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@callsign-alpine
Being a girl is: wanting to go to bed early but deciding to just get on tumblr/wattpad/Ao3 for a little bit and then end up finding a fic series that you really like and read until well past your usual bedtime then keeping on because it’s already past your bedtime. Then being mad when you wake up in the morning because you overslept your timer.
your honor, I am guilty at all charges 😎
When I tell you this set was just the greatest time for a guy who loves college football…who is like a goofy kid who just loves playing dress up and playing pretend and getting to work with this ensemble.
his journey from chad radwell to chad powers have taken a long time but, I'm so happy with the state he's in right now ❤️🥹
Gojo with a secret wife that he doesn’t inform the elders about, not even the students, barely even his friends - you’re his secret, just for him.
Gojo with a secret wife who visits him during work sometimes, dropping off the lunch that he forgot, humming sweet things to him that makes the strongest flush - and everyone’s wondering just who you are.
Gojo with a secret wife who everyone asks about (‘how the hell did he pull you?’); because there’s no way the strongest is married, right? No way someone can stand him long enough? No way a weapon could? And yet- they see the way he looks at you, and there’s no way you could be anything but married.
Just wait until he tells them about your kids.
release the mini gojosss
Keeper of the Stars
Summary: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x fe!Reader -> After Natasha presents you with an idea on how to save your family business and legacy, you start to realise maybe marrying Jake Seresin wasn't such a bad idea after all.
Disclaimer: Mostly domestic/wedding fluff, frenemies to lovers, marriage of convenience, reader has to be married in order to inherit her bakery, one bed trope, bit of a slow burn, slow 90s country ballads, mutual pining, he falls first.
“Remind me again why I’m doing this?”
Jake stood behind you, holding your shoulders steady. “Because you love me.”
You paused a little before saying, “That doesn’t sound like me.”
Jake shrugged. “Because you don’t have any other option.”
“Are you sure?”
Jake nodded as he rounded you and stood beside you. The wooden doors seemed to be getting taller. Was that even possible?
“Yep,” Jake told you. “I was there, remember? A total of a gazillion hours and this is your only suitable option.”
You groaned a little, popping your knee back and forth wishing a hole would just open up beneath you and swallow you whole.
“I hate this.”
You could hear the smile growing on Jake’s face. He was enjoying your pain way too much. Looking at him, you watched as he just shrugged.
“It’ll be fun.”
With a loud creak, the doors in front of you both opened wide and the classic wedding march started playing.
If someone had told you three years ago that the one guy on Bradley’s team – the one guy you rarely were able to hold a conversation with, without it turning into a fight – would be the one guy who would step up and come to your rescue in your hour of need…you wouldn’t have believed them.
Jake Seresin wasn’t even the last person on the list of potential suitors to be your husband. Because he wasn’t on the list, full stop.
Until a gazillion hours ago when Natasha, after suspiciously looking between you and Jake who had maintained your usual ten feet distance from one another, gave an extra idea to help save your ass. As well as your business, home and family legacy.
Apparently, when your Great-Aunt didn’t have any kids, nor did she get married, thought it was best to leave a stipulation in her will.
In order to inherit the family business – the one you had been running for her since she retired – and the house – the one that the original bakery was built into – you had to be married.
So, with the fear of losing everything you’d worked at for the last dozen years of your life – on your own, at least – you found yourself agreeing to the last thing you thought you would ever do.
Marry Jake Seresin.
With a quick exchange of vows, a swift (if a little awkward) kiss and papers being signed, you found yourself no longer carrying the same name as your Great Aunt, but rather Jake’s.
“Okay, so,” Natasha started as she pushed you and your husband towards the covered doors of The Hard Deck. “We all kinda know this wedding is a sham, but that doesn’t mean it should be treated like one. And since this is our rare collective week off, we couldn’t let the opportunity go. So, welcome to your Reception. And yes, there will be a first dance.”
“Nat!”
Natasha just smiled and pushed you through the doors as Bob and Coyote held them open.
“Holy shit,” Jake said, a little taken aback.
“You can say that again.”
“Holy shit,” he repeated.
You just looked at him, but only for a second since Bob opened up his mouth with a chuckle.
“Cute. Their first married couple moment.”
Nat smiled as she pushed you both further inside. They’d gone all out. Wedding banners, childhood photos, a decorative dancefloor, a stacked bar, a wedding cake from your bakery, a DJ…it would take you at least six hours to take it all in.
Then people started arriving.
Your family, Jake’s family, the rest of the Dagger Squad, a couple of locals that had paid Penny a lot of money to be able to see the last two people they ever thought would get married do exactly that.
Penny laughed as she took their money, saying she’ll set up a trust fund for your first born child.
“Does your family know?” Jake asked you, quietly, as you looped your arm through his.
You shook your head. “No. Do yours?”
Jake shook his head. “No. What did you tell your folks?”
“As far as they knew, my Great Aunt was leaving everything to me anyway. They have their own legacies they wanted to create, so they were happy for me. They didn’t know about the stipulation.”
Jake gave you a slightly confused look. “Okay, so what did you tell them about me?”
“Well,” you didn’t know why you were nervous admitting something like this to Jake. Especially considering the amount of times you hadn’t thought twice about telling him to fuck off to his face. “I’m not really open with my love life. I told them I’d been seeing someone for almost a year and that I was getting married. They…they were shocked. Very shocked. But…happy. Why, what did you tell your folks?”
“That…” Jake hesitated for a moment before looking back at you. Jesus, it was like his gaze bore into your soul as he spoke. “That I’d met this really great girl and that I was marrying her.”
“That’s it?”
Jake nodded. “That’s it.”
“Nothing else? No time line? Or stipulation? Nothing?”
Jake shook his head. “Figured I’d leave that up to you. Whatever you decide, I’ll back you.”
You took a breath before nodding. “Okay. Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” You jumped as Bradley appeared beside you both. “The DJ is ready when you are. Mav had the mic so he’s gonna introduce you.”
“Intoduce us? For what?” You asked, but Bradley just smiled.
“Your first dance.”
As if on cue, Mav’s voice rang out of the speakers before a spotlight moved around from the ceiling until it landed on both you and Jake.
“Okay, can I get a big welcome for Mr and Mrs Seresin!”
Mrs Seresin.
You were a Mrs.
You were a Seresin.
“Jake.”
Seeing your panic, Jake simply took your hand and enveloped it in his before leading you towards the middle of the dancefloor as Mav’s voice continued talking over the speakers.
“I-I don’t-I don’t know how to dance,” you quickly told him. “God, what song are they gonna play?”
“Natasha seems to have done a lot of this, so it shouldn’t be too bad. And, hey.” You looked at Jake as he took you in his arms as if it was second nature. “Just focus on me. Trust me. I won’t let you fall.”
“Promise?”
Jake smiled with a small nod as Mav announced the first dance. “I promise. Just trust me, okay?”
You no longer had a voice to use so you just nodded.
As people sat down at booths and tables, clapping, the DJ started playing the music; A slow country ballad When I Said I Do by Clint Black.
And, slowly swaying in the middle of the floor for the first half of the song, you tried not to concentrate too hard on the lyrics or the way it felt being held by Jake. After all, less than a month ago, you’d been having an argument in this very bar about being stuck on the same team for a game of pool.
But, somewhere between the melody and the strangely comforting feeling of Jake’s palm resting against your back, you relaxed into him and felt yourself get lost in the feeling.
Only for a moment.
Because the moment the song faded away, Mav’s voice was whooping back over the speakers and congratulating both yourself and Jake.
What followed, despite your internal warning alarm blaring for you to run away and hide for the rest of eternity, was the seven most heart-warming and heart-breaking hours of your life.
Your family blended so well with Jake’s. His mom and dad loved you, saying as much more than once. And just as much as they were happy to finally have someone to call their daughter, your family was ecstatic over having someone to call their son.
Unbeknownst to them, however, it was all fake.
The moment the twelve month stipulation was over, you and Jake would be filing for divorce immediately. Obviously, the twelve months would be a lot shorter if the circumstances were different around the kind of man you’d chosen to marry.
But Jake wasn’t like that.
For as much as you never got along with him, there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he wouldn’t hurt you. Never intentionally, at least.
Annoyance, on the other hand? You and him competed with each other as if it was a goddamn sport.
Finally, as the night drew to a close (at least for you and Jake), people whooped and whistled as Jake helped you into the car Penny had hired to drive you both back home.
Supposedly the home you and Jake were meant to be living in together.
So far, he had one box inside your home.
“What time do you need to be up?” Jake asked you as you both walked up the back stairs of your bakery/home.
“Around four.”
“Even after our wedding?”
“It’s not like we’re having an actual wedding night. I plan on digging out my comfiest pajamas and falling straight to sleep.”
Jake smiled, locking your front door as you walked inside ahead of him. “So, uh, I have something to ask you?”
“Considering you willingly married me to save basically my entire life, I don’t think I can say no.”
Jake chuckled. “I appreciate that, but like I said earlier, you don’t have to thank me. And, you might want to say no to this.”
Popping your head back around the corner from the short hallway to your bedroom, you looked at Jake. “Oh, no.”
Still in his suit, if he did look a little worn out from the day. Even more so as he ran a nervous hand through his hair.
“My folks…they want to get to know you better. They asked if they could come and spend the day with us before we go on our honeymoon.”
“We’re having a honeymoon?”
Jake shrugged. “They think we are. I just didn’t tell them any different.”
“Well…” You paused for a moment. “I-I don’t really know what to do. I’ve never been a daughter-in-law before.”
“I could invite them to the bakery. They’d get to see you in action. Maybe find out more about you.”
You grimaced a little. “How badly do you think it’s gonna bite me in the ass when we get divorced in a year?”
Jake felt a little dejected but recovered quickly enough. “Not too much.”
“Then…okay.”
“Okay?”
You nodded. “Okay. But, shit, which day?”
“They said Tuesday.”
Today was Friday.
You nodded and Jake could already see the cogs turning in your head. “Okay. So, we get your stuff moved in here over the weekend…maybe Natasha will have pictures.”
“Pictures?” Jake asked, following you as you moved throughout your apartment.
In your bedroom you found a notepad and pen and started making a list as you ducked in and out of each room.
“We need to make it believable, right? The lawyer just checked the legality of our marriage but my Aunt was thorough. And, I suspect, so will her lawyer. He’ll probably interview our families to see if they actually witnessed us getting married.”
Jake chuckled, catching you in the middle of the hallway. “Okay, we can worry about this tomorrow. Right now, we both need sleep. Decent sleep. Not pre-fake-wedding jitters sleep.”
“You couldn’t sleep either?”
“Okay,” Jake said as she took the notepad and pen from you and laid it on the desk before he turned your shoulders and pushed you towards your bathroom. “Get dressed, I’m gonna find some extra blankets and-”
“You can stay in my room,” you said quickly. “With me. We’ve both had shitty sleep and there’s no point in you sleeping on the sofa. I doubt you’ll have a comfortable sleep and, well, I owe you. Big time.”
Jake shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything. But if the offer stands, then I’ll accept. Your bed does look comfortable."
With a firm nod you agreed before shutting the door to get dressed.
Despite the initial awkwardness of sleeping in the same bed as your new frenemie/husband, the tiredness took over pretty quickly. The next thing you knew, your body clock went off with your alarm and you were tiredly pulling yourself from your bed.
After a quick shower and throwing on the most presentable and comfiest clothes you owned, you made your way downstairs, through the storage units of the bakery and landed inside the kitchen.
With your headphones on, you started working.
Cookies, brownies, cakes, flapjacks – all done in huge batches of different flavours. Your Great-Aunt had started a chain of bakeries and, although you’d try to visit the most local ones as often as you could, working in the original establishment kept you pretty busy.
Beside the sweet treats, lunch was also served. As well as a lot of savoury pieces which, due to the lack of sleep before your wedding you had prepped already.
Just as your wedding came back into your head, so did everything that happened afterwards. The quiet ride home with Jake, the congratulations texts as you walked through the door which you were yet to open, the question from Jake and-
Jake.
He was still asleep when you left him. At least, you thought he was. If not, he made a damn good impression.
By the time your staff started entering, you’d already finished most of the morning batches.
“Why the hell are you here? You should still be in bed!” Rosie told you as she spotted you in the back of the kitchen.
You chuckled. “I’ve got a business to run. And he knew who he was marrying.”
“That I did.”
Rosie yelped and jumped out of the way as Jake appeared behind her in the doorway, looking (you had to admit) all different kinds of handsome in the early morning light of the bakery.
“I’ll give you two some time,” Rosie smiled before taking her leave to set up the register and seating area.
“Sleep well?”
Jake nodded. “Better than I have done in a while. You know, you could have stayed in bed longer.”
“I needed to do all of this.”
“And we’re also meant to be marketing our new found wedded-bliss.”
“God, you’re really taking this seriously.”
Jake shrugged with a happy but tired smile. “Like I said, it can be fun.”
“Well, my dear husband, fun will have to wait. I’ve already got orders coming in.”
“Want some help?”
Although you would have usually bitten his head off for asking, telling him it was fine and you would sort it, the ache and tiredness started to take over your body.
Maybe you should have taken a day off.
“Sure. Go and help Rosie in the front.”
What followed were the oddest three hours of your life; Jake felt like he was your friend and not some guy that drove you insane. Penny stopped by to drop off the wedding photos she’d gotten a rush order on just as your Great Aunt’s lawyer waltzed through the front door.
You were sweating buckets as his eyes remained on you and Jake for the duration of his stay. He looked through your wedding photos with Jake – you prayed he was just as good of an actor as he was with you when he was swaying with you on the dancefloor.
When you finally got a few minutes to take a break, you signed the official ownership documents to your entire world; your home, the bakery, the legacy left by your Great Aunt.
And as Rosie locked up the bakery, you and Jake started shifting things from his home and into yours. Enough, at least, to make it seem natural that he lived with you.
During which you both discussed what Jake would be doing with his place whilst he was living with you. Since he owned his property, he could rent it out. It seemed like the most logical plan. And, it wouldn’t look as suspicious to the lawyer that promised he’d come and visit the bakery more often – even if it was just for his favourite cookies in all of San Diego.
All in all, the first few months of ‘married’ life ran smoother than you had expected.
Jake’s parents came to visit when they could. They got to know you more, but it almost broke something in you when his mom started talking about how you had a forever home in the Seresin’s.
Oddly, you and Jake found a nice friendship despite how you’d both come to know each other just over three years ago. At the time, you’d only known Bradley and Natasha.
You’d known them for years, but never once had you met ‘Hangman’. The personal bane to Bradley’s life. And the moment you met him, you could see why. Which was how he became the bane of your existence.
Until the day he agreed with Natasha that marrying you didn’t seem like such a bad idea. You’d get to secure your entire life, and you didn’t have to jump into anything with someone you didn’t know. He was also single and, since the last couple of dates he’d been on had resulted in him wishing he’d stuck to staying away from the dating apps, he was willing to stick up for you, it seemed like a good idea.
Everyone else was either hitched or about to be, so they were a no go. There was no loophole. It was Jake or lose everything.
And, even though you hadn’t expected it, marrying Jake was one of the best decisions you’d ever agreed to. Aside from the fact your Great Aunt believed you needed someone by your side as you ran your life (despite having done it all on your own for the last twelve years), Jake had become an actual friend.
Someone who you couldn’t wait to see at the end of the day. Someone you could share the quiet moments with. Someone who, despite knowing you didn’t share much, often didn’t have to ask.
You didn’t know how he knew. But somehow, Jake seemed to know you better than you knew yourself some days.
But that only became a problem ten months into your fake marriage.
After months of friendship, apologies for judging each other the way you did in the beginning and late nights of talking about anything and everything, you started to realise you were catching feelings.
You wanted to say they were the last thing you expected to catch when around Jake Seresin all the live long day, but you…couldn’t. Not after the last ten months.
Surprisingly, he was easy to open up to. And to let in.
Despite the act he put on around his co-workers – although, you doubted it was all an act – Jake was a lot softer and calmer underneath his fighter pilot exterior.
It probably didn’t help your case that you were also starting to enjoy calling him your husband. A small part of you always figured you’d end up just like your Aunt. Not lonely, per se. But definitely alone.
Maybe a dog or two.
Your work life kept you pretty busy. And even when you weren’t working, you were thinking of work. New recipes, new designs, expansions, updates, staff rotas, ingredients shipping, storage space, health and safety. The list seemed to never end.
But Jake seemed to get it.
Granted, the marriage was still fake. And so was your relationship. But…
Each time the doubt creeped in and you tried to set the reality for yourself that the only reason it was working out with Jake was because you weren’t really married, Jake would do or say something that made you yearn that it was all real.
