to strange horizons…

N + J

[gretavangroupie]

Welcome to the Masterlist, Fuckers.

All work will be 18+. Minors, please do not interact, hit the little 'x' now.

*means smut, lots of smut.

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[gretavanmoon]

Steel, My Heart

Sam x female reader

5.3k words

Warnings: 18+! Angst: Cursing, Smoking, Drinking, Mention of Sexual Acts, Heavy Sadness, Mentions of Death

Smut: Not really any sorry but kinda

HELLO IS THIS THING ON??? IS ANYONE HOME?

This has been sitting in my docs for a year. It's really nothing more than some angsty Sam sadness (my forte I suppose). Heavily unedited, heavily just typed how I would speak. I might finish it one day lollllllllll it does have a storyline I promise. thanks for readinggg <3

If I’m being completely honest with you, I never cared much for people. 

Bullshit small talk, here-and-there’s, formalities that I’d rather forget within a few minutes’ time anyways. It’s easy to get caught up in it, talkin’ about the weather or what’s happening in town the following Saturday morning, but what’s the point? ‘It’s called being a decent human, interaction with other people is how you get along in this world’. Nah, no. No thanks. Comments on the changing winds from my postmaster mean nothin’ when I can walk outside and see them for my damn self. 

So I stopped. I stopped the formalities, I stopped sayin’ ‘good, and yours?’ everytime the man scanning my groceries asked how my kin were. Why do they care anyhow? ‘I don’t know, why don’t you call them up and ask for yourself?’

Sure, I’m probably known as the town hermit now, the town jack with a stick up his ass. And I could really give a shit less. Everyone’s worried about my well-being, about how they can help pull me out of this funk… But they can’t. They won’t… I don’t want them to. Nothing they can say can save me anyway. This is me now, and I’m perfectly damn fine with myself. 

But, I do hear their whispers about town… 

‘He looks worse for wear than he did six months ago’

‘I do wish his Momma and Deddy were still alive…’

‘Poor child hasn’t spoken in so long I’ve forgot what his voice sounds like’

‘Do you think he’ll ever find someone to replace–’

Then I shut them out. All these voices of the church ladies still adorned in their Sundy best just looking for the next gossip piece to talk about around their table at the cafe. All the questions the old timers ask me in the bait shop. All the free coffees I’ve been offered by Ms. Marjorie while I stare at the wall at the 24-hour breakfast joint, all in hopes that maybe I’ll open up to her, give her a smile that she so misses. 

‘I’ve known you since you were knee high to a grasshopper, Sammy boy… We just wanna see you happy again… she would want to see you happy again…’

All for nothing. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’d ended up slamming the rest of the black coffee and tossing her a five, replacing my ballcap with a huff before storming out the door… on to the next spot where I can sit quiet and be unbothered. 

Why doesn’t anyone understand that I don’t wanna be happy again?

So I waltz down the sidewalk, head hung low with the bill of my hat covering my face. Ignoring the world, pushing away the pain.

“Afternoon Samuel, you ever gonna let me put you and that sweet banjo on a recording?” 

Fuck. 

A man by the name of Willie Atkins approaches me for what seems like the fiftieth time this month. He’s the local radio deejay who also happens to play in the church band. He knows his stuff, I’ll give him that, but he is all the reasons that the radio here is literal shit. He was a friend of my Dad’s, but the man is currently one millisecond away from being on the bad end of a restraining order if he doesn’t leave me the hell alone, quickfast. 

“You know you got the talent Sammy, I just want to see you get the attention you deserve, that’s all,” he goes on, his breath heavy with the scent of gin. He’s sweaty and out of breath, as if he chased me down to talk to me. 

“No, not today Willie. And not tomorrow, and probably not next week,” I reply blankly, shoving my hands in my pockets as my heavy-heeled boots continue to trudge down the sidewalk. Suddenly, Willie’s hand is in the center of my chest, stopping me dead in my tracks. My body shocks with surprise that this man is puttin his hands on me in broad daylight. I stop, my eyes traveling from the ground to his face, red and cherubed with a derby hat sitting crooked on his head. I know the look on my face is enough to tell him to back away. My fists clench. 

“Now, now Sam, listen… I know I’ve asked ya a hundred times. An’ I know you ain’t never gonna change your mind. But just hear me out… you n’ that banjo… hell, you and that piano, you got somethin’ special, boy. You got a talent I ain’t seen in years. And I’m dead dog serious.” For some reason, I’m not haulin off and hitting this man for touching me. I give him a look straight from hell, pressing a tight breath through my lips. 

He stutters. “Your—your brothers ran off and made somethin’ of themselves. They did it. They knew they had that talent, and they capitalized on it. Look at ‘em now….”

I continue to stare at Willie, only gritting my jaw side to side. Finally he lets his hand drop.

“I–I’m not sayin’ you need to reach their levels of success, boy… I’m just sayin’, let me get you on a recording. Let me put your sound onto somethin’ so it’s never lost. You don’t even need to come on the radio show. Just you and me, privately. Hell, we can even go at night when nobody is out and about listenin’. I–I wanna do this for you, Sam, and I don’t expect nothin’ in return. I know your Momma and Daddy would be proud, if ya did…”

“Willie, don’t–” 

For a split second, I consider it. For a split second, I can picture myself in a room… just me and my banjo and my piano… putting the sounds that live in my hands and my head onto something that can be played back to me. Back to anyone. What it would mean to fulfill my parents’ dream… her dream… But just as quickly as the thought is fleeting, it’s burning out. 

“Really, Willie, I appreciate it, but no,” I say, pushing my way past him to continue my walk, head hung low again. I only make it a few paces before I hear his voice again. 

“If you’re not gonna do it for me, do it for her,” he replies, his tone switching almost immediately. 

I turn back slowly, my chest raging with the madness of a thousand suns all over again. 

How dare he. 

“You want to reconsider that statement, Willie?”

“She would’ve wanted the best for you, Sammy. We all do. Do somethin’ for yourself again, boy. It’s due time. Talents like yours don’t just come around once in a blue moon…”

I scoff, and turn my back to him once again. “Do yourself a favor, Willie, and play better music on your radio show. Maybe you’ll get a few more listeners and you can finally stop begging me to help you do it.”

+++

I never run away. No, that’d go against everything that I am. I don’t run, I don’t hide. 

I retreat. 

I protect my refuge and treat it as my sanctuary. 

And the one place that I’ve always felt at home is where I go. 

The river is where I find my peace, the river is where I can block out all the noise and find the silence. Where I can reconnect with the land and find sustenance in the form of a rainbow trout and some campfire roasted ramps. It’s where I can smoke as many Marlboros as I want without folks eyeing me sideways. 

And… it’s where I can always feel her. 

The river gets me, it’s always gotten me. Ever since I was a kid when my brothers and I would spend days upon days camping on the banks, drinkin’ ourselves silly off the jar of clear we stole from our Papaw. He never commented on it, but he knew his jars came up missin’ sometimes. He never yelled, never warned us about the risk of blindness it would cause had we overdo it, but he let my older brothers know of its dangers. Taught them to always keep one eye open when you’re partaking. And to never mix it with any homegrown. Moonshine always treated me well, but the next day always treated me like the devil in church.

They’re twins, my two older brothers. How the hell our momma ended up with three boys is beyond me. Beyond our daddy, too. We had a good upbringing, though. Never wanted for much even though you’d probably consider us poor as dirt. 

We grew up a bit untamed… rambunctious rascals turned into hell-raising heathens. Too many nights were spent round a bonfire sharing our life’s goals… tales repeated back from our grandparents… 

Too many nights spent sharing our deepest thoughts, our most hallowed secrets. We did everything together. We grew up right on the brink of time between the past and the present, watching the dawn of technology unfold right before our eyes while we counted ourselves lucky to have a working television in the house. The new age reached us long after everyone else, though, having been from a town too far behind the times to even put a security system at the five-and-dime.

