can't remember to forget you | jack wilder
nysm 3 has brought my raging jack wilder obsession back! i wrote this will listening to "can't remember to forget you" on repeat. a little jack angst moment, but 😝. i might write a pt.2 happy ending to this, maybe... if that's what you guys ask for, or i'll just leave it the way it is. anyways, i hope you enjoy!! :)
you tell yourself you're done with him every time.
every time he pulls one of his stupid stunts, every time his smile gets him out of trouble, every time he kisses you like you’re the only thing in the room and then walks away before morning, you swear you’re finished.
but you’ve never been a good liar —
and especially not when it comes to jack wilder.
the safehouse is finally quiet. everyone else is asleep, exhausted from the failed dry run earlier. there’s a soft hum from the old fridge in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the floor when the wind shifts. it’s peaceful in every way your head isn’t.
you pace.
then stop.
then stand outside his door like you’re waiting for your heartbeat to make a decision for you.
you raise your hand — maybe to knock, maybe to turn around — you don’t even get the chance to find out.
jack stands there, hair messy, t-shirt hanging loose, eyes half-lidded like he wasn’t sleeping either. or like he knew you’d show up. maybe both.
his voice is soft, warm in that way that makes your knees stupid.
“i figured you’d be out here.”
you try to be annoyed, but your pulse gives you away. “how?”
he leans against the doorframe, mouth curling.
“you’re predictable when you’re trying not to be.”
you hate that he’s right. you hate that he knows you this well — hates, but loves, but hates again because that’s how this always goes. he’s the fire you keep walking into. the habit you swear off and always relapse back to.
“come inside,” he says quietly. not a command. an invitation that feels like a memory.
you step in. like you always do.
the room smells like him — spearmint gum, cologne he overuses, card tricks scattered across the desk, a half-finished plan scribbled on the wall. it hits you like nostalgia for something you never should’ve loved this much.
you stay near the door. safety distance.
jack notices. of course he notices.
he closes the gap between you with slow, careful steps like he’s approaching something fragile.
or something he wants badly enough not to ruin.
“you don’t sleep when you’re mad,” he says.
“or when something’s bothering you.”
you blink. “i’m not mad.”
his eyes soften. “then what’s wrong?”
you shake your head, because saying the truth feels pathetic: you. you’re what’s wrong. you’re what i want and what i can’t want at the same time. you’re the best and worst thing that ever happened to my self-control.
but jack steps closer anyway.
his fingers brush your arm — light, testing.
your breath stutters like your body recognizes him faster than your brain can protest.
“this is a bad idea,” you whisper.
his smile is heartbreakingly gentle.
“everything with us is a bad idea.”
and you hate that he’s right. because he is. he absolutely is. the two of you are chaos waiting to spill over — the mix of adrenaline and heat, laughter and arguments, stolen kisses between missions and stolen glances during them. a loop you can’t untangle yourself from.
he lifts your chin, thumb ghosting across your jaw. you close your eyes for half a second — one second too long — and he sees it. he always sees it.
“tell me no,” he murmurs, voice lower now, careful, dangerous. “and i’ll stop.”
the reasons flash through your head — the complications, the risks, the hurt, the fact that every time you leave him, it feels like tearing something vital out of yourself. every reason to forget him rises up like a wall.
and then he strokes his thumb along your cheekbone.
you don’t say no.
you don’t say anything.
he leans in, forehead against yours. the moment freezes — suspended, breathless, inevitable.
“thought so,” he whispers.
the kiss is slow at first. careful. like he’s reminding himself of the shape of your mouth. like he wants to savor every second of you coming undone. then you grab his shirt — not to pull him closer, but because your knees go weak — and the kiss deepens, hungry and aching, like confession and relapse and regret already blooming in the back of your mind.
you kiss him like you’re trying to memorize him.
you kiss him like you’re trying to forget him.
you kiss him like you’re failing at both.
his hands settle on your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you in the exact place you shouldn’t be. the exact place you crave.
“you always do this,” you breathe when he pulls back just enough to look at you.
his voice is hoarse. “do what?”
“make me forget why i shouldn’t.”
jack presses a kiss to your jaw, then your throat, slow and reverent.
“maybe because you don’t actually want to forget.”
you don’t answer. you can’t. your fingers are already in his hair, the room spinning around the two of you like he’s the center of gravity.
he kisses you again, deeper this time, and you melt — against your better judgment, your better intentions, your better everything.
“you always come back to me,” he murmurs against your lips.
you hate it.
you love it.
you hate how much you love it.
“that’s the problem,” you whisper.
he smiles — soft, almost sad, the kind of smile that tells you he’s just as ruined by this as you are.