“I know you’ve only been married less than a year,” your mom said as she poured everyone a glass of lemonade each. “But-”
“We wanna know when you’re gonna start having our grandbabies,” Jake’s mom cut in.
Apparently since your wedding, your parents had exchanged numbers and became practically attached at the hip.
“Mom!” Jake scolded just as you did the same with your own mom.
They both just looked at each other and smiled. “What?”
Looking at Jake, he seemed to be holding a similar expression to you. Shock. Maybe a little humor.
It was nice to see your parents getting along. Even if your marriage was a sham, their friendship didn’t have to be.
“Mom, can we please not? Just for today?” You asked, covering your face as you leaned in closer on the picnic bench.
It didn’t do much in the way of helping you escape from the comfortable hold Jake had with his arm wrapped around you. But part of you was relieved when he shuffled closer to you, his thumb absentmindedly brushing your side.
“Mom,” Jake looked at his own mother. “It’s still early days, okay?”
Both your moms seemed to be more than a little dejected. “We know, honey. But…time flies by when you’re married.”
“Mom,” Jake warned again.
“She’s right, honey,” your mom said to you. “Time’s a-tickin’”
“Mom!”
“Relax, sweetie,” you dad said as he came back out from the house, closing his book and laying his reading glasses inside his pocket shirt. “Your mom’s ran out of things to make for her bookclub and someone told her baby clothes would be a good idea.”
“Sweetheart,” Jake’s dad said to his wife. “Leave the kids alone. They’ll have kids when they’re good and ready.”
“Thank you, dad.”
“Oh, hush, you,” Jake’s mom said as her husband sat down beside her. “You’re just as bad. He’s so ready to be a granddaddy.”
You tried to keep the fear inside you as best as you could despite the small laugh that left you.
As your parents leapt into discussing what your future children would look like before diverting off into stories from when you were kids, you took the small escape into the house.
Only when he knew it was safe to do so – the moment both of your parents forgot you were both sitting right in front of them – did Jake make his escape, too.
He walked around slowly, taking everything in.
Since the businesses kept your family busy, and Jake’s family had their own lives back in Texas, your parents had come up with the idea of monthly dinners.
The weather was starting to turn colder as the summer drew to a close and Fall fully took hold, so he hadn’t spent much time inside your childhood home.
The walls were littered with different pictures, all of you at different ages. Some were from your family vacations, your graduation, your parents life together as a married couple, friends and extended family.
Looking around, the furniture was worn but loved. It was almost like each creak of the floorboards, or scar on the sofa held a little story you were yet to tell him.
They usually came late at night when you were too tired to keep your walls up. Those were some of Jake’s favourite moments with you.
“Hey,” Jake found you in the kitchen.
“Hey,” you managed to smile back. “Sorry for leaving you.”
Jake just shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Sorry about my folks.”
“I’m sorry about mine, too.”
“Guess they really love that their only children got married.”
You chuckled. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Pushing himself from the doorframe, Jake walked over to you. “I know this marriage didn’t have its most conventional start, but we did swear vows together.”
You took a breath as you wrapped your arms around your just a little tighter. But with Jake’s hands running up and down the top of your arms, you let out a sigh.
“Talk to me,” he said, softly. “What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“Y/n.”
Looking at him, it struck you hard in your chest that you couldn’t lie to him. You didn’t want to lie to him.
“Okay,” your voice broke, quietly. “It’s just…between our families, our friends and…us, I guess. It’s just…sometimes this feels too…” You let out another sigh and lowered your voice. “Jake, we’re meant to be getting divorced in two months.”
Jake felt his heart take another punch. “I know.”
“And it's just…all of it…” You shook your head. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“C’mere,” Jake pulled you into him, and it didn’t take you a second thought to wrap your arms around him and hold him just a little tighter.
“I know this feels like a lot right now,” he told you. “But we’ll get through it. Together.”
You swallowed a little before nodding and curling into him.
A few hours later, good food had been eaten and good conversation had been shared. And, just as the stars settled over the sky and you and Jake should have been in bed, you were standing on the back porch of your home listening to the light whistle of the wind.
You didn’t jump as Jake’s hand settled across your back or winded around to your front. Instead, you relaxed into his chest as he held you gently against him.
“Jake,” you said, his name leaving your lips like a whisper into the wind.
“You feel it too?” He asked you, his lips by the shell of your ear. You closed your eyes. “That’s why you’re out here?”
“Two more months, Jake,” you told him. “It’s just meant to be two more months.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Jake.”
“I know you feel it, too. And I know that you’re scared. But you don’t have to be. We can take it as slow as you want.”
“We’re already married,” you pointed out. “And sleep in the same bed. And live in the same house.”
“So, we take it slower.”
“Jake-”
“I want you in my life, Y/n.” Jake told you as you turned around to face him. “I want you as my wife, too. I know we didn’t come together in the most conventional way, and we’re probably the last two people on this planet that expected to be what we are but I think we were brought together for a reason.”
“Because it was Natasha’s idea.”
Jake chuckled. “That too. Maybe we skipped the first couple of steps, but, you know, conventional can be boring.”
“Jake, my track record for dates isn’t great. I work too much. When I’m not working, I’m thinking about work-”
“You forget I’ve been married to you for the last ten months. And I’ve known you for four years. You work hard, Y/n. And that’s something to be proud of. And I’m proud of you, too.”
It struck you harder than you expected, hearing that Jake was proud of you.
“I want to be there for you, Y/n. Through it all. The early mornings, the late nights, I want us to keep doing what we’re doing, together. I am madly in love with you. Kind of embarrassingly so.”
You chuckled a little as he held you closer to him.
“And if you wanna take this slower than a snail’s pace, or you want to start building a nursery space right now, then I’m with you. No matter what.”
You couldn’t help but smile. “We can go a little faster than a snail’s pace.”
Fixing the hair beside your face, Jake cupped your cheek. “Does that mean I can kiss you now?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God.”
In ten months, you and Jake had shared exactly three kisses. The first on the altar, which was swift but awkward. The second was during the reception photos when your parents wanted one of you and Jake sharing a kiss just outside The Hard Deck. That one had felt odd, but not bad. Almost like faking a kiss was natural. And the third had been late at night, sitting out on the porch. You’d had a long day of dealing with extra shitty customers and Jake had been dealing with egotistical pilots that thought they were better than their several instructors.
Neither of you had talked or mentioned the third kiss after it had happened. But you would never forget it. It was soft, if a little nervous. Two things you hadn’t expected in a kiss from Jake Seresin.
But this kiss; the Fourth.
It was like breathing a sigh of relief.
Finally,
Finally.
Holding onto your face as he backed you against the railing, Jake stopped to catch his breath as he leaned his forehead against your own.
“Wait here.”
“Where are you going?”
Jake didn’t say much, but he did smile at you as he flicked on the radio you kept on the window cill. The familiar melody of The Keeper of the Stars by Tracy Byrd started to dance around the back porch.
“What are you doing?”
Jake took your hand in his before he pulled you into him, both of you swaying gently to the melody. “Redoing our First Dance.”
“Why?”
“Because, as perfect as it was,” Jake smiled as he turned you around and pulled you back in. “That was for show. This. This right here. This is just for us.”
You smiled as he held you closer to him. “I love you, Jake Seresin.”
With your hand still enclosed in his, Jake ran a finger down the side of your face, his gaze gently leaning into your own before he closed his eyes and leaned against you and lightly sang along to the lyrics.
“There really are no words to show my gratitude. So I tip my hat to the keeper of the stars, when he joined these two hearts.”
Closing your own eyes, you let the moment capture itself in your memory. The way his arms held you, a silent promise to never let you go or let you fall. The song, the lyrics, the moment. All of it. With Jake.
“I hold everything when I hold you in my arms, and I’ve got all I’ll ever need, thanks to the keeper of the stars.”
so soft and precious 🥹
Steam room date soon? [x]
yup, we're screwed 🥵
CHAD POWERS — 1x05 5TH QUARTER (2025)
not only they should fear this man but if they are on the right mind he should have at least a skit with SNL 🤞
edit: he will be in SNL on November 15 😆
sharing my headcanon 💖
this is gold hehehe thanks for gracing my feed with your art ❤️
Sweet as a Berry
Pairing: Farmer!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader
Summary: You go to the local market to buy berries and meet the man of your dreams.
Word Count: Over 3.5k
Warnings: Fluff, meet-cute, flirting, tension, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: Welcome to my Bountiful Harvest AU ( or Farmer Fall as discussed with @thezombieprostitute and @witchywithwhiskey ) and our intro to farmer!Bucky. Thanks to @yenzys-lucky-charm and @targaryenvampireslayer for letting me babble about this man. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Your weekly trip to the farmers market was one you looked forward to. A place for merchants to come together to offer an abundance of products, there was always something to browse or discover. Today you only had one thing on your list: berries for your pies. Frozen fruit did the job, but you preferred to bake your pies with fresh fruit. Buying from the market was also a way to support local farmers. Maybe one day you'd even bag a handsome farmer for yourself. It was a silly fantasy, of course, but your mind liked to wander some days.
Not that there was anything wrong with city men, but they couldn't compare to a man working on a farm. There was just something about a guy who knew how to work with nature and provide, wasn't intimidated by hard work or afraid to get his hands dirty, and had a strong body and character due to his work ethic. You liked to think you’d make a good wife and take care of him the way he’d take care of you. You also liked to imagine a handsome man walking inside after a long day and stripping down and wanting dessert before a hearty meal. And by dessert, you meant you.
For now, you were only a farmer’s wife in your dreams and journal.
The gravel crunched under your tires as you turned down the road, the market coming into focus. You made good time and managed to snag a decent parking space. A little bit of walking wouldn’t hurt. Plus the day was nice enough that you wore one of your sundresses, the soft breeze pleasant against your skin once you got out of your car.
Lively chatter greeted you as you got closer to the stalls and booths and expertly weaved your way through the bustling crowd. The various produce and flowers created a kaleidoscope of colors, brightened more by the brilliant rays coming from the sun. The earthy fragrance that blended with the sweet and ripe aromas was one you only encountered here. There was nothing else quite like it.
Quick movement in front of you made you come to a stop, your heart jumping. Had you not been paying attention you would've collided with a little boy. “Mama, there's Dada! He’s getting honey!” He shouted as he ran past and threw his arms around a man’s legs.
“Walk, please, and watch where you're going!” His mother said after him, a both fond and exasperated look on her face as she gave you a tired smile. “I’m so sorry about that.”
“No apologies,” you smiled. He hadn't done anything wrong. “I wish I had that energy.”
“Same. I’d bottle and sell it,” she said over her shoulder.
Watching as the woman went to her son and husband, both of them looking at her like the sun rose today because of her, you felt a twinge of sadness. Your trips to the market were solo, always had been. You longed to have a partner to go with, someone to put his arm around you or hold your hand as you picked out items together. Even better if the two of you could make a family down the line.
With a wistful smile, you shook yourself from those thoughts. There was no reason to feel sorry for yourself. Just because you didn't have that in the present didn't mean it wouldn't happen in the future. You had to have faith that the right one would come along at the right time.
For now, you would find some berries and be on your way.
Walking a bit further, you spotted a booth you hadn't seen in your previous visits. The sign that read “Barnes’s Berries” complete with hand painted fruit pieces piqued your curiosity as you stopped in front of it. As the customers in front of you paid for their bundles and blocked the view of the person assisting them, you took a minute to admire the range of berries reflecting a spectrum from blues to reds. Your mouth watered from the sight. There were so many things you could do with these. Pies, jams, cakes-
A deep, husky voice asked, “Is there anything I can help you with?”
You made some sort of sound as you turned around, your heart pounding in your chest. The man in front of you was tall with thick thighs that deliciously filled out his jeans. The rolled up plaid shirt exposed part of his arms. The left was covered in tattoos and the ink couldn't hide the muscles or veins. If anything, it accentuated his strength. His chest and shoulders seemed to go on for miles, too. The chestnut hair that fell below his chin and stubble on his face gave the already handsome man a rugged look.
Sapphire eyes crinkled when you made eye contact and he smiled so softly that you couldn't help but smile in return. A man of his size and stature working a berry stand when he looked like he could easily chop wood or build his own home was otherworldly. He didn't just step out of your fantasy. He took your thoughts and made them better than you could've imagined.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” He asked again a bit hesitantly when you didn’t answer his question. “If you're still looking, please, take your time.”
“You’re real, right?” You asked, your face heating up as the words left your mouth. A giggle followed because you couldn’t believe you just said that. “What I meant to say is, yeah. Just looking for now,” you added to save face, smoothing out your dress for no reason.
Amusement filled his eyes, the soft smile still tugging at his lips. “I sure hope I’m real and not just a figment of your imagination.”
You wished you could reach out and touch him to “prove” he was real, but didn’t want to weird him out. “Not a figment of my imagination,” you said, but that wasn’t totally true. You very much imagined a man like him when you were alone at night. “But I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” It wasn't like you knew every single vendor, but you would've remembered him.
He sure as hell had a face worth remembering.
“I’m Bucky,” he introduced, offering you his hand. His grip was gentler than you expected, but there was no mistaking the roughness in his touch. The man worked with his hands and it showed. “This is actually my first week here.”
You said your name, proud that you remembered it with the way he was staring so intently at you. He stood a bit close, too. Close enough that you could smell his woodsy cologne. Subtle, yet enticing. “I hope everyone has been welcoming.”
“Most have been very friendly, which has made my job easy,” he said. You could imagine with his looks and friendly demeanor despite his size that he’d have a lot of repeat customers. “A couple of my friends recently started selling here, too, so it’s good to have some familiar faces close by.”
“That’s really nice. I’m sure they're glad you're close by, too,” you smiled. You wondered who his friends were. “Did you have to travel far to get here?”
“Yeah, they’re good guys,” he smiled back, your heart racing when he ran a hand through his hair. “Not too far since my farm is only a few miles away, which also makes things easier. Makes me wonder why I didn't do this sooner.”
You nearly swooned. Your dream man was becoming dreamier by the second. “You have a farm not too far from here?”
It would’ve been easy to assume he did since he had a stand here, but not everyone who worked the market had their own land. It was also easy to assume he wasn't married since you didn't see a ring on his left hand or any sort of tan line or indentation to indicate that he removed a ring. A man like that though probably had a partner. It wasn't worth getting your hopes up.
“Yeah. I have a few acres. Beautiful place. but if I’m being honest it gets a bit lonely since it’s just me out there with no one to share it with.” He scratched the back of his neck with a small chuckle and avoided your gaze. “I don't know why I said that. That’s kind of embarrassing.”
Your stomach did a funny flip. Not just because he pretty much let it slip that he wasn't with anyone when you assumed moments ago that he was, but from the urge to comfort him taking over. You wished you could wrap him in a hug.
“Well, I don't have a farm, but I understand feeling lonely some days,” you admitted. Being vulnerable with a complete stranger wasn't how you expected your day to go, but you wanted him to know he wasn't alone in that feeling. “And it’s not embarrassing,” you assured him. If anything, it was endearing.
He slowly met your gaze. “I appreciate that.” He rubbed the back of his neck again as your heart began to race. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but I find it hard to believe that someone as sweet and beautiful as you gets lonely.”
The compliment left you momentarily dazed before a shy smile graced your face. You could've said the same thing about him. Maybe the instant connection you felt wasn’t so one-sided. “Well, I do. Even coming here, I’m usually by my lonesome” you said, the words not at all bitter. Just honest. “And do you call all potential customers sweet and beautiful?”
“No, I don’t.” He continued to gaze at you before he cleared his throat. “But you said potential customer. If I made you uncomfortable…”
“You didn’t.” It was gentlemanly that he wanted to make sure that his comment didn’t put you off. “There’s a stand a little further down that I sometimes stop at, though your berries are extremely tempting.”
Bucky’s brows pinched before he snapped his fingers. “Jed, right? He’s actually not here this week. Had an accident recently. Broke his leg.”
You gasped. “Oh, my god. That’s awful.” Jed was a kind, older farmer who had been there for as long as you could remember. A hard worker who didn’t deserve any kind of pain. “I hope he heals quickly.”
Bucky nodded solemnly. “So, do I,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m no Jed, but is there anything I can do to get your business today?”
The hopeful look in his blue eyes had you smiling slightly. “Well, I-”
“Wait. Let me try to guess what you’re specifically looking for before you tell me.” He waited until you nodded. “Clearly berries, but not for anything like a fruit salad or an everyday snack,” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and you tried not to giggle when he grinned triumphantly. “Pies. You want berries to make pies. Blueberries, right? Maybe blackberries, too. And if I had to pick a third, raspberries.”
Your mouth fell open. Was he a mind reader? “Yeah, that’s exactly it. Blueberries, blackberries, and raspberries. I have this triple berry pie recipe that I love and I make the crust from scratch and…” You bit your lip to keep from rambling. He didn’t need to hear all that. “Sorry. I just like to bake.”
