake your head, “I’m just his assistant. I’m pretty sure he just brought me as a precaution in case he needed a designated driver.”

He laughs at that, “Based on the way I’ve seen Mullins’ attempts to operate, his assistant would have to be a hell of a lot more important than just a designated driver.”

Well, he’s certainly right about that. Your boss doesn’t exactly “have it together” per se. He’s an unorganized man with little to justify his importance in Gotham, so he tends to insist on taking on more responsibility than he has any business having. Not to mention, he’s a bit of a try-hard and you’re constantly left to sweep up the pieces of his reputation that he shattered himself. Not to say he’s necessarily unprofessional, he just will do anything and everything to prove he belongs in any given space. It’s honestly a bit exhausting to watch. It’s more exhausting to try and convince him that the exchange went well afterwards.

You nod slowly, eyes on his shoes. “Mr. Mullins has…a unique approach to business. It does usually leave me fairly busy, I’ll give you that.” You take a quick deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. “But that means I occasionally get to go to fancy parties where I don’t know anyone, so..”

“Well then it sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” he ribs, “Or don’t you agree?”

You smile coyly, “I would never be so bold.”

“I don’t mind boldness. For example, the reason I came in here is because he spotted me.”

You laugh at that, “Mr. Wayne—”

“Bruce.”

“Mr. Wayne,” you suppress your smile as you pause, choosing your words carefully. “I think he’s just networking.” He doesn’t have the money to give.

He nods surely, “He’s definitely just networking.” He really doesn’t have the money to give. You allow just the faintest wisp of a smile to adorn your face as you look down again.

You check the time and realize that you’ve been hiding away for too long and that if he hasn’t already, your boss will notice soon. You sigh quietly to yourself, “I should..”

He turns his head to the closed door where the chatter can be heard from beyond, sighing in defeat as he shakes his head looking back at you. “So should I.”

You feel a bit insecure as you stand, the gown you’re wearing is pretty but it is very much affordable and you’re sure someone as wealthy as Bruce Wayne would know the difference.

If he does notice he makes no deal of it, motioning you forward gallantly to walk ahead of him.

He follows after you, hands behind his back. “Would it be rude of me to ask you to distract him while I run for the bar?”

It’s busy, even for a Sunday afternoon, and you have to sidestep past someone nearly every step you take. You stick next to the windows of the line of boutiques down the road, trying to balance window shopping and not bumping into other pedestrians.

You're in a nicer district of Gotham, truthfully an area you don't quite belong in. So far you’ve only managed to find a couple shops that weren’t several ranges above your budget. 

A call of your name has you blinking rapidly and turning around as if you’re lost. It doesn’t take long for you to pick the six foot two billionaire out of the crowd and it’s only half a second longer before you realize he’s walking towards you. A few people collide shoulders with you as they move past thoughtlessly, no regard for the personal space of the idiot that stopped in the flow of traffic.

You let him approach a couple feet closer before you ask him, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?” The presence of his figure in front of you allows for a break from being bumped into, as he seemingly makes for a far more easily seen and intentionally avoided target.

He sways a bit, “Bruce. I’m not sure yet,” he looks down to the couple of bags you’re holding, extending his hand out. “May I?”

It takes you just a moment to move past your surprise at the request, allowing him to hold them for you. “Are you in a rush?”

You shake your head quicker than you meant to, “No, I—not at all,” he gestures his head forward, allowing you to walk before him.

You traipse ahead in silence for a moment before deciding against biting your tongue, “What exactly is it you’re not sure about?”

He raises his voice a bit so you can hear him over the crowd, “Whether or not you’ve got plans on the 19th.”

You look back at him, “What’s on the 19th?”

He stops with you as you admire a set of jewelry inside a window display, “We’re hosting a gala for something or something else, hopefully less boring than the fundraiser.”

You blink, “You’re inviting me?” He nods. “Why?”

“I could use someone who wants to be there even less than I do.”

He said it so casually it takes you a second to even register his meaning. You blink, face contorting defensively, “That’s not—” you can barely make out the smile on his face as he continues on walking.

You shake your composure back together and trail after him, rushing to catch up. “I don’t think Mr. Mullins would be very happy to hear that I’m attending a business gala without him.”

He shakes his head as he scans over the crowd, “He can’t fire you for that.”

“He’ll try.” He would. A petty little man, he is. 

He scans across the rows of clothes leisurely. “Well, then he can speak to me about it. Besides, it wouldn’t be for business.” And then he just lets that sentence linger.

It takes you a moment to recover from those words and begin to start processing the world around you again. After a few more feet down the sidewalk he pulls you gently to the side by your lower arm, out of the rush of traffic, and looks at you dead on, “What do you think?”

You try not to waver under the weight of the eye contact, “I don’t…uh, I don’t really have…” you look down, hoping to get the message across without actually having to say the words.

He glances into the store window next to you and raises his eyebrows, “Well then I’d say we’re in the right place.”

You can’t manage to tell him that this store is definitely far too expensive for you, walking through the door as he opens it for you, albeit apprehensively.

Well. Up close window shopping is more fun anyways. 

The spotless white of the floors and walls has you intimidated, and just as much so by less by the no doubt designer clothes lining the walls. The saleswomen all look pretty highbrow themselves, hair up in tight buns and uniforms chic.

You only break from gawking at the store to look behind you at Bruce. You note the way his eyes roam around blindly, looking for something and clearly having no means to narrow down where it might be. You take one more glance around, immediately finding the women's section with no such difficulty. 

“This way.” You say, nodding your head over to the left. He recovers nicely and lets you lead the way towards the section of dresses. You peer back at him, “You don’t seem like someone that does much of his own shopping.”

Thankfully, he laughs at that. “Well, special occasions.”

You keep your gaze ahead this time, asking as casually as you can, “Is this a special occasion?”

He hums in consideration, “I’d say so.”

You stop upon approaching the dress section, taking in the immediately stunning display of options. 

“What are you doing up here anyways?” you ask, hand brushing across a particularly plush dress.

“Ah, I was headed to a meeting.”

“Oh,” you frown, looking at him. “Don’t you need to go?”

He shakes his head with a puckered lower lip, “No.”

A few seemingly heiresses roam down the aisle mindlessly, not caring much that you’re in their path. 

Bruce sees them before you do, knowing well that they were not going to excuse themselves. “Sweetheart,” he nudges you gently to the side, closer to him as the group passes. His hand remained open-palmed and flat as he guided you to the side, seemingly very careful not to touch you with uninvited boldness. Though you’re quite shaken by the chivalry of the gesture, a brazen touch wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world.

As your arm brushes against a rack of clothing your gaze follows, met with something rather appealing.

Bruce is quick to notice you admiring the sleek black dress that looks like something you’d see a model wearing on a runway. “You like that one?”

“It’s nice, yeah,” you murmur, not really thinking. You flip the price tag over and your face drops. “It’s $800.”

He nods thoughtfully, “We can find a nicer one,” he says, though it’s clear he knows exactly what your problem with the price tag was.

“I can’t—” you restart, “I would never have a reason to wear something this nice again.”

He shakes his head coolly, “That’s alright.”

Your shoulders drop and your head tilts seriously, “It’s not, though.”

“You like it?” He looks you in the eyes, his own searching for a truthful answer.

“I mean, of course, but it—”

He nods affirmatively, “Then we’ll get it. Problem solved.” He turns his back to the rack, casually observing the rest of the store goers. “Pick your size.”

Apparently not one to argue, you thumb through the row until you find one that should fit. 

You sigh, realizing that you’re running out of time to mention that you don’t have $800 to spend on a dress. “I can’t—”

“You don’t need to,” he says simply as he takes the dress off the rack and drapes it across his arm, making his way towards the salescounter.

You try to stop your mouth from hanging open as you follow, “It really is okay, I don’t need—”

His grin cuts you off, just in time for you to hear him mutter, “Sweet girl..” to himself. You stop right in your tracks, feeling very thankful that he’s not looking at you right now because you’re certain the look on your face would give you away.

He still doesn’t face you as he calls out, “Come on,” as he continues on.

Obviously you’re not stupid. You know what type of intentions a billionaire playboy must have with a younger girl that he doesn’t even really know. However, if said billionaire is offering to buy you a pretty dress…no, you’re not sleeping with him because he bought you a dress—of course not—and you’ve made absolutely no promises to do so, so what’s the harm in letting him? Really?

And yeah, maybe it’s a plus that he’s not bad looking, but how is that your fault?

You stand a bit awkwardly next to him as he puts his card in the machine, not even glancing at the outrageous number, and declines the offer for the receipt.

As you exit the store together and stand at the doors as he hands your original two bags back to you along with the new shiny black one that on its own looks like something people would pay for.

“You will be there?” he asks, eyes more hopeful than you were prepared for. 

You nod, gesturing the bag up, “Well you just bought me the dress.”

He shrugs that off, “I would’ve bought you the dress anyways.”

You linger in the midst of the ado wearing a dress that you feel far too overshadowed by, fidgeting with the half empty wine glass in your hand. Unfortunately, this time around you were invited by the host of the event and it would be extra rude to run away and hide. That doesn’t stop you from considering it, though.

A hand sliding across your lower back has you momentarily startled, and for reasons you couldn’t quite verbalize, you’d naturally assumed it was Bruce. The disappointment rings strong when you turn around to be met with the sight of an even older man, who looks considerably wine drunk. 

“Hello there, Miss.,” The words themselves are polite but the salacious smile on his face and the way his eyes have no trouble roaming your body gives you a solid idea of what this conversation is going to entail.

“Hello,” you fake a polite, tight smile and shift your attention to the rest of the room. 

This does nothing to deter him, as he takes a sizable step back into your line of sight. “Having a nice time?” 

The man is clearly from money, if his attire didn’t give it away his attitude sure did. There’s an heir of entitlement around him, like he’s inherently deservant of your attention—a quality you were notably surprised to not have found in Bruce. 

You give him your faux-smile again, this time tighter but half a second longer for the sake of politeness. A rookie mistake.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, gesturing to the bar.

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say, gesturing your wine glass up.

A momentary flash of irritation crosses his face, but to his credit, he does a better job recovering from it than you would have expected. Though, that’s not really saying much. “Well, pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be all alone here,”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Both of your heads snap to the side, finding a much more welcome surprise than you’d previously received. 

Your counterpart's posture straightens immediately, “Mr. Wayne,” he fawns, “What a lovely event you’ve thrown. I’m sure the Bernsteins will be appreciative.”

Bruce hums, eyes narrowed slightly. “You are…”

The man startles and rushes to finish off his sentence, “Alexander Watson, senior executive to the accounting department for the research wing of the company.”

He nods slowly, no recognition actually present in his eyes. “Ah. The research wing of the company that just blew fifteen million dollars on prototype self-operating cell phones.”

You’re trying hard to fight the smile creeping up on your face.

“What exactly is a self-operating cell phone?”

Watson’s face drops, hurrying to justify his approval of the proposal’s funding. As he rambles, Bruce’s gaze lowers to where Watson has once again placed his hand on your hip, though he’s not close enough to you for it to rest fully or naturally. You don’t know him well but you can say confidently that he doesn’t look pleased. 

He looks back up to Watson, attitude challenging. “Surely you’re not poking around where you’re unwelcome?”

Watson stutters at that, blinking and shaking his head quickly. “No, no, of course not! I was just hoping to provide the young lady with some company. That’s all.”

“And so you have.”

“I—,” about two steps behind in this conversation, Watson finally decides to retreat, “Yes, good evening, Mr. Wayne.” He bows his head and shuffles away back into the crowd.

“Mr. Wayne,” you smile knowingly, turning to him. “How are you?”

The hardness of his gaze fades quickly as he takes in your appearance, quite liking how you wear the dress you’d picked out.

“Things are looking up,” he smiles, “You look lovely.”

 “Thank you,” you glance over to where Watson has made his way to the bar, likely about to down an entire glass. “Mr., uh, Mr. Watson makes quite the impression.”

His smile turns a bit sullen, “You know last year he tried to convince the board that battery-powered battery chargers were going to be the next big thing?”

You blink, tilting your head, “Thought you didn’t know who he was.”

His eyes are fixed on the wall as he tugs the corner of his lip down, knowing he’s been caught but not really caring. “I’m sorry to have been away for so long, it seems everyone needs my attention at these things.”

“At the gala that you threw? I’d imagine so.”

He rolls past that smoothly, “You’re having a good time?”

“I am,” you say with a confirming head bob.

