summary; The Daggers had never heard Jake Seresin say âI love you.â Until you came alongâand suddenly, he said it like breathing.
word count; 3.8k
warnings; none, just fluff!
a/n; i wanted to post this because i've been working on mostly angst pieces so i wanted to give you some fluff before the suffering đ«¶đ» enjoy!
masterlist
To the Daggers, Jake Seresin existed in a single, carefully curated version.
He was the cocky, self-centered aviator who walked into every room like he already owned it, like the world had been designed with him in mind and everyone else was simply lucky to exist in his orbit.
He wore arrogance like a second skin, effortless and polished, carried in the lazy tilt of his smirk and the unapologetic confidence in his stride. His presence was loud even when he wasnât speaking, all sharp edges and undeniable charm, all perfectly timed sarcasm and infuriatingly attractive self-assurance wrapped in six feet of navy blues, broad shoulders, and a body sculpted by discipline and adrenaline.
That was the version they knew, and the only version he ever allowed them to see. To them, Jake Seresin didnât do softness, didnât do vulnerability, didnât do feelings, and certainly didnât do the kind of words that made people uncomfortable because they meant something.
Jake Seresin didnât say I love you. In fact, he barely said anything remotely positive to anyone, no matter how much they deserved it. Not to Rooster when he nailed a landing heâd been struggling with for weeks, not to Phoenix when she carried half the squad through a mission briefing with her sharp, relentless clarity, and not even to Fanboy when he managed to fix that piece of equipment everyone else had already given up on.
And definitely not that one time he accidentally answered a call from his mother in the middle of the Hard Deck, phone pressed to his ear while the music roared and glasses clinked around him. They had watched him freeze for half a second, jaw tightening, eyes flickering with something they couldnât quite name before he spoke.
âYeah, Mom,â he had said, voice low, almost guarded, followed by a brief pause and a tone that softened despite his effort to keep it steady. Then, after a few seconds, came a clipped, almost defensive, âIâm busy. Iâll call you later.â
He had hung up before anyone could hear more, slid the phone back into his pocket, and just like that, Hangman was backâgrinning, teasing, leaning against the bar like he hadnât just been momentarily pulled out of character. To the Daggers, that was all he was: smirks, bravado, ego, and the kind of emotional distance that made him untouchable, unreachable, impossible to read.
They thought they knew him, but they didnât know that somewhere between missions and late nights, between stolen glances and quiet moments, Jake Seresin had learned a new language. It was a language he never spoke out loud, never allowed to exist where they could hear it, and never let slip in front of anyone who might notice the cracks in his armor.
Not until you came along.
â
The music at the Hard Deck kept roaring, loud enough to blur into the background, but Jake barely registered it anymore.
He stood by the bar with his elbows resting against the worn wood, eyes flickering toward the entrance every time the door opened, not because he expected someone to walk in, but because he was waiting for the familiar vibration in his pocket. The Daggers had started noticing it weeks ago, the way his attention drifted elsewhere, the way his hand moved toward his phone almost instinctively, as if some invisible thread pulled him toward it every time it lit up.
Jake Seresin had never been the type to linger over messages. He was brief, careless, detached. Conversations with him were usually efficient, transactional, stripped of anything resembling emotional investment. But lately, something had shifted so subtly that it had taken them time to put it into words. He smiled more when he looked at his screen. Not the smug, taunting grin he wore like armor, but something softer, quieter, something that didnât feel performative at all.
They had tried to catch glimpses of his phone when he wasnât paying attention, leaning slightly over his shoulder under the pretense of grabbing a drink or checking the score on the TV mounted above the bar. But Jake had always noticed. He would lock the screen with a lazy flick of his thumb, glance sideways at them with a sarcastic roll of his eyes, and dismiss them with a muttered comment that didnât quite mask his irritation.
At first, they had assumed it was his mother. Or one of his sisters. Maybe even one of his nieces, sending him blurry pictures of whatever toy theyâd just discovered. But that theory didnât last long. Jake loved his family, sure, but he had never been glued to his phone because of them. And it definitely wasnât a hookup. Jake didnât text hookups like that. He didnât double-text, didnât wait for replies, didnât bother crafting messages that sounded thoughtful or warm.
He had never put that kind of effort into anyone.
That night, he was waiting for Penny to come back with a fresh beer, his gaze unfocused as he leaned against the bar, when his phone began to ring in his pocket. The vibration was soft, but his body reacted instantly; his hand moved before he consciously decided to reach for it. The moment he saw your name lighting up the screen, something in his chest eased, like a knot loosening after being tied too tight for too long.
He answered without hesitation.
âHey,â he said, voice low, the edge of it smoothing out in a way it never did with anyone else. âHi, sweetheart.â
The word came out so naturally it didnât even register as something unusual to him. It just felt right.