“No apologies.” His light touch to your arm surprised you as he met your gaze. “You sound very passionate about it and I like that.”
You found yourself nodding, unable to tear your gaze away. It took everything within you to not blurt out how gorgeous he was. And on top of that, he was kind? Maybe he wasn’t real. “I am passionate about it. And not just pies. Other treats, too,” you said, nodding to the strawberries. “Those would be perfect for mini shortcakes or scones.”
He studied you with an appreciative smirk. The sundress was a good choice. “I have no doubt your treats are delicious and you are making me very hungry,” he said, your heart thudding. The smirk disappeared as quickly as it appeared when he gestured to his stand. “And I think they’ll be tastier with my berries.”
You blinked, stuck on the fact that he called your treats delicious. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t like he called you delicious and he hadn’t tasted anything of yours, though you’d find a way to bake something and deliver it to him personally if he asked. “You sound very confident, Bucky.”
He puffed his chest out. “I take a lot of pride in all my crops. Tell you what,” he said, stepping away from you to grab a sample cup. “Why don’t you try some and see how you like them? If they aren't the best berries you’ve ever tasted, I’ll shut my stand down and let you on your way.”
“You’ll really shut your stand down? That’s a big wager,” you smiled, his fingers touching yours as he handed the cup over. It heated you up all over again. “The look of them alone is amazing,” you said, the vibrant berries beckoning for you to have a bite.
“Taste amazing, too, but I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
Bucky shot you a dazzling smile as you tried the blueberry first since that was the berry you were most interested in purchasing today. You didn’t care if it was mortifying, you outright moaned at the flavor when you bit down on the small and plump piece of fruit. Not overly sweet or acidic as the juice coated your tongue. It was the perfect balance. So much that you licked your lips and craved another.
Your eyes honed in on the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest before your gaze flickered to his face. His eyes were darker and you realized after a moment that he was staring at your mouth. A look like that could’ve made you choke on your breath, but it somehow gave you a burst of confidence. Testing the waters, you tried the blackberry next and made a show of licking your lips again at the sweet and succulent taste. The groan he let out shot a burst of heat between your legs.
God, he looked like he was ready to eat you whole.
“Delicious,” you said in a sultry voice you didn't recognize.
“You, um…” He brought a hand up and brushed his thumb along the corner of your mouth. You quivered when he showed you the drop of juice that you missed. Without breaking eye contact, he licked the drop away. It was a look that melted your insides when he said in a gruff tone, “You're right. Delicious.”
“Excuse me?” A woman spoke, making you jump back a bit from Bucky and pulling you both out of the moment. She might as well have dumped a bucket of cold water over your head. “I’d like to buy these.”
Your heart continued to race when you saw disappointment flash in his eyes. “Go ahead,” you smiled. He was there to do a job after all, not chat and flirt with you. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Bucky turned his head toward the customer. “Of course, ma’am,” he smiled, still glancing back at you momentarily as if was afraid you’d walk away if he didn’t keep an eye on you.
Biting your lip, you held in a giggle as you tossed the sample cup into the small wastebasket. You swore you felt him gazing at you as you gathered up the bundles. Maybe you didn’t need to bend so far over to get the last bundle, but was it wrong that you wanted him to look? It wasn’t every day that you had a kind, handsome farmer flirting with you. It would have you walking on cloud nine for the rest of the day.
Turning toward the table to pay, you gasped when you nearly collided with Bucky. He managed to grab your arms to keep you from falling and you somehow didn’t drop a single bundle as he stared into your eyes. “You know, I think you’re even sweeter than my berries,” he spoke in a low voice, swiftly taking everything from your hands and lining them in a box before your brain could process what he said. “This everything then?”
“Yeah.” You blinked and got your money out to pay. “Thanks. And keep the change.”
He shook his head when he saw the amount you gave him. “Oh, I couldn’t do that.”
“Please. I insist,” you smiled. He took a lot of pride in his work and any extra change could go toward that.
“I’ll keep it on two conditions,” he said, nodding to the box. “One, you let me be a gentleman and help you carry that to your car, that way you’re not stuck carrying it around.”
You nodded, butterflies in your stomach. “Okay, if you insist on being a gentleman.” He was nice enough that he wanted to step away from his stand and carry something for you. He really kept getting better and better. “And the second condition?” You asked with a coy smile. Maybe if you were lucky enough he’d ask for your number.
He reached behind him and presented you with another sample cup. “One more for the road? Please?”
You stamped down your disappointment that he didn’t ask for your number, which was more than okay. “How can I say no to that?” You popped the berries into your mouth without hesitation. They tasted ever sweeter than the first sample you had and you watched his eyes go to your neck as you swallowed. “Thanks. You really do have a gift,” you added to distract you from his heated gaze.
He looked humbled by the compliment. “I really do appreciate that,” he said, glancing over your shoulder to nod at someone. “Steve! You mind watching the stand until I get back? I’m gonna help her carry these to her car.”
You turned just in time to see a gorgeous blonde just as large as Bucky jog over from the stand across the way. “That’s nice of you, jerk. Real gentlemanly,” he smiled, giving you a small nod. “Ma’am.”
“Punk,” Bucky mumbled, but the affection was evident.
Another giggle worked its way out. Where did these men suddenly come from? Was there something in the water you didn’t know about? “You don’t need to call me ma’am, but thank you. And you’re right.” Your eyes went back to Bucky. “He is a gentleman.”
“And this is my cue to get you away from my friend before he says otherwise,” Bucky teased, steering you away with one hand while he balanced your fruit in the other.
“I don’t think I’ve seen him here either.”
“That was one of the friends I was talking about earlier. Has a farm, too, but his real passion is art,” he explained, his arm brushing against yours as he walked close. “He actually helped make my sign since I’m hopeless with that stuff.”
“That’s really nice,” you said, falling into a comfortable silence with him as you both maneuvered your way through the crowd. Once you got to the parking area, you pointed out your vehicle. “I’m just over there.”
Bucky’s gaze flickered over to you as you got your keys out. “I’m really glad you stopped at my stand today.”
Your heart fluttered when you caught the sun shining along his hair. “I’m glad I did, too,” you said softly, unlocking the car so he could set everything inside. Thank God it was clean. That would’ve been embarrassing. “But I should let you get back to work.”
He shifted on his feet, like he wasn’t quite ready to go. “Yeah, I should go.” He stepped forward and took a breath. “But I don’t think I can go back before I ask you to go on a date with me.”
You blinked. This wasn’t a drill. Bucky was asking you out. His tone was so gentle, his gaze so compelling. He was mesmerizing. He could’ve asked you to do anything and you likely would’ve done so without question.
“You want to take me out on a date?” You questioned, your mind screaming that your response was the wrong answer. This wasn’t a fantasy. It was really happening.
With an unsure chuckle, Bucky brushed a hand through his hair. “Too forward?” He smiled a little. “I’m sorry. I just thought that we…”
Your heart reacted to his uncertainty. It took a lot for anyone to put themselves out there and you wanted him to know it was worth the risk. “Not too forward at all, Bucky,” you smiled and placed your hand on his left arm, happy when he smiled back. “I'd love to go out with you.”
He took your hand in his when you went to pull your hand back. “I’m really glad you said yes,” he whispered.
“Me, too,” you sighed at his warm touch. It was the beginning of something special. You could tell. “So, when would you like to go on that date?”
And that is our intro! Now here is where it gets interesting: This story will go down two paths, one light and one dark. Be on the lookout for the continuation and choose your path (or choose both 😏). Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi
maybe because it's october but I can't help myself but imagine a pumpkin scenario with farmer!bucky
OCTOBER 21, 1988 — HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GLEN POWELL 😁
I have failed a lot more and a lot longer than I have succeeded. No good story happens from things going right.
happy birthday, glen 🎉🎂
Masterlist: Neglected!Pregnant!Reader x Yandere!Bat Family
Fem!Reader
Series List
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Conner Interlude
Click on the pregnant!reader tag for all the shenanigans.
Taglist
Incorrect Quotes and Trash
🌥️Ko-Fi Link
I tried but I think I am failing to wait patiently 😭
Sorry, but you're writing is so good ❤️🔥
Happy Birthday to the one and only 🎉🎂🥳
hapoy birthday 💕
Imagine this was your fine shyt in the 40’s… oh how I wish.
@buckyblogs - other account
life is a photoshoot 🫠
Win Over Alpine (Gone Wrong)
Summary: You try everything to win over the cat who clearly only adores Bucky, but your persistence finally earns her approval on her terms. Just as you settle into the victory, Alpine flips the script. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 1.1k+
You had faced rejection before. Job interviews, middle school crushes, that one time you tried to dye your own hair and your stylist looked like she’d witnessed a crime.
But nothing, nothing, compared to the emotional toll of being ignored by Alpine. Bucky’s cat. His fluffy white menace with ice-blue eyes and an attitude that could rival royalty.
“She’s just shy,” Bucky offered for the tenth time that week as Alpine leapt from the couch to curl up in his lap, her tail brushing right across your knee as if she was mocking your very existence.
You gave a tight smile, holding the treat you’d been coaxing her with for twenty minutes. “Right. Shy.”
“She likes you,” He insisted, stroking Alpine’s head.
You arched a brow. “She hisses at my socks, Bucky.”
“She’s got standards,” He teased, lips twitching. “You’ve gotta earn her respect.”
You looked down at Alpine. She blinked at you once slowly, like a queen acknowledging a peasant before going back to napping on Bucky’s thigh.
So you made a plan, a real one.
Day One: You arrived armed with catnip, a new toy shaped like a tiny metal arm (“Winter Paw,” you called it proudly), and the gentlest voice you’d ever used. Alpine sniffed the toy, licked it once… and walked away straight to Bucky.
Day Two: You cooked salmon. For a cat. Bucky came into the kitchen, surprised. “You’re making dinner?”
“For Alpine.”
He blinked. “…I’m slightly hurt.”
“She already loves you.”
He grinned. “Can’t argue that.”
You served it up in a little ceramic dish with her name painted on it. She sniffed it, blinked, and batted the plate off the table.
Day Three: You pretended not to care. You ignored Alpine when you came over and sat on the opposite side of the couch. You talked only to Bucky, laughed loudly and dramatically. Out of the corner of your eye, you swore she was watching. And when you glanced back–
She yawned, turned around, and put her fluffy white butt right in your direction.
You slumped in defeat.
“She’ll come around,” Bucky said, chuckling, draping an arm over your shoulders. “She’s stubborn.”
“So am I,” You muttered.
And that night, when you got up to leave, Alpine was already in the hallway sitting and waiting. You paused, she stood up, and you froze in your spot.
Then, like the dramatic feline she was, she brushed against your leg once. It was light and brief, like an accidental compliment.
But Bucky raised his brows from the doorway. “Did she just–?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” You said quickly, but you were grinning.
A week later, you woke up in Bucky’s bed with his arm heavy around your waist, his breathing deep, and something soft was curled against your chest.
You looked down slowly to find Alpine there with her head tucked under your chin. Snoring.
Bucky’s eyes cracked open, amused. “Well, well, well.”
“She’s touching me,” You whispered, like saying it too loud would break the spell.
“She likes you,” He murmured sleepily, pulling you both closer. “Told you. She just wanted to make sure you were sticking around.”
You looked at the cat, then at Bucky. His sleepy smile, his warm hand at your hip. And Alpine, purring contentedly against your heart.
“Guess I’m in the club now,” You murmured.
Bucky kissed your temple. “She doesn’t let just anyone in.”
Neither did he. But now, you were there, right in the middle of both their hearts.
Even if Alpine still pretended to hate your socks.
But then something unexpected happen. Something that started small.
After the Great Acceptance, what Bucky jokingly called the morning you woke up with Alpine in your arms, the cat began showing up everywhere you were. Not just sitting nearby or just tolerating you.
No. Alpine was actively choosing you.
You sat on the couch? Alpine climbed into your lap. You entered the kitchen? She followed, tail high. You sneezed? She meowed in concern and pawed at your foot.
At first, Bucky was smug about it. “Told you she’d come around,” He said, arms crossed as Alpine nuzzled into your hoodie.
But then… then came the betrayals.
You came over one afternoon to find Alpine not in her usual sun-spot by the window, but at the door, waiting. For you. When Bucky leaned down to her and said his usual “Hey there,” Alpine blinked once and walked right past him to you.
You giggled, crouching to greet her. “Hi, sweetheart–“
“Unreal,” Bucky muttered.
Later, when you and Bucky were curled up on the couch watching a movie, Alpine squeezed between you. Not to curl up in his lap like usual. No. She pawed at your arm until you moved, then flopped dramatically across your chest with her chin on your shoulder, tail flicking toward his side like a “no boys allowed” sign.
You didn’t notice right away but Bucky did.
“…Are you serious right now?”
You turned your head. “What?”
“She growled when I reached for you.”
“She’s purring.”
“She hissed when I kissed your cheek five minutes ago.”
“She’s just being protective.”
“Of you? I fed her for years. I even pulled her out of a storm drain once.”
You pressed a kiss to Alpine’s head. “She knows I’m delicate.”
“I’m delicate!” He argued, which earned him a very feline glare from Alpine over your shoulder.
You couldn’t stop laughing. “Jealous of your own cat?”
“She used to wait by the bathroom for me,” He said under his breath. “Now she claws the door if you’re in there too long.”
“You miss being her favorite?”
“I miss not being treated like the other man in my own apartment.”
You snorted, leaning over Alpine to press a kiss to his lips. “You’re still my favorite.”
He melted a little, but Alpine chose that exact moment to stretch and flick her tail directly across Bucky’s face.
“…She did that on purpose.”
“Maybe.”
“I think she’s in love with you.”
You grinned, stroking Alpine’s soft fur. “She’s got good taste.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Traitor.”
You kissed him again. “You’re lucky I have room in my heart for both of you.”
Alpine purred louder while Bucky sighed like a man who had lost a long war.
But as the night went on, and you all drifted into a heap of tangled limbs and fluff on the couch, Bucky smiled anyway. Because maybe Alpine curled up against you now. Maybe she only let you brush her belly, or let you kiss the top of her head without consequences.
But you curled up against him and he’d take that trade.
Even if his cat had officially betrayed him.
Taglist: @yasmin12312 @herejustforbuckybarnes @eeveedream @wingstoyourdreams @figtreesandmoonlight @happygalaxymilkshake @hits-different-cause-its-you @the-galaxy-fiend @ordelixx @mouseratface @mel-reads @itsmejen
it's really different after earning a cat's trust 🥹
Strictly Professional
pairing; ceo!jake seresin x fem assistant!reader
summary; Jake Seresin was power wrapped in expensive suits and sharper edges, and you were the calm in his perfectly calculated storm. But one unexpected week away was all it took to turn the game into something dangerously real.
word count; 13.5k
warnings; power imbalance, an asshole to everyone but you trope, smut, overstimulation, one bed trope, oral (fem, sooo much pussy eating), dom!jake, lowkey bossy!reader, age gap, i have no idea about business talk so inaccurate references (i wacthed a video and prayed for the best), i think that's it
a/n; this was so fun to write. i'm actually loving writing smut HAHAAH i have soooo many smut fics planned it's crazy, can't wait for you to read them!!! also the smut in this is SO good, let me know what you think!
masterlist
The elevator doors slid open with a polished chime, and the day officially began with the low hum of fear and productivity that seemed to follow Jake Seresin wherever he went.
Outside, Manhattan was barely awake — sunlight bouncing off steel and glass, yellow cabs honking like it was a contact sport, steam rising from subway grates like the city itself was sighing. But up here, on the 49th floor of the Seresin International Building, the air was already thick with nerves.
You stepped into the marble-floored hallway with two coffees in hand and your phone pressed to your ear, rattling off a list of calendar edits to Jake’s London liaison without missing a beat.
“No, push the Barclays call to Wednesday. He’ll never make the 10:00 if that acquisition meeting runs long. And tell them not to call his personal line again — he blocked the last intern who did.”
Your voice was calm. Unbothered. Efficient. Unlike the junior staff who all glanced up with wide eyes the second they saw you approaching — not because they were scared of you, but because they knew he was close behind.
Jake Seresin: thirty-something billionaire, CEO of one of the most influential private investment firms in the country, and, as Forbes once lovingly put it, “a nightmare in Tom Ford.”
He was brutal in boardrooms. Sharp-tongued, sharp-jawed, a little too good-looking for everyone's comfort. Most people around here called him Mr. Seresin. You just called him Jake — mostly with a sigh, sometimes with a threat, and often through gritted teeth.