He regards the room with a numb expression, “You know, I think I’m getting bored with all of this.”

You smile at him, brow furrowed, “It’s only been an hour.”

He looks at you, eyes wide. “It’s only been an hour?” He’s exaggerating his surprise to make you smile, and it works.

“I think we should go,” he says lower.

You stare at him, bemused. “You still have a whole room full of guests.” 

He shrugs, “They’ll filter out on their own eventually.” 

He clocks your hesitation easily, accurately noting it to be more out of politeness than actually wanting to stay at the party. “What, you’re not ready to leave?”

You look around at all the mostly old, posh guests, disinterested small talk evident all across the room. You take a breath, “Alright, yeah. Let’s go.”

He smiles and leads you out a side door and through a corridor that’s significantly longer than you’d expected. 

“Do you always ditch your parties this early?” you ask, following closely.

He makes a sharp right at the next doorway, “If I can manage it.”

You look around at the high wooden ceilings and grand furniture. “Aren’t some of them friends of yours?”

He shakes his head, “My friends aren’t here.”

You frown at that, “Then why do you throw them at all?”

“Why did you show up last weekend?”

You nod slowly, understanding. “It’s your job.”

He returns the nod, adding, “Only difference is, there’s not a chance in hell you get paid enough for the work you do for Mullins.”

For the sake of maintaining your wishful facade of professionalism, you’re going to not acknowledge that incredibly accurate statement. Instead you smile politely and continue on walking. He seems to get the implication, returning it with an even brighter adornment.

“Well, money’s money,” you say wryly.

His smile fades a bit, “You shouldn’t have to worry about things like that.” 

You shrug, “A day in the life,”

He looks sullen upon hearing that, with more sympathy than you’d have expected from someone of his stature. He’s done nothing if not surprise you, though.

“Here,” he says, taking hold of the handle of a glass door. It opens to a garden, lit up beautifully by the moon and outdoor light. A fountain sits in the middle, water rhythmically gushing out of the top and trickling down the sides. The bite of the Gotham night air burns at your cheeks a bit and you find yourself thankful the dress you’d chosen is so long.

Bruce leads the way to an expensive marble bench positioned nicely in front of it, allowing you to sit first before following suit. Your hands find a place in your lap, clasped together awkwardly in an attempt to find warmth through contact.

It takes Bruce less than ten seconds to stand, remove his suit jacket, and drape it over your shoulders before sitting back down. The material is thicker and warmer than you would’ve expected, surely reminiscent of the perks of being owned by a billionaire.

He doesn’t look at you to acknowledge the grateful expression on your face, simply carrying on like it didn’t happen. “Was hoping it was warmer,” he murmurs.

Your focus momentarily goes to the icy cold stone of the bench under your thighs, initially finding it uncomfortable before deciding the coolness actually felt quite soothing. You remove your gaze from the gray stone and turn your head to find Bruce already focused on you.

You start to say something, though you’re not sure what it would’ve been, when he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down.

Well, he certainly knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?

His eyes stay on your lower lip as he murmurs, “You’re a pretty girl, you know that?” 

God, he’s a professional.

You look up at him and refrain from saying anything, waiting to see if he follows it up with something that will make you regret agreeing to coming out here with him.

He doesn’t.

You shift, moving your hands off your lap to rest on the stone under you. “You can’t just do this—”

He smiles and lowers his chin to look you in the eyes, “Then what can I do for you?”

“You—” you blink rapidly, “Stop it.”

His coy beam persists, “Stop what?”

You raise your gaze up to him ever so slightly, a pouty expression across your face that you’re trying to sell as serious. “You’re trying to make me nervous.”

“Do I make you nervous?” He tilts his head down further, a ghost of a smile echoing on his lips, “I don’t mean to, sweet girl.”

Your eyes drop to the ground, biting your tongue. “Yeah.”

His simper grows, “I’m serious. I’d hate to scare away a new friend.”

You laugh at that and he perks up a bit at the sound, “What? We’re not friends?”

You cock your head to the side, “You’re the one who said none of your friends are here.”

He hums, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”

“You think so?” You should probably stop flirting so much. 

“Yeah,” he leans in a bit closer, “I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Maybe I want to be your friend,” his hand finds a place atop yours. 

Your eyes flicker across his face as he closes in, “What if I don’t want to be yours?”

His eyes are on your lips, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

You take a slow deep breath, “Your intentions are blurry.”

He smiles lightly, amused. “We’ll have to clear that up then, won’t we?” His lips are inches away and his voice is soft as he says, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

You look up at him eyes wide, barely processing his words as you nod. He gently grasps your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up. His other hand finds the back of your head, holding you in place as he kisses you with intention. Your hands hover in the air for a second before holding onto his forearms. 

He breaks the kiss only to give you another sweet one right after. Your mouths remain close when it’s over, eyes still shut, trying to catch your breath. You stay like that for a moment until he kisses you once more on your cheekbone before pulling away. His hands drop to rest on your knees, the weight of them gentle.

He hums lowly, “Sweet thing..”

Being under the heaviness of his gaze leaves you feeling vulnerable. It’s starting to get you concerned with the potential levity and implications of kissing him. The expectations.

“You…” you stare down at where his hands meet your skin, not quite sure that you actually meant to start that sentence. 

“What?” he frowns, brow pinched. Your chin lowers further as your mouth forms a tight line. He shakes his head, “No, it’s alright. What is it?” he asks gently.

It takes a surge of willpower for you to get the sentence out, “You just want to sleep with me..”

He frowns harder at that, pulling back a bit. “No. I’m…” he sighs, “I’m not trying to lure you in just to toss you out right after.”

That makes you look up again. His voice has a sincerity to it that you weren’t prepared for. 

He continues, “I would like to, yes. Yeah. You’re beautiful, of course I would, but..” he looks down at his hands before looking back up at you, “No, that’s not the most important thing to me.”

You break eye contact again, thinking over his words. If that’s not the most important thing to him, what is? You can’t think of what else he could possibly want from you, a billionaire who could have anything he wants..the only thing you could have to offer in his eyes is sex. 

Right?

He exhales, “If you want to leave, I’ll call you a car. No hard feelings.” He nudges your chin up gently so you’ll look at him, but he gives you the freedom to fight against it if you wanted to.

You let him move you.

“I don’t want to leave,” you tell him, looking into his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Whatever you want,” he says it like it’s automatic. You physically can’t help but roll your eyes at the corniness of it. He doubles down, though, “Seriously. Anything.”

You smile in disbelief, shaking your head.

“Alright,” he returns your smile, straightening, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Do you need a ride home?”

You blink at him, “I’m going home?”

“You are,” he nods softly, “Do you need a ride?”

“No.”

He nods again, more like he’s working through something in his head. “Okay. You’re going to go home and think through what you want. If you decide you want to, come back here next Saturday.” he stands up, extending his hand out to you, “Then you can let me know what else you want and we can get to work on that too.”

You start to shake your head, “I can—” 

He drops his chin seriously, “Think on it.”

You relent easily, taking his hand and coming to a stand.

“Alright?” Again, his question is genuine. He does really want to know if you’re on board with this plan. 

Already going against his request, you agree without a thought, “Okay.”

He starts to lead you back over to the garden door with a head nod and a kind smile.

It ultimately was not a decision you had to think very hard on.

You’d considered every scenario of how this could play out and none of them ended with regret as far as you could guess.

You’ll still admit though, there was one scenario you had missed, apparently, which is why you were immeasurably confused when you showed up and he invited you to play chess.

He’s not wearing a fancy three piece suit this time, but his clothes are still very nice. With the sunlight peeking through the windows, you’re able to see the manor more clearly than you had been the other night. It really is a beautiful home, clearly very old and charmed, but there’s a lot of little details of character and history scattered around. There’s portraits and photographs of his parents from when he was young and furniture decorated with trinkets all throughout, kept absolutely spotless and dust free. Everything is neat and tidy but there’s still traces of the house being lived in with the patched throw pillows and worn carpets. Still, it’s very, very placid.

You’ve met new money plenty of times over the course of dealing with countless businessmen for Mr. Mullins but old money is something entirely different. You don’t really have a frame of reference here. New money is almost always brash and demanding, they like things done quickly and correctly the first time around. They’re usually not very interested in hearing what you have to say (even if it would save them a lot of trouble) and prefer it when the assistants women keep their mouths shut. Bruce has proven to be very different from these standards already and you’re not sure where to begin with placing new ones.

You’re about halfway through a second game, and while you’re not awful at chess, you get the impression that he’s easing up on you considerably.

You sit on the floor in front of a short coffee table, the game having no clear lead so far.

“I think this is stressing me,” you mumble, no actual weight behind your words.

“It’s just chess,” he says, not looking up from the board.

You watch him move his knight forward as you ask, “And that’s all we’re doing?”

“As it stands, yes,” he looks up at you, though you don’t return his gaze.

“Yeah,” you sigh, sliding your rook, “But later?”

“Later?”

“Well, you said...” you meet his eyes, “You said you wanted to sleep with me.”

He nods slowly, “I do. Is that alright?”

You consider it for a moment. You already knew that, if you really weren’t okay with it you wouldn’t have come here. And yeah, the idea makes you a little shaky, but in a good way.

“Yes,” you tell him, moving your queen forward two spaces.

“Are you sure?” he presses, moving to sit on the side of the table rather than behind it.

You do the same, sitting on your knees. “Yeah, I just..” you shift your weight, eyes wandering. “I’m not…overly experienced.”

He just smiles at that, like it’s endearing. Your words didn’t quite convey your meaning but your tone did. In any case, he understands the implication. “That’s alright, sweetheart. I’m not going to throw you in the deep end.”

You nod, looking down again.

“You’re nervous,” he comments.

“No, I’m—I mean, maybe,” your voice is barely a murmur by the end of the sentence.

He’s quiet for a moment, observing the way you fiddle with your rings. “What if we get you something pretty to wear? Something that makes you feel pretty. Whatever you want.”

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, opening and pulling out a lump of cash without even looking. He holds the money out to you wordlessly and you can see from the bill on the outside that it’s at least a couple hundred dollars.

You shake your head instantly, “I can’t take that.”

He doesn’t put the money down but his eyes turn to begging. “Please. I just want you to feel good.”

“Bruce—”

He wavers a bit at that but it’s more of a falter than you’ve seen from him before so it’s easy to take notice of. “What?”

He shrugs barely, “I like when you say my name.”

Your eye contact holds for a moment and your resolve starts to shake almost instantly.

You exhale, “I’m not taking more than a hundred.”

“Two hundred.”

“Bruce.”

He smiles and picks out some of the cash and pockets it, handing you the rest. You don’t comment on the fact that it’s a hundred and fifty more than you’d agreed on.

You look down at the money in your hand like it’s a foreign object, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what to get.”

His thumbs start to rub reassuring circles by the bend of your knees, “Anything you want,” he tells you. “What do you like? Silk, lace, cotton, anything.”

You look up, tilting your head at him with a furrowed brow. “It doesn’t matter what I like, th—”

“It only matters what you like,” He says seriously, lowering himself to meet your gaze. “I’ll love it, no matter what you pick. Don’t worry about that.”

You lean forward a bit instinctually, “Okay.”

His eyes scan across your face in something that you can only recognize as awe.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you whisper.

“I want to kiss you again,” he says, voice even quieter.

Your eyes go to his mouth and you can only manage a nod, lips already parted.

He moves forward not a second later, kissing you with more fire than you’d gotten to see the other night. His hands grab at your waist, squeezing lightly as you hook one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

You hear the clatter of chess pieces falling over as he moves nearer to you, large frame leaning over you. You push up on your knees, meeting his lips up at his level. His hands caress around your hips as the kiss gets deeper.

You just start to fumble with the hem of his shirt when he takes your hands in his, pulling them away before breaking the kiss.

“Easy, sweet girl,” he smiles, nudging you back with little force.

You groan, “Why?”

He barks out a laugh at that, stroking your hips again. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on the floor.”

“Then let's go somewhere else,” you nod up towards the stairs.

He shakes his head, that soft smile still playing on his lips. “Not tonight.”

You sit back on your heels again, frowning.

He brushes your hair back, murmuring, “No. But for now, I'll kiss you ‘til you can’t think if that’s what you want.”