You giggled on the other end of the line, and the sound of it did something to him that he refused to name. He shifted slightly, turning his back a little toward the squad without even realizing he was doing it, creating a small pocket of privacy in the middle of the crowded bar.
You told him you were just leaving your momâs place, that youâd decided to stop by the supermarket before going home because youâd run out of milk and had a sudden craving for cereal at an unreasonable hour. Jake listened to every detail like it mattered, like the mundane pieces of your day were somehow important simply because they belonged to you.
âDonât forget the cookies you like,â he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting. âThe ones with the chocolate chunks. You always regret it when you donât buy them.â
You protested weakly, accused him of stalking your grocery habits, and he let out a soft chuckle that didnât sound like the loud, theatrical laugh he usually reserved for his friends. This one was quieter, almost private, like he didnât need an audience for it.
The conversation lasted only a few minutes, but when you told him you were about to drive home, something in him tightened.
âText me when you get home, yeah?â he said, voice dropping even lower, sincerity seeping through every syllable. Then, without thinking, without hesitation, without any trace of irony, he added, âI love you.â
The words left his mouth as easily as breathing.
For a second, he stayed still, listening. When you said it back, your voice warm and soft and completely certain, a smile slowly spread across his face, unguarded and genuine in a way no one at the Hard Deck had ever seen before. It wasnât the smile of Hangman, the confident pilot who thrived on attention and competition. It was the smile of a man who felt safe, grounded, anchored to something real.
He slipped his phone back into his pocket, shoulders relaxing as if a quiet weight had been lifted from them, and turned slightly toward the bar again.
He didnât notice the silence behind him at first.
Natasha stood a few steps away, her hands wrapped around her drink, brows furrowed, eyes fixed on him with a confusion she didnât bother to hide. She had arrived just in time to hear everything, to witness the way his voice softened, the way his posture shifted, the way that single sentence had fallen from his lips as it belonged there.
Hangman.
In love.
The realization settled slowly in her mind, heavy and unbelievable, like trying to reconcile two versions of the same person that had never existed in the same universe before.
Hangman didnât say I love you.
Except, apparently, he did.
Just not to them.
â
The next time they noticed the crack in Hangmanâs armor was also the first time they caught a glimpse of you, though none of them realized yet how permanent that fracture would be. It was another night at the Hard Deck, the kind where the music was loud enough to blur the edges of conversation and the smell of beer clung stubbornly to the air. Jake had already lost count of how many bottles heâd emptied, his usual sharpness dulled by alcohol and laughter, his confidence heavier, slower, less calculated.
The Daggers were crowded around the table, locked in an unnecessarily intense rock-paper-scissors showdown to decide who would be responsible for getting him home.
âAbsolutely not, I drove last time,â Fanboy protested, slapping his hand down on the table.
âYou didnât even drive, you made Rooster do it,â Payback shot back.
Jake barely registered their voices. He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, mind drifting somewhere far from the noise around him. He lifted his beer again, but then something shifted in his expression, subtle and immediate, as if the world had suddenly narrowed to a single point across the room.
Without warning, he pushed himself to his feet, chair scraping loudly against the floor.
âIâm heading out,â he said, already stepping away before anyone could protest.
âWhoa, whoa, Hangman, where do you think youâre going?â Phoenix called, rising from her seat.
âIâm fine,â he tossed over his shoulder, not slowing down.
The Daggers moved almost instinctively, convinced he was about to do something reckless, something typically Hangman. Phoenix was halfway through grabbing his arm when they all froze, their attention snapping toward the direction he was heading.
Jake wasnât walking toward the exit.
He was walking toward you.
You stood near the entrance, framed by neon lights and the restless movement of people passing behind you, looking impossibly calm in the middle of the chaos. The moment Jake reached you, he didnât hesitate. His arms wrapped around your body with a familiarity that stunned them all, his tall frame swallowing yours as if he needed to anchor himself to you.
âThere you are,â he murmured, his voice softer than any of them had ever heard it.
You laughed, the sound bright and warm. âYou look like youâve had too much fun.â
âNot until you got here,â he replied without thinking.
Your arms slid around his middle with effortless ease, as though this was something youâd done a hundred times before. The Daggers exchanged looks that hovered somewhere between disbelief and confusion as Jake leaned down, pressing messy, unapologetic kisses against your cheeks and the corner of your mouth, his usual swagger replaced by something dangerously sincere.
âJake,â you scolded gently, smiling despite yourself. âEveryoneâs watching.â
He shrugged, unfazed. âLet them.â
His hands found their way to the back pockets of your jeans, resting there with quiet confidence, not possessive, not showy, just natural, like he belonged there and had never questioned it.