My brothers got me out of trouble, bailed me out of jail when I got caught spotlighting deer after dark. They gave me my first cigarette, talked me through what to do when I first knew I was gonna go all the way with Lizzie Dunloup, me too damn scared and too backward to even know how to woo her, yet. Hell, I was 16, and she was almost a senior. How the hell I ever pulled that one off is still a mystery to me. 

We shared our closets, they taught me how to pick my banjo. Taught me how to drive a stick shift so I could finally get the old Chevy with bench seats that’d been parked at the junkyard ever since Papaw passed. Helped me get her running and primed up to get me from here to there, never having the thought that I’d still be drivin it ten years later. 

We did everything together. Experienced more in our small town than many had experienced in an entire lifetime, all because we were always too bored to sit at home and watch Andy Griffith reruns. There was nothing they didn’t know about me, and vice versa. Thick as thieves. My best friends, tighter than bark on a tree, the three of us taking the world by storm… the world taken up by hay fields and surrounding mountains so high the sun set at 4:00 in the afternoon. 

The world was our oyster, even if the oyster was grown in a sludge pond. 

It’s funny, my eldest brother would repeat that damned phrase like it was the only one he knew… ‘The world is our oyster, brother… all we gotta do is crack it open…’

…Fitting that the woman I fell in love with’s name was Pearl.

But my brothers deserted me. Just like everyone else did. Left me here to rot in this town to go off and find their own happiness. I couldn’t blame them. They both had too much drive and too much talent to sit in this nowhere town survivin paycheck to paycheck. They call every once and again, but we never talk long. They ask me to come visit their big new houses with their two-car garages and floor to ceiling windows, and I tell them I’ll think on it. But I never go. The road travels both ways, if you ask me. This is still their home whether they like it or not.

Summer hits me like freight train haulin sorrow, intense and hot all at once, just like it always happens here in the Eastern mountains. There’s hardly any Springtime anymore… just bitter-ass cold straight into searing-ass hot. Even the trees hardly have time to adjust. But Summer is my favorite time of year. I get to be outside from sunrise to past-dark, patrolling the woods and old bootlegger footpaths like they’re my own property. 

I get to be away, I get to be gone. I get to fish all day, and fall asleep under the stars, asking God all the questions that I can’t bear to ask him from the pew. He talks back, sometimes, with a rustle in the trees or a breeze across my face. I’m not ever sure what he’s tryin to say, but I listen.

I ask him how his day went, ask him if he wants to talk about it. Ask him if he wants to take a nip off the top of my whiskey, or hit a lick of my green. He always politely declines in the form of a spark popping, sending embers straight up from my fire. “Alright, suit yourself, then,” I’ll answer. “I know you created it, but you really don’t know what you’re missin.”

I’m sure God laughs with me. Or maybe more so at me, and my bad excuse for a lifestyle. I’ve become comfortable being judged by everyone else in my life, why not go ahead and let the big man in the sky judge me, too? What have I got to lose…?

Absolutely fucking nothing, that’s what. 

Hardly a penny to my name. A house that could double as a hunting shack. A dog, Russ, that’s too deaf and blind to hear someone who might wander about. A truck covered in so much rust it’s only a matter of time before it disintegrates into dust. 

And a heart that’s so shattered that not even time itself could reconstruct the pieces. 

I trek down to my special spot on the river, night already having fallen. I place my ratty lawn chair on the grassy, sandy beach and have a seat, exhaling hard as I try to get comfortable. Damn. Grief really does age a man. 

My old FM radio crackles beside me, the volume almost too low to hear overtop of the sounds of the early summer frog song. 

She hated the radio. Said the concept was too far gone, time had erased what made it good, what made it worth listening to. No deejay cared about what made the spirit of radio real, no one cared about playing anything with substance anymore. The good shit, the hearty shit. The shit that made you want to get out of bed and dance, then immediately sit down and cry into your warm, half-drank beer.

So I turn the volume up. And my fire cracks again. 

“That piss you off? Huh?” I ask her. “I ain’t turning it back down, I like this damned song.”

I nip from the rim of my jar, letting the clear liquid inside burn my throat all the way down to my belly, turning it warm as soon as it settles. An old George Strait song muffles its way through the speaker, and I hum along, staring into the flames as they change from shades of dark crimson to a blazing orange. I pick up my banjo and pick along with his guitar, making the song sound different than George may have wanted. 

“But it must be a sad song, with a blue melody

And I’ll bet you it’s lonesome, as lonesome as can be

But I’m starting to wonder if there’s such a thing

As a sad song that’s too sad to sing”

The fire crackles as a breeze rolls through it, rustling the heavy tree coverage above me. My fingers mindlessly pick as I think on it, on how much she longed for me to write her a song. Something that came straight from my heart, something that meant something to me. But I couldn’t ever do it. I’d come up with melodies, sure, then take them home to my guitar or my piano and build on them, but no words ever followed behind them. Just notes that existed in the air, and in our memories, never being written down or recorded to grow into something of substance. 

She’d hum them, though, when she didn’t know I was payin attention. When she was washing the dishes after dinner, when she was mindlessly tracing her fingertips across my chest. The sounds I wrote for her, forever embedded into her conscious brainwaves. 

‘Do these melodies have words, Sammy? You ever gonna write me some lyrics? Tell the world how much you love me?’

I’d shake my head no, giving her a patient side-smile. 

‘Words ain’t my thing, sweetheart, you know that. Plus I don’t think I could ever say how much you mean to me with words… it’s all heart, all sound…’

She understood me, even though I could hardly explain what I meant, she got it. She knew my language was sound, and not words. She was probably the only one to ever fully understand that little notion about me. Besides my brothers, that is. 

‘Maybe one day they’ll hit you. Maybe one day you’ll write them down. Then you can get on the radio, make it worth listening to again…’ she’d tease, trailing her delicate hand across my face, gentle and sweet.

She knew the words would never come. Deep down, she knew I’d never be on the radio. She knew that those were my brothers’ dreams. But I made sure to show her I loved her with actions, though. Always, actions. 

I stop my picking as soon as the song ends and I take another long sip of the white lightning, swallowing a bit before spitting the rest into the fire, sending it into a seconds-long blaze. 

“That one’s for you, baby…”

My eyes are hazy, my face is numb. My fingers are moving too slow to even pick a riff. The moonshine is setting in, right on time. 

My ears are muffled just enough to drown out the sadness, and I feel myself settling into that sweet spot. Right where the world falls away, right where I can forget about it all, and let my heart do something other than be completely broken. I let it beat to keep me alive, not to constantly break with each passing beat. 

I lay my head back onto my rusty lawnchair, staring at the leaves and branches swaying slightly with a background of a million stars. The moon is waxing, and I know that soon it’ll be time to plant my garden. 

“Tomatoes, squash, and beans… what else d’you want, love?” I ask her again. “I don’t have the room for cucumbers this year, didn’t build the trellis…” 

The branches sway as the radio crackles into a slow Platters song. 

“Potatoes, maybe? I can do p’tatoes…” I slur, my eyes blinking heavily as visions of her flash in front of my eyes. “So long as you cook for me ev’ryday… Make me that homemade s’pghetti sauce… I’ll plant you whatever y’want, baby…” My words are slow and slurred, hardly words at all as the alcohol swirls hard in my system. My nervous system shakes with heartbreak, my chest as heavy as a ton of rocks. Thinking about her kills me with each passing second, but talking to her keeps me alive.