You really hope you didn’t perk up at that as much as you think you did.

part two

🌾🌽 i heard a rumor that if you like without reblogging your crops will be cursed but hey what do i know 🌾🌽

[selencgraphy]

— ♡ let's rest.

pairing: clark kent x reader

category: fluff

content warning: not nsfw but there is a makeout session. not proofread.

a/n: first time writing clark, hope i didn't mess up. can't wait for david corenswet superman :)). enjoy everyone :D

dividers by @cafekitsune

the ring of the bell roused you from your nap, wearily opening your eyes as you got up from the couch on stumbling legs. truly all you wanted was a tiny nap, work went overtime and your eyes were just so heavy and tired.

and your mind was still a mush as you padded your way across the hall, grimacing at the knocks even though they were very soft, but they had woken you up. in your mind it hadn't even been that long, in your mind that is.

so when you see Clark on the other side of the door through the little peephole, your mind takes a second. why is he there....

oh shit.

your eyes widened as you slapped a hand on your mouth, as if to contain that embarrassed gasp. a date, you were supposed to go on a date with him. you silently groan to yourself, heat creeping up your cheeks as you wonder just how the hell are you supposed to face him.

you're still in your work clothes, all crumpled and askew and you don't even look at the mess of your hair.

well looks like you have no choice but to face the shame, you just hope it doesn't let him down so much that he backs off. you've spent way too much time crushing on him to let it all go to drain.

taking a deep breath, you pat down your hair and clothes, making yourself as presentable as it was possible before opening the door. there he stood, all adorable and nervous, his blue eyes widening and not in a horrified way— instead it was filled with warmth, even appreciation maybe.

"im really sorry—"

"im sorry—"

both of you paused, you furrowed your brows and tilted your head a bit, "clark you don't need to apologise for anything. its me who took too long of a nap." you catch the dial of his watch and mentally curse at the time. a simple thirty minutes nap had somehow turned to more than two damn hours.

he shook his head, his soft black curls moving with him in a way that made him even more boyishly cute. "i should have known you were tired from work— you had that scoop you were working on. i shouldn't have suggested a date on a friday."

your heart warmed at how even now he doesn't seem the least bit deterred by your state, moreover he's apologising. you breathed out a soft laugh as you rubbed your face.

"you're such a gentleman." and despite the blush that immediately coated his cheeks, he played it off with a smirk, "I'll leave you to get back to your nap then."

you groaned softly and shook your head, grabbing his forearm on instinct as you gently gave him a tug towards your apartment. "if uh— well if you don't mind waiting, i can get ready and we can still go?" you suggested hesitantly, your eyes peering up at him.

your touch alone shook the poor man so bad, he stilled as if his brain just shut down, his muscles flexing beneath your hand out of pure instinct. "yeah. no yeah sure— of course." he said, giving you a sheepish smile before holding the bouquet towards you, "they're getting heavy in my hands."

you huffed out a small chuckle as you took the bouquet and walked in, leaving the door open so he can step in. "you really didn't have to."

"but i wanted to." he said pointedly with an amused smile and you shook your head, "uh so you want anything? water or tea- coffee? i have beer too if you want— i think.." you muttered as you ducked your head and hurried to the kitchen, suddenly self conscious.

the image of him in your apartment, made everything seem much... smaller, and thats understandable given his insane height. though you were grateful the rest of your apartment wasn't as much of a mess as your room.

"no im fine. don't worry." he reassured as he cleared his throat, looking around not so subtly, as if his eyes were absorbing all little details to every part of his brain.

"alright. I'll— i won't take much time, i promise." you swore with an apologetic smile before rushing in your room and closing the door.

it took you long, sadly, but you really couldn't help but fret and mess up while hurrying. you had to pause to take a deep breath and not lose your shit, cus you ruined your liner. but he stayed patient nonetheless, not much rustling around. you felt bad for making him wait for so long but then buried it, its better to focus on making the night better than beating yourself up.

you rushed out with a nonchalant yet apologetic smile, clutching your purse between your arm and side while hastily putting on earrings. "im done im done!" you were pretending to be calm, and cool while internally you merely hoped even for a sliver of that blush on his cheeks in response to your attire.

"hey there's no hurry—" he paused as he turned around, his lips freezing momentarily before he gulped. the tip of his ears had reddened as he stepped forward, gently pushing your hand away and putting on your earrings for you.

his eyes seemed focused on your ear, yet you weren't unaware to how intense they looked, how his fingers twitched to touch— and they did, much against his restraint, his index brushed against the side of your neck. tracing down, so agonisingly slow that it left goosebumps in its wake, till it reached the juncture between your collarbone and neck.

"you look uh—" he cleared his throat as he stepped back, looking slightly jolted as he forced out a smile that looked tight for some reason, "..absolutely gorgeous." he sighed out with a smile, as if resigning himself to you.

"that– shit you really know how to make someone blush huh." you huffed out, jokingly, to breathe through the tension that was suddenly between you two, "but thank you." you smiled as you pushed a strand behind your ears, skin still tingling from his touch.

"let's go." you said as you took your purse in your hand and walked past him, his eyes following you. but he didn't move even as you got your keys.

"clark?" you called out softly, brows furrowing, and his brows raised a bit , as if not yet fully out of whatever trance he is trapped in his mind. "hm?"

"i said lets go?" you drawled out more slowly, "you okay?"

he took a deep breath slowly as he nodded before walking towards you. he gently grabbed your shoulder before turning you around, your eyes widening while your heart flipped. what is he—

"you didn't zip it all the way." he murmured quietly, and you realised how close he was, his breath brushing your ear in a way that made warmth pool in your stomach.

"oh."

you were sure you did though, still you felt his fingers glide across your skin as he pulled the zip up. and even after it was done, he didn't pull away, his hands glued to your back and shoulder. you could feel the tension sizzling in the air, you knew what you wanted, what he wanted— even without having to look at him.

"weren't you tired from work?" he hummed out, sounding a bit lost and absentminded. it was a shock how such an innocent voice could sound like... that. "we can have a date here. watch a movie or cook or... or whatever you want." the suggestion wasn't supposed to come out as suggestive as it did. and he couldn't find it in himself to care.

with a gulp you turned around, your eyes fliting from his to the collars of his shirt and idly fixed them— they needed no fixing. you couldn't bear the weight of his stare, the want in his eyes, the burn in it— it mirrored your own, if not more intense.

"i think I'd like that more." you whispered and his hands automatically snaked around your waist.

"yeah?" he hummed teasingly, and that boyish charm was somehow replaced by the this pleased look, so amused at how immediately you agreed. "wanna rest more?"

your eyes narrowed playfully as your hand rested flat on his chest, while the other caressed the side of his neck— just like he did, "i don't think rest is what you have in mind, mr. kent."

"oh i meant after what i had in mind."

and in a second he was on you, your back pushed against the wall while one of his hand was braced beside your head and the other gripped your waist tight. his lips clashed against yours fervently, needy and hungry— yet not so much in a hurry. he wanted to savour it, savour you. take his sweet time.

"if i had known we would end up like this i wouldn't have bothered taking so much time." you huffed out a breathy laugh, which immediately turned into a gasp as he showered kisses on your neck, sucking on that sensitive spot.

"and missed the chance to see you get dressed up for me?" he pulled away, only for a second to flash you a smirk before his hands hooked under your thighs and lifted you up. "not a fucking chance."

lets say you were wayyy too spent later on to even lift a finger, much less watch a movie or do anything. him on the other hand immediately went to cook you something real nice, cus it does smell nice.

"filling me up again for more hm?" you teased jokingly but he just looked at you with an innocent smile.

"of course."

"...."

"clark i can barely walk—"

reblogs are much appreciated! :D

[selencgraphy]

The Weight of Your Regard

john walker x reader

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, Enemies to lovers, pride and prejudice inspired, Slow burn and eventual smut, Soft angst and emotional vulnerability

word count: 12k 

Summary:  After the Blip, a newly rebranded “New Avengers” initiative is launched— a PR-forward, multinational task force designed to stabilize world tensions, counter rogue super-powered threats, and rebuild trust. You, a sharp-tongued humanitarian turned government attaché, are appointed liaison to the New Avengers. You specialize in political diplomacy and ground intel, and you hate everything this initiative represents— especially John Walker, the golden boy turned controversial symbol of militarized heroism. John, for his part, is trying. He’s lost Lemar, lost the shield, his marriage is over, and every day feels like he’s being watched, judged, and expected to fail. He sees your disdain and assumes it’s just like everyone else’s. But it bothers him more. Because you’re smart. Because you’re good. Because you make his chest ache and his jaw clench every time you walk into a room.

notes – not proofread. This is part 1 of three! Happy Birthday Wyatt Russell lol

Tags: @its-in-the-woods @kumointhesky @crownofdecit @overwintering-soldier @butterflies-on-my-ashes @goldengubs @repulsive6713 @chili4prez @oraclic @justadaydreamingfangirl @fabimaou @multifandomgirl2018 @fortjackson @stupendousfarmsludgepaper @doriandotjpeg @loganficsonly @daddysbitchybaby @lalalunascope @chippedchina-teacup @jasontoddswhitestreak @randomnessfangirl (SO SORRY IF SOME OF THESE DIDNT WORK!! it wouldn't let me tag some of u. Lemme try to figure it out since i'm new to this hahah)

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The room smelled like printer toner, recycled air, and coffee so burnt it might’ve doubled as a war crime.

You stepped into the conference suite with your spine straight and your expression neutral, ID lanyard swinging from your neck. The hem of your skirt clung to the back of your thighs—D.C. humidity was a beast even with three-star clearance—but you didn’t adjust it. You didn’t touch your hair. You didn’t give them an opening.

The New Avengers Initiative’s headquarters was all glass and steel, its sleek modernity a hard pivot from the old S.H.I.E.L.D. days. Everything here gleamed. Even the people.

The briefing room sat in silence, early still. Light filtered in through floor-to-ceiling glass, casting long slashes across the obsidian table. The chairs weren’t all filled yet—but the ones that were, hummed with tension.

Yelena Belova sat with her boots kicked up on the table’s edge, picking something from beneath her nails. Alexei Shostakov, all muscle and bravado, hovered near the window, already mid-speech to a clearly-uninterested Bucky Barnes, who stood with arms crossed and eyes locked on some invisible point just beyond the glass.

Across the room, Ava Starr reviewed a data pad, posture rigid, brow furrowed. The only sound came from her rapid swipes and the faint rustling of her combat uniform.

And then—

Bootsteps. Even. Heavy. Confident.

The atmosphere shifted, subtle as a blade sliding free of its sheath.

He arrived late, of course.

John Walker.

You knew who he was before you turned your head—you’d read his entire file, highlighted it, cross-referenced it. Former Captain America. Stripped of the title. Rebranded and restored by her. Still raw with the scent of redemption and something darker.

You looked up.

And there he was. Bigger than you expected. Sharper. All square shoulders and hard lines, his body a testament to combat and consequence. He wore tactical black beneath a gray jacket with the sleeves rolled high, forearms tan and veined and confident. His hair was trimmed close to regulation. His mouth was a line that hadn’t bent in kindness in a long time.

He scanned the room with military precision. Logged everyone. And then his gaze hit you.

He looked—once—from your eyes to your mouth to your badge. Neutral. Clinical.

And dismissed you.

No double take. No interest. Just the faint crease of his brow as if wondering what admin desk you’d gotten lost from.

Something inside you curled, sharp and cold.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just returned to your dossier, as if his presence were unremarkable, as if his boots hadn’t just planted something stubborn and unwanted in your bloodstream.

He took the seat across from you. Far enough to avoid conversation. Close enough that you could hear the way his chair creaked when he leaned back.

You didn’t look at him again.

A moment later, the glass doors swung open. Every head turned.

Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine entered in stilettos that clicked like gunshots. Hair immaculate. Smile sharp enough to wound. She swept into the room like she owned it—because she did.

“Well,” she said, voice syrup over knives, “don’t we look like the world’s most dysfunctional little family.”

She tossed a folder on the table, her rings glinting under the lights. “We’ve got global instability in two hemispheres, rogue enhanced individuals popping up in civilian zones, and not nearly enough champagne. Let’s get started.”

You didn’t miss the way John Walker’s shoulders tensed as she passed behind him.

You didn’t miss the way she looked at you, either—the slight tilt of her head, the considering gleam in her eyes.

But you said nothing. You listened. You took notes.

And when your name was mentioned—liaison, conflict zones, interdepartmental neutrality—you nodded once, politely. A calm, deliberate gesture. You’d spent years perfecting that kind of nod: not obsequious, not challenging, just enough to register acknowledgment without vulnerability. You didn’t smile. Didn’t tilt your head. Let them all fill in the blanks however they liked.