You lifted your hands to his face, patting his cheeks gently, your fingers squeezing them in a playful, affectionate gesture that made his grin soften instead of sharpen.
âCan you stand, lieutenant?â you asked softly.
âAlways,â he said, though he leaned into you just a little more than necessary.
Then you shifted closer, murmuring something they couldnât hear, and began guiding him toward the doors with a patience that felt intimate, practiced, tender in a way none of them had ever associated with Jake Seresin.
âText us when you get home,â Phoenix called after him, half-joking, half-serious.
Jake didnât even turn around. He only lifted a hand lazily in response, his attention entirely on you.
They watched you disappear through the entrance, the doors swinging shut behind you, and for a brief moment, they caught the look on his face as he glanced down at you. It wasnât cocky, it wasnât sarcastic, it wasnât the polished smirk he wore like armor. It was something quieter, something unguarded, something dangerously close to devotion.
He hadnât said a single word this time, but they didnât need him to.
One thing was painfully clear.
Jake Seresin was completely, irrevocably whipped.
â
The next time they experienced the newfound version of Jake Seresin was the first time they officially met you as his girlfriend, though none of them wouldâve admitted that the word itself sounded strange when paired with his name. The afternoon had unfolded lazily at Pennyâs place, sunlight spilling across the deck while the smell of grilled food drifted through the air, mixing with laughter, music, and the familiar chaos that always followed Maverickâs birthday celebrations.
The Daggers had arrived early, as usual, clustered around the grill with beers in hand, trading stories that grew more exaggerated with every retelling. Jake was the only one missing, which in itself wasnât unusual. Hangman had never been the type to care much about punctuality, especially when he knew he could make an entrance without trying.
âSeresinâs late,â Fanboy observed casually, glancing at his watch.
Phoenix scoffed. âWhen is he not?â
Minutes later, the sound of an engine cutting off near the driveway caught their attention. None of them expected much of it at firstâuntil they saw Jake step out of his truck.
And then they saw you.
You emerged from the passenger side with an aluminum foil pan balanced carefully in your hands, the sun catching in your hair as you adjusted your grip. Jake moved instinctively toward you, one hand lifting to steady the container while the other settled around your waist with a familiarity that felt too natural to be accidental.
âCareful,â he murmured softly. âIâve got it.â
âI can handle it,â you replied with a faint laugh, though you didnât pull away from his touch.
From the deck, the Daggers watched in stunned silence, their conversations dying mid-sentence.
âIs thatâ?â Rooster started.
âI think thatâsââ Payback whispered.
Jake walked toward them with you at his side, his posture different from the usual loose swagger he carried. There was still confidence in the way he moved, but it felt grounded now, tethered to the warmth of your presence. His arm never left your waist, his thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles against your side, as though he needed constant reassurance that you were really there.
âHey,â he greeted casually, though his voice lacked its usual edge.
You smiled at them, a little shy but undeniably warm. âHi. Umâhappy birthday Captain Mitchell.â
Jake glanced down at you, his expression softening in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in his chest. For a split second, he forgot they were watching.
âThis is⊠uh,â he began, then paused, as if suddenly aware that this moment mattered. âThis is my girlfriend.â
The word landed heavier than anyone expected.
You looked up at him, surprised but pleased, your smile widening slightly. âHi,â you repeated, this time with more confidence.
They had to physically force their mouths shut as you stepped closer, and Jake tightened his arm around you, almost possessively, almost proudly.
âI told you they werenât that intimidating,â he murmured under his breath.
You tilted your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. âYouâre the one who warned me about them.â
He huffed a quiet laugh. âYeah, well. I was exaggerating.â
From that moment on, he barely left your side.
He guided you through the crowd with an ease that suggested he wanted everyone to see you, wanted them to understand something heâd never bothered explaining out loud. He introduced you one by one, his voice warm when he spoke your name, his cocky grin resurfacing every time he caught one of the Daggers staring a little too openly.
âThis is Phoenix,â he said, hand resting lightly on your hip. âDonât let her scare you.â
Phoenix raised a brow. âI should be offended.â
âSheâs not,â Jake replied, glancing down at you.
You laughed softly. âIâm not.â
As the afternoon stretched on, they began to understand what they were seeing.
You werenât just beautiful, though that was impossible to ignore. You were funny in a quiet, effortless way, slipping into conversations with ease, teasing Jake without fear, listening to the others with genuine interest. You laughed at Fanboyâs stories, challenged Roosterâs exaggerations, and somehow managed to make even Maverick smile when you handed him the dish youâd brought.
âI wasnât sure what you liked,â you admitted gently. âSo I made something simple.â
Maverick looked from you to Jake, then back again. âYou did good, kid.â
Jake watched you the entire time, his gaze lingering longer than necessary, his expression unreadable to anyone but himself. He felt something unfamiliar tightening in his chest, something dangerously close to gratitude, to awe, to the terrifying realization that loving you felt easy in a way nothing else in his life ever had.