I lick my lips as the cotton mouth comes, torturing myself with the thought of not having brought enough water to qualm the hangover I’ll surely have tomorrow. Oh well, what’s fucking new. 

I take one more hit of the shine before lighting up a cigarette, letting my hand fall to the river sand beside me to let Russ know I’m still here, still watching him when he can’t watch me. I exhale the smoke into the air to mix with the fire’s, swirling and steady with the warm breeze. 

“Shotgun’s right b’side me, Russy boy. Make sure to aim low, m’kay?” I tease him with a pet on the head. I hear him shuffle and stir in the grass, finally lying on his side to let sleep take over him. I follow suit, passing out right beside him with nothing but a dying fire and the sound of the river in the distance, humming those tunes that are impossible to forget. 

+++

I came from nothing, we both did. But she made me feel like gold. 

She was jaw-droppingly gorgeous. An 11 even on her bad days. She was soft, intelligent, resourceful… built us a home that I could see myself living in until the both of us were too old to dance in the kitchen anymore. She hardly ever complained, hardly ever bitched at me when I’d come home half-lit wanting to feel on her. 

“Supper’s been on the stove for over an hour, Sammy, said you’d be home ages ago…” she’d bite through a grin as my arms wrapped around her waist from behind…under her shirt, snaking around to her tits. 

“Let it get cold.”

She hardly ever turned me down, hardly ever made me feel unwanted. The two of us had met when life was just starting… when my brothers were long gone and Momma and Dad had already passed. I’d said no to furthering my education after graduation, instead choosing to make my money by getting my hands dirty at the mill. Doing what I did best. 

She wasn’t new to town, and neither was I. We’d known each other for years, just had never given each other the time of day, never saw one another as anything more than classmates with a couple years between us. Til one night after the town revival, of which I’d unwillingly volunteered to pick my banjo with the other guys in Willie’s church band. I hadn't been to church in years, but somehow they talked me into it. Felt good to play my music in front of people. Felt good to have people clap for me. And it felt good to catch Pearl Mason’s eye that night, neither one of us breaking the eye contact that we’d so reluctantly made.

After the camp meeting ended that night, she pulled me behind a tent that was hidden far enough away that no one could hear her crying my name in the shadows, the both of us too breathless to even talk about the fact that I was between her legs at a damned tent revival. Too drunk on lust for one another that we didn’t even leave time for formalities. Just unbuckled belts and bra straps, covered mouths and eyes constantly on the lookout in fear of being caught. 

That night was the most furtive thing I had ever been a part of, as secret as it was. We were messy, sure, but there was somethin that made us both become addicted. A tight string had fastened itself right into our chests, and I think the both of us knew that there wasn’t any untying it. 

I brought her back to my place that night, and she never went back home. We tangled up again as soon as we walked through the door. It was visceral and fast but so fucking deliciously sinful. She had a way about her that made me forget every single misgiving I’d ever committed, made me feel like the only man on earth. A week, we stayed in my shack of a house, making the kind of love that only got better with each passing time, only intensifying the attraction I had for her. And I quickly realized it was turning into something much, much more devious. 

“Do you love me, Sammy? Are you sure?”

“Sure as the sky is blue.”

“You gonna leave me like all the rest of them have?”

“M’not goin anywhere… so long as you promise to stay right here… don’t ever leave me…”

“I won’t, Sammy. I’ll never leave you.”

She did, though. She left me.

Four years, we lived together. Me and Russ, and my sweet, sweet Pearl. Planted a garden, repainted the kitchen and the living room. Hung a tire swing on the weeping willow down the hill. Our life together was perfect, flawless. Almost too beautiful to be real. 

Yet somehow, deep down, I knew it wouldn’t last. 

I knew it was too good to be true. 

I didn’t deserve her. 

The last day she was alive, the last time I kissed her goodbye before hauling myself off down the road to the mill, she’d asked me if I could spare a few dollars so she could go down to the store and buy a string of Christmas lights. We’d already cut a tree and perched it in the corner by the fireplace… decorated it with a string of dried orange slices and a few bunches of berries; we’d never been able to afford a nice string of lights. Well, afford wasn’t the word, it was more like our trees never needed lights. We were happy with whatever grew naturally outside to decorate with, and we definitely didn’t need the extra dollars on the light bill. 

“Of course, love,” I’d said, happily handing her the money that I’d gotten as a holiday bonus. “You gonna make the tree all nice and pretty for us?”

“Mhm,” she smiled, “Colored lights or white ones?”

“Definitely colored. The glass ones.”

“Perfect,” she’d said, with an extra long, drawn-out kiss that felt more like a farewell than a thank you. 

“I’ll see you tonight?” I’d said, opening the door for only a second as the snow blew in. 

“I’ll be here waitin’. Me and the tree.” 

And that was the last time I saw her. The last time I kissed her goodbye. 

She’d chosen to take a shortcut walking into town that day, wanting to be out of the blowing snow as much as she could. 

The train got her. Police said it was fast, she didn’t suffer. 

Though I know that’s how she died, I’ve never been able to understand why. Why she didn’t hear the train coming down the track behind her. She’d lived here her whole life, she knew what it sounded like when a train was a mile out. How the tracks vibrate, how the ground shakes. Why did that happen? Why didn’t she know??

I threw our tree into a fire that night. A big fire that I had built right out there in the front yard. Three inches of snow laid on the ground and on the trees, but damn near all of it was melted off by the time my blaze was where I wanted it to be. 

That night is a blur. I got shit-hammered drunk. Mad, full of a rage that blinded me to the point that I wasn’t thinking straight. I was moving in slow motion, letting my body make the decisions rather than my brain. I cried, screamed, and yelled into the woods. The trees shook with just the sheer sound of my voice. Russ hid under the porch, confused as to why I was acting that way, and why his momma wasn’t home to stop me. 

Countless old classmates came by, innocent and empathetic as they tried to calm me down. 

“Sam, just–let’s just go inside. We’ll make you somethin to eat… let’s just…go in, buddy. It’s freezing. We’ll stay the night with you here…”

“No! Go the fuck home, get the fuck off m’property…”

“Sam, we know this isn’t easy, we’re just here to help, man… come back to our place, you don’t want to be here right now… please, come on…”

“I said go home!” I’d yelled at them, these old buddies just trying to help out a grieving friend. Trying to calm me down as I ripped our Christmas tree to shreds, throwing it into the blaze as I cried so hard that my lungs felt like they were freezing me from the inside out. One last toss of the trunk into the fire sent me slipping in the snow and falling sideways, landing on my hip, then my back. 

I stared up at the sky, the stars only barely visible as they blended in with the snowflakes falling. I lied there, in pain in more ways than one, letting my tears freeze to the sides of my face.

Within seconds my old friends were by my sides, throwing old Carhartt jackets that smelled like diesel fuel overtop of me so that the snow didn’t pile up. I sat up, finally, noticing that they were gathered around me, just staring at the burning fire and the mess that I’d made. Another jacket was thrown over my shoulders, and I let it comfort me. A toboggan was placed on my head.

“Is she really gone?” I’d asked, my voice still choked with sobs that just wouldn’t quit. 

“She’s gone, buddy. She’s gone…” 

I stared into the fire that night, trying to memorize the smell of the burning pine mixed with the melting oranges and berries. A beer was placed into my hand by one of them, and then another and another. I woke up that next morning on the couch. Two of my friends had stayed the night… one in the recliner and one in a makeshift bed on the floor. They woke when I did, all three of us hungover and confused and red-eyed with sadness. 

We sat for nearly twenty minutes in complete silence as I let the weight of what had happened the previous day weigh on me, the memory settling in heavier and heavier as the seconds passed. 