But you felt it. The weight of a stare.

Not the usual kind. Not the lingering, lascivious look you were used to fielding from politicians and desk-bound colonels who’d never seen the inside of a live zone. No—this stare felt coiled, like something not quite hostile, but not harmless either. Like standing near a tripwire and knowing it’s there—knowing it won’t go off unless you touch it, but still… you feel it humming.

Your fingers didn’t twitch, but your breath did—just a little.

You turned your head. Smooth. Unhurried. And met his gaze.

John Walker was watching you.

Expression unreadable. Hands flat on the table in front of him, one gloved, the other not. His blue eyes fixed on yours with a look that didn’t quite register as curiosity or contempt—something more clinical. Like he was taking inventory of you. Weighing you against a metric he hadn’t even defined yet.

His stare didn’t flinch.

Neither did yours.

And for one full second, no one else in the room existed. Not Valentina with her blood-red lipstick and razored intentions. Not Yelena flicking a knife into the air like it was a coin toss. Not Bucky Barnes leaning back in his chair like the ghost of war made flesh.

Just you. And him.

And the fact that his jaw flexed.

Barely. A shift in muscle, a twitch of restraint. As if his teeth were grinding against words he’d chosen not to say.

Then—deliberately, without drama—he looked away.

But not fast. Not embarrassed. Just… done.

As if he’d come to a conclusion.

One you hadn’t spoken a single word to shape.

Something under your skin tightened, slow and unwelcome. Like a current rolling in, slow but inevitable, cold at first touch but promising to pull you deeper before you could decide to resist.

And just like that—without a single word, without a single smirk or insult or misplaced compliment—it began.

That silent tension. That burn of being seen and dismissed. Judged and categorized.

Not as a woman. Not as a threat.

As something else entirely.

You weren’t sure whether it made you want to prove him wrong or make him regret ever thinking he could figure you out that easily.

-

The meeting dissolved the way most of them did—a half-dozen directives spoken into the void, paperwork passed like a peace offering, and a closing line from Valentina that sounded like it belonged at the end of a Bond film.

“Try not to break anything important,” she purred as she stood. “At least not before the press tour.”

Yelena smirked. Alexei laughed—too loud, too long. Ava didn’t even look up. Bucky’s jaw ticked once before he stood and left the room without a word.

You rose more slowly.

The data packet Val had handed you needed authorizations and field notes, but you weren’t in a rush. You moved on instinct, drifting toward the edge of the table, fingers flipping the packet open while your eyes tracked the room in your periphery.

Yelena was already beside you.

“Can’t tell if you’re a fed or a knife in a silk dress,” she said, voice low, amused. Her accent curled like smoke over every syllable.

You offered her a neutral smile. “Does it matter?”

She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “God, I hope not.”

It wasn’t affection, not exactly—but it was something. A silent acknowledgment of mutual capability. The kind of respect forged in places the public never hears about, earned in tight, bloody spaces where the only thing more dangerous than the enemy is the person watching your six.

Alexei ambled up next, looming with all the subtlety of a freight train. He clapped a giant, meaty hand on your shoulder—the force nearly knocked your balance.

“You have very serious face,” he said in a gravel-thick Russian growl. “It’s good. These briefings are ridiculous.”

You straightened your blazer. “You mean you didn’t enjoy the three-hour monologue about regional stability metrics?”

He looked stricken, hand to heart. “I am still recovering. Possibly internal bleeding.”

You chuckled despite yourself—and caught movement in the corner of your eye.

John Walker. Still seated. Still watching.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone. Not even Val. Not even Bucky. He just sat there, arms crossed now, eyes unreadable. But his gaze kept flicking—to you. To Yelena beside you. To Alexei laughing. Then back to you.

He was clocking it. The rapport. The comfort. The fact that the others—rough, scarred, deeply complicated people—implicitly trusted you. Respected you.

You could see the gears turning behind his neutral facade, and you didn’t like what they were building.

“Don’t worry,” Ava said quietly, stepping up beside you. Her voice was cool, deliberate, precise. “He stares at everyone like that. He just doesn’t like not being the most useful person in the room.”

Your head tilted toward her, surprised by the solidarity.

Ava kept her eyes forward, but you saw the ghost of a smirk tug the corner of her mouth. “Come find me when you’re ready to run the ops metrics. You’ll want real numbers, not whatever spin Val’s feeding them.”

“I’d like that,” you said.

And again—that flicker. That look from him.

It came from across the room now, but it was just as heavy. He shifted slightly in his seat, arms uncrossing, palms resting flat on the table like he was steadying something.

You met his eyes. Didn’t blink.

He didn’t look away this time.

The two of you stayed like that—wordless, still, pinned in some invisible line of heat and scrutiny—until Bucky reentered the room.

Without ceremony, he tossed a tablet onto the table beside you.

“Satellite imaging’s garbage,” he said to no one in particular. “You’re gonna want boots on the ground to verify before anyone signs off.”

You raised a brow. “That’s what I said in my memo.”

He gave the smallest shrug, a nod that could’ve passed for agreement or indifference—but he wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at John.

John stood. Slowly. His gaze dropped to the tablet. Then to Bucky. Then—finally—back to you.

For a second, it looked like he might say something.

But he didn’t. He just walked past you. Quiet. Heavy. Controlled. Like a man who was holding back teeth. You didn’t realize how long you’d been standing still until Yelena’s voice broke the silence beside you again.

“Careful with that one,” she said, not unkindly. “He wants to be the good guy so bad he might break himself trying.”

You turned your head, eyes still fixed on the door he disappeared through. “Let him,” you murmured. “I’m not here to catch the pieces.

-

It started the next day.

Valentina had you embedded in mission prep—not for combat, not directly, but for what she called “operational fluidity.” Which was her euphemism for be the translator, the problem-solver, the handler, the fire extinguisher when these people inevitably light each other up.

You knew what the role was. And you knew how to own it.

Because unlike what most of them seemed to think, you didn’t get here by playing dress-up and smiling through debriefs. You had cut your teeth in collapsed buildings, bombed-out diplomatic posts, and airless conflict tents where no one cared about protocol—only results. You’d learned to keep the team alive and on message. It was never easy. And it had never been handed to you.

So when the mission planning started—a reconnaissance op in Northern Algeria tied to residual HYDRA tech—you didn’t hover. You didn’t flinch. You stepped into the war room with a pen behind your ear, boots on your feet, and three dozen files already cross-referenced.

And they noticed.

Not all at once. Not right away.

But over the next 48 hours, something started to shift.

Yelena stopped calling you “glam girl” and started calling you “bossy knife girl,” which, from her, felt like a promotion.

Ava paused mid-analysis, passed you her datapad, and said, “I don’t hate your logic flow,” like it was a love letter.

Bob brought you coffee without asking.

Even Bucky—silent and carved from guilt—grunted once in approval when you flagged a perimeter blind spot before he did.

But John?

John watched. From across the room. From the side of the table. From the shadow of whatever wall he leaned against like it owed him something. He didn’t say much. Didn’t compliment. Didn’t correct. Just stood there, arms folded, lips flat, eyes tracking you with that unreadable intensity.

You felt it every time.

When you set the satellite feed to multi-region overlay. When you rerouted a logistics bottleneck before it could cascade into a full comms breakdown. When you pulled two team leaders off each other during a jurisdictional turf war and sent them away with nothing but a sharp look and a calmer voice.

You weren’t flashy. You weren’t loud.

You were necessary.

And John Walker saw it.

You caught him one afternoon, standing beside Bucky and Ava as you laid out a side-channel evac protocol—eyes not on the map, but on you. Focused. Unblinking. Like he was trying to put you back into the box he’d built for you and realizing, maybe, you didn’t fit anymore.

You held his stare that time. Just for a second. He looked away first. Not a word. Not even a nod. But his jaw clenched. And when Valentina walked in ten minutes later and said, “Walker, I want you and our liaison to co-rep at the gala this Friday,” he didn’t argue. Didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak to you for the rest of the day.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you weren’t here to win him over. You had better things to do than worry about a man who couldn’t decide if he wanted to undermine you or undress you with his eyes.

-

The gala was one of those D.C. events designed less for diplomacy and more for donation. Polished floors. Dim lighting. Crisp champagne flutes passed by silent, gliding servers. A string quartet played music no one was listening to. Laughter echoed with the same hollow gloss as the polished speeches that would follow.

You moved through the room like you belonged there—and you did. Gown fluid and dark, tailored sharp at the waist, slit running just high enough to command attention without asking for it. The neckline was elegant, a soft plunge softened further by the way you carried your shoulders—high, certain, trained.

You weren’t here to flirt. You weren’t here to network. You were here because Valentina had insisted all senior liaisons be visible.

Visible. Not loud. Not involved. Just present.

You could already hear her words in your head: Look useful. Look beautiful. Make the Initiative look like the future instead of a PR disaster waiting to happen. She hadn’t said it out loud. She never did. But you got the message.

So you smiled politely. Engaged in light, practiced conversation with a French diplomat near the bar. Sipped a half-glass of champagne. Listened for names and key phrases to clock in your notes later.

But then you felt it again. That shift in the air.

Not the soft sweep of a new arrival. Not the stir of another diplomat or senator with their too-smooth cologne and glad-handing smiles. This was something else. A ripple. A drag of gravity that made the hairs on the back of your neck lift before your mind caught up.

He was here.

A heaviness. Not atmospheric—personal. Physical. Like the room had suddenly grown smaller. Like the oxygen had to reroute around his body just to keep moving.

You didn’t turn right away. You didn’t need to. You could feel his gaze like sunlight through a magnifying glass—too focused, too hot, searing a line straight into the side of your face.

John Walker.

You knew it was him before you saw the shadow falling over the marble floor. Knew it from the way your breath subtly changed tempo, how your spine tried to straighten instinctively—not to impress, but to hold your ground. As if your body knew something your brain was still pretending not to.

But eventually, inevitably, you glanced sideways. And your breath caught. He looked—

Exactly how a man like him shouldn’t look in formalwear.

He didn’t fit into it. He wore through it.

The suit was black, sharp at the lapels, tailored within an inch of his life. No tie. Collar open just enough to reveal the cut of his throat—golden skin, tense tendons, the suggestion of a vein that pulsed when his teeth were clenched like that. The crisp white collar framed it like a weapon display case.

His sleeves were rolled once at the forearm. Casual. Intentional. The cords of muscle there flexed when his fingers tensed in his pockets—and they were tense. Every line of his body buzzed with that tightly leashed frustration he carried like a second skin. He looked like a man dressed for war but forced into a ballroom. Like someone who’d much rather throw a punch than make small talk.

But it was his eyes that burned.

Blue, sharp, framed by lashes that didn’t deserve to belong to someone that angry. They tracked you from across the room with total focus—a hunter’s gaze, narrowed and unblinking. There was nothing passive in it. No casual appreciation. No flattery.

He was devouring you.

Not with a smile. Not with charm. But with sheer, blistering attention. Like he didn’t want to be looking but couldn’t stop. Like something in him had betrayed him—and he was pissed about it.

You saw the exact moment his eyes dropped. From your face… to your collarbone… down the slope of your neckline. Not leering. Not hungry, even—just stunned. Caught in some quiet little loop, like he didn’t expect it to get to him.

You caught the micro-expressions as they flared and vanished. 

The sharp flicker of his brow. The slight part of his lips—not quite a gasp, but a breath pulled too quickly. The twitch of his fingers in his pocket. The way his tongue darted out just barely to wet the corner of his mouth.

And then—just like he had during that first briefing—he shut it down. Cut it off. Looked away like it hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t seen it. Like you hadn’t caught him in the act of wanting.

But this time?

This time you noticed more.

The subtle bob of his throat, the forced swallow like he was choking on the backwash of his own restraint. The hollow grind of his jaw, flexing just once under his cheekbone. The flare of his nostrils as he inhaled like he needed to cool his blood. The way his shoulders rose a fraction higher—a subconscious brace against the tension winding tighter across his chest.

He was trying to reset himself. Trying to pretend his body hadn’t reacted.

But you saw. You felt it. And worse: he knew you saw.

The connection between you hadn’t lasted more than four seconds. But your skin was still warm where his eyes had landed. And the heat crawling down your spine now wasn’t from the ambient temperature. It was him. The shadow he left behind even after he looked away.

You were just turning back to your conversation when you caught a voice behind you. Familiar. Low and amused. A rumble like someone laughing with a mouthful of gravel.