You passed by your own desk — a minimalist sanctuary of Post-its, color-coded files, and exactly three pens you would murder someone over if they were taken. You didn’t stop. You never did. Your stilettos echoed on the floor as you beelined straight for his office.
You didn’t knock.
“Someone’s already behind,” you said brightly, breezing in and placing the coffees on the polished walnut desk like it was your damn job — which it was, but only barely. “This was supposed to be our twenty minutes of silence. Instead, you scheduled yourself a breakfast call with someone who thinks you’re charming. You see the problem here, don’t you?”
Jake looked up from the sleek screen of his tablet, eyes narrowing like you were the most exhausting thing in the world.
He was wearing a black button-down — sleeves rolled to the elbows, top button undone — and a watch that probably cost more than your apartment.
“How generous of you to bring me coffee and insults before 8 a.m.,” he said, voice low, smooth, and laced with sarcasm.
You dropped into the chair across from him. “This one’s decaf. I figured you’d appreciate a gentle decline into madness today.”
Jake didn’t look amused. Which, to be fair, he rarely did — unless he was toying with someone. Like now, with that infuriating tilt of his mouth as he leaned back in his chair.
“You really should be nicer to your boss,” he said, sipping the coffee anyway.
“I would, if my boss wasn’t a corporate gremlin in Prada.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “I wear Tom Ford.”
You sipped your own drink, unimpressed. “Exactly.”
Their routine was practically scripted now — one whole of constant sparring, matching each other beat for beat. Everyone in the building knew better than to interrupt when the two of you got going. There had been rumors for a while. Whispers by the elevators. Speculation about whether it was all professional or if there was something more, something physical, simmering under the surface.
You’d deny it, of course. He was your boss. He was impossible. He was infuriating.
...And okay, yes, sometimes he made you want to throw your phone out the window just to get his attention. But still.
“You have ten minutes before your call,” you said, rising again. “Try not to insult anyone’s intelligence until after your second coffee.”
“I make no promises,” Jake said, watching you go like it was his favorite part of the day.
There was a reason no one lasted long as his assistant. Jake Seresin was demanding, short-tempered, impossible to impress. You, however, had never blinked.
You were always five steps ahead. The first one in, the last one out. The type of person who carried three chargers, memorized schedules like a Rolodex, and had the uncanny ability to keep your cool while your billionaire boss told the Wall Street Journal to go to hell — mid-interview.
And unlike everyone else, you didn’t fear Jake.
You handled him.
Which made him insufferably interested.
You hadn’t seen that look in his eyes lately — not since the night of the company gala, six months ago, when you’d worn that black velvet dress and he’d stared at you for so long, you’d excused yourself just to stop the tension from combusting.
Nothing had happened. You didn’t let it. But sometimes — when you passed each other in the hallway, when you handed him his notes in the middle of a meeting — you’d feel it again.
That spark. That ridiculous, inconvenient something.
But this was New York. This was work. You didn’t have time for a crush on your boss, especially not one who wore power like a cologne and treated meetings like cage matches.
So instead, you kept things exactly where they were.
Snarky. Functional. Professional.
By 6:42 p.m., the office had emptied. Jake was still in his office, sleeves still rolled, jaw tight from a day full of idiots.
You dropped a folder on his desk without looking up.
“Your itinerary for the quarter’s investor presentations,” you said. “You’ll find the files for each city tabbed and color-coded. Also, your mother called again.”
Jake groaned. “What did she want this time?”
“Apparently, to know if you’re ‘still incapable of forming an emotional connection.’ Her words, not mine.”
He shot you a look. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Oh, immensely.”
There was a beat of silence as he looked down at the folder, thumb resting on the corner of the cover. “Did you include the San Diego conference dates?”
You blinked. “Conference?”
“Next month. I’ll be presenting on private equity trends. They just confirmed I’m the keynote speaker.”
You rolled your eyes. “Because of course you are.”
Jake didn’t argue. Just smirked.
“We’ll need to book travel,” he added. “Hotels. Make sure they don’t stick me in one of those soulless penthouse suites again.”
You jotted it down. “Anything else, Your Highness?”
His smile widened. “Yeah. Don’t forget to book your ticket, too. You’re coming.”
You froze. “What?”
“You’re my assistant,” he said simply. “I need you there.”
You stared at him. “Fine. But I’m picking the hotel. If I’m stuck on a conference trip with you, I at least want decent lighting and room service that doesn’t come with attitude.”
Jake raised his brows, amused. “Sounds like someone’s already looking forward to it.”
You turned to leave. “Sounds like someone’s getting replaced by a tablet app next fiscal quarter.”
-
If there were sirens for a CEO meltdown, they’d be blaring by 9:13 a.m.
Jake Seresin strode into the office like he’d personally been wronged by God, Wall Street, and the concept of Mondays. He was a vision in black-on-black, suit jacket flaring behind him like a villain in a corporate thriller, hair perfectly in place despite the wind, jaw set like he was going into battle.
Everyone else? They ducked.
Phones were slammed onto receivers. Lattes were hidden like contraband. One poor intern accidentally closed her browser and had to restart her entire system.
You didn’t flinch. You barely looked up from your screen when he stormed past your desk with a barked, “Meeting in fifteen—move it.”
You calmly took a sip of your espresso. “Someone didn’t get their avocado toast this morning.”
Jake didn’t respond. He never did when he was in this kind of mood. That was fine. You’d learned to give him space — and then handle him like a bomb technician once the smoke cleared.
The shouting started ten minutes later. You didn’t get involved.
It was Madison this time — sweet, slightly shaky, probably one of the better interns. You heard her voice crack through the frosted glass wall, her attempt to explain a scheduling mishap met with Jake’s low, clipped tone slicing through her like ice. You didn’t go in. You didn’t even glance up.
Because that wasn’t your job — not right now.
You’d learned long ago that Jake didn’t respect people who tried to save him from himself in public. But when the doors closed and the boardroom was empty — that’s when he listened.
His office door clicked shut. You gave it exactly one minute before walking in.
Jake was seated at his desk, elbows on the edge, hands steepled in front of his mouth. His eyes were locked on the city outside, but you knew he wasn’t seeing any of it.
You walked in without knocking and set the correct file on his desk — Petter-sen, not Peterson — and then sat down across from him without a word.
He finally looked over. “She gave me the wrong file.”
“I noticed,” you said flatly.
Jake scowled, but you didn’t blink.
“You know,” you said calmly, “if you yell at every new hire, HR is going to make you do another empathy seminar.”
“They always get it wrong.”
“And maybe that’s a training issue, not a screaming issue.”
He looked at you like you’d just suggested building a treehouse in Times Square.
“Madison will recover,” you added, flipping open your tablet. “But maybe next time just raise an eyebrow. You have a very intimidating face. Use it.”
Jake leaned back in his chair, watching you. The heat in his expression was still there, but it simmered into something cooler — thoughtful, almost amused.
“You never take my side,” he muttered.
“I’m on your side,” you corrected. “Which is why I don’t let you self-destruct.”
Jake didn’t apologize. He never did. But he muttered something about getting Madison reassigned — not fired — and sent her a gift card for that overpriced pastry place on 3rd without saying who it was from.
You saw the email. You said nothing.
That was the arrangement.
He yelled. You didn’t flinch.
He stormed. You let the storm pass — then walked in with calm hands and sharp eyes and fixed it all.
You didn’t make a scene. You didn’t call him out in front of his team. You were his person, and you’d learned to wield that power precisely: never too loud, never too soft, always effective.
The rest of the day went smoother.
Jake signed documents. You handed him coffee and didn’t bring up the intern again. He glanced up only once — when you told him his 4:30 was pushed to 5:00 — and gave you the barest nod, but you caught it.
Thank you, it said.
You nodded back, and went on with your day.
The office was quiet in that eerie, after-hours way — lights dimmed to save energy, the city glowing like an electric dream outside the glass walls. Most of the building had emptied hours ago. The only sounds now were the hum of the air conditioner and the rhythmic clack of your keyboard.
Jake sat at his desk across the room, sleeves rolled up, tie long gone, and jaw clenched in concentration as he flipped through reports that had been marked URGENT for no good reason. His blazer was draped over the back of his chair, and he looked — unfairly — like the villain in a very expensive noir film. Rumpled. Rich. Slightly dangerous.
You, on the other hand, were perched on the low credenza by the window, balancing your dinner in one hand, your tablet in the other. A white takeout box sat on the floor beside you — a perfectly timed delivery from the hole-in-the-wall Thai place that knew your order by heart.
Jake glanced up without looking at you directly. “If this curry melts a hole in my stomach, I’m suing.”
You didn't even look up. “It’s medium heat. You’ll live.”
He poked at his noodles suspiciously, fork halfway to his mouth. “You said that last time.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re underpaid.”
That made you smirk. You took a sip of your drink, not bothering to argue. “Eat. You’re less of a tyrant when you’re fed.”
Jake’s lips twitched as he stabbed at his food again. “Do your boyfriends know you talk to your boss like this?”
You blinked.
It wasn’t a loaded question — not the way he said it — but it still managed to feel personal. Jake Seresin never asked about your life outside of work. Ever. You were his assistant. A well-oiled machine. You scheduled meetings, filtered emails, anticipated moods, and made sure he didn’t combust in a boardroom.
Small talk? Not your thing. Not his either.
Still, you didn’t let your surprise show.
You let out a laugh instead. “That’s assuming I have time for a boyfriend.”
Jake’s eyes flicked up at that.
You raised a brow. “Do you see how much of my time you take up?”
“Are you suggesting I’m needy?”
“I’m suggesting you’re high-maintenance.”
He snorted into his drink and leaned back in his chair. “So no boyfriend?”
You shook your head, returning your attention to your tablet. “No time, no patience, no desire to babysit someone who doesn’t know how to send a calendar invite. Next question?”
Jake just hummed like he was satisfied with the answer and went back to his food. You didn’t press it. You didn’t ask why he’d suddenly grown curious about your love life. And he didn’t offer anything back.
As always, you both stayed in your lanes.
By the time you were packing up, the city had fully slipped into night. The windows reflected the office like a ghostly double — you brushing crumbs from your skirt, Jake slipping his laptop into his leather case, rolling his shoulders with a quiet sigh.
You reached for your coat. “I’ll call a car.”
“No need,” Jake said, already grabbing his own.
You blinked. “What?”
“I’ll drive you.”
There was no question in his tone. Just a statement. Like the meeting’s moved to Thursday or I signed off on that memo. Neutral. Decisive.
You stared at him. “Since when do you drive me home?”
He held your gaze like it wasn’t even a little strange. “Since now.”
You gave him a look. “Is this because I insulted your spice tolerance?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t even like Midtown traffic.”
“I like not letting my assistant get murdered by a freelance Uber driver more.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You weren’t in the mood to hail a car anyway.
So you followed him down to the parking garage — your heels clicking against the concrete, the tension just a little different than before.
Not romantic. Not dramatic.
But new.
A shift.
And neither of you said a word about it.
The elevator pinged in the garage, echoing through the cold concrete structure like a cue from a spy movie. You followed Jake past the sea of sleek black SUVs and mid-tier sedans… until he stopped in front of an Aston Martin.
You blinked. “Are you serious?”
He didn’t look at you. Just hit the unlock button. The car chirped back, smug as hell.
“This is the most obnoxious thing I’ve ever seen,” you said, arms crossed. “You drive an Aston Martin to the office like you’re late for a martini and an assassination.”
Jake finally turned, smirk firmly in place. “Would it help if I told you I have a license to kill?”
You scoffed. “Only thing you’re qualified to murder is a quarterly report.”
He said nothing else. Just stepped around and opened your door for you like it was the most normal thing in the world. You stared at him for a beat before sinking into the butter-soft leather, equal parts impressed and annoyed.
The car purred to life like a predator. Quiet. Sleek. Very on-brand for the man who hated being questioned and made grown men sweat in boardrooms.
You gave him directions quietly, your voice the only thing cutting through the low hum of city traffic. He nodded once at each turn, no GPS needed — just a surgeon’s precision behind the wheel, the same control he exercised in every room he walked into.
Jake Seresin was not a man who did small talk. Not at work. Not in his car. And certainly not after 10 PM.
So you didn’t bother. You let the silence stretch out between you like a silk ribbon. Strange, how comfortable it felt. How normal.
No posturing. No awkward filler. Just the city glowing around you, painting soft reflections onto his sharp profile.
He looked good behind the wheel. Of course he did. Hands loose on the leather, watch catching the occasional flicker of streetlight. Calm. Focused. Ridiculously attractive, in that completely infuriating way of his.
You crossed your legs and looked out the window.
Eventually, you pulled up in front of your building.
You unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the door. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Bond.”
Jake leaned back slightly, one arm draped casually over the steering wheel. “You’re welcome, Miss Moneypenny.”
That earned him a smirk from you. “Goodnight.”
“Night.”
You stepped out, heels clicking against the pavement again as you made your way toward the lobby doors. For a moment, you didn’t look back. You assumed he’d already peeled off into the night like the man on a movie poster he so clearly thought he was.
But something made you glance over your shoulder.
He was still there.
Engine running. Lights low. Waiting.
He didn’t drive off until you pushed the door open and disappeared inside.
You stood behind the glass a second longer than necessary.
And then, with a blink, he was gone.
-
The Aston glided through the city like a knife through silk, each green light bending to his will. The tires barely whispered over the pavement. Inside, the cabin was still, insulated — like him.
He tapped the pad by the garage and drove into the private elevator, where the lift recognized the car and started rising. No buttons. No human contact. Just convenience.
It should have felt like power.
Instead, it felt like procedure.
The elevator doors opened directly into his penthouse. All glass and steel, floor-to-ceiling views of the New York skyline twinkling like a billion-dollar constellation. Marble floors that echoed with every step. Furniture handpicked by a designer he couldn’t remember the name of. The whole place looked like a GQ cover — immaculate, minimalist, and cold.
Too big for one man.
He tossed the keys onto the tray near the entryway, walked past the abstract art on the wall that cost more than some people’s cars, and went straight to the bar. Crystal decanter, aged scotch. He didn’t bother with ice.
The amber liquid caught the light like gold as he poured. He swirled it once, then took a slow sip, letting it burn down his throat.
The silence was deafening.
He stared out the window at the city that never shut up. Sirens, traffic, laughter rising from the streets below — all of it just barely muffled by the triple-pane glass.
He could have stayed at the office. But he'd offered to drive you home. Didn’t even think twice. Just said it like a fact and expected you to get in the car.
And you had.
Jake leaned back against the bar, drink in hand, replaying the last few minutes in his head.
That damn smirk of yours when you called his car “obnoxious.”
The way you slouched in the passenger seat like you didn’t care he was your boss.
The quiet, easy rhythm of your voice as you gave directions.
The laugh when he mentioned a boyfriend.
I don’t have time for boyfriends.
Neither did he. That wasn’t news.
He took another sip and ran a hand through his hair.
You were sharp. Always on. You called him out when no one else dared, but never in public. You were smart enough to survive him and confident enough to annoy him, which somehow earned his respect and drove him insane in equal measure.
Most assistants were scared of him by week two. You weren't.
You were still here.
And now, against all logic, he was thinking about the way you looked in the reflection of the passenger-side window. Your silhouette illuminated by the soft dashboard lights. The way you disappeared into your building with that little half-wave.
Jake exhaled a quiet laugh under his breath.
“You’re losing it, Seresin,” he muttered, setting the glass down with a soft clink.
You were just his assistant.
Brilliant. Efficient. Unbothered by his moods.
And yet —
There you were, in the middle of his penthouse silence, sharper than the scotch on his tongue.
The offices were a study in quiet fear.
On the fortieth floor of a sleek Midtown skyscraper, the air was crisp with money and nerves. Polished concrete floors. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Art that cost as much as the employees' annual salaries. A minimalist color palette that made everyone feel like they had to speak in hushed tones or risk being escorted out.
Jake Seresin’s name wasn’t just on the letterhead — it bled into every corner of the building like gospel. The staff practically snapped to attention when the private elevator chimed. Conversations died. Keyboards stilled. Backs straightened.
You didn’t bother looking up from your computer.
He walked past reception in that deliberate, unhurried way that somehow made everyone more tense — Armani suit sharp enough to cut glass, jaw set, eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses despite the indoor setting. He barely acknowledged the hushed greetings from various VPs, just a flick of his hand here, a grunt there.
But when he passed your desk?
He paused.
You kept typing, only glancing up when you felt him stop beside you.
“You forwarded the call with Simpson to 11:00?”
You nodded, tapping a final key before turning in your chair to face him. “And moved your investment committee to 2:30. I already prepped the file for you.”
Jake pulled his sunglasses off. His eyes — always sharp, always scanning — softened slightly.
“You leave anything for me to do?”