She’s gone. And I’m still here…

I looked around the house, noticing every little thing in every little corner that was her. Her sweater still tossed over the back of a chair. Her grocery list still hung with a magnet on the refrigerator. The remnant smell of her favorite candle sitting on the coffee table in front of me. 

The walls closed in, thick and cracked with the peach paint that we’d decided on together. The ceiling was low, and the air was hot from the fire my friends had kept up all night in the fireplace. I smelled like soot, alcohol and pine sap. I felt like I wanted to vomit, to rid myself of the demons that had begun crawling into my chest the very minute Sheriff Donnelly had come to tell me the news at the mill. 

“What do I do now?” I asked, watching as my friends shared a look of complete loss. 

“We don’t know, Sammy. But whatever it is, we’re gonna be right here with you.”

That was four years ago, now. And I haven’t had a Christmas tree since.

+++

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[gretavangroupie]

Golden Oaks - Prologue

Word Count: 2,346

Warnings: swearing, smoking, drinking, mild drug use, insinuation of traumatic events.

A/N: Oh my gosh I can't believe we are finally back! It feels so good to be writing and posting again, starting off hot with Golden Oaks. This story will have plenty of ups and downs and twists and turns that you know we love to write. As of right now there is no set posting schedule as we both have very busy lives, but rest assured we are actively writing and will be posting as frequently as we can. We hope you stick around for this one, you won't want to miss it.

A glorious collaboration with my bestie and cowriter @gretavanmoon.

Listen: Apple Music

JAKE POV

The Catskill Mountains, 1987

‘You’re back with KROQ 106.7… The Catskills hottest spot on the dial for today's biggest rock, pop, and everything in between. I’m your girl, Jojo Marigold and I’m here to make your summer not only sound, but feel like you’re livin’ in dreamland, baby. 

It’s finally Friday, it’s a scorcher out there guys, 90 degrees and the temperature is only rising as the weekend approaches. So you know what that means… Gentlemen, lose the t-shirts, and ladies… Ohhhh ladies, we know you’re already out there in your bikinis ready to throw on that suntan oil and soak! It! Up! 

We’ve got the phones lit up and the request lines are open for the next hour, so give me a ring at 1-800-845-KROQ…that’s 1-800-845-5765, and I’ll spin whatever gets your weekend rockin’. Don’t touch that dial… you’re riding into summer with Jojo Marigold on KROQ 106.7!’

“Shut up…” you mumble, barely loud enough to count as words. You reach over and turn the dial down without looking, keeping your other wrist loose on the wheel. The joint between your fingers has burned to almost nothing, sending a thin thread of smoke toward the cracked window. 

You kick it into third as the road bends, and the sign for Golden Oaks Mountain Resort drifts into your peripheral. Hand painted and slightly sun faded, Est 1942. Same as it ever was.

Jojo Marigold was right about one thing, it is hot. Even as the day is creeping towards five o’clock, the sun still burns through your windshield as if it is ready to fry you right there on the dashboard. The Trans Am’s AC had given up somewhere around the Pennsylvania border, which meant the last three hours had been you, the open windows, and a Springsteen tape that kept threatening to eat itself. 

By the time you’d crossed into the Catskills proper your shirt was half unbuttoned, your hair was doing whatever it wanted, and the tension you'd been carrying on your shoulders since February had slipped out the window somewhere along Route 17. You take one last, long, slow drag and pitch the roach out the window as you push your new wayfarers up higher on your nose.

‘What time is it, baby?! It’s quittin’ time, 5:00. And I don’t know about you, but here at KROQ, we’re ready to parrrrty! Here’s our first request, ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’ buy the ever-lovely Ms. Cyndi Lauper… so enjoy this one to get the weekend rolling!’

“No no NO! Not that shit–” you slap the dial all the way down until you hear static, then silence. Good.

The staff parking lot opens up ahead, a wide patch of gravel hemmed in by a row of old pines. You check your mirrors, and back the Trans Am in clean between the lines on the first try. She's only been yours since March– a ‘79, Red on Black, with a Firebird hood decal that the previous owner almost removed. Thank God he didn't. Eleven hundred dollars and a handshake from a mechanic in Flint who'd needed rent money more than he'd needed a car. Best deal you'd made in years. Maybe ever. 

You kill the engine and the quiet rushes in. The cicadas, a lawnmower somewhere far off, the faint sound of someone's radio drifting down from the cabins above. 

“Damn, Jake.” You hear her before you fully register the voice. “A Trans Am? When did that happen?” 

You already know it’s Joy. You’d know that bubblegum pop anywhere. She’s leaned against one of the old picnic tables near the Welcome Center, arms folded across her chest, her tan already deep and holding, and her smile thin and sly— she knows exactly what she's doing. And though your current appearance is a bit worse for wear, she has decided to do it anyway. 

“Happened when you started minding your business, Joy,” you say, swinging the door open as you step out in one easy motion, letting it close behind you with a solid slam. 

“Ok, jerk,” she works her gum around her finger. “You get your balls in a bunch all winter or what?” 

“Every winter.” You reach back through the window for your folder of paperwork. “You should know that by now.”

“You’re the worst,” she informs you. 

“You say that every year, sweetheart.”

“And every year I mean it a little more,” she huffs.

You tuck the folder under your arm and cross the gravel lot towards her, your Sperrys crunching with each step. You pull your sunglasses up to sit on top of your head, and you lean in close. Close enough to smell her perfume, something sweet and summery. You look at her, making sure she's paying attention. “But as far as your question is concerned, you wanna take a feel and settle the matter?”

Her cheeks turn a deep pink and she turns on her heel. “Get a fuckin’ life Jacob. Or I'll throw your paperwork in the garbage before you can even sign it.” She's already moving towards the Welcome Center door, but the way she's walking tells you everything. “...Be like you were never even here. Never even showed up.” She’s mumbling with one hand flipping through the air. You’ve pissed her off just enough.

“Ah, come on, Joybird–” You follow her inside, grinning at the back of her head. “Don’t give me a hard time, now. I barely just got here.”

The lobby swallows the heat the moment you step through the door. It’s never had air conditioning, and probably never will. But the ceiling fans turn slowly in every corner, and the thick plaster walls hold in the cool air from the night before, so entry always feels like a reprieve. 

Nothing here has changed, nothing ever does. That is, in fact, the whole point of Golden Oaks. It exists in a deliberate stillness, slightly outside of time. The carpet is the same deep green it was the first summer you walked through those heavy white doors. Nineteen years old, with nothing but a lifeguard certification and just enough sense to keep your mouth mostly shut. 

The walls are still clean, the furniture still stiff, and vased pink zinnias sit on every available surface– the desk, the tables, the window sills. The walls are lined with photographs of golf pros mid-swing, tennis players at the net, framed commendations and ribbons dating back to 1950. 

Best Mountain Resort. Best Mountain Resort. Best Mountain Resort. You’ve memorized every plaque.

Joy steps behind the front desk and you settle against the counter, watching as she works through a towering stack of manila folders. You wait a beat or two, and make a show of checking your wrist, which is bare. 

“Alright, alright,” she mutters, not looking up. 

“Any way you can move it along, Joybird? I’ve got beer to drink… new staff to impress.” You tap the face of your nonexistent watch. “Y’know how it is.”

“Cool your jets, Kiszka. I’m lookin’.”

“Not like I haven’t worked the same job here for almost a decade. You’d think there’d be a Jake pile by now.”

“I said cool it!” she barks. “You’re the last one of your brothers to get here, ya know,” she goes on, unbothered, finally pulling your employment file. 

“Oh?” You take the pen from her desk cup without asking. You never ask. “Doesn’t surprise me.” You quickly flip through and sign all the necessary paperwork, making sure to not even read a single word of your yearly contract. 