“Better hope she doesn’t try to join the field teams,” Bob said, almost fond. “She’ll smile those diplomats into submission and make the rest of us look bad.”

You nearly smiled. It was a backhanded compliment, but from him, it was a kind of warmth. His way of saying you had a weapon all your own.

Then—

Another voice. Cooler. Sharper.

Measured like a blade.

“No danger of that,” John Walker said. “She wouldn’t know what to do outside of a press room anyway.”

Your body went still.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. You didn’t drop your glass or whirl around or call him out across the crowd. It was subtler than that. More surgical.

Your fingertips tightened just slightly around the stem of your champagne flute. Your shoulders dropped half an inch—not in defeat, but in bracing. The quiet, private shift of a body absorbing impact.

Your pulse thrummed once at the base of your throat. Then again, harder. And again.

You didn’t turn around. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing your face. You just stood there. Let the words hang. Let them burn.

Wouldn’t know what to do.

Press room.

Diplomatic. Non-combative. Useless.

He said it like a fact. Like a classification.

You weren’t a threat. You weren’t even a participant. You were a prop in his eyes. A podium with legs. Something soft and sleek designed to make the rest of them look more palatable.

He knew better. He knew. And he still said it. Which meant it wasn’t ignorance. It was a choice. And that made it unforgivable. 

And the worst part? He didn’t sound angry.

He sounded bored.  As if your usefulness ended the second you stepped outside a media briefing.

The insult wasn’t loud enough to draw the attention of the room, but it wasn’t quiet either. It was perfectly pitched for its target. You. Loud enough that he wanted you to hear. Maybe not to fight him on it—but to feel it. To carry it.

A precision strike.

You could almost admire the aim, if it hadn’t landed so fucking clean.

Your conversation partner’s voice kept droning, something about urban infrastructure aid packages. You weren’t listening anymore. Your blood buzzed. Not with shame—not exactly—but with that particular kind of heat that builds when someone cuts you open and expects you to bleed politely.

You let the conversation die off gently, nodded once, excused yourself with a smile that felt brittle at the edges. And then you walked. Not away. Not in retreat.

You glided.

Through the crowd, head high, spine straight. Past waiters with silver trays, past politicians you’d shaken hands with earlier. Past John, who barely flicked his gaze to you as you passed—but not before you caught the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth.

He’d seen you walking away. He knew what you’d heard.

And he didn’t apologize.

The ballroom was ahead, golden-lit and echoing with music meant for dancing, not feeling. The kind of piece that blurred into background ambiance at high-end charity galas. A waltz—slow, sweeping, elegant. Most people weren’t dancing.

You weren’t in the mood to play nice anymore. So you walked across the marble floor like it belonged to you. You didn’t look back but you knew he was watching you go. Knew it the way you knew the heat of stage lights without needing to see the source. Knew it in the way your skin flushed beneath your gown, the way the echo of his voice still rang in your ears—like the aftershock of a slap you weren’t supposed to flinch at.

So you stood near the dance floor and waited.

You didn’t know what for, not really.

A partner. An opportunity. A reason to make him feel small.

And when he came to you—hand extended, mouth set in something that might’ve been contrition or challenge or nothing at all—you took it.

Because if he wanted to pretend, so could you.

The music swelled in the distance—strings lifting with practiced grace, some long-forgotten waltz written to make power look effortless. The ballroom flickered gold and white under the chandeliers, and John Walker was standing in front of you like something carved out of a darker era.

Suit sharp. Shoulders squared. Mouth tight with something he didn’t quite say. His hand hovered there. Open. Waiting.

You stared at it for a beat too long. Long enough to remind him you didn’t owe him politeness. Long enough to make him wait. Just one second more than what was comfortable.

Then—wordlessly—you slipped your fingers into his.

His palm was warm. Rough. Callused in ways that hadn’t softened since the serum. He didn’t wear gloves tonight, and you felt everything—every scrape of skin, every muscle twitch, every shift in control the moment your fingers met.

His expression didn’t change. Not at first. But you felt the shift in him. The subtle inhale. The way his grip adjusted, firm and grounding, like his body had responded before his brain could stop it.

He led you to the floor without a word. No pleasantries. No apology.

Fine. You didn’t want one.

His hand slid to your waist—too low. Not scandalously, not enough to make a scene, but just enough that it made your lungs catch. His fingers spanned wide, heat seeping through the thin silk of your gown like a brand. The other hand held yours aloft, formal, practiced.

You’d danced a thousand times in rooms like this. With men who thought they were clever, charming, powerful. But none of them held you like this. Like you were a problem. Like he was bracing himself against the pull of you.

You started to move.

He knew the steps. Of course he did. His posture was clean, his rhythm tight, his lead unapologetic. But it wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t effortless.

It was controlled.

Every turn felt like it might snap if either of you pressed just a little harder. Every pivot pulled your bodies too close. His thigh brushed yours with every step, and he didn’t adjust. Didn’t give you space.

You didn’t either.

The silence between you was louder than the music. Every breath felt weighted. Every heartbeat echoed off polished marble.

His thumb—still resting at your hip—shifted just slightly. A half-inch up. Then another. His pinky finger pressed against the edge of your lower back, just below where propriety should’ve stopped him.

You arched a brow, not looking at him. “Careful. You might look like you’re enjoying this.”

He exhaled a quiet huff—part laugh, part curse. “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”

“And you’re not nearly as intimidating in a suit as you wish you were.”

That earned a flash of something in his eyes. Not anger. Not quite. Something hotter. Rougher.

“You’ve been working hard on your little image,” you added, voice still low. “You should be careful. Wouldn’t want to make the mistake of looking human.”

His fingers tightened at your waist. Just enough to make your breath hitch.

The two of you turned again, bodies sweeping in time with the music. His mouth was close now—so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek as he leaned in, voice a gravel scrape just above a whisper, “You love making me look like an asshole, don’t you?”

It wasn’t a question.

You smiled, slow and sharp. Kept your gaze straight ahead. “Only because you make it so easy.”

His breath caught—just for a second. His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it anchored harder.

Your bodies swayed, inches from colliding with every pass. His jaw was tight. His hand slid infinitesimally higher on your back, and your fingers curled just slightly against his shoulder, nails grazing fabric and muscle.

You were close enough to feel the way his chest rose, fast and shallow now. Close enough to sense that his restraint was a live wire—stretched thin, snapping at the edges.

He spun you once, and when you landed back in his arms, his hand didn’t land where it had before. It landed lower.

Too low.

Your thigh brushed between his. Deliberately.

You didn’t pull back. The song reached its final notes. A soft, gliding diminuendo. The strings lingered. So did he.

The room applauded.

He didn’t let go. Not until you leaned in—lips near his jaw—and said quietly, “Better luck next time, Dimestore Captain.”

Then you stepped back.

Detached.

Lifted your chin and walked off the floor without looking back. But you knew what you’d left behind. A man whose hands still remembered your waist. Whose breath still tasted your perfume. Whose pulse was still racing.

And who would never, ever, think of you as soft again.

-

The rain was the cold, stinging kind that didn’t fall—it slapped. Sharp against the exposed stretch of your neck, soaking through the seams of your collar, matting the fabric of your jacket to your skin. The village had no paved roads, only packed dirt now turned to sludge under the weight of flood trucks and heavy boots. The smell was earth and diesel, smoke from old cooking fires and the sharp tang of rusted metal stripped for scrap.

You ducked beneath the low-hanging corrugated roof of the command post—a makeshift shelter built from tarps and tension rods—and exhaled slow through your nose.

Your eyes scanned the area automatically: downed power lines, shallow trenches of pooled water, a collapsed schoolhouse at the edge of the main road. Temporary aid tents dotted the edge of the flood zone, guarded by the scowl of two local militia leaders who hated each other and hated you only slightly less.

Another day in paradise.

You heard him before you saw him.

Boots. Heavy. Purposeful. The rhythm precise—not hurried, not casual. The kind of stride that said I don’t ask for space. I take it.

John Walker emerged from the side of the medical tent, sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, gloves tucked into the waistband of his tactical pants. His hair was damp, pushed back, and curling faintly at the edges. Mud clung to his boots and splattered halfway up his calves. His face was flushed with exertion.

He looked like the cover of a recruitment poster—or the guy you’d fight against in a bar just to prove a point.

And he stopped dead when he saw you.

You stood there, clipboard in one hand, headset in the other, wind catching the hem of your jacket, rain streaking down the side of your face. Your hair was pulled back in a braid—practical, no-nonsense, just like everything else about your gear. Combat boots. Kevlar vest. Utility belt clipped with a medical satchel and a sidearm you hadn’t had to use yet.

You saw his eyes flicker down—the braid, the vest, the boots. Not leering. Not even appreciative. Assessing. And for one brief, searing moment, you saw something sharp spark behind his eyes.

Recognition. And maybe… regret.

You stepped past him without slowing.

“Supply cache just arrived,” you said. “Half the crates are mislabelled, and the other half are covered in mold.”

“I’ll handle it,” he replied gruffly.

“I already am.”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

The friction between you had sharpened since the gala. That night had shifted something—or maybe just exposed it. You’d danced. He’d insulted you. You’d cut him to the bone with words he probably hadn’t stopped thinking about. And now you were on assignment together, playing nice for the cameras and Valentina’s quarterly metrics.

You worked around each other like rival chefs in a cramped kitchen—never quite colliding, never quite cooperating. His voice grated against your patience. Your voice hit every nerve in his spine.

And yet…

He kept drifting near.

You’d find him reviewing perimeter maps you’d annotated. Catch him watching you negotiate an equipment trade with the village chief like he was listening for how you did it. When he disagreed, he didn’t argue—not outright. He asked questions. Short ones. Tight. But questions all the same.

And you?

You hated the way he moved.

Hated the way he carried a generator over one shoulder like it weighed nothing, the rain sliding over his biceps as he dropped it beside the power shed with a grunt. Hated the way he barked orders in French with better fluency than you expected. Hated that the children didn’t flinch when he passed—they lit up. Ran up to him. Tugged on his jacket, and he smiled. Soft. Almost… shy.

You hated it.

Because it made things harder. Made him harder to hate.

And then, three hours later, the gunfire started. It was distant at first—sharp cracks of suppressed rounds slicing through the jungle tree line. Then screaming. Radio static. A flash grenade detonated two streets away, and you were already moving before you registered the call sign.

“Team Bravo is pinned—northeast quadrant, school ruins.”

You ran.

Mud kicked up against your shins, the earth soft and uneven beneath every step. Rain blurred your vision, drumming against your shoulders, turning the village into a smear of gray and movement. Your boots hit the packed dirt hard—one, two, three—until the edges of the world narrowed into sound.

Gunfire. Short bursts. Suppressed.

Shouting—guttural, fast. Not English.

Then a cry. A crash. Metal on brick. Wood splintering. A grunt that felt too close.

You turned sharply around the corner of the tent rows, breath tight, legs burning, your heart hammering against the inside of your chest like it was trying to warn you.

Another scream. This time, not pain. Impact.

You sprinted past the edge of the medic station and—

Saw him.

John Walker, soaked in rain, fists slick with blood and mud, moving like he was born for this.

One man lunged at him with a baton—he sidestepped, pivoted, and slammed a punch into his gut with enough force to lift the man off his feet. Another came from behind—John ducked low, sweeping his leg out in a clean, brutal arc that sent the attacker face-first into the mud.

You barely had time to register the third before John caught his arm, twisted it behind his back, and used the man’s own momentum to drive him shoulder-first into the side of the schoolhouse. A bone-crunching crack echoed against the rain.

The fourth hesitated—younger, maybe—rifle shaking as he tried to aim.

John didn’t.

He surged forward, grabbed the barrel, and turned it just enough before slamming his knee into the kid’s chest, sending him sprawling into the mud, gasping, wheezing, but alive.

That was the part that hit you. He wasn’t killing them. He was moving like he could. Like he’d done it before. Like it would’ve been easier.

But he wasn’t.

He was holding back. Barely. Like a beast on a leash. And it made every strike mean more.

Made it scarier.

The fifth man rushed him with a knife—short blade, clumsy form. John caught his wrist, twisted, and punched him once—just once—in the jaw.

The man crumpled.

You stood there. Frozen. Rain sliding down your face, breath catching, boots sinking into the soaked earth.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

He stood still for a second, chest heaving, fists clenched. Blood ran from a gash along his cheekbone, mixing with the rain. His eyes were wild. Focused. Like he hadn’t quite come down yet. His body buzzed with the aftershock of adrenaline.