A dry smile tugged at the edge of your mouth. “Just show up and look like you don’t want to kill someone.”
He exhaled a quiet huff — a laugh by his standards — and kept walking.
From across the room, eyes followed the interaction like hawks.
Behind you, one of the junior analysts whispered to another, “Did… he just smile? At someone?”
You pretended not to hear.
Later, in the boardroom, the air was tense enough to shatter. A mid-level manager was stumbling through a quarterly report, stuttering over projections and missing key numbers. Jake leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Everyone could feel it coming — that low, blistering scorn he delivered like a scalpel.
Until—
You cleared your throat. “I think what he meant to say is the forecast accounts for the foreign currency losses, which is why it’s skewed in Q3.”
Jake’s eyes cut to you. You met his gaze, cool as ever, as if daring him to contradict you.
Silence. Then—
“Fine,” Jake muttered. “Keep going.”
The manager looked like he’d just avoided the electric chair. The rest of the room stared at you like you’d just tamed a lion.
Jake, of course, didn’t say thank you — he never did. But the fact that he hadn’t shredded the poor guy into a cautionary tale was proof enough: your voice was the only one he listened to without question.
Later that day, a new hire accidentally spilled a triple-shot espresso over the edge of her desk and into the hallway — mere moments before Jake’s routine midday sweep of the floor.
Chaos erupted.
A blur of paper towels, mumbled apologies, and sheer panic rippled through the space. The poor girl was scrambling on her knees, trying to mop up the mess when Jake turned the corner.
He stopped.
The girl froze like a deer in headlights.
Jake’s brows lifted just slightly. “Are we redecorating?”
She squeaked.
You appeared behind him, holding a dry cleaning bag over one arm.
“She spilled coffee,” you said calmly, like you were talking about the weather. “But don’t worry. It’s not on the rug. And that stain over there was already there — you just never noticed.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but not at you. At the fear in the intern’s face.
Jake turned to the girl. “Clean it up. And get another one.”
Then he walked away.
You followed after him, casually tossing over your shoulder, “Maybe decaf this time.”
He shook his head, biting back a grin he didn’t want anyone else to see.
In private, in the safety of his glass-walled corner office, Jake watched you through the tinted glass. The way you moved through the chaos like it didn’t touch you. The way people instinctively leaned closer when you spoke. The way you never once bowed your head when he barked orders — and how he never barked at you.
He hated inefficiency. Hated incompetence. Hated noise.
But you?
You were calm. You were sharp. And he trusted you in a way that unnerved him more than he cared to admit.
Jake’s jet was waiting for them at Teterboro, gleaming beneath the late morning sun like it had rolled off the pages of Forbes. A sleek Gulfstream G800 — the kind of aircraft that screamed I could buy your entire existence and not blink.
You adjusted your sunglasses and tilted your head as you took in the sheer absurdity of it.
“Let me guess,” you said, rolling your suitcase behind you. “You named her ‘Ego.’”
Jake barely glanced at you as he handed his bag off to the pilot. “No. That’s the yacht.”
You snorted. “Of course it is.”
He gave you a smirk as he walked up the stairs, impossibly confident in his custom-tailored navy suit. You followed — slowly. More slowly than usual.
Jake noticed.
At the top, he turned to glance back, one brow raised. “Need a hand, sweetheart? Didn’t know heels and staircases were such mortal enemies.”
“It’s not the heels,” you muttered, taking another cautious step up. “It’s the whole... flying death machine thing.”
Jake’s mouth twitched. “You’re afraid of flying?”
You scowled. “I prefer being on the ground where the oxygen lives.”
That earned a low, amused laugh. “You work for a man who travels every other week and you’re scared of planes?”
“I suffer in silence. Like every underpaid woman in a capitalist society.”
He ushered you inside with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “You’re not underpaid.”
You paused just long enough to smirk back. “I am a woman in a capitalist society, though.”
Inside, the jet was a study in excess: leather seats like thrones, dark walnut trim, gold fixtures. A glass decanter of scotch sat ready beside a small fridge stocked with Evian and green juices — your green juices, you noted with a raised brow. Jake really did take notes when he wanted to.
You plopped into a seat across from him and immediately buckled in.
Tightly.
Jake settled across from you, stretching his legs out like he owned the sky. Which, technically, he did.
“Should I be worried?” he asked, his tone dry as he loosened his tie. “You’re looking at the safety card like it’s a will.”
You were, in fact, gripping the laminated sheet like a lifeline.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re pale.”
“I’m fine,” you said again, but it came out through clenched teeth.
Jake watched you for a beat longer, then leaned forward slightly, voice lower. “You trust me?”
That caught you off guard. Your hands faltered for a second on the armrest. You narrowed your eyes.
“You fly with me,” he added. “You work beside me. You’ve seen me fire five people in a single afternoon. You know what I’m capable of. Do you trust me?”
You stared at him, throat suddenly dry.
“…I do.”
Jake smiled, and it was softer than you were expecting.
“Then relax.”
The engines roared to life.
You flinched.
Jake tried not to laugh — and failed, just a little. “You know we haven’t even left the runway, right?”
You flipped him off.
He laughed again — full and rich this time — then unbuckled long enough to reach into a side drawer and toss you a small pillow.
“For your comfort, princess.”
You looked at the pillow. Then at him.
“I swear to God, Seresin—”
But then the wheels lifted.
And you gripped the armrest like it owed you money.
Jake’s smirk lingered as he watched you close your eyes, tense from head to toe. And yet, when you peeked one eye open, his gaze was already on you.
Not taunting this time.
Just watching.
Like he was trying to figure you out.
At cruising altitude, the tension in your shoulders eased slightly — mostly thanks to the glass of champagne Jake poured for you himself, with an arched brow and the sort of slow smirk that made you feel like the main character in a rom-com you hadn’t auditioned for.
“You know,” you muttered, sipping carefully, “this doesn’t feel like the same man who once threatened to fire an entire marketing team because someone used Comic Sans in a pitch deck.”
Jake, reclined in his leather seat with a glass of neat scotch balanced in one hand, didn’t even flinch. “That font is a war crime and you know it.”
You smirked into your drink, legs crossed, your laptop bag at your side like a shield. You were trying — very hard — to maintain normalcy. Which was hard considering your boss had not only poured you champagne, but now looked… interested in talking.
“So,” he said after a moment, eyes still on you, “do you have siblings?”
You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Siblings. Brothers. Sisters. Weird cousins. You strike me as the oldest child.”
“I am the oldest child,” you said slowly. “How did you—?”
“Control freak energy. You read entire emails, and you reply in full sentences. That’s classic firstborn behavior.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, what BuzzFeed quiz did you pull that from?”
Jake just smiled and sipped his scotch.
Your jaw clenched, brain short-circuiting slightly. “Why are you asking about my family?”
He shrugged. “Just trying to distract you.”
“I have champagne. I’m not distracted. I’m alarmed.”
Jake tilted his head, amused. “Do you ever turn it off?”
“Turn what off?”
“The smart-ass act.”
You gave him a faux-sweet smile. “Do you ever stop acting like Patrick Bateman with a Rolex?”
That made him laugh — really laugh — and you had to admit it was… nice. It lit up his face in a way that made you feel like you were seeing something you weren’t supposed to. Something human.
“I’m serious,” you said after a beat, still watching him warily. “What’s gotten into you? You’re being almost…”
“Charming?” he offered.
“I was going to say ‘suspiciously non-sociopathic,’ but sure, let’s go with that.”
Jake leaned his head back against the seat, one arm slung lazily across the armrest. “Maybe I just like messing with you.”
“That I believe.”
He tilted his head slightly to watch you. “You know, I never figured you for someone who was scared of anything.”
You swallowed, gaze drifting to the window for a moment, then back to him. “Everyone’s afraid of something.”
“And yours is… heights?”
“Crashing.” You corrected. “Falling. Not being in control. Take your pick.”
Jake was quiet for a second, eyes scanning your face. You wondered — uncomfortably — what he was thinking. And then—
A slight shudder through the cabin.
You stiffened instantly, grip tightening on the champagne glass.
Jake didn’t miss it.
“It’s normal,” he said calmly. “Just turbulence.”
“Yeah,” you said through gritted teeth. “Normal. Totally fine. Great.”
The jet bounced again, more aggressively this time.
You sucked in a sharp breath and set the champagne down on the tray table. Your hand was shaking, and you hated that he could see it.
Jake shifted.
Without asking, he unbuckled and moved to the seat next to you, settling beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Your eyes widened. “What are you—?”
“Helping,” he said simply.
You stared at him as he reached across the seat and took your hand — not forcefully, not dramatically, just… gently. His palm was warm, steady.
You blinked down at your joined hands, then up at his face.
Jake Seresin, who once fired an intern over an incorrect lunch order, was now holding your hand mid-flight like this was something he did.
“What the hell is happening?” you whispered.
“Shhh,” he said, eyes on yours. “Just pretend I’m your emotional support billionaire.”
That startled a laugh out of you, even as the plane gave another gentle sway.
Jake kept his eyes on your face. “Better?”
You exhaled slowly. “A little.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
You looked at him again, hard. “You don’t… seem like the kind of man who does hand-holding.”
Jake smirked faintly. “I’m full of surprises.”
And for once, he didn’t follow it up with a jab or a condescending remark. He just let the silence settle — and somehow, it wasn’t uncomfortable.
The turbulence passed. The cabin smoothed out. The fasten seatbelt sign dimmed.
But Jake didn’t move his hand.
And you… didn’t pull away.
Eventually, you relaxed back into your seat, fingers still laced with his. The leather was soft against your back. The champagne glass stayed untouched. And Jake — infuriating, complicated, impossible Jake — sat beside you quietly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
It should’ve been weird.
But it wasn’t.
Not even a little.
The plane touched down with a gentle thud on the tarmac of San Diego’s private airport, and the moment the wheels kissed the runway, you could finally breathe.
Jake had let go of your hand somewhere over New Mexico — slow, almost reluctant — and gone quiet after that, returning to the cold, closed-off version of himself you were more familiar with. You didn’t mention it, but you felt it like a cold draft beneath a door. The shift. The boundary snapping back into place.
The ride from the airport to the hotel was sleek and silent, chauffeured in a black SUV with tinted windows and complimentary bottled water that probably cost more than your rent. Jake answered emails on his phone. You reviewed the presentation schedule on your iPad. The world settled back into its roles: you, the assistant; him, the untouchable boss.
But something still lingered — like phantom warmth on your palm where his hand had been.
You pushed the thought away as the SUV pulled up to the grand circular driveway of the hotel. It was the kind of place that looked like old money and smelled like eucalyptus and exclusivity. Bellboys in tailored uniforms moved quickly to grab luggage, the doorman nodded with practiced elegance, and the marble lobby gleamed under high chandeliers.
Jake strolled in behind you, casually tucking his sunglasses into his jacket pocket, leaving a trail of silent awe as hotel staff and guests alike registered the CEO of Seresin International in their lobby.
You, already in full assistant mode, approached the front desk with your confirmation emails at the ready.
“Hi,” you said to the impeccably dressed receptionist. “Reservation under Seresin International. It should be for two rooms — a suite and a standard.”
The woman at the desk smiled warmly and began typing. Her perfectly-manicured nails clacked softly on the keys.
“Welcome. Yes, I see it right here—one-bedroom suite, single king bed.”
You blinked.
“No—sorry. It should be two rooms. One suite, one standard.”
She frowned slightly and turned the screen to check again. “No, I have only one reservation. One room.”
Your spine stiffened. “That’s not possible. I booked two rooms. I have the confirmation right here—”
“I understand,” she said patiently. “But I only have one reservation under your company name. It’s the executive suite with a single king bed.”
You stared at her, mouth open slightly. “So not even two beds? Just one? That’s ridiculous. We don’t even need a suite—”
“Ma’am,” she said with a placid smile, “the reservation is nonrefundable.”
You were already pulling up the email confirmation, about to weaponize your most condescending lawyer-voice even though you were not a lawyer. “This is ridiculous. Someone in your booking department obviously screwed this up—”
“Problem?” came a drawling voice from just behind your shoulder.
You didn’t even turn. “Yes. Your hotel is apparently incapable of properly reading a reservation form.”
Jake stepped up beside you, arching a brow at the receptionist who, now clearly recognizing him, looked like she was about to offer him her social security number if he asked nicely.
Jake looked back at you, entirely unbothered. “So they only have one room?”
“One bed, Jake.”
He nodded slowly, then looked at the receptionist with that infuriating, charming smile of his. “Honest mistake. Just give us the key.”
You turned to him so fast your earrings nearly hit your face. “What?”
He didn’t even flinch. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not fine. We’re not—this isn’t—we’re not sharing a bed.”
Jake turned to you, calm and borderline amused. “It’s a king. I don’t snore. We’ll survive.”
“You don’t snore,” you repeated, scandalized. “You’re Mr. ‘I Demand Excellence’ and now you’re just—just letting this slide?”
“Would you rather argue about it for the next thirty minutes while they try to ‘look into it’ and tell us they’re fully booked anyway?” he asked dryly, signing the check-in paperwork. “Or would you rather go upstairs, shower off the recycled air, and have room service deliver a $50 salad?”
You opened your mouth to protest, to fight, to shout about principles and boundaries—
—and then the receptionist handed Jake the keycard, smiling like she’d just handed over her firstborn.
“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Seresin.”
Jake turned to you and extended the key.
“Shall we?”
You stared at him. “Who are you?”
Jake only smirked. “Just trying not to scare the staff.”
“Since when?”
He didn’t answer. Just gestured toward the elevators with a gentlemanly flourish.
You narrowed your eyes, snatched the key from his hand, and stalked toward the elevator with your carry-on rolling behind you. Jake followed, quiet but smug.
And as the elevator doors closed behind you, sealing you both in a mirrored box with plush carpeting and soft jazz, you found yourself wondering—not for the first time—if maybe Jake Seresin was full of surprises after all.
The elevator dinged softly as it reached the 21st floor, the penthouse level.
Jake stepped out first, rolling his sleek black luggage like he was gliding down a runway, while you followed with a mixture of dread, exhaustion, and righteous fury still bubbling under your skin.
When you reached the door at the very end of the hall — naturally, the nicest and most dramatic door on the floor, with an ornate brass handle and a discreet “Presidential Suite” plaque beside it — Jake gestured gallantly for you to do the honors.
You ignored him and slid the keycard through the reader. The light flashed green with a soft click, and you pushed the door open.
The suite was… gorgeous.
High ceilings, sweeping city views, walls of floor-to-ceiling windows. A modern, chic living room with a gas fireplace, a dining nook with a marble table, and a full bar that looked like it belonged in a Bond villain’s lair. To your left was the sprawling bedroom, where a single, painfully luxurious king-size bed sat dead center, flanked by two nightstands and a soft Persian rug.
You stared at the bed.
It stared back.
Jake rolled his luggage inside like he had not just volunteered the two of you for a week-long game of platonic cohabitation Olympics. He dropped the handle and stretched lazily, spine cracking in at least three places.
You slowly turned toward the couch — low-backed, designer, obviously worth more than your yearly rent — and tilted your head, considering the probability of it being even remotely comfortable for sleeping. Not great.
“Don’t even think about it,” Jake said behind you.
You turned. “Think about what?”
“The couch.”
You crossed your arms. “I wasn’t thinking anything.”
“You absolutely were.” He dropped onto the bed, bouncing a little with the sheer cloud-like give of the mattress. “If you’re waiting for me to offer to sleep on the floor, I’m not doing it.”
You blinked. “You’re not serious.”
Jake toed off his shoes, then reclined like he owned the damn suite. (He probably did own the suite. Or the chain. Or the continent, who knew.)
“Your back will seize by midnight on that couch. I’ll be asleep, and then you’ll writhe around dramatically and blame me for it.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I would not blame you for my bad back.”
“You would. And you’d whine about it for at least 72 hours.”
“I don’t whine.”
Jake gave you a look. “Sweetheart, you once complained about the espresso machine at the office like it had personally offended your ancestors.”
“That’s because it sucks, and if we’re being honest, it’s not espresso—it’s burnt sadness in liquid form.”
Jake smirked. “Exactly.”
You glared. “This is deflection.”
He shrugged, rolling onto his side. “Just share the bed. I won’t bite.”
He paused, then added with a devil-may-care grin: “Unless you want me to.”
You blinked. Once. Twice.
Your brain blue-screened for half a second before it caught up with your mouth. “Excuse me?”
Jake didn’t move. Didn’t even look at you. Just reached for the remote on the nightstand and turned the TV on like he hadn’t just casually lobbed a sexual innuendo into the air between you like a grenade.
You stared at him in disbelief. “Did you just—was that—was that a joke?”
“I don’t know,” he replied lazily, flipping through channels. “You tell me.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your thoughts were screaming but none of them were coherent.