“Ya,” she pops her tongue. “Wasn’t sure you were comin’ back this year.”

You take a long sigh as you push the completed paperwork to her, meeting her deep brown eyes for the first time since last season. 

“I always come back here, Joybird. You know that,” you mutter, licking your lips as your eyes unapologetically scan from her face down to her chest. 

She grins, her fingers slowly gripping at the stack of papers. “Good,” is all she manages. 

You clear your throat, shaking away the dirty thoughts that have already made their way into your mind. She makes it easy, though, the way her chest is already slowly heaving. “You going to the Haven tonight? Heard Doyle got a few kegs, couple bottles of something expensive. Gonna be good first night…” 

“Uhm, I’ll be there a little later,” she mutters as she settles back onto her stool. “Don’t get off till ten.”

“Ten, things should be uh… heating up by then.” You press your palm flat to the counter, not a goodbye, more of a to be continued. She fully notices your deliberate and direct eye contact, and with another breath, you head for the door. 

“Hope they are,” she says behind you, and you feel it follow you out. 

“Wait, Jake! I forgot,” you hear Joy spout just as your hand reaches the knob. “You’re gonna have a couple newbies this season, they’re first years.”

Fuck. You turn back around, a look of disgust painted all over your face. Way to ruin the good vibe you had going. “Teenagers?! You’re shitting me… Where is everyone else? Where are my guys?”

“They’ll be here, don’t get so twisted up. You’re just gonna have to train a few new kids, that’s all.”

Your fingers tap the doorknob. “Am I getting a raise for that shit? I already trained these guys, I don’t need any more green help.”

Joy’s face flattens. “Yes you do, Jake. You know you need more help. Especially after what happened last ye–”

“Don’t, Joy.” You scoff, turning the knob once again. “I’ll see you later.”

The breeze cuts through the heat of the day, but not much. You climb back into your car and start the engine, ready to race to the top of the mountain to your cabin. Out of habit you crank the radio again, letting the music carry you up the dusty, winding road. 

“I can see you, your brown skin shining in the sun…” 

You sing it without deciding to, half under your breath, the way you only do when you're alone and moving. And there it is, that feeling. The one that comes every summer on this exact stretch of road. Three months. Three months at the best resort in the Catskills. Three months of easy work, late nights, and the very specific pleasure of being known by the right people in a small world. The money is almost beside the point and has been for years. This has never felt like a job. It has never felt like anything except the particular and lucky thing that it is. 

But there is the other thing, too. The new thing that has been sitting in your chest since you locked the door to your apartment. Whatever is coming, whatever quiet thing the universe has apparently decided is overdue, you've found yourself wanting it. 

You're on the downhill slide of your twenties. Maybe that's what this is. Maybe this is just what it feels like to understand that a life you've loved, exactly as it was, cannot stay that way forever. That something is always in the process of beginning, whether you're ready for it or not. Or maybe it's going to be a good summer and you're overthinking it. You've always been good at that, too.

The gravel of the cabin lot comes up fast, dust and rocks pinging against the undercarriage as you pull in and cut the engine. The quiet is back, but then from up the hill, you hear the sounds. Music through open cabin windows, the voices carrying in the cooling air. The warm yellow glow of cabin lights turning on one by one as the mountain begins to darken. Summer frogs begin to chirp in the woods as they welcome dusk.

Suddenly, in the thrill of it all, your stomach turns over with something good. It feels like a peek of golden light on your horizon, a familiar hand on your shoulder. Old friends, old stories, old flames, maybe? The mountain has always been generous that way…

But there’s something else, too. Something that feels like it might be worth finding out about. It’s unnerving and unsettling, but you like it. Almost like that first sip of whiskey from a bottle that’s been sitting in the cabinet collecting dust. Sour and strong but so, so delicious once you let it sink in. 

“Yes you do, Jake, especially after what happened last year…”

Without warning, the memory of Joy’s words creep back into your mind. Last year, last August… the fifteenth, to be exact. At six twenty-six in the evening. The single worst day of your entire life, thus far. 

Good outcome, horrific circumstance. That day haunts you at nearly every corner you turn.

But you repress it. You have to. You’ve learned that reliving the negatives of the past does nothing but taint the present and spoil the future… bleeding every good experience you’ll ever have dry. You’re smart, you’re resourceful, and you’re one hell of a lifeguard. You’ll not ever forget that.

You sit for a moment with your hands still on the wheel, letting yourself feel all of it. The familiar old pull of this place, and underneath it, the sense of a door being held open, adding in the sense of something about to begin. You truly can’t tell if you want to slam the door or run full-force through it. Either way, you’re ready to savor every bit of it.

In the distance, you hear a familiar voice yell your name in question. It breaks you from your trance, bringing everything back to the here and now. You get out of your car and toss your army green duffle bag over your shoulder, listening as your name is excitedly called again. Somewhere up on this wild old mountain, without even knowing it yet, your summer is already waiting for you. With bated breath and open arms, you’re more than ready to dive in, head first.

.

.

.

.

.

Join The Taglist Here

Taglist: @britney-gvf @fateofthesammy @myleftsock @farfromthehomelands @demolitiondanchipsversion @builtbybrokenbells @josh-iamyour-mama @Chichi610 @gretavanmoon @dancingcarbon @jakeyt @joshym

[gretavangroupie]

hiii what happened to your twin series? i forgot what it was called but it had multiple parts

Hi! It was called Kismet and I deleted it! ♥️

[gretavangroupie]

Golden Oaks - Masterpost

Ah, Golden Oaks Resort- in a class all it’s own, the best of the best. A place where adventure and leisure meet. A getaway like no other. Nestled in the mountains of upstate New York, this vacation destination offers more than just award-winning golf courses and scenic vistas for miles… It boldly offers each one of its guests something different. 

It’s not often that a singular location has the ability to bring people together and bond them for life, but when this group meets up here each and every summer, life feels almost perfect. Untamed escapades, secrets, and love in all the wrong places seem to be the norm here. Golden Oaks isn’t just a resort, it’s an escape. On one hand, it’s a place where people come to relax, kick back, and enjoy the fruits of their labor. On the other, it’s a place that works itself into your bones, letting itself become a home away from home that’s nearly impossible to leave forever. 

They say, ‘Once you leave, you’ll do nothing but want to come back,’ and it’s true. Golden Oaks has its way of making itself an addiction. The people who frequent these grounds and work the amenities don’t have plans to make this annual trip a thing of the past. And if you aren’t careful, you, too, will get swept up in the wild and serene entity that is the Crown Jewel of the Catskills. Be aware, though, that even paradise comes with a price. You’ve just got to be willing to pay it.

Word Count: TBD

Warnings: SMUT 18+, angst, yearning, swearing, smoking, drinking, mild drug use. More warnings will be posted for each individual chapter.

A collaboration with @gretavanmoon

☀ ☀ ☀

Listen: Apple Music

Chapters:

Teaser

Prologue

Chapter 1

☀ ☀ ☀

Taglist: If you are interested in joining the Golden Oaks taglist, please click on this link.

[gretavangroupie]

Golden Oaks is coming for you real soon…

♥️ N + J

[gretavangroupie]

Layla - Masterpost

❉ ❉ ❉

You belong to someone else. Thats the first thing Jake Kiszka knows about you, and the second thing he knows is that it isn't going to matter. Structured after the fourteen tracks of Derek and the Dominos' Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs, this is a story about yearning. About the distance between almost and actually, a friendship tested beyond repair, about two people who kept looking away and back again.

It costs them both everything too get here. But was it worth it?