Then his head turned and his eyes locked on yours.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. But your pulse roared in your ears.

Because you’d seen it now—all of it.

The strength. The precision. The control. The choice.

You saw him hurt them. You saw him not kill them. And maybe worse, you saw what it cost him to hold back.

His mouth was parted, breath fast. Water streamed from his hair, plastering it to his forehead. He looked like a storm still breaking—like the center of it was right there, inside him.

Neither of you moved.

The man with the broken wrist groaned at your feet, reaching for his discarded weapon. You didn’t kneel. Just kicked it away and looked back at John.

His shoulders shifted. Not relaxed. Not yet. He was still braced for the next wave.

But he nodded once. Barely. Like he trusted you to cover him if it came.

You didn’t nod back but you didn’t look away either.

But the silence said everything.

I saw that. I saw you.

You didn’t praise him.

He didn’t ask.

You approached, knelt beside the groaning man, and checked his pulse. Knocked out, but breathing. Disarmed. Alive.

John didn’t move. He stood just behind you, silent, close, radiating heat like a live weapon.

You hated the way your hands shook. You told yourself it was adrenaline.

-

Later, when the perimeter was secured and the med teams rolled in—bright lights cutting through the dark like searchlights, radios squawking in three languages, stretchers moving through the wreckage—you found your way back to the command post.

The makeshift tent still stank of canvas and wet boots and the sour metallic tang of old MREs, but it was out of the rain. A miracle in itself. Someone had set up a hot plate near the gear wall. A chipped mug of tea steamed between your hands, cheap and over-steeped but blessedly warm. The ache in your legs was a low, pleasant throb. Your pulse had finally settled. You were safe.

Or as close to safe as you ever got.

Your uniform was clean again—or cleaner. The damp, torn one you’d stripped off in the triage tent was now drying near the space heater, leaving you in backup fatigues that didn’t quite fit right. Your braid hung wet against your back, heavier than usual. Your boots had been rinsed and scrubbed. Your fingers, though raw, no longer shook.

You stood alone, leaning one hip against the edge of the ops table, sipping slowly, listening absently to the quiet hum of post-crisis routine.

And then you heard his footsteps.

He didn’t stomp. Didn’t storm in like some brooding action figure, though God knew he could. His tread was heavy but controlled, deliberate in each step. The kind of presence that made people look up, even if he didn’t want them to.

You looked up anyway.

John Walker entered the tent looking like war incarnate.

Not in the way he had earlier—not blood-slick and righteous, fists dripping with authority. This was the aftermath. His face was smeared with dirt. The cut along his cheekbone had been cleaned but not bandaged. His shirt was half unzipped at the collar, revealing dark bruising beneath his collarbone. His hair was damp, curling messily at the temples. He looked older. Rougher. Real.

And then he saw you.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no double take. No full-body freeze. Just… a pause. Barely noticeable.

He slowed.

His eyes found yours and for a few breathless, razor-thin seconds, he didn’t look away.

You didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

But something passed between you—quiet, heavy, unmistakable. It wasn’t the same loathing that sparked back at the gala. It wasn’t disdain, or irritation, or even surprise.

It was something heavier.

Recognition.

A kind of reluctant clarity. Like he’d just been handed proof that contradicted everything he’d decided about you.

You weren’t a handler. You weren’t a mouthpiece.

You were field-proven. Tactical. Capable. And you hadn’t flinched when the gunfire started.

He’d seen it. All of it.

You should’ve gloated. Should’ve taken the opportunity to arch an eyebrow, sip your tea, and rub salt in the quiet shame settling behind his eyes.

But you didn’t. Because you knew what you saw, too. A man capable of ruthless, brutal efficiency—yes. But also a man who stayed behind to shield a child when the crossfire came. A man who took a knife to the arm and didn’t stop moving. A man who stood in the rain and let himself feel it after it was over.

The way he was looking at you now?

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t warm. But it wasn’t indifferent, either.

It was careful. Weighed. Like he was seeing you—really seeing you—for the first time, and wasn’t sure how to reconcile that with the woman he’d tried to write off as decoration.

You wondered what it cost him, just to stand there. 

The tea in your mug cooled another degree.

He looked like he wanted to say something. Just a flicker—a tightening at the jaw, a shift in his stance, the slightest widening of his mouth before it closed again. But nothing came. The words stayed behind his teeth.

And just like that, he nodded once—sharp, minimal—and kept walking.

No swagger. No smirk.

Just silence.

You watched him go, the tent flap swaying in his wake. Didn’t chase him. Didn’t smile. But your hand curled tighter around your mug because something had shifted.

Not enough to break anything.

But enough to change the weather.

-

The motel room was as miserable as you expected—two beds, one flickering light, a bathroom that reeked faintly of mildew, and a window sealed shut with duct tape. The TV was bolted to the dresser and played static on every channel. A single fan hummed in the corner like it was trying not to wake a ghost.

But it was dry. And it was off the grid. And that was enough.

You tossed your bag onto the bed nearest the window without asking. He let you. You peeled off your jacket in stiff, tired motions, your body soaked through and aching—not from injury, but from adrenaline. From the weight of what you’d seen.

You still hadn’t spoken.

Not in the jeep ride over. Not during cleanup. Not while Val crackled over the comms, praising restraint like it was currency.

But it sat between you now. Unsaid.

You could feel his presence behind you—heavy, warm, silent. You refused to turn around. Not yet.

Because if you did, you’d see it again. The way he moved. The way his fists landed. The sound of bone against wet earth. The exact position of his shoulders when he pivoted and dropped a man like he was weightless.

You shouldn’t have been watching him that closely.

But you had.

And now your body wouldn’t let you forget it.

You exhaled slow, trying to shake the heat pooling low in your spine.

“Say it,” he muttered.

You turned, slowly, like a wire pulled too tight. “Say what?”

He stood across the room in low yellow light, backlit and brooding, peeling off his gloves like he wanted to rip the skin off with them. His hair was still wet from scrubbing the blood away, darker at the temples, jaw locked so tight you could see the muscles tremble.

“Whatever it is you’re holding in.” He flung the gloves down onto the dresser. “You’ve been quiet for hours. It’s not like you. You never shut up.”

You stared at him, breath sticking somewhere behind your ribs.

“Maybe I don’t always need to speak,” you said coldly, arms folding across your chest. “Maybe silence is better than saying something I’ll regret.”

He scoffed, stepped forward. “No. You’d rather say it. Dress it up. Lace it with sarcasm and pretty words so you can still feel self-righteous when you’re done.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” you snapped. “Coming from a man who wears a uniform like armor and still can’t take a fucking compliment.”

“You weren’t complimenting me.”

“No,” you hissed. “And you can’t stand that, can you?”

His brow furrowed, storm building. “You’re pissed.”

“No,” you said, louder. “You’re pissed because I didn’t fall to my knees and thank you for knocking out five armed men like it was a fucking demonstration for your highlight reel.”

He stepped closer, the air between you compressing with static. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not.”

“Oh, really?” Your laugh cracked out—brittle and sharp. “Because from where I stood, you looked real proud of what you did. Proud of how fast they dropped. Proud of how clean it looked.”

His eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t proud. I was trying to end it without killing anyone.”

You flinched—just barely—because that part mattered.

It did.

And he knew it.

You looked at him. At the fading bruise on his cheekbone. The curve of his shoulder where it had tensed before every blow. The part of you that watched him in that moment—the way he moved, the violence inside him, the restraint.

You swallowed hard.

“And you did,” you said, quieter now, but still cutting. “You didn’t kill anyone.”

He stared at you.

And you weren’t done.

“But don’t pretend it cost you something, Walker. I saw you.”

He blinked once.

“I saw the way you smiled after that last punch. Just for a second. Like it felt good.”

His mouth twitched—not a smile. Something else. Something uglier.

“And what, you’re suddenly a mind reader now?” he asked, voice dark. “You gonna tell me how I feel, too?”

“I don’t need to,” you shot back. “You wear it all over your face. You like hurting people.”

“I like stopping them,” he growled. “And I did.”

You took a step forward, unable to stop yourself. “And you think that makes you some kind of hero?”

He stepped forward too. “No. I think it makes me useful. Which is more than I can say for you.”

Your breath hitched.

That one landed.

Hard.

You stiffened, eyes narrowing to slits. “Go fuck yourself.”

He didn’t flinch. He just stared at you like he wanted to throw you against the wall—not to hurt you. Not really. But to shut you up. To get closer. To do something about whatever the hell this was.

“And there it is,” he said low. “The fire. All that polish, all those perfectly neutral sentences in the briefings—but here you are, ready to burn.”

You gave a slow, cold smile. “Only because you bring out the worst in people.”

He took one more step, and now you were too close. You could feel the heat off his skin. See the tension in his neck. The way his pupils were blown, not just with anger—with something else.

“Or maybe you’ve been waiting for someone to drag it out of you,” he said.

You stared up at him, breath quick. Your fists clenched.

“You don’t know me,” you said. Quiet. Seething.

“And you don’t want me to,” he returned.

And then he turned—fast—like it took everything in him not to say more. Like he had to walk away or he’d do something he couldn’t take back.

He stormed toward the door. Jaw tight. Shoulders rigid. Hand already rising to the knob—

“Where are you going?” you bit out, sharp as a blade.

“Out.”

“Of course.” You let the words slice. “That’s what you do, right? You leave before anyone can get close. You punch your way through every problem but the second it gets personal, you bail.”

He froze.

Didn’t turn.

You kept going.

“You’d rather get shot at than admit you feel anything. God forbid someone see you and not salute.”

His hand dropped.

He turned back—slow, controlled. His voice came low and tight.

“I’m not walking away.”

And this time? He didn’t.

-

You didn’t talk the rest of the night.

Not after the argument. Not after the door never closed behind him. Not after he stayed.

You took your bag into the bathroom, hands still shaking as you peeled off your damp clothes. You stood under the fluorescent light like it might bleach the heat from your skin, your mind replaying every word—every vicious, splintering word.

You’d both gone too far. Or maybe you hadn’t gone far enough.

You changed. Washed your face. Stared at yourself in the mirror until the edges of your reflection blurred. Your jaw was tight. Your throat ached.

And when you came back out, the room was dim.

The overhead light had been switched off. Only the yellow lamp on the nightstand buzzed softly, casting a low glow across the walls. The air had gone still—warm and too quiet. Humid with breath and silence and tension that hadn’t dissipated, just shifted into something quieter. He was on the far bed, one arm slung over his eyes, the rise and fall of his chest slow, deliberate.

Pretending to sleep.

You didn’t believe it for a second.

But you didn’t call him on it. Didn’t offer a truce. Didn’t ask if he meant what he said—that he wasn’t walking away. That he saw something in you. That he hated that he saw it.

You climbed into your bed, pulling the scratchy motel blanket up over your legs. The sheets were clean, but cold. Damp from the air.

You lay on your back and stared at the ceiling.

And remembered.

Not just the argument—though that replayed in your chest like a bruise every time you breathed. Not just the sting of his voice when he threw your fears back at you like weapons.

No. What you remembered most was the fight.

The one in the rain.

The way he moved.

The crunch of bone. The hollow thud of a body hitting mud. The clean arc of his shoulder as he dodged one swing and landed another—effortless, brutal, measured. He wasn’t out of control. Not even close. Every blow had been calculated.

He could’ve broken them.

He didn’t.

And then afterward—the way he looked at you. Rain dripping down his face. Jaw flexing. Eyes locked. Not asking for praise. Not asking for forgiveness.

Just… seeing you.

That was the worst part. The thing you couldn’t unfeel.

You shifted under the blanket, restless, skin prickling. Your thighs pressed together automatically. Your breath shallowed.

It wasn’t arousal. Not exactly.

It was adrenaline. Residual heat. A side effect of tension that had no place to go.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You told yourself it was just the aftermath of combat, of yelling, of him being too close, too much. That you weren’t thinking about his hands. Or the muscle in his back when he stretched. Or the way his voice dropped when he was angry—low and dangerous and infuriatingly compelling.

You told yourself none of that mattered.

You lied to yourself.

Quietly. Desperately.

Until sleep finally took you like a storm retreating—not gentle, not forgiving.

Just delayed.

-

You woke to silence.

Not peace—just the absence of motion. The kind of silence that stretches long and taut, like the seconds before a storm hits.

Dim gray light bled through the cracked motel blinds, striping the stained ceiling in slanted lines. The air was still—heavy with sleep, rain-damp fabric, motel bleach, and something else.