He was still not looking at you. Still pretending like this was the most casual, innocent exchange in the world, like he hadn’t just cracked the entire foundation of your professional tension with a single perfectly delivered line.
You turned toward the bathroom before your face could betray the tiny flicker of heat crawling up your neck.
“I’m taking the first shower,” you snapped, marching toward the door.
“Take your time,” Jake called after you, voice smooth. “I’ll just be here. Not biting.”
You slammed the bathroom door behind you with more force than necessary.
And inside the oversized, spa-like space, you stared at your reflection in the mirror — at your wide eyes, your flushed cheeks, the flustered energy vibrating in your chest — and muttered, “What the hell just happened?”
The bathroom door clicked shut behind Jake, and the sound of running water started a moment later.
You were already in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows like a fort, your iPad balanced on your lap. Work was open, glowing quietly in the dark, a spreadsheet in desperate need of organization. But you were very aware that no amount of pivot tables would distract you from the fact that Jake Seresin was about to exit that bathroom… in what? A robe? A towel? Nothing?
You swallowed and focused hard on the screen.
He was taking forever. On purpose, you were sure.
And then, finally, the water stopped.
You refused to look when you heard the door open. Refused.
You could hear him padding softly across the room — barefoot — and that was fine. That was normal. You didn’t even blink when he dropped something onto the dresser with a casual thud. But then he walked into your peripheral vision, and all your self-restraint disintegrated like sugar in hot tea.
He was shirtless.
Of course he was.
Just a pair of black boxer briefs riding low on his hips, skin still damp from the shower, hair a little tousled and curling faintly at the ends. He smelled like his cologne — expensive and devastating — and something clean and citrusy from the hotel shampoo.
You looked once. Just once.
And regretted it immediately.
Because damn.
He was obnoxiously fit. Broad chest, defined abs, and a deep V that disappeared under the waistband of his underwear like an arrow pointing straight to hell. You could see the towel slung casually over one shoulder, the way he ran one hand through his wet hair, like he was starring in a shampoo commercial and knew it.
You focused on your screen. “You couldn’t wear a shirt?”
“I could,” Jake said, walking past the foot of the bed to plug in his phone, “but I just took a shower.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He smirked, not looking at you. “Are you scandalized, sweetheart?”
“Mortified.”
“Don’t worry,” he said lightly, finally climbing into the other side of the bed. “I won’t bite.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that.”
“I’m very consistent.”
You rolled your eyes, but didn’t look up. Not even when the mattress dipped as he settled beside you.
It wasn’t fair. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who should use a three-piece suit as armor for his personality. Out of the office, without the power tie and the thousand-dollar watch, he just looked like a man — a smug, annoyingly gorgeous man — with muscles for days and way too much confidence.
Jake leaned back against the headboard, stretching one arm behind it and casually brushing his fingers through his damp hair again. The whole room suddenly felt warmer.
He glanced over at your iPad. “You’re still working?”
“Yes,” you said, not looking at him. “Because one of us has to make sure the merger doesn’t implode.”
“You’re off the clock.”
“I’m never off the clock.”
Jake tilted his head slightly, watching the way your fingers flew across the screen. “You know, most people in bed this late are watching trash TV or texting their exes.”
“I don’t have an ex. Or time for trash TV.”
He hummed. “Tragic.”
You didn’t reply. Just kept typing, ignoring the fact that his thigh was maybe one inch away from yours under the comforter. Ignoring the slow, almost casual way he let out a low exhale, like he was perfectly at peace while you were dying inside.
The tension was thick. Almost painful.
Your iPad screen dimmed.
Jake was still watching you. Or maybe not watching, but aware. You could feel his presence like static electricity. Like if either of you moved too suddenly, something might snap.
You exhaled slowly and turned off the iPad, setting it on the nightstand.
Then, as if on cue, Jake shifted slightly, laying fully onto his side now, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting across his waist. You could feel his eyes on you again.
“What?” you asked quietly, staring up at the ceiling.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m admiring.”
You turned your head toward him slowly, eyes narrowed. “That’s worse.”
Jake just smiled, low and lazy. “You look good when you’re annoyed. It’s cute.”
“Go to sleep, Seresin.”
“You first, boss.”
You rolled to your side, back facing him, cheeks burning, heart thudding like it was trying to escape.
And behind you, Jake shifted too — just enough that his knee brushed the back of yours.
He didn’t move it.
Neither did you.
The silence stretched. Comfortable and tense all at once.
And somewhere deep in your chest, where irritation usually lived when it came to Jake, something softer settled in its place — like a seed waiting to take root.
This trip was going to ruin you.
The next two days passed in a blur of hotel carpets, endless coffee, and conference rooms so aggressively beige they made your soul shrivel. Jake glided through it all like the cocky CEO he was — perfectly tailored suits, cool confidence, answering every question like he owned the building. Which, to be fair, wasn’t a stretch. He had sponsored half the event.
You were at his side every moment. Clipboard, tablet, schedule, presentations. Managing him like always — flawlessly — and for the most part, nothing changed.
Except it did.
It started small.
The first morning, he handed you your coffee with a smirk. “One sugar, no cream, just like your soul.”
You blinked at him, brows raising. “You remembered my order?”
“Of course.” He sipped his own. “I like my assistants caffeine-dependent and emotionally unavailable.”
You stared.
He walked away like nothing happened.
The second shift came that afternoon, during a panel. You leaned in to whisper something — a reminder about time — and Jake turned his head slightly toward you, close enough that your words brushed the shell of his ear. His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.
And then he said, completely straight-faced, “If you whisper in my ear like that again, I can’t be held responsible for my behavior.”
You recoiled, flustered. “What the hell, Seresin?”
“I’m just giving you a heads-up,” he said, shrugging and refocusing on the speaker like he hadn’t just short-circuited your entire nervous system.
That night in the hotel room, he stripped off his shirt like usual, casually tossing it onto a chair. You didn’t flinch anymore. You’d trained your eyes to stay up.
Mostly.
He climbed into bed beside you, gave you one of those lazy, lopsided grins, and said, “Just so you know, you talk in your sleep.”
You froze mid-scroll on your tablet. “…I do not.”
“Last night you mumbled something about… spreadsheets and betrayal. It was dramatic. Very you.”
You shoved the comforter higher and glared at him. “If you ever repeat that, I swear I’ll poison your green juice.”
Jake just chuckled and turned onto his side, back facing you, his shoulders shaking slightly from silent laughter.
You did not stare at his back muscles.
Much.
The second day, it only got worse.
He held open every door, casually pressing his hand to your lower back each time.
He handed you pens like he was placing rings on your fingers.
At one point, when you were mid-conversation with a client, he stepped behind you and adjusted your blazer collar, fingers ghosting over your neck like it was nothing.
But it was not nothing and you nearly dropped your tablet.
Even now, walking beside him through the hotel’s long marble corridor after the evening keynote, you were still off-balance. Still trying to figure out what the hell was happening.
“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” Jake commented, his hands in his pockets, voice smooth.
You shot him a sidelong look. “Are you flirting with me?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Would it work if I were?”
You stopped walking. “I’m your assistant.”
Jake paused too, turning toward you, the dim hallway lights casting a soft glow over his face. “So?”
You blinked. “So, what’s gotten into you?”
He smiled slightly. Not smug — not this time. Just… amused. “Nothing. I just like messing with you.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Right. Of course. God forbid you go five minutes without being insufferable.”
Jake leaned in, close enough that your breath caught. “You’re cute when you’re flustered, boss.”
And with that, he turned and kept walking, leaving you frozen in place, rethinking your entire existence.
That night in the suite, you didn’t speak much. Jake showered first. Came out shirtless, as usual. Didn’t even acknowledge it. He scrolled on his phone, tossed you a bottle of water without looking.
But the tension was there.
Unspoken. Crackling. Pressed into every inch of the shared air between you.
You crawled under the covers, flicked the lamp off, and stared at the ceiling.
Jake lay next to you, one arm behind his head, gaze fixed on nothing.
After a moment, he said quietly, “We’re a good team, you know.”
You turned your head slightly, catching the outline of his profile in the dark.
“…Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”
He glanced over at you, eyes searching yours in the low light. “Try not to dream about me too loudly tonight, boss.”
You groaned into your pillow. “You’re insufferable.”
And yet, your lips curled into a traitorous smile anyway.
The third day dawned with pale gold light bleeding through the suite’s sheer curtains. You were already awake when Jake emerged from the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, steam following him like a cloud. His usual smirk was missing — replaced with a yawn and a scratch to his abs that you definitely didn’t notice.
Much.
You’d both fallen into the rhythm of the conference. Meetings, panels, coffee breaks, networking events. Coordinated in your chaos, like always.
Except now, something was different. Jake had been quieter that morning. Not cold, just… watchful. You caught him glancing at you more than once as you got ready — his gaze trailing from your heels to the neat twist in your hair. But every time you looked up, he was already pretending to check his watch or adjust his cufflinks.
By noon, the two of you were at a rooftop luncheon hosted by some fintech giant. The catered food was suspiciously pretty, the kind of salad that made you crave a burger just by looking at it. You and Jake had split up momentarily — he was across the space, talking to some board member in a navy suit, expression sharp and unreadable. You stood by a tall cocktail table, sipping something vaguely citrusy and waiting for him to finish.
And then he appeared.
You hadn’t even noticed the older man until he was suddenly beside you, all fake charm and far too much cologne.
“Well, hello,” he said, giving your figure a slow, pointed once-over before offering his hand. “Didn’t realize this event came with such… lovely scenery.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I’m Marcus Klein. Real estate investments. And you are?”
“…Just here for work.”
He grinned, undeterred. “Bet you make a hell of an assistant, huh? Do you come with the suit, or is that just part of the fantasy?”
Your spine went stiff. You took a step back, glancing subtly around for Jake.
“Let me buy you a drink,” the man continued, eyes still traveling places they had no right to be. “Maybe slip away from all this corporate crap, get a little more… comfortable.”
You opened your mouth — ready to tell him off — but before a single syllable could escape, a hand landed firmly on your waist.
“Is there a problem here?”
Jake.
The tone of his voice was low. Dangerous. Like the hum of a storm before it cracked open the sky.
Marcus turned, clearly unimpressed. “We’re just talking, buddy—”
“No,” Jake said, deadly calm, “you were talking. She wasn’t interested.”
Marcus chuckled nervously. “Didn’t realize she was spoken for.”
Jake stepped forward, blocking your body with his, hand still planted at your hip. “She’s not a piece of property. She doesn’t need to be spoken for. But you do need to fuck off before I forget where I am and put your ass through that railing.”
A stunned silence fell over your little corner of the rooftop. A few heads turned. Marcus went a shade paler.
“Alright,” the man muttered, backing up with hands raised. “Message received.”
He disappeared into the crowd.
You exhaled, only then realizing how tightly you’d been gripping your glass.
Jake turned to face you, jaw still clenched.
“You okay?” he asked, voice tight.
You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Thanks. He was just—”
“I saw.”
You glanced up at him. His expression was still stormy, eyes narrowed, chest rising and falling faster than normal.
You touched his wrist gently. “Jake.”
That broke the tension — a little. He looked down at your hand, then back at your face.
“He shouldn’t have talked to you like that,” he muttered. “I should’ve been—”
“It’s not your fault.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you like the wind had been knocked out of him. Then his hand — the one at your waist — shifted, almost without him realizing it. His thumb brushed a light circle against your dress.
“We’re getting out of here,” he said quietly. “Come on.”
You didn’t argue. You just followed him, pulse still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with Marcus Klein.
You didn’t say much on the ride back to the hotel.
Jake was still worked up — you could feel it radiating off him like heat from asphalt. His jaw was tight. One hand on the steering wheel, the other flexing restlessly in his lap. You tried to thank him again for stepping in, but he only gave a clipped, “Forget it,” and turned up the AC.
So you rode in silence.
When you reached the hotel, he didn’t wait for the valet. Just tossed the keys and stormed inside, not looking back to check if you were following. You were.
The elevator ride up was thick with unspoken words. You stood at opposite ends of the cabin, your reflection fractured in the mirrored walls. Jake was breathing hard, like he’d just come off a sprint.
By the time you entered the suite, he still hadn’t cooled down.
Jake yanked off his suit jacket and threw it over a chair. His fingers tugged loose the first two buttons of his shirt, then he stalked to the minibar and poured himself a drink — straight scotch, of course. No ice. No words.
You stood by the window, arms crossed over your chest, watching him.
“What is wrong with you?” you finally asked, sharp but confused.
Jake didn’t answer. Just took a long swallow of scotch, then tossed the glass down a little too hard.
“Jake.”
He looked at you — really looked at you. Like he was seeing you for the first time. Like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say.
And still… he said it anyway.
“You’re mine.”
The words punched the air between you.
You blinked. “What?”
Jake didn’t flinch. Just took a step closer, eyes locked on yours.
“That guy—” He exhaled sharply, like just remembering it pissed him off all over again. “He looked at you like you were something to take. Like you were just decoration. And it made me want to rip his fucking head off.”
Your throat went dry.
“Jake…”
“I know you’re my assistant. I know I’m your boss. I know I’m the last person who should be saying this, but fuck it.” He ran a hand through his hair, the raw edge in his voice shaking something loose in your chest. “You’re mine. I feel it every time you roll your eyes at me. Every time you hand me a coffee and mutter some smart-ass comment under your breath. Every time I walk into a room and the only thing I’m looking for is you.”
You stood frozen.
“I don’t want anyone else touching you,” he said, softer now. “Talking to you like that. Hell, even looking at you like they’ve got a chance. Because they don’t. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Your mouth parted, but no words came out.
Jake took a step forward.
“I know it’s not part of the job description,” he said, voice lower now. “I know it’s complicated. But I had to say it.”
Another beat passed. Then two.
And finally, you spoke — voice barely above a whisper.
“You’re serious.”
Jake gave a bitter little smile. “Dead serious.”
You swallowed hard. The tension between you had always been there — unspoken, electric — but this… this was a spark to a powder keg.
Slowly, you stepped toward him. Each step measured, hesitant, until you were standing just a breath away.
“Say it again,” you said quietly. “Say it like you mean it.”
Jake stared at you — then reached out and touched your wrist, fingers light and tentative, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
“You’re mine,” he said, low and certain. “And I’m yours.”
His mouth was on yours before you could even fully process what he’d just said. One hand curled possessively around the back of your neck, the other flattening against your lower back, dragging you flush against him with no space left to think, to breathe, to do anything but feel.
Jake kissed like he did everything — with confidence, with precision, like he already knew exactly what you liked. He tilted your head, deepened it, exhaled into your mouth like he was finally getting a taste of something he’d been craving for too long.
You could barely keep up. His touch was firm, practiced, but there was an edge to him now. A hunger beneath all that control.
You stumbled back toward the bed, bumping into the edge as Jake’s hands slid down your hips. He paused just long enough to press his forehead to yours, his breath uneven.
“You sure?” he asked, voice low and rasped. “Because once I start—”
You didn’t let him finish. You surged forward and kissed him again, tugging him down with you as your knees hit the mattress. “Shut up, Seresin.”
A deep, throaty laugh vibrated against your lips. “Yes, boss.”
Clothes came off in rushed, frantic layers. Your blouse unbuttoned halfway before Jake got impatient and yanked it over your head. His shirt was already long gone, leaving his golden skin and sculpted chest on full display. You barely had a second to ogle him — all abs and muscle and smugness — before he lowered his head and dragged his mouth along your jaw.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered, lips brushing down the column of your throat.
You arched toward him, heat curling in your belly. “Maybe I do.”
His hand slid up your thigh, coaxing it higher as he knelt between your knees, his body caging yours without fully pressing down yet.
“Always so mouthy,” Jake murmured, fingertips ghosting over the waistband of your underwear. “Bet you talk back in bed, too.”
“I give orders,” you shot back, breath catching.
Jake’s eyes flared, his smile devilish. “Then tell me what you want.”
That made you pause — blinking up at him. He wasn’t teasing. Not really. His voice was low, quiet. Like he meant it.
You swallowed. “Take your time.”
Jake raised a brow. “Not what I expected.”
You smirked. “I’ve waited this long. I want to feel everything.”
His pupils dilated. “Say less.”
And then he lowered himself, dragging his mouth over your stomach, down your thighs, spreading you open with careful, reverent hands. His fingers splayed against your skin like he couldn’t bear not to touch. And when his mouth met you — slow, deliberate, hungry — your hands flew to his hair, anchoring yourself to the only thing in the room not spinning.
Jake was good. Too good. Focused. Intent. Like the only thing he cared about in the entire world was the sound of your breathing catching and the way your thighs trembled. He didn’t rush. Not once. Just built you up and held you there, murmuring soft praise against your skin, coaxing every sound out of you until your voice was wrecked and your back arched clean off the bed.