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x Female Reader

Word Count: TBD

Warnings: SMUT 18+, angst, yearning, swearing, smoking, drinking, mild drug use. More warnings will be posted for each individual chapter.

❉ ❉ ❉

Listen to the Album Here: Apple Music | Spotify

Track Listing:

I Looked Away

Bell Bottom Blues

Keep on Growing

Nobody Knows When You're Down and Out

I Am Yours

Anyday

Key to the Highway

Tell the Truth

Why Does Love Got to Be So Sad?

Have You Ever Loved a Woman?

Little Wing

It's Too Late

Layla

Thorn Tree In the Garden

❉ ❉ ❉

Taglist: If you are interested in joining the Layla taglist, please click on this link.

[builtbybrokenbells]

Pandora’s Box | Prologue

Pairing: AU!Jake Kiszka x f!reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: mentions of smoking/drinking, mentions of violence, mentions of debts/threats/other things associated with back alley lending 😂, toxic relationship/situationship… pretty light. sorry if I miss any!

hi everyone!! you have no idea how happy i am to be back, and how hard i worked to get back here 😅 i hope you enjoy this as much as i do!

New York was filthy. Rain struck littered ground like knives, the echo bouncing off brick and travelling all the way down the narrow alleyway. You knew you shouldn’t be out there—that you were best off minding your own business, slinging drinks behind sticky countertops. You couldn’t help it, every fibre of your being forcing you towards the side door, begging you to forget every responsibility.

All for him.

Standing on the other side of the dumpster, chestnut hair soaked from the storm—strands plastered against tan skin as he spoke quietly to the person in front of him. You couldn’t see who it was—couldn’t care who it was. Your eyes were set on his silhouette. The details were clear to you even in the dead of night, never able to forget a thing since having him underneath your palm.

Since the moment you met him, he was the only thing that existed. The pivotal point of the very universe. Whether for good or bad, you didn’t know.

So far, it felt like the latter.

You watched, half hidden behind the heavy metal door propped against your shoulder. The green paint flaked and stuck to you. The rusted hinges squeaked with every slight move. The soles of your shoes were soaked. You couldn’t hear anything, could barely see anything, but you stood still as a statue desperate for just a glimpse into his world.

Jake Kiszka was a phenomenon. A ghost despite being the most consistent part of your life. A shell of a man parading around with a mask of confidence to hide behind. As you stood in that alleyway, chilled to the bone, it had little to do with the weather overhead.

He took to that stage like he owned it—his ego too big to fit inside the bar. Just him and that beaten up guitar, the only thing in the world he had any kind of care for. If it were a competition, you wouldn’t even bother showing up. It didn’t matter if the floor was packed, or if there wasn’t a table filled in the entirety of the place. Jake played the same way every time: like his life depended on it.

You didn’t know it then, but he played that way because it did.

That was the very thing that drew you to him, stuck behind the counter—a lonely barkeep who was still trying to adjust to the big city. Dying to feel, dying to live, but no way to do it. Seeing him on stage, fingers flying over the fretboard, it wasn’t the music that moved you, but the passion that he used to play it.

It didn’t take long to realize that too was an act.

Everything about him was dishonest. A snake pit of lies that burrowed deeper and tighter the further you went. The venom burned and you were beginning to suffocate. The longer you dug through it, the poison spread—the tips of your fingers had long blackened and turned numb. There was something so addicting about the danger, so intoxicating that you couldn’t see it for what it truly was.

Standing in that alleyway, you knew you were in too deep to find your way out. Even if you wanted to, there was no escape. Dying for a cause that wasn’t your own, but comforted knowing he would be right there beside you—even if he was doing everything he could to keep you out of it.

The phenomenon of Jake Kiszka spread far beyond the electricity on stage. Much bigger than the lies and the deceit. More powerful than the secrets and shared glances across the room.

Every time you tried to leave, to walk away, to convince yourself you deserved more than the man that could barely look you in the eye, you fell straight back into the trap.

The phenomenon of Jake Kiszka was simple, and it came down to one, simple fact: he was inescapable.

The second calloused fingertips caressed soft skin—the instant his lips touched yours—you were his.

Even if you didn’t want to be. Even when he didn’t want you.

Standing in that alleyway, for the very first time since meeting him, you believed he felt it too.

Not that you were his, not that you wouldn’t leave no matter how hard he pushed—but that he was yours, too. That whatever twisted, fucked up mess he found himself in, you were going to be right there beside him.

You couldn’t tell if he wanted that, or if he wished he’d never met you.

It used to hurt when you thought of it, but now the idea was familiar. You’d grown comfortable with the ache it brought along with it. In fact, you weren’t sure what you’d do without it. Security was a stranger, especially when it came to him.

Looking back over his shoulder—rain pelting the face that haunted your dreams more than it blessed the waking hours—his eyes met yours. Pools of chocolate, ones you’d memorized too well, silently pleading with you.

You weren’t sure for what—to come closer, to run away. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter. Stepping towards him, or stepping away, you’d never be free.

You’d waste the rest of your life searching for him in everyone you met, ruining yourself in hopes of feeling just a sliver of the way he made you feel with someone new. At the end of the line, you’d run so far you’d end up one step behind him, begging for him to come back—to come home.

Half hiding behind that too heavy metal door, arm scraping against peeling paint, you had no idea how the hell you got there. You had no idea what to do. You had nowhere else to go.

Jake, all of his baggage, the lies and the secrets and the egregious lack of desire to have you in his life, was the only thing that made any sense.

He stood, staring—not trying to force you inside, nor trying to hide away. The first time he’d ever truly let you see him, and you still weren’t even sure if that was true.

You expected him to turn, to shut you out, to do something—anything. Instead, he remained still, the expression on his face not far from pained as he accepted what he’d been trying so hard to refute. His jaw set like stone, his brow furrowed like it did on stage when he reached a solo, you couldn’t understand why it was so horrible for him to let you in.

Then, you saw it.

In his hand, the rolled wad of cash you’d taken from the register to pay him for his set. Knuckles white as he held on to it, like he would die if he let go. Never breaking from your gaze, he reached forward in a split second—toward the man on the other side of him.

The other man was unfamiliar to you, dressed in all black and towering over Jake. As he accepted the money, he turned away—like the only intent of the meeting was to cash out someone else’s earnings. Your stomach sank as he disappeared toward the other end of the alleyway.

Jake didn’t move, remaining in position half concealed by the dumpster, his expression only growing more worrisome the longer you waited. Whatever back alley deals he was making, it very clearly hurt him to involve you. As much as you hated to see him in pain, it was the most emotion he’d ever shown you. Good or bad, you clung to it, desperate for more and terrified you may never see it again.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he stepped toward you. Soles of his boots splashing with his heavy step, he never once looked away. You weren’t sure you’d ever been so centric to his world before, his focus only growing stronger the closer he got.

Under the street lamp, he didn’t slow until the two of you were nearly chest to chest. Looking down at you, the yellow glow illuminated the evening's sins. Finally privy to all he kept hidden, your heart jumped to your throat, muscle constricting around muscle, determined to kill you.

Breathless with an aching chest, you reached a shaking hand to his face. Fingertips grazing the skin under his eye, a bruise already starting to bloom, you half expected him to flinch away. Instead, he allowed it, leaning into the touch like your comfort was the very thing he’d been searching for all along.

Whatever he was involved in, whatever situation held him hostage—it was real, and it was dangerous.

Worse yet, you were undoubtedly a part of it whether he wanted you to be or not.

The noise from the bar faded away. The splatter of rain on your face ceased to exist as you cupped his face in your hands. Even your heart stilled in your chest as he leaned down, nose brushing nose as the facade disappeared in an instant.