Him.

You exhaled slowly. Your limbs ached, not from injury, but from tension. From coiled restraint. From everything you hadn’t said after the argument, and all the things you’d said instead. Things meant to cut. Things meant to hurt. Some of them had.

Your throat was dry. Your heart still beat a little faster than it should’ve.

And then—

You heard it.

Breathing. Deep. Controlled. Close.

You turned your head, cautiously.

And your breath caught like a punch to the ribs.

He was standing by the window.

Shirtless.

Stretching.

One arm lifted high, the other pulled across his chest, his entire frame flexed and fluid in the soft gray morning. His back was to you—long, wide, strong. Every line of muscle under his skin carved by violence and years of control.

His skin was tan, the curve of his shoulder thick and solid, tapering into his waist in a way that made your stomach twist. Light freckles dusted the tops of his shoulders, pale against the tension that lived in him—the kind you couldn’t stretch out, only burn through.

There were scars, too.

Faint. Ragged. Older than they should’ve been.

You couldn’t stop looking.

You didn’t mean to—you told yourself that—but your eyes dragged down the flex of his spine, the slope of his lower back, the waistband of his sweatpants riding low, revealing the deep V of muscle that disappeared below.

Your lips parted before you could stop them.

Don’t.

Don’t be this person. Don’t want him. Don’t want someone who says the things he said.

But your body was already betraying you.

Because now you were thinking about the way he moved. The way he fought. The sound of his voice when it dropped low in anger, how close he’d gotten, how much you wanted to shove him just to feel his hands on you again.

You blinked—hard.

And that’s when he turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough.

Caught you.

Your stomach flipped. Your heart jolted up into your throat.

His mouth curved, slow and knowing. Still half-lidded from sleep, but amused now. Sharp.

“Should’ve said good morning,” he said, voice husky and low, “if you were gonna check me out.”

You froze.

Heat flooded your face so fast it almost made you dizzy.

And then you did the only thing you could do.

You rolled over and shoved your face into the pillow like it could smother the flush in your cheeks, the pulse pounding between your thighs, and the humiliating truth that he’d caught you so easily.

Behind you, he chuckled.

A low, rough sound that wrapped around your spine like a hand.

It shouldn’t have felt good.

It did.

You didn’t look again.

But you could feel him smiling.

And worse—you wanted to look. You just didn’t know what would happen if you did.

-

The rain had stopped by morning, but the sky was still bruised.

Clouds hung low over the empty road as you and John made your way into the nearest town—if it could be called that. Just a few rusted metal roofs, a gas pump with no card reader, and a diner that had probably looked this tired since the ’60s.

You didn’t talk much on the way there.

You didn’t need to.

The tension had a rhythm now. A weight.

He hadn’t apologized. You hadn’t either. But something in the air between you had shifted since the motel—since the moment you rolled over and buried your face in a pillow instead of meeting his gaze. He hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t said another word. Just got dressed and let the silence sit between you.

Now, you were seated at a sticky vinyl booth inside a place called June’s, and the heat was back.

Not the humid motel heat—this was something else.

Something alive.

The booth was cramped, narrow, clearly not meant for someone as big as him. He sat across from you at first, stretching one long arm along the back of the seat, knee bouncing absently under the table.

But when the waitress—June herself, apparently—came over and pointed out the leak in the ceiling dripping right onto his half of the booth, he slid out and sat next to you instead.

“Don’t worry,” he’d said, too casual, eyes flicking sideways. “I won’t bite.”

You hadn’t responded. You were too busy trying not to notice how the booth dipped slightly toward him, how his thigh pressed lightly against yours now under the table, radiating heat.

The coffee was terrible.

The pancakes were dry.

And every time his arm brushed yours, you forgot how to swallow.

You cut another forkful, pushing syrup around your plate, and tried to focus on the intel report open on your tablet. A weak signal flickered at the top of the screen, but the file had downloaded last night. You’d been hoping to review it in silence.

That…wasn’t going well.

“Do you always read during meals?” John asked beside you, low.

You didn’t look up. “Do you always stretch shirtless in front of people you fought with the night before?”

You felt more than heard the huff of laughter that left him. It brushed your cheek. You hated that it made your pulse skip.

“Well,” he said slowly, “if I remember right… you were the one watching.”

You did look at him then.

He had that look on—the half-smirk, eyes narrowed just enough to look dangerous, smug in a way that made you want to elbow him in the ribs and straddle him in the same breath.

“Keep dreaming,” you said coolly.

“I didn’t say you liked it,” he said. “Just said you were looking.”

Your fork hit the plate a little too hard.

The clatter made June look over from behind the counter. You offered a tight smile. John didn’t.

He shifted slightly beside you, knee pressing more firmly into yours under the table. He didn’t move away.

And you realized—he hadn’t moved away all morning.

Not in the booth. Not when his thigh brushed yours. Not when his shoulder knocked into your arm while reaching for the sugar.

It wasn’t an accident.

You swallowed.

“This is professional,” you said under your breath.

“Sure,” he replied, voice low and smooth. “Two professionals. Sitting close. Talking pancakes.”

Your pulse jumped.

You turned to face him fully now, lips parting—to say what, you didn’t know—but his eyes were already on you.

Heavy. Intent.

For a second, the air pulled tight.

You could feel it—that thin edge between hatred and heat. Like if either of you leaned an inch closer, it would all come spilling out.

Then your phone buzzed. A signal spike.

You blinked, dragging your gaze away.

“Good timing,” you said, grabbing the tablet. “Mission brief’s updated.”

“Saved by the bell,” he muttered.

But he was still smiling.

And his knee stayed right where it was—pressed into yours.

-

You finished the pancakes, or tried to. They were dry enough to scrape the roof of your mouth, and the coffee tasted like burned toast. But the silence had shifted again—now that the teasing was over, now that you’d looked him in the eye and not leaned in—there was something looser in the air. Not relaxed. Just…fraying.

Your tablet buzzed again, then blinked to life with a priority alert.

John leaned over your shoulder—too close again—to glance at the screen. You felt the heat of his breath on your temple. Pretended not to.

“Mission update,” you murmured, scrolling down.

You both scanned the alert, posture stiffening in unison.

NEW TASKING: Subjective Intel Reassessment

Location: Zone A7 (Border Village)

Priority: High

Agents Assigned: Walker, [Your Name]

Objective: Secure transport and intercept courier en route to secondary target.

John made a low noise in his throat. “Courier intercept. That’s not what we came out here for.”

“No,” you agreed, reading further. “It’s what they sent my team here for.”

Your name and his were listed together again. Just like last time. This time, bolded. No backup.

You looked at him.

He was already watching you.

“This from Val?” he asked.

“Probably,” you said. “She likes to shuffle the board mid-play.”

He leaned back in the booth, arms crossed. His biceps pulled tight against his sleeves. His expression had gone from amused to edged. Focused. Something was working behind his eyes—gears you couldn’t quite follow.

“She’s testing us,” you said quietly. “This isn’t coincidence.”

“No,” he muttered. “She wants to see if we can work together without killing each other.”

“Mm,” you hummed, picking up your coffee. “Optimistic.”

He looked sideways at you.

Your knees were still touching under the table. Neither of you had moved.

You didn’t break the contact.

“Courier’s dangerous?” he asked.

“Looks like HYDRA remnant ties,” you said, showing him the file. “Carrying encoded documents they don’t want scanned remotely. Needs to be done in-person.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So we get the drive and decrypt it in the field.”

You gave a tired nod. “Off the grid. No external support.”

“Two beds again?” he asked, too casual.

You didn’t answer.

He smirked. Just a little.

But when your eyes met again, something cooled between you—not from lack of heat, but from the weight of what this meant. Another assignment. Another stretch of time in close proximity. The two of you alone, again. After everything.

This time, neither of you would be able to pretend it didn’t affect you.

You gathered the tablet and stood.

“Transport leaves in thirty minutes,” you said. “We’ll gear up at the outpost.”

John followed you out of the booth, one hand pressed lightly to the small of your back as you passed June behind the counter.

You didn’t flinch from the touch.

But your pulse climbed. Again.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

-

The forward outpost was little more than a metal shed with Wi-Fi, camouflage netting, and three grumpy medics. It had been quiet when you left it yesterday—quiet when the rain started, quiet when the supplies were unloaded, quiet when you’d come back soaked and furious and wordless with John Walker beside you.

Now, it buzzed with quiet activity. Voices low. Boots on gravel.

You signed off on the mission packet. Downloaded the courier route to your encrypted tracker. Verified the field gear assigned to both of you: standard pack, coms, light armor, sidearm, suppressed secondary, ID kit.

John stood on the other side of the table—hair still damp, a day’s stubble shadowing his jaw—checking the loadout like it was muscle memory. He hadn’t spoken since the diner. But every movement was…aware.

Aware of you.

You could feel it like heat. Like pressure behind glass.

You tightened the strap across your chest and adjusted the plates on your vest, checking the position of the radio mic. A small sigh escaped when it caught on your shoulder. He glanced up at the sound. Watched you. Eyes following the line of your hand as it moved across your chest.

“Too tight?” he asked, voice low.

You looked up. “Just off-center.”

His gaze didn’t move. “Let me.”

You arched a brow. “I can handle—”

But he was already crossing the space between you.

Slow. Deliberate.

No sudden movements. No swagger. Just the heavy certainty of a man who knew exactly what he was doing—or maybe didn’t, not all the way—but had stopped caring about second-guessing himself.

You didn’t back up.

You didn’t stop him.

You just stood there, heart ticking faster with every step he took, as the air between you collapsed into something sharp and close. Your fingers curled loosely around the edge of the table behind you—anchor, warning, mistake.

He reached out.

And touched you.

It wasn’t much. Not at first. Just fingers on the strap that cut across your collarbone, tugging it gently into place. His touch was light—professional, technically. Steady. But there was nothing professional about how slow he was. How he didn’t rush. How his palm grazed your chest, his knuckles dragged near the base of your neck as he adjusted the webbing.

You weren’t breathing right.

His other hand rose, pressing the armor plate back into alignment with a little more pressure. His thumb slipped near your sternum, close enough to feel the flutter of your pulse. He didn’t stop. Just dragged the Velcro loose and then tightened the strap, firm and controlled.

Your breath hitched.

He didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe that was the point.

He leaned in just slightly, breath brushing the side of your face. The scent of him hit you all at once—fresh fabric, clean sweat, metal from the gear on his belt. Soap. Aftershave. Warm skin.

You felt it like a heat between your ribs.

He was close.

Too close.

The strap clicked into place. The Velcro hissed as he pressed it flat.

“There,” he said.

But he didn’t move.

Not right away.

You tilted your head—slow, cautious, disbelieving.

And your eyes met his.

Dead-on. Direct. Close enough to kiss.

He didn’t look away. Not this time. His expression was unreadable, but his pupils were dark. Lips parted. Jaw locked. Every line of his face drawn tight like he was barely holding something back.

Your pulse thudded.

He looked at your mouth.

Then back to your eyes.

“Comfortable now?” he asked, voice low, nearly hoarse.

It wasn’t the question that made your throat go dry.

It was the way he said it.

You swallowed. “Fine.”

Your voice wasn’t steady.

His hand lingered a second longer. Just there. Ghosting your shoulder. Like he was memorizing it. Mapping the space between touch and restraint.

Then—he dropped it. Took a step back. And just like that, the air rushed back into your lungs.

Neither of you said anything after that. Not when you finished gearing up. Not when you slipped your pack over one shoulder and led the way out into the wind.

The transport was already waiting.

A flat-black tactical SUV, reinforced but discreet, engine low and steady. You opened the passenger-side door, slipping into the front seat just as John climbed in behind the wheel.

The interior was close. Sealed tight. The smell of dust and leather and ozone from the rain clung to every surface.

He adjusted the rearview mirror. You adjusted your mic.

Then he looked at you. “You good?”

You nodded once. “You?”

He stared a second too long. Then turned the key in the ignition.

The vehicle rumbled to life.

You didn’t speak again until you were halfway down the road, the outpost shrinking in the rearview, the trees blurring past on either side. The mission lay ahead. The courier. The intercept. The encrypted drive.

But all you could feel was the press of the seat beneath you.

The press of his fingers against your collarbone. The breath on your cheek. The closeness of a man who hadn’t kissed you yet—

But almost did.

-

The route into Zone A7 took just under three hours. Most of it silent.