You were still trying to remember how to breathe when he kissed his way back up your body — lips slick, eyes dark.
“That’s once,” he whispered, nipping your bottom lip.
You blinked up at him, dazed. “You’re counting?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “We’re not done yet.”
You gasped as his fingers slid between your legs again, teasing.
“Jake—”
“Say my name like that again,” he groaned. “Swear to God.”
You gripped his shoulders, dizzy. “I thought you were in control here.”
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “I am. And you’re gonna let me take care of you — over and over again.”
His words — low, possessive, tender — sent another jolt through you.
And he did. He made good on every promise, every smirk, every arrogant line he’d ever thrown your way. Until you were tangled in the sheets, pulse stuttering, nails dug into his back, your voice raw from saying his name too many times to count.
At some point, you ended up curled into his side, heart still racing. Jake reached for the comforter, pulling it over the both of you before pressing a kiss to your temple.
“Bossy little thing,” he murmured fondly.
You breathed out a laugh, cheek pressed to his chest. “Don’t get used to this.”
He grinned, trailing his fingers down your arm. “Too late.”
They didn’t go back to the conference.
In fact, they barely left the suite.
The only time the bed was made was when they peeled the sheets off just to toss them to the floor again. The minibar had been emptied, room service was left untouched, and the Do Not Disturb sign stayed firmly on the door — like a warning, like a promise.
Jake had a one-track mind and a laser focus, and unfortunately for your legs, it was entirely directed at you.
He’d wake you with slow kisses down your spine, hands gliding under the sheets, brushing between your thighs like he was just checking if you were still as soft and warm and wet as he remembered. (You were.)
And then he’d disappear under the blankets with a sinful little chuckle, like a man on a mission.
“Jake,” you groaned more than once, half-pleading, half-scolding.
“Mhm?” he’d reply lazily, nuzzling closer to your hipbone. “Still not done tasting you.”
Because that was the thing: Jake Seresin loved eating you out like it was the last meal he’d ever have. Like your body was a map he needed to memorize, one moan at a time. He’d pin your thighs open with those strong, broad hands of his, settling between them like he belonged there. And at this point, maybe he did.
He never rushed. Not once.
There was something about the way he watched you — sometimes with eyes half-lidded, sometimes sharp and focused like he was cataloguing every reaction. He’d lock eyes with you when you tried to squirm away, when your hands fisted in the sheets or in his hair, when you whimpered his name and gasped out how good it felt. And then he’d smirk, just a little, and go right back to driving you out of your mind.
“You always this bossy in bed?” he asked, voice low, teasing, right before dragging his tongue over you again.
“Only when you’re being too slow,” you shot back, breathless, trying to glare but failing miserably.
Jake laughed — a warm, gravelly sound against your skin — and doubled down, making it his mission to wring every reaction out of you.
There was one afternoon, the fifth day maybe, where he laid you back on the bed and kissed down your body with something close to reverence. He paused at your navel, then further, parting your thighs like he owned them.
You were already panting, fingers twitching against the comforter.
“I ever tell you how pretty you sound when you fall apart for me?” he asked softly, lips brushing over the inside of your thigh.
You tried to sass him, to throw out something snarky, but then he did something with his tongue and your brain just… fizzled.
And when he didn’t stop — when he kept going long after you thought he would, long after your voice had gone hoarse from calling his name — you felt tears prick the corners of your eyes.
It wasn’t just the overstimulation. It was the way he held you, touched you, the quiet hum of satisfaction in his throat every time your hips stuttered or your body trembled under him. Like he didn’t just want you unraveled — he wanted you adored.
At some point — some long, dizzy stretch of afternoon light — you finally begged him to come up and kiss you, tugging on his shoulders, your limbs boneless and trembling.
He did. Mouth slick, eyes gleaming, grinning like a man who’d just conquered a city.
You pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “You’re gonna kill me.”
Jake just smirked. “Not yet, sugar. I’ve got plans for after dinner.”
You rolled your eyes and tried to shove him off you.
He didn’t budge. He just wrapped his arms around your waist, dragging you on top of him like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he needed to feel your heartbeat against his to remind himself you were real.
And as the sun dipped outside, painting the curtains gold, you realized something that scared you more than all his teasing ever could:
You were starting to hope he didn’t stop.
The final night settled like a soft sigh over the city, the glow of the skyline bleeding in through the sheer hotel curtains, casting the room in dusky gold. It should’ve felt like the end of something — the last page of a chapter — but in that quiet space between dinner and packing, it just felt still.
Jake was behind you, his hands at your waist, thumbs stroking the bare skin above the waistband of your sleep shorts. You stood at the window like you’d done every night, pretending to admire the view when really, you were buying yourself a few more moments — moments before the spell broke, before you went back to being his assistant and he went back to being your boss and none of this could happen again.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he murmured, voice low against your neck.
You didn’t answer right away. Because if you turned around now — if you looked at him — you weren’t sure you could keep pretending this was just a fling. Just an accident.
“Just tired,” you lied, soft.
Jake’s hands tightened slightly at your waist. “Liar.”
That one word sent a flicker through your belly.
You turned your head a little. “Excuse me?”
He moved closer, chest flush to your back now, and when he spoke again, his mouth brushed your ear.
“You’re not tired,” he said, voice dark, almost smug. “You’re overthinking.”
You hated that he was right. You hated that he knew he was right.
“Jake—”
“I get it,” he cut in gently, but firmly, arms sliding fully around your waist to pull you against him. “We go back tomorrow. It’s back to boardrooms and meetings and pretending we don’t look at each other like we want to rip each other’s clothes off in the elevator.”
Your breath hitched.
He turned you slowly in his arms, eyes scanning your face with quiet focus, his hands staying at your hips.
“But I’m not pretending anymore,” he said, the honesty in his voice knocking the wind from your lungs. “I don’t want to go back to pretending. Not after this.”
You blinked up at him, lips parted.
“I know you feel it too,” he added, voice rough now. “The way you melt for me. The way I can’t stop touching you because I’m scared I’ll forget what it feels like when we’re back in that damn office and you’re making snide comments about my suits again.”
A breathless laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it.
Jake grinned.
And then — like gravity had its own rules around the two of you — you were kissing him again.
This time, it was slower. Less frantic than the other nights. More intentional.
Jake kissed like he had all the time in the world, like you weren’t leaving tomorrow, like he could memorize you piece by piece if he just took his time. His hands mapped your back, your waist, the curve of your hips — warm and sure and patient. When he pulled back, his gaze dropped to your mouth.
“Take your shirt off,” he murmured.
You raised an eyebrow. “So bossy.”
“Only matching your energy, sweetheart.” He grinned. “Besides, you know I like to watch.”
You did.
You also knew exactly what he meant.
You peeled the fabric over your head slowly, relishing the way his eyes tracked your every movement, how his tongue flicked across his lower lip when your bra followed.
He growled, low in his throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You smirked, stepping back toward the bed. “Then come die happy, Mr. CEO.”
He was on you before your back even hit the mattress — mouth on yours, one knee between your thighs, hands pinning your wrists above your head.
“You know, I had every intention of going slow tonight,” he whispered against your neck, dragging his lips along the skin there. “But then you had to go and get all bratty.”
You gasped as his teeth grazed your collarbone.
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” he interrupted, licking the sting away. “But that’s alright. I like you mouthy. Gives me more reason to shut you up.”
“Jake—”
His hand slipped between your thighs, dragging the waistband of your shorts down just enough to slide his fingers over you.
“God,” he groaned. “Still so fucking wet for me.”
You moaned, arching into him.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, lips brushing your ear.
“I want you to—”
“Uh-uh,” he cut in, teasing again. “Be specific. You’re the bossy one, remember?”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Fine. I want your mouth. Now.”
He laughed — dark and thrilled — and then disappeared between your thighs with a reverence that made your skin shiver.
Jake worshipped you. That was the only word for it. His mouth moved over you with purpose, with precision, tongue teasing and flicking and curling until your thighs trembled and your hands clawed the sheets. He held your hips down, humming like your moans were his favorite song, eyes locked on you when you dared to look down at him.
When you came, he kept going — slow, lazy licks that made you writhe, that dragged the heat in your belly back to life.
“You can give me another,” he said, like a promise, like a challenge.
You whimpered, already overwhelmed.
“Don’t you want me to come back with you?” he teased, mouth still on you. “Then let me ruin you properly. Let me make sure no one else even tries.”
Another climax rolled through you with a cry.
He didn’t stop until you begged.
And then he finally moved back up, bracing himself above you, his lips red and slick, his pupils blown wide.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured, kissing you softly now, almost sweetly. “About not wanting this to end.”
You looked up at him, heart thudding painfully.
“I don’t either,” you whispered.
His forehead pressed to yours. “Then let’s not.”
And when he sank into you that final night, slow and deep and grounding, you both understood that whatever had started in a sleek corner office back in New York had evolved into something else entirely.
-
The hum of the jet engines filled the silence like a secret.
You sat across from Jake in the plush leather seat, your legs curled beneath you, the afterglow of the trip hanging in the quiet air between you. Below, the world stretched endlessly — clouds scattered like silk across the sky, cities tucked beneath them, unaware of the shift that had happened in the space between takeoff and landing.
Neither of you had said much since boarding. There hadn’t been a need.
Your body still hummed from the way he’d touched you last night. The way he’d looked at you. Like you weren’t just his assistant anymore. Like you were something else entirely — something sacred.
Jake sat across from you, a tumbler of water in his hand instead of scotch this time, the sleeves of his black button-down rolled up, throat bare where the first few buttons had been undone. His jaw flexed when he glanced at you. You were in one of his shirts — his favorite shirt, in fact — sleeves too long and hem brushing your bare thighs. You hadn't meant for it to feel intimate, but it did.
Everything about today felt intimate.
“You’re quiet,” you finally said, voice soft but steady.
Jake looked at you slowly, eyes darker than usual, thoughtful. “So are you.”
“Just… thinking.”
He nodded once. “Same.”
You tucked your chin into your palm, watching him. “About what?”
Jake let out a breath — not quite a sigh. “About how I’m supposed to go back to pretending you’re just my assistant again.”
That made your heart do something complicated in your chest.
“I don’t want to pretend either,” you said softly, honesty slipping through before you could edit it.
His eyes flicked up at you at that — something tightening in his jaw. “Then don’t.”
You didn’t answer.
Instead, you rose slowly to your feet.
Jake followed your movements like you were gravity itself. His eyes never left you as you stepped over, climbed into his lap, and settled your knees on either side of his thighs.
It was quiet for a moment.
Just your breathing
Just his hands finding your waist, sliding beneath the hem of the shirt to touch skin he already knew by heart.
“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low, rough.
You nodded. “I just want to feel you again.”
He leaned in, his forehead pressing gently to yours. “Then ride me, baby.”
The way he said it made your breath catch.
Slowly, you reached between your bodies, unbuttoning his slacks, your fingers careful but aching with need. He helped, lifting his hips just enough so you could free him, and then he sat back in the leather seat, watching you through half-lidded eyes like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
You slid your panties to the side and sank onto him slowly.
Jake’s head fell back, a quiet fuck escaping his lips.
He felt so good — thick and warm and grounding. You paused for a moment, adjusting, breathing. His hands were already on your thighs, thumbs stroking lazy, soothing circles.
“Take your time,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You moved slowly at first, rocking your hips in steady, rolling motions. Jake didn’t try to take control — not yet. He let you lead, but his hands never left your body. One traced up your spine, fingers curling around the nape of your neck. The other gripped your hip, steadying you, guiding you with soft pressure when you faltered.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”
Your hands were braced on his shoulders, your breath stuttering each time you sank down. His praise made your body clench around him — and he felt it.
“Oh,” he groaned, grip tightening. “Do that again.”
You did.
And again.
And again.
The rhythm grew messier, needier. You leaned forward slightly, your forehead resting against his. Jake brought a hand to your jaw, holding you there.
“You feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “So warm. So perfect.”
His lips brushed yours, just barely. Not quite a kiss. Not yet.
You whimpered, the tension coiling tighter in your belly, your thighs starting to tremble with the effort of holding on.
“Jake—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, sliding his hand between your bodies, finding the place he knew would undo you completely.
You gasped.
“Let go,” he whispered. “I wanna feel you fall apart on top of me.”
And you did.
The orgasm hit like a wave, stealing your breath and your balance. Jake held you through it, one arm around your waist now, cradling you to his chest as you shook. You collapsed against him, burying your face in his neck as he murmured praise into your hair.
“You’re okay,” he said, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you.”
You were still coming down when he shifted beneath you, lifting you gently as he thrust up once, twice, chasing his own release. His fingers dug into your hips as he groaned into your skin, spilling inside you with a shudder.
The cabin was silent except for your breathing.
You stayed like that — tangled together in the middle of a private jet, a mess of limbs and sighs and promises you hadn’t made out loud yet.
Jake finally leaned back to look at you.
“You know we’re not pretending anymore,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.
You nodded.
And smiled.
“Good,” he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because I don’t want to sleep another night without you.”
You kissed him softly, sweetly, like an answer.
And then you stayed in his lap the whole way home.
finally CEO!Jake 🥺
thank you, thank you, thank you
Lunchbox Confidential
pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader
summary; The Daggers suspects Jake has a girlfriend when he starts taking homemade food to base every day.
word count; 3.7k
warnings; another secret girlfriend trope because i wasn't lying when i said i had a hundred concepts planned for this. FLUFF FEST
a/n; i just thought this was a funny concept!!! also i have to admit i thought about it after watching one of those tiktok videos of girls packing their boyfriends lunch hahaah
masterlist
It started with the lunchbox.
At first, no one said anything — it was Jake Seresin, after all, and he had a habit of doing things just for the attention. But when he showed up on base three days in a row with the same sage green Stanley lunchbox tucked casually under his arm — with a matching thermos, no less — it didn’t go unnoticed.
Especially not during lunch.
They always ate together. Spread out across one of the long tables in the hangar break room or under the shade of the awning if the weather allowed. Paper bags, energy drinks, and fast food wrappers littered the table like confetti most days. But not Jake’s spot. Not anymore.
His lunch was neat. Glass containers with perfectly portioned meals, color-coded and stacked. Shiny utensils instead of plastic. Napkins — actual cloth napkins. And he wiped his hands with them. His coffee came from the thermos now — not the break room sludge or the vending machine down the hall — and it smelled faintly of cinnamon and something warm and sweet none of them could place.
The rest of the Daggers tried to ignore it at first. They really did.
But when Jake pulled out a kale salad with pomegranate seeds and some suspiciously perfect grilled chicken on a Tuesday — after years of watching him inhale gas station taquitos and drink Red Bull like water — something snapped.
They began watching.
Not staring, per se — just... observing. Like scientists. Anthropologists. Phoenix was the first to spot the change in behavior: Jake no longer bought food on base. No quick donuts. No protein bars with expiration dates rubbed off. He came prepared. Bob noted the tiny container of homemade salad dressing and the lemon wedge tucked beside it. Fanboy spotted fresh herbs — fresh herbs — scattered over roasted vegetables one day. And Rooster, ever the skeptic, saw the glass container of couscous and nearly fell out of his chair.
Couscous.
That Thursday, they were all eating lunch together as usual. Burgers and fries, burrito bowls, leftover pizza — the usual chaos. Except for Jake, who opened his lunchbox to reveal grilled salmon, jasmine rice, and something that looked an awful lot like sautéed spinach with garlic.
Not a word was said at first. But the silence was loud.
Jake, as always, ate like it was nothing. Cool and composed. Not a hint of embarrassment. If anything, he looked proud of his meal. Maybe even smug.
The others exchanged glances over greasy paper bags and foil wrappers. Something was happening. Something had changed.
Jake wasn’t just eating better. He was glowing.
His hair looked shinier. His skin? Suspiciously clear. He wasn’t snapping at anyone. He wasn’t even being a smug jackass as often as he usually was. He still smirked — but it was softer. More amused than arrogant. And then there was the humming. Jake had been humming under his breath lately. Actual tunes.
The realization came slowly, then all at once:
Someone was making him lunch.
Not just anyone. Someone who cared.
The neat handwriting on the masking tape labels. The balanced meals. The lemon wedge. The cinnamon coffee. The fresh herbs. All from scratch.
That wasn’t meal prep. That was love.
And that’s when it hit them — they were dealing with a full-blown mystery girlfriend situation.
No one had seen her. No one had heard about her. But she existed. And she cooked. And she packed his lunch in a Stanley box like a 1950s housewife crossed with a nutritionist.
The Dagger Squad didn’t say anything that day. But they all knew one thing:
They were going to get to the bottom of it.