You swallowed hard. “Whatever this is… whatever you’re doing… I’m here. I want to help.”

The silence was heavy, until finally his lips moved. “You should stick to bartending, sunshine.”

His voice was pained, thick with something you could not decipher.

For a moment, you debated agreeing. Then, you noticed that desperate, desolate look in his eye—the only emotion he’d ever handed to you so bluntly, so easily. Maybe you didn’t need the trouble, but you needed him. And for the first time, you truly believed he needed you.

The feeling was euphoric, even if the circumstances were dire.

“I told you, Blue.” You whispered, throat dry as you tried to choke down everything you felt for him.

The nickname felt wrong on your tongue.

He didn’t want to show it, but you could see his expression shift at the sound of it. No longer annoyance, but acceptance. In some way that was specific to only him, it even seemed that he liked it.

“You’re not getting rid of me.”

The smile that stretched his lips didn’t reach his eye, but it was more generous than anything that came before. Like a glimmer of hope in the black of night—the promise of sun, even if you couldn’t yet feel it on your face.

He didn’t speak, didn’t agree, but you could see him give in. The lack of argument should have been reassuring, a step in the right direction, a promise of something better. Instead, when he pressed his cold lips to your wet forehead, a deep sense of dread settled deep in the pit of your stomach.

A sneaking suspicion arose, one that led you to believe being a part of his life was more than you could ever bargain for. His silence was typical, but the kind that held you then was abnormal—suspicious.

As you held his face in your hands, Pandora’s Box was opened—there was no going back, even if you so desperately wanted to.

taglist: @gretavangroupie @gretavanmoon @jakeyt @surfermama @lallisonl @fateofthesammy

[gretavangroupie]

THE BITCH IS BACK 🗣️🗣️🗣️

[builtbybrokenbells]

Pandora’s Box | JTK

A starving artist who’s given everything to stay afloat. A bartender with too much heart and nowhere to put it. Amassing debts he can’t repay, making unlikely alliances and unnecessary enemies, he’s got nothing left to give. Infatuated at first glance, she wiggles her way into his world despite him exhausting himself trying to keep her out.

Letting her in was the same as opening Pandora’s box—what are they to do when they know they should give up, but neither one is ready to give in?

What do you say girls? How bout we run it back? 😉

Pairing: AU!Jake Kiszka x f!reader

Word Count: TBD

Warnings: SMUT 18+, angst, swearing, smoking, drinking, mild drug use, violence—each chapter will have its own list of warnings.

DISCLAIMER: I do not know Greta Van Fleet or any of the members personally. This is all fiction and I will never claim otherwise. I attempt to keep all of my work 100% original, so please do not steal or take credit for my writing. As of right now, I aim to get chapters out on weekends, but it is not guaranteed as I do have a full time job and other responsibilities to attend to. Please be patient and kind to me. Do not mind any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes, as I am the sole writer/editor for my blog and do miss things sometimes.

Prologue

TAGLIST: if you would like to be added to the Pandora’s Box taglist, please feel free to send me an ask, pm me, or respond on this or one of the above chapters. if i do not respond, it is because the replies on my posts will only allow me to reply with my main account. i promise i will see it, and if i happen to miss you, don’t be scared to ask again!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: I am incredibly grateful for all of the support, likes, reblogs and kind comments I receive from all of you. I would be nothing without your support, and I do take the time to read and appreciate every reply and message, even if I don’t respond. Thank you so much for all you do, and I sincerely hope that you enjoy this story as much as I do 🫶🏻

all things pandora’s box

playlist: spotify | apple music

[gretavangroupie]

Hey guys, is it time?

I’m kinda thinking it’s time…

[gretavangroupie]

Hi guys,

Just checking in. Miss you all. All is well with us. Lots of exciting stuff in the works for you when the time comes.

xx

Noel + Jules

[gretavanmoon]

Thinkpiece

Went to sleep last night upset that our little corner of the world is being invaded by people using robots to write stories. Woke up still pissed off, but moreso insanely satisfied with the fact that my words do, and will forever come from my mind, and my mind only.

Literally nothing can take that skill away from me, or from my peers who put time, effort, and true grit imagination into these worlds we create.

"It's not that serious, it's just fan fiction!"

Literally, yes. You're exactly right. In the grand scheme of things, this is a blip on the radar. But I want you to think about your favorite slice of fanfiction that you've ever read. The one you always return back to, the one that lives in the backrooms of your mind when your brain drifts off. The one that caught you up so intensely that you were frothing at the mouth to continue reading it...waiting for those chapter updates, chomping at the bit for another post.

Would you be the same without it?

Maybe. Maybe not.

We write these stories because it's a passion for us. We don't write them for numbers and likes and reblogs. Who truly gives a fuck about all that? Though recognition is what fuels us to keep going, it's not necessary. We're going to keep writing because we want to, whether you read it, or not. Does a painter stop expressing because no one buys his prints? Does a musician stop writing because one person said his lyrics weren't great? No... they keep going. Fuck the haters. Because that creativity is literally burned into their souls. And stopping would be an insult to the art, itself.

The widespread use of AI has been a slap in the face to the creative world as a whole, we all know that. But we can't stop it. All we can do is learn to recognize it, and stray away. Who wants to read a smut scene written by a technological collective of literally all smut already written by human writers across the internet? It's fucking fake. A puzzle put together by an algorithm using 1's and 0's. That just seems so goddamn far from what the human mind should want to ingest, right? And if you do choose to ingest it, you're doing nothing more than losing complete touch with what is tangible.

Soon, we won't be the ones training AI. And that's fact, because it's already obvious that AI is training us.

I bet you've read a whole handful of stories that were written by AI, and you didn't even notice it, did you? That's because you're being trained... to be oblivious to it... by a machine.

Way to go.

You're literally being outsmarted by something that doesn't exist. Nice huh?!

Robots can't explain essence or nuance. Robots can't detail the dirty rawness of the human experience. Robots can't define captivation, or true desire felt between two people. They don't know how heartbreak feels. Robots can't create natural, real-life dialogue that flows and is believable to the reader. They can't add twists. They can't create memories. All these things that make good writing good.

Robots CAN, though, trick the reader into absorbing a story with little to no depth, directive, character arc, or character development. Short one-offs that act as a hit of dopamine to the mind... A quickie to get you off and then you can go about your day... sure. Robots can do that. No sweat. Good for them.

"Writers" who use AI are slapping every last one of us in the face. And I hope that when they lay their heads down at night, they feel some type of remorse for straight up lying to people for attention. So fucking inauthentic. Counterfeit stories are nothing but backboneless copies of the shit that we have already dreamt up and brought to life. So, you guys are welcome!

If you feel like you've fallen victim to one or more of these "stories", you probably have. And that's okay. Because those of us who treat this hobby as an art form will still be here, dreaming up worlds and chronicling tales for you to get swept up in.

So thank you to everyone who has ever given our stories even an ounce of true love. We love you right back. With actual oxytocin.

We promise to keep it authentic. We promise to stay as real as it comes. We'll put in the blood, sweat, and literal tears to keep it a buck for you. And we swear on everything that is holy that we will continue to fight the good fight. God forbid we ever witness a world without a raw and true recount of the human experience.

Anyways.

In this electric tomb, man has made an omnipresent force.

Unplug from the source.

[gretavangroupie]

Woahhh. Who’s using ai in fics?!?

Unfortunately there are multiple people in this fandom using the same formulaic stories produced by AI generators. They all start the exact same way and it is so unbelievably obvious once you start to see it. It’s making the real writers that actually put time, thought, and effort into their writing not want to write anymore.

It’s OUR stories that AI is pulling from to create these five minute chopped versions for people simply looking for attention through their “writing”.