The roads wound high into the hills, then dropped into flat, wind-carved valleys that blurred into dust at the edges. Pockets of brush. Empty stretches of farmland. A handful of abandoned checkpoints. The kind of place no one official bothered with anymore—unless HYDRA crawled back through the cracks.

Your eyes stayed on the intel tablet.

John drove.

Neither of you said much.

Not about the mission. Not about the moment in the outpost. Not about the way his hands had lingered near your collarbone like he wanted something from you. Something he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask for.

Now, you both wore masks of professionalism. Flat voices. Short words. No eye contact.

But it simmered under the surface. Like pressure building against the back of your teeth.

You reached the intercept zone just before noon. A thin, sun-bleached village with mud-washed walls and red tile roofs. Children played in the dust. A fruit vendor called out from a stall beneath a faded tarp. It looked normal.

Which meant something was wrong.

The courier didn’t look like a threat—just a man in a beige jacket with a metal case cuffed to his wrist. Civilian clothes. Sunglasses. He moved like someone used to being watched but not followed.

You didn’t ask John for input.

You moved.

Boots on dirt. Eyes locked on the target. You stepped off the main road and into the alley, the sun slicing down between two broken rooftops as the man with the cuffed briefcase rounded the corner ahead. Beige jacket, sunglasses, nondescript demeanor—but his posture stiffened when he saw you.

He stopped.

You didn’t.

“Sir,” you called. Calm. Even. “I need you to come with me.”

The man’s gaze flicked over your gear. The badge clipped to your vest. The mic near your collarbone. He smiled—sharp and not kind.

“Authority?” he asked. “From who?”

“Inter-agency operations,” you said, stepping closer. “Your case matches an item flagged in a joint HYDRA intelligence raid. You can come quietly or—”

“I’m a contractor,” he snapped. “This is a mistake.”

His hand twitched. You clocked the motion—the left side, shoulder rotation, subtle. Not nervous. Preparing.

Your fingers tightened on your sidearm.

John’s shadow moved at the far end of the alley.

The man saw it.

He bolted.

“Shit,” you muttered.

John cut across the other end, intercepting with brutal speed. He moved like a predator—one second calm, the next surgical in his pursuit. He didn’t shout. Didn’t give warning.

He just closed the distance.

You turned the corner as it happened.

The man pulled something from inside his coat—a short, gleaming blade. Civilian screams erupted from the open square behind you.

John grabbed his wrist.

There was a scuffle. Quick. Loud. A body slammed hard against brick.

The briefcase was ripped loose, clattering against the stone.

You didn’t see everything—just the blur of movement, the crack of an elbow, the short grunt as John shoved the courier against the wall with enough force to drop him. Not a kill shot. But hard. Fast. Deliberate.

“Got it,” you breathed, crouching to retrieve the case.

The lock blinked red. The casing was dented. But intact.

And then—

The screaming started again.

Different this time.

Panic.

You spun toward the square—

And saw him.

A second figure.

You hadn’t seen him before. He must’ve been watching the alley. Waiting. Camouflaged behind the old transport truck. Military-grade camo jacket. Shaved head. Boots coated in sand. And in his hands—

A stun rifle.

High-caliber. Scaled for riot control. And it wasn’t pointed at you.

It was aimed at the fruit stand.

At the kids.

Everything in you screamed.

There was no time.

You didn’t call out.

You didn’t hesitate.

You moved.

Drew. Aimed. Fired.

The first shot missed—not by much. He turned.

You shot again.

The bullet caught him in the chest. Not fatal, but enough. His body jolted backward, rifle clattering to the dirt.

The screaming dulled.

Dust settled.

The alley behind you was quiet.

The kids were okay.

You were still holding the case. Still breathing hard. Still braced like something else might happen.

But nothing did.

You just stood there, heart hammering, as the reality settled in.

The second man wasn’t a decoy. He was a safeguard. The kind of backup that didn’t care who got hurt as long as the primary package got away.

And you had taken him out.

Not John.

You.

But your hands?

They were shaking.

You stared at them. At your own fingers around the grip of your sidearm. At the tiny tremble in your knuckles.

John approached from behind—slower now. You didn’t turn.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t say good job. Didn’t say thank you. Didn’t say anything.

He just stood behind you. Close. Breathing hard. Watching the same scene unfold as the village slowly returned to motion.

Somewhere in the distance, a bird called. The wind stirred.

Your skin felt like fire.

And your heart—

Wouldn’t slow down.

-

You didn’t speak during exfiltration.

The secure case rested between you in the back of the armored truck, its LED still blinking red, dust coating the ridged surface. You sat stiffly, side by side. Neither of you took your eyes off the walls of the truck bed, as if anything outside might try to claw its way in.

Your ears still rang faintly from the shots. Your fingers flexed, twitching against the seam of your thigh.

John hadn’t said a word since the second body dropped.

You weren’t sure if it was restraint or calculation.

The ride was short. Ten minutes, maybe. You felt every second. Every bump in the road vibrated through the metal and up your spine. Every inhale you took was sharp, shallow, like your body hadn’t quite convinced itself the mission was over.

By the time the outpost came into view again, the inside of the transport was too quiet.

Too full.

Too much.

-

The debrief room was above the old medical building. Windowless. Stale light buzzing overhead. A folding table. Two mismatched chairs. Cracked linoleum underfoot.

You sat first.

John didn’t.

He paced. Stripped off his jacket. Dropped it over the back of a chair. Unclipped his holster. Checked his knuckles—still scraped. Washed his hands in the corner sink with the water turned up too high.

You watched him.

You couldn’t stop.

It wasn’t attraction. It wasn’t even anger. It was everything. The adrenaline. The noise. The way he slammed that first guy into the wall like it didn’t cost him a thought. The way he didn’t thank you when you pulled the trigger.

The way he looked at you afterward. Like maybe it mattered that you could.

He looked at you in the mirror above the sink. Eyes catching yours. Tension held like a live wire between you.

And that was when he spoke.

Low. Tight. Like the words didn’t come easily.

“You shouldn’t have been the one to take the shot.”

You blinked.

Excuse me?

“You hesitated,” he continued, still not facing you fully. “With the courier. I was already handling it.”

You stood.

Fast.

“You were handling one man,” you said. “There were two.”

He turned now. Fully. The towel he’d used to dry his hands hung limp in one fist. “You shouldn’t have had to do it,” he said. “That’s my job.”

“No, your job is to do it when it needs to be done,” you snapped. “Not to decide who’s allowed to help.”

His jaw ticked. “You were shaking.”

“I’m still shaking.” You stepped closer. Not backing down. “But I’d do it again.”

John didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His chest rose, heavy and slow.

“Do you like this?” you asked, quieter now. “Being the one who chooses when it turns violent?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Your voice cracked. “You slammed a man into a wall today because you could. Because you wanted it over. That part of you—the part that doesn’t hesitate—it’s terrifying.”

His voice dropped. “But it works.”

You were close now. Too close. The room felt like it had shrunk around you. Oxygen in short supply.

“I don’t need to be saved from my own trigger finger,” you whispered.

“Then stop looking at me like I’m your goddamn executioner.” He stepped forward and slammed his palm on the wall beside your head.

Hard.

Not violent—but loud. Intentional. Dominant. His body was a wall. His hand braced beside your temple. His heat inescapable.

You didn’t flinch.

You looked up at him.

And breathed harder.

Your pulse drummed against your throat. Your lips were parted. Every inch of you was humming with aftershock—with rage, with pride, with a craving you didn’t want to name.

“You think I don’t see it?” he muttered. “The way you looked at me after I dropped them. You weren’t scared.”

“No,” you said, breathless. “I wasn’t.”

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

Yours to his throat.

This is where he could kiss you. This is where he should leave.

You didn’t back down. You stood your ground with his hand on the wall beside your head, his chest rising in tight, slow breaths, his jaw clenched like restraint was a losing battle.

Your heart was pounding.

You could feel his breath. Smell the heat of him. Read the flickers in his face he clearly didn’t want you to see.

Something broke open between you.

You weren’t scared. He knew that.

That’s what pushed him over the edge.

His lips parted, tongue darting against the inside of his cheek, like he was trying to find something smart to say. Something cutting.

But all that came out was a low, sharp, “Ah, fuck it.”

And then—

He kissed you.

Hard.

Fast.

Hungry.

His hand slid from the wall to your jaw, gripping just firm enough to tilt your face to his. His mouth crashed into yours like it had been waiting—burning—for this moment since the first time you’d made him look twice.

You gasped against him.

His other hand found your waist, yanking you forward with no finesse, no apology. You landed hard against his chest, his body heat devouring yours. You grabbed at his shirt—for balance, for anchoring, for revenge. You weren’t sure.

He groaned.

You kissed him back. Desperate. Open-mouthed. All teeth and heat and fuck you for being so much.

You bit his bottom lip. He smiled into it and deepened the kiss.

Your spine hit the wall. He pressed in, knee braced between yours, his body slotting against yours like it had always belonged there, like it had been aching for it.

He kissed you like he hated you for making him want it so badly.

You kissed him like you hated yourself for needing it just as much.

You didn’t know where his hands were anymore. Yours were in his hair, on his shoulder, gripping his belt—his fingers skimmed your waist, your hip, your ribs. Everything between you sparked and burned and collapsed.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t kind.

But it was real.

Too real.

And just when it was about to go further—just when his hand gripped your thigh to hike it over his hip, and your mouth dropped open on a gasp you didn’t mean to give—

He pulled back.

Breathing hard. Forehead resting against yours. His fingers still dug into your side. Your hands fisted in the front of his shirt.

Silence stretched.

You could still taste him.

“Shit.” He was the one to speak first. Low. Rough.

You nodded. Barely. “Yeah.”

He stepped back like it hurt to do it. Didn’t look at you. Didn’t apologize.

You didn’t, either. You smoothed your shirt. Cleared your throat. Pretended the red in your face was from adrenaline.

Neither of you said another word.

Not for the rest of the night.

But when you lay awake in the too-small bunk down the hall, the taste of him still on your lips, every part of you strung tight like a live wire. 

You didn’t sleep.

And when you did finally drift—

You dreamed about his hands.

[selencgraphy]

₊˚⊹౨ sunflowers and warm mornings ৎ ₊˚⊹

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹clark kent x reader

a/n: this is pure fluff soo i hope you enjoy!! c:

You were used to quiet mornings at the Kent farm. The scent of fresh hay mixed with coffee always found a way into your nose before you even opened your eyes. But this morning, something was different. You blinked sleepily and turned over in bed, only to find a note tucked beside your pillow. In Clark’s neat, unmistakably earnest handwriting:

“Morning, sleepyhead. Come to the barn. Bring your smile. -C”

A slow, goofy grin tugged at your lips. Throwing on your favourite cardigan, you padded barefoot across the warm wooden floor and headed outside. The morning sunlight danced on the dewy grass as you made your way to the barn, where you found Clark standing in front of a makeshift breakfast spread: a thick blanket, thermos of coffee, and a basket of warm muffins from Mrs. Kent’s recipe.

“You did all this?” you asked, voice still rough with sleep.

Clark turned around with that boyish smile. “Told you I had super-speed. Thought maybe I’d use it for something important—like getting blueberry muffins from the oven to your stomach in under five minutes.”

You laughed and walked into his arms without hesitation. He pulled you in close, wrapping you in the warmth of his flannel and the gentle strength that somehow never made you feel small—just safe.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he murmured against your hair. “You’ve been working so hard lately. Thought maybe a slow morning would be nice.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze—those soft blue eyes, the ones that always looked at you like you were something worth saving, even when you didn’t feel that way.

“This is perfect,” you whispered.

After breakfast, Clark took your hand and guided you behind the barn, where he’d set up a hammock between two old oak trees. You climbed in together, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart and the rustle of leaves above.

"You know," you mumbled, "when I first met you, I thought you were just the shy farm boy with the unfairly pretty face.”

Clark chuckled. “And now?”

“Now I know you’re also the world’s biggest softie.”

“You’re not wrong.”

He kissed the top of your head and pulled the blanket tighter around you both. As the morning faded into afternoon, and the sunflowers behind the barn turned toward the light, you both lay in peaceful silence—until Clark whispered, “Let’s stay here forever.”

You looked up at him, nose crinkling. “In the hammock?”

“No.” He smiled. “In this life. You and me. Just like this.”

Your heart swelled so much it felt like it might float away. You didn’t need elaborate dates or expensive gifts. You had Clark, and that was enough.