Even if it killed them.
The confrontation came on a Friday, and it was far from subtle.
They were all seated around the usual table outside the hangar — Phoenix, Rooster, Fanboy, Bob, Coyote, and Jake. The air smelled like jet fuel, sunblock, and desperation. Lunch had just begun, and once again, Jake pulled out his Stanley lunchbox with the same casual nonchalance of a man not being stalked by his coworkers.
Except he was.
Fanboy was the first to break.
“That’s it,” he said, slapping a napkin down like he was laying a court summons. “Who is she?”
Jake didn’t even glance up as he unscrewed his thermos. “Excuse me?”
Phoenix leaned in, pointing at his perfectly packed tupperware like it had personally offended her. “You used to eat vending machine peanuts for lunch, Seresin. Dry ones. With Coke Zero. Now you’re out here with your anti-inflammatory salmon and chia seed pudding.”
Coyote nodded solemnly. “You brought fruit yesterday, man. In a ceramic bowl. Who the hell owns ceramic bowls?”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “People who don’t eat like raccoons?”
Rooster squinted at the fork in Jake’s hand. “Is that... bamboo?”
“Reusable,” Jake said, chewing slowly. “It’s called being environmentally conscious.”
Bob looked genuinely impressed. “The presentation is really nice. There’s, like, a color theme every day.”
Jake shot him a warning glance. “Et tu, Floyd?”
Fanboy ignored him. “So? Who’s the domestic goddess making your lunches?”
Jake leaned back, slow and smug. “Y’all are acting like I can’t boil rice.”
Phoenix crossed her arms. “Jake, last year you set off the smoke alarm reheating soup.”
“One time,” he said. “One time.”
Rooster leaned forward, face dead serious. “Is your mom visiting or something? Be honest. She’s staying with you, right? That’s why you’ve been showing up with fucking lemon vinaigrette.”
Jake snorted. “My mother hasn’t flown in since Christmas, and if she were making my lunch, you’d all be dead from butter overload.”
Coyote grinned. “So it’s not your mom.”
Jake finally looked up, leveling them all with a cool glance. “Why are you people so obsessed with what I eat?”
“Because it’s suspicious!” Phoenix threw her hands up. “You have a thermos now. And that coffee smells like snickerdoodles. Your mood’s suspiciously stable. Your skin looks... hydrated.”
Rooster nodded. “I said that last week, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” Bob added. “And his hair’s been extra fluffy.”
Jake rubbed his temple. “Jesus Christ.”
Fanboy leaned forward like he was about to interrogate a suspect. “You’ve got a girl, don’t you?”
Jake’s jaw ticked. “Not that it’s any of your business—”
“He has a girl!” Rooster exploded, pointing dramatically. “He’s so in love, it’s disgusting!”
Phoenix gasped, shoving Jake’s shoulder. “Oh my God, you’re domestic now. Who is she? Does she do your laundry? Does she iron your flight suits? Is she a ghost?”
“She’s not a ghost,” Jake muttered.
“Wait,” Coyote said, eyes narrowing. “Have we met her?”
Jake took another bite of his grilled chicken like he had all the time in the world. “No.”
“Why not?!” the table chorused in complete offense.
Jake shrugged. “Because she’s smarter than all of you, and I wanted her to like me before she met the clowns I work with.”
Rooster clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “He’s ashamed of us.”
Jake sighed dramatically. “You’re like toddlers. Nosy, loud toddlers.”
“I bet she bakes,” Phoenix said. “She definitely bakes.”
“She pickles,” Bob whispered in awe.
“You’re in love,” Coyote said, grinning. “Look at him. Look at that dumb smirk.”
Jake wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and raised his brow. “If you’re done analyzing my lunch like a bunch of food critics on meth, I’d like to eat in peace.”
But none of them were done. Not even close.
Because Jake Seresin — call sign Hangman, cockiest bastard alive — had a girlfriend.
And she packed him snack-size containers.
This was war.
When Jake walked through the front door, the scent of garlic and lemon greeted him first. Then came the faint hum of jazz from the kitchen speaker, and the soft shuffle of slippered feet across tile.
He closed the door behind him, shrugging off his flight jacket, and tossed his keys into the ceramic bowl by the entryway — the one you made yourself at that pottery class you dragged him to two months ago. The bowl was hideous, all warped and crooked and smudged with a thumbprint in the glaze.
He wouldn’t trade it for the world.
“Incoming,” he called, his voice echoing down the hallway.
“In here!” you answered gently, just barely loud enough to carry. It was a voice that never quite matched the chaos of the world he came from. Soft, warm, comforting — like fleece and firelight and freshly baked bread. Everything he didn’t know he needed until he had you.
Jake stepped into the kitchen, eyes landing on your small figure standing at the stove, stirring a pan of sautéed vegetables like it was the most important job in the universe. You wore an oversized sweatshirt that hung halfway to your knees and fuzzy socks with little peaches on them. Your hair was clipped up messily, a pencil tucked through it. Your cheeks were pink from the heat, your eyes bright as you turned to smile at him.
His day melted off his shoulders the second you looked at him like that.
“Hey, darlin’,” he said, walking up behind you and pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. “Dinner smells amazing. What is it?”
“Grilled salmon,” you said, reaching for the oven mitts. “Roasted sweet potato, asparagus, and quinoa with lemon zest. And I tried that raspberry vinaigrette you mentioned.”
Jake made a low sound in his throat, like a man witnessing divinity. “God, I love you.”
You giggled quietly. “You say that every time I feed you.”
“Yeah, well, it’s always true.”
He leaned over and snagged a slice of sweet potato from the baking tray. You batted his hand lightly with the spatula.
“No snacking,” you said, then softer, “You’ll ruin your appetite.”
Jake grinned, clearly unbothered. He slid onto one of the counter stools, still in his flight suit. “You would not believe the interrogation I was subjected to today.”
You turned off the burner and looked over, blinking. “Interrogation?”
“Oh yeah.” He pulled out his thermos, waved it for emphasis. “This. Your lunches. Apparently I’ve been exhibiting ‘suspiciously stable mood patterns,’” he added with exaggerated air quotes. “Rooster almost staged an intervention. Fanboy asked if my mother was visiting.”
Your eyes widened in concern. “Oh no, did I—did I cause a scene?”
Jake smirked, all teeth. “Babe, the scene was already there. You’re just the reason it’s gourmet now.”
You ducked your head, cheeks coloring. “They were really talking about my food?”
“Nonstop,” he said, voice softer now. “Bob noticed the color coordination. And I may have accidentally confirmed that yes, I’m off the market and eating like a real adult because of a certain little nutritionist I’m in love with.”
Your eyes flicked up to his, shy but glowing.
“Oh.”
Jake’s smile softened. He reached over the counter to brush a crumb from your chin. “Yeah. Oh.”
You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, nerves making your fingers twitch slightly. “Well... maybe they should just come over. For dinner. You know. If you want.”
Jake blinked. “Wait, you wanna meet them?”
You bit your lip, then nodded. “I mean... they’re important to you. And you’re important to me. I don’t want to be a secret.”
Jake stood, rounded the counter, and cupped your face with both hands, tilting your chin up gently. “You are not a secret. You’re my best-kept treasure. But if you want to meet the zoo I work with, I’ll happily unleash them on our home.”
You giggled nervously. “They’re not that bad, are they?”
Jake gave you a look. “One of them thought I was being poisoned because my skin started clearing up.”
You laughed out loud then, the sound like windchimes in spring. “Okay, maybe we’ll ease them in with dessert.”
“I’ll text them,” he said, already pulling out his phone. “Tomorrow night?”
You nodded, then hesitated. “Should I make the gluten-free pasta for Phoenix? I think you said she’s cutting back on wheat.”
Jake blinked. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’m thoughtful,” you corrected, nose wrinkling.
He kissed that exact wrinkle and pulled you close, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re perfect.”
And as he watched you pull out your little recipe notebook with color-coded tabs, already muttering about prep time and ingredients, Jake realized something:
His squad wasn’t ready for you.
But he was.
Jake had told them to arrive at 7:00 PM sharp.
Which, to be fair, was a bold assumption considering this group couldn’t even synchronize takeoff times most days — and yet, somehow, the entire Dagger Squad showed up early.
At 6:46 PM.
Jake opened the front door still wearing his "casual hosting" T-shirt — grey, a little snug on the arms — and a face full of horror as he looked past the group to his watch.
“You guys can’t read numbers?”
Phoenix blew past him like she owned the place, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of pastries in the other. “Relax, Hostess Seresin. We brought offerings.”
Javy followed right behind her, grinning. “We were hungry.”
“Some of us were excited to meet the mystery woman,” Bob added gently, clutching his own six-pack of sparkling water like it was a housewarming gift.
Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t have just waited in the driveway like normal people?”
“Normal people don’t talk about you bringing Tupperware and homemade lemon water for two weeks straight,” Rooster said, stepping inside and looking around the open-plan living room and kitchen. “This is like… a holy pilgrimage.”
“Make yourselves at home,” Jake muttered dryly, closing the door as Payback and Fanboy filtered in, already bickering about who called shotgun on the ride over.
“Wow,” Phoenix said, setting her wine on the counter and surveying the kitchen. “This place is nice. Did you clean just for us?”
“No, he lives like this now,” Fanboy replied, eyeing the perfectly folded throw on the couch. “Ever since he started bringing soup in a thermos. It’s freaky.”
Jake opened his mouth to snap back, but was immediately distracted by the sound of a cabinet opening and the soft pad of your footsteps.
“Jake, can you—oh.” You stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, your eyes landing on the cluster of aviators now standing in the middle of your living room like excited kids on a school field trip.
You were wearing a soft blue sweater, an apron still tied around your waist, your hands lightly dusted in flour. Your hair was clipped back, your expression shy but warm, and for a second, nobody said anything.
Then:
“Oh my God, you’re real,” Rooster said, like he couldn’t help himself.
“You made the lemon lavender loaf?!” Bob added, awe in his voice.
You blinked, cheeks warming. “Um… yes?”
“Hi,” Jake said quickly, stepping forward to loop an arm around your waist. “Everyone—this is my girlfriend.”
The room erupted in a chorus of greetings.
You gave a tiny, polite wave and a nervous smile. “Hi. Welcome. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” Javy said, practically vibrating with joy.
You stepped aside, motioning toward the dining room. “Dinner’s almost ready. Please, sit, make yourselves comfortable. There are drinks on the sideboard, and appetizers if you’re hungry now.”
“Oh my God, there are appetizers,” Rooster whispered reverently.
The dining table was a vision: long and wooden with soft linen runners, candles, and mismatched vintage plates. On the sideboard sat homemade lemonade, cucumber water, fresh juice, and two pitchers of iced tea — one sweet, one unsweetened. Next to that, a tray of cheese-stuffed mini bell peppers, tiny crostinis with whipped feta and honey, and skewered watermelon cubes with mint and balsamic glaze.
You stood back, hands twisted in your apron, as the Daggers descended.
“This is witchcraft,” Phoenix murmured around a crostini.
“What’s in this?” Fanboy asked, mouth full.
“Ricotta, lemon zest, and love,” Jake said flatly, earning a soft elbow from you.
Bob carefully poured himself some cucumber water, looking like he was about to cry from joy.
“Okay,” Payback said after his second skewer, “so let’s talk about how you’re real. Jake Seresin told us nothing except that you packed his lunch and made ‘homemade marinara from scratch.’”
You flushed. “Well, I’m a nutritionist, so… food is kind of my thing.”
“Oh my God, he wasn’t lying,” Rooster said dramatically.
Jake smirked. “Told you.”
Dinner proper was a feast.
You brought everything out in waves, starting with fresh-baked dinner rolls still warm from the oven, followed by a creamy butternut squash soup served in delicate ceramic bowls you’d thrifted with Jake one weekend.
“This is…?” Natasha asked, spoon midair.
“Roasted butternut squash, a little coconut milk, ginger, and nutmeg.”
“I’m ascending,” Fanboy said seriously.
Jake leaned toward Bob, who had already finished half his bowl. “You should see brunch.”
Next came the main course: a honey-glazed salmon, lemon herb roasted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted rainbow carrots, a spinach salad with strawberries and candied pecans, and a quinoa pilaf with grilled veggies.
“Oh my God, this is what Jake eats every day?” Fanboy asked, already scooping seconds. “We thought he joined a cult.”
“I made a peanut butter and jelly today,” Payback said. “A peanut butter and jelly.”
“Meanwhile, I’ve been eating gas station sushi,” Rooster mumbled.
Jake just leaned back in his chair, arm resting on the back of yours, smug as hell. “Yeah, well. You know. She likes me.”
Natasha snorted. “You’re just lucky she doesn’t realize she can do better.”
You gave a soft laugh, tucking your face into Jake’s shoulder. “I think I’m right where I want to be.”
Jake pressed a kiss to your temple.
Around the table, groans of fake gagging.
Then came dessert.
Which, of course, you also made from scratch.
Mini lava cakes. Fresh whipped cream. Vanilla bean custard. A tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries. And, because Jake had casually mentioned it in passing last week, a tiny banana cream pie — just for him.
There was silence as everyone took the first bite of lava cake.
Then, from Bob: “Do you… do you give cooking lessons?”
Jake snorted. “Bob, don’t fall in love with my girlfriend.”
“Too late.”
Eventually, the night wound down. Everyone was stuffed, glowing, and a little in awe. Jake sat back with his arm around you, and the rest of the Daggers sprawled like satisfied house cats in every available seat.
Phoenix raised her glass of lemonade. “To the chef. And to the woman who somehow managed to civilize Hangman.”
You smiled bashfully as everyone echoed the toast.
As they filtered out with hugs and leftovers and more compliments than you knew what to do with, Fanboy paused at the door and turned back to Jake.
“Hey man,” he said, nodding at you. “You’re punching so far above your weight.”
Jake just grinned, watching you finish wiping down the table, a dreamy look in his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
The house was finally quiet.
The last of the dishes were drying in the rack, the dining room table wiped clean, and the candles had long since flickered out. Outside, the crickets hummed a steady rhythm beneath the open kitchen window, and inside, the only light came from the under-cabinet glow washing everything in soft, honeyed warmth.
You leaned against the counter, still in your apron, still a little flustered from all the compliments. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your voice was hoarse from answering so many questions, but Jake? Jake looked at you like he could stay in this moment forever.
“Did you have fun?” you asked, brushing your fingers along the edge of the countertop, not quite meeting his gaze.
Jake didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped in front of you, gently untied your apron and set it aside on the counter. Then he leaned in, cupping your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing softly beneath your eye where the day’s effort still lingered.
“You are… incredible,” he said quietly.
You rolled your eyes, trying not to melt. “They were just hungry.”
“They were obsessed with you,” he corrected. “And for the record, so am I.”
You laughed, just a little. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m lucky,” he said, kissing your cheek. “That’s what I am.”
You hummed, looping your arms around his waist as he tugged you closer. The tips of your noses brushed. Your smile curled slow and sleepy as his lips found yours — slow, soft, a kiss made of everything unspoken. Thank you. I love you. Please don’t ever leave.
Jake pulled away just far enough to whisper, “You know I’d marry you for those lava cakes alone, right?”
You smacked his chest. “Go to bed, Hangman.”
He grinned. “I’m serious. That pie sealed it.”
You leaned up to kiss him one more time, quick and warm. “Brush your teeth first.”
“Bossy,” he said, but he was already walking away, barefoot and happy.
The next morning, at Naval Base North Island, the squad was gathered around the usual lunch table — same routine, same noisy chatter — when Jake strolled up like he didn’t have a care in the world, coffee thermos in one hand, and a pastel-colored bakery box in the other.
“Morning, sunshine,” Rooster called. “You recover from that feast?”
Jake smirked and plopped the box on the table. “Barely. But she sent me with these.”
Natasha blinked. “Wait… what’s that?”
Jake popped the lid. Inside: delicate rows of homemade pastries. Mini scones with lemon glaze. Tiny berry tarts. Swirls of buttery palmiers and flaky raspberry pinwheels. Each one placed with the care of someone who loved to feed the people her person loved.
“She made these?” Bob asked, already leaning in like he was in a dream.
“Packed them herself,” Jake said, lifting out a tiny wax-paper note that read, “For the squad. Don’t let Jake eat them all. Love, Me.”
“Oh my God, she likes us,” Fanboy gasped.
“She likes me more,” Jake said smugly, popping a tart into his mouth.
Natasha was already holding a scone delicately between her fingers. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“You didn’t tell us she bakes,” Payback said through a mouthful.
Jake wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back in his seat like he’d just conquered the world.
“I told you guys. She’s perfect.”
this is probably a sign that I should start learning how to cook 😅
handsome bby
his smile is the cause of my delulu