When you laughed again, tilting your head toward him, he leaned down slightly.
âYouâre doing great,â he whispered.
âYouâre ridiculous,â you whispered back, smiling.
He smiled too, but this time it wasnât for show.
They watched as Jake pulled out a chair for you before you could even reach the table, his hand steady on the backrest as he waited for you to sit. It was such a simple gesture, so natural, that none of them realized how rare it was for him until it was already happening. He didnât wait for anyone else, didnât scan the table for reactions or commentary. He simply took the seat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, his presence angled toward you as if the rest of the world had quietly shifted out of focus.
Conversation flowed around the table â stories, laughter, arguments about missions and memories â but Jake barely registered any of it. His attention kept drifting back to you, to the way your fingers traced idle patterns on the rim of your glass, to the soft tilt of your head when you listened, to the way your eyes flickered with mischief when you leaned closer.
You turned toward him suddenly, lowering your voice as if sharing a secret meant only for him.
âDid you hear what Rooster just said?â you whispered, lips barely moving.
Jake raised a brow, glancing briefly toward the other end of the table. âUnfortunately.â
You smiled, trying to suppress a laugh. âIf his story gets any more dramatic, Iâm expecting background music and a slow-motion reenactment.â
For a second, he stared at you, caught off guard by how effortlessly you made him feel lighter. Then he threw his head back, laughter spilling out of himâ real, unrestrained, nothing like the polished smirk he wore so often.
âGod,â he murmured, his voice dropping as he turned back to you, âI love you.â
The words left his mouth with startling ease, like they had always belonged there.
You froze for a fraction of a second, then your smile softened, eyes warming in a way that made something twist painfully in his chest. You simply bumped your knee against his under the table, your fingers brushing his hand.
âI know,â you whispered back.
Across the table, the Daggers exchanged looks.
Later, when your glass emptied, Jake noticed before you did. He pushed his chair back quietly, brushing your shoulder as he stood.
âIâll be right back,â he murmured.
You nodded, already turning back to the conversation, unaware of the storm of disbelief youâd left behind in his wake.
The moment he was out of earshot, Javy leaned forward, lowering his voice dramatically.
âYouâve turned him into a puppy.â
You laughed softly, instinctively ducking your head as if embarrassed by the idea. âThatâs not true.â
Phoenix scoffed. âIt absolutely is.â
Fanboy joined in, resting his chin on his hand. âWeâve known him for years. He doesnât do chairs. He doesnât do drinks. He barely does basic human decency.â
You tried to defend him, but your smile gave you away. âHeâs just being nice.â
âNice?â Payback repeated, incredulous. âThat man once refused to share fries because, and I quote, âteam bonding is a myth.ââ
Their teasing wasnât cruel, but it carried disbelief, fascination, and something almost tender beneath it. Jake Seresin, the untouchable, arrogant Hangman, had been reduced to something dangerously close to devotion, and none of them knew what to do with that information.
Before anyone could say more, Jake returned with a fresh drink in his hand. He placed it carefully in front of you, his fingers brushing yours as he let go of the glass. Without thinking, he leaned down and pressed a quick, absent-minded kiss to the side of your head, his hand settling briefly at the back of your chair.
You glanced up at him, smiling.
He didnât notice the silence until it was too late.
His gaze lifted slowly, scanning the table, irritation creeping into his expression as he registered the way everyone was staring.
âWhatever you have to say,â he drawled, settling back into his chair beside you, âspill it fast before you all spontaneously combust.â
You elbowed him lightly, a silent warning.
He only laughed, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer without hesitation, his thumb resting comfortably against your upper arm.
The Daggers seized the opportunity instantly.
âSo,â Javy began innocently, âwhen were you planning to tell us youâd been replaced by a golden retriever in human form?â
Jake rolled his eyes, but he didnât move away from you. If anything, his hold tightened slightly.
âYou guys are dramatic,â he replied, though there was no bite in his tone.
Phoenix tilted her head. âYou said âI love you.â Out loud. In public.â
âSo?â
âSo,â Rooster echoed, âyouâve never even told us âgood job.ââ
Jake scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
You watched him quietly, your expression unreadable, and for a moment he felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the teasing. There was something terrifying about being seen so clearlyâand something strangely comforting about knowing you were still there.
He pulled you closer, your shoulder fitting perfectly against his chest, as if it had always belonged there.
âGet over it,â he muttered, though his voice was softer now. âIâm still the same guy.â
But none of them believed him.
And neither did he.
Because as you leaned into him, laughing at something Javy said, Jake realized something heâd never dared to admit before.
The armor heâd spent years building around himself hadnât cracked.
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