“maybe,” he says, brushing his thumb across your lower lip, “or maybe it’s the answer.”
you rest your forehead against his chest, breathing him in, knowing this won’t last, knowing morning will bring clarity you don’t want.
but for now — wrapped in his arms, drowning in him — forgetting feels easier than remembering.
and loving him feels impossible to stop.
you can’t remember to forget him.
and you don’t think you ever will.
morning comes too quickly.
it always does after nights like this — nights you swear won’t happen again, nights that leave your heartbeat in the wrong place and his breath still ghosting your collarbone.
you wake up before he does.
of course you do.
you’ve always been the one to feel the weight of reality first.
jack lies half-asleep beside you, one arm slung over your waist, face buried against your shoulder, breath warm on your skin like he belongs there. like this is normal. like this is allowed.
the worst part is how natural it feels.
you blink at the ceiling, your chest tight in that familiar, awful, beautiful way. sunlight spills through the blinds, warm stripes crossing your bare legs, the sheet tangled around both of you like it’s trying to keep you here.
slowly — carefully — you lift his arm from around you, easing yourself out of the bed. the mattress shifts, but he doesn’t wake. jack sleeps like someone who trusts that the world will still be good when he opens his eyes.
you find your shirt on the floor, pull it over your head, breathe in slow.
you should leave the room.
you should not look back.
jack is sprawled on his stomach now, hair a mess of curls, cheek pressed into the pillow, the sheet low on his hips. he looks peaceful. younger. like he’s never broken your heart, never confused you, never made you forget every promise you’ve ever made to yourself.
you let out a breath that feels like surrender.
and that’s when he stirs.
he blinks slowly, lashes fluttering before his eyes finally open, brown and soft and still half-dreaming. he sees you standing there — shirt crooked, hair messy, guilt sitting on your shoulders like another layer of clothing.
a sleepy smile curls his lips.
“morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and warm and dangerous.
you look away. “don’t call me that.”
he shifts to sit up, rubbing his eyes.
“why not? you didn’t seem to mind last night.”
heat rushes to your cheeks — anger, embarrassment, want. you pick up your jeans from the chair, avoiding his eyes.
“last night shouldn’t have happened.”
just… quiet.
the kind that makes your throat tighten.
you hear the bed dip behind you as he stands. you don’t turn around, but he comes up behind you anyway, stopping a breath away as if he knows he shouldn’t touch you. as if he’s trying to be respectful when the damage’s already done.
“you say that every time,” jack says softly.
you swallow hard. “because i mean it every time.”
a moment passes — raw, stretched thin.
“so why do you always come back?” he asks.
you close your eyes.
because you don’t have an answer that won’t break you.
his hand lifts, like he’s going to touch your arm — then hesitates.
you’ve never seen him hesitate.
“look at me,” he whispers.
so he steps in front of you instead, gently tilting your chin up. his eyes search yours, and you hate how much affection sits there. how much warmth. how much you want to believe in it.
“if last night was a mistake…” he says, voice almost breaking, “don’t treat it like something you regret.”
your breath catches. “i don’t— it’s not— jack, it’s complicated.”
he shakes his head. “you make it complicated. i don’t.”
you laugh once — sad, soft. “you make everything complicated.”
“only because you overthink everything,” he fires back, but there’s no bite. no anger. only hurt.
you step back. the space between you fills with everything unsaid.
“this can’t keep happening,” you whisper.
jack’s jaw tightens the way it does when he’s trying not to show he’s upset. “yeah,” he says quietly. “i know.”
but he doesn’t move.
neither do you.
the tension hangs thick — a string pulled so tight it’s one breath away from snapping.
“jack? you awake? atlas wants to go over the new layout—” merritt’s voice filters through the wood.
your heart leaps into your throat.
jack shoots you a look — panic mixed with something else: protectiveness, guilt, the instinct to shield you even though this is both your mess.
“uh— yeah!” jack calls, voice cracking just a little. “gimme a sec!”
you scramble to finish dressing. he hands you your jacket without a word. when your fingers brush, something inside you twists painfully.
you turn.
he looks at you like he’s memorizing you. like he’s storing this moment in the same place he keeps all the other moments you pretend didn’t matter.
jack steps forward, just one step — enough to lower his voice to something only you can hear.
“if this is the last time,” he whispers, “at least tell me the truth.”
your breath shakes. “about what?”
he searches your face, desperate, hopeful, terrified.
“did you really not want last night?”
you open your mouth.
the truth sits on your tongue — hot, heavy, dangerous.
you should lie.
it’d be cleaner. easier. safer.
“i wanted every second of it.”
jack inhales sharply.
like the confession hits him straight in the chest.
you turn before he can say anything — before you can fall back into him like a habit you can’t quit — and you slip out the door, past merritt, past the risk, past the temptation to stay.
but down the hallway, with your heart pounding and his warmth still clinging to your skin, you know:
you’re never going to forget him.
and you’re never really going to stop coming back.