When people are posting 3-4 stories a week, that’s pretty much a dead giveaway. I don’t care how much free time you have, you cannot physically produce stories that quickly unless an AI generator is writing it for you. Is that really the content you want to consume?

[gretavangroupie]

You are grown, you shouldn’t be bullying girls about fan fic…

You calling me a “bully” for pointing out an AI written fic is honestly hilarious. Like, come on. If that’s all it takes to set you off, maybe take a step back and look at what you’re actually defending. You and your friend should be way more concerned about why neither of you can string together a single original line without a bot doing the work, than anything I’m saying. Getting this pressed over being called out doesn’t make me a bully, it just makes it very obvious I hit a nerve.

[gretavangroupie]

Ten Years Gone - Part I - Thanksgiving

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x Female Reader

Word Count: 13.4k

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI - Alcohol, Cursing, Dramatic Themes, Kissing, Touching, Dirty Talk, Praise, Fingering, Oral Sex, Unprotected Sex, Pet Names, Yearning.

A/N: Hey guys! Super excited to finally share the first part of this three part story with you. It will follow Jake and Y/N as they reconnect after years apart, during Thanksgiving, Christmas, and finally New Years Eve. I hope it will bring you a few surprises, a little nostalgia, and of course, some heat. I can't wait for you to see how this all unfolds, and as always thanks for every like, comment and reblog. It means the world to me to have readers like you! Happy Thanksgiving! - N

You grab your coat from the hotel closet, the empty hanger swinging freely now in the half empty space. Your hotel room feels too quiet, too small, and you can't stop thinking about what's waiting outside. Frankenmuth hasn't changed much. The streets are still alive and humming with tourists, and the air is still filled with the smell of roasted nuts and fresh winter air. But it feels different this time. Or maybe you’re different. 

It's been too long since you've seen your friends. The ones who knew you before your life started pulling you in a hundred different directions. You can feel the flutter in your chest, the one that comes as you find yourself on familiar streets, remembering high school dances and nights spent telling secrets behind the bleachers at football games. 

As you drive through the quiet streets of Frankenmuth, your mind drifts to Jillian’s text last week that started all of this. 

Jilly: Y/N! Henry and I are hosting Friendsgiving the day before Turkey Day. Pretty sure the whole gang is coming. I hope you can make it! 7:00, same house! 

You remember reading it, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling up all at once. It feels like a lifetime since you’ve seen everyone. You smile to yourself, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. You’re coming back, not just to your hometown, but to a piece of yourself you’d almost forgotten.

You’ve grabbed a bottle of your favorite red, the St. Julian that you can only get at the wine shop on Main Street. It’s always been your favorite when you visit home, and you know it’s perfect to share at a gathering like this one. 

As you step out of your rental car into the cold November air, your mind plays through vivid memories. Running through the first snow of Winter in the park with your friends, the smell in the air as the leaves begin to change color, and all the small quiet corners in this town you once called home. Every detail of home presses in on you, warm and familiar, reminding you how much you’ve missed this. 

You pull your coat tight around you, taking a deep breath. Tonight isn’t just another night, it’s a bridge between the past and the present, a chance to slip back in time, to see who everyone has become.

And as you walk toward the familiar house, a smile tugs at your lips. For the first time in a long time, you feel that simple, exhilarating feeling of being exactly where you’re supposed to be. 

You press the doorbell and wait, the chime echoing like a note from the past. The door swings open before you can knock, and a wave of warmth and chatter spills out. Laughter, the clinking of glasses, the faint smell of roasted turkey and pumpkin pie all hits you at once, a flood of comfort and memories.

“You made it!” Jillian shouts, pulling you into a hug before you can even set the wine bottle down. You can feel the energy of the room, the hum of voices catching up, stories spilling over one another. It’s chaotic, loud, and messy in the best possible way.

You start weaving through the small crowd of friends, exchanging hellos, kisses on cheeks, and quick hand squeezes. Everyone looks older, somehow, but not too different. The kids you knew are still there somewhere, and there’s comfort in that. Proof that while life pulls you all in separate directions, this is still home.

Jillian bustles past, her apron dusted with flour, laughing at a story someone is retelling from high school. You feel the corner of your mouth tug into a smile, your nerves now settling into excitement. You pull the bottle of wine from your bag and set it on the kitchen counter, ready to join the swirl of chatter and warmth.

Your friend Sarah catches your eye, and you’re pulled back to the countless nights you two spent running from one adventure to the next, chasing after boys and midnight dares, and for a moment, it’s like no time has passed at all.

You grab an empty wine glass from the counter, filling it with the red you brought, and take a slow sip, letting the familiar taste ground you. Laughter rings out from the living room, stories overlapping in a happy, chaotic blur. Someone nudges you gently, and you turn to see Ashlyn, her face lighting up with recognition.

“Y/N! I can’t believe you’re here! Look at you! You’re a vision!” she says, tugging you into a hug. You laugh, the sound spilling out of you easily, and suddenly all the years apart melt away.

You drift out of the kitchen, passing an old photo on the wall of you all in high school, arms slung around one another, grinning like nothing in the world could touch you. You feel a pang of longing, not sad exactly, but wistful, that familiar ache of knowing how far you’ve all come, and how much has changed.

The clatter of plates being set, the smell of roasted turkey, and the warm hum of conversation fills the space, and you let yourself relax, letting the comfort of it all wash over you. Tonight is about laughter, memories, catching up, and sharing pieces of yourselves you’ve kept tucked away during the months and years apart from each other.

You raise your glass to a passing friend, clinking lightly before taking another sip, the warmth spreading through you. For the first time in a long time, it feels effortless to belong, to slip back into the rhythm of this group that’s been part of you for so long.

You turn slightly as Henry, Jillian’s husband, sidles up with a warm grin. “Y/N! There you are!” He claps you lightly on the shoulder. “It’s been too long. How have you been? What’s life like in Cleveland?”

You smile, feeling yourself relax into his easy company. “It’s been good,” you say, setting your wine glass down for a moment. “Busy, you know. Work’s been… well, work, but I love it. Keeps me on my toes.”

He raises an eyebrow, “Ah, the ever famous wordsmith, always keeping busy. And what about the personal life? Still seeing that guy you were dating back in what, April? Barney?”

You laugh, shaking your head, a little embarrassed at how easily the question slips into conversation. “No. No, um, Barrett…That’s… definitely over. Long story, but I’m okay with it.”

Henry chuckles, a deep, warm sound that makes you smile. “For the best,” he says firmly, giving you a knowing look. “Trust me. Sometimes things end so something better can come along. You just have to be patient.”

You nod, sipping your wine again. “Yeah. I suppose that’s true, though you and Jilly never had to figure that out.” you laugh. 

He grins, clapping his hands together. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Well…that’s enough serious talk. Go enjoy the party, catch up, make some new memories. You’re home, Y/N. And you're with people that love you, that’s what matters.”

You smile, letting his words settle in, feeling the comforting weight of old friendships and the familiar warmth of this space. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it here. How much you’d missed them.

The front door opens again, though this time there is no knock, no doorbell, just entry, the cold air sweeping through the front hallway suddenly. You don’t realize who it is at first, just a man dressed in dark clothes and a coat. But it’s when that coat comes off, and the hall light hits his face you realize just who you’re looking at.  

​​Your chest lurches before your brain even catches up. He’s different than you remember, shoulders broader, slightly taller, and with that same easy confidence that always seemed to fill a room. His hair falls to his shoulders now, and for a second, you think you might be imagining his presence all together. 

But no. It’s real. He’s real.

Your eyes meet briefly across the crowded room, and something inside you flips. A spark of recognition, a flash of memory from years ago, and a current that feels impossibly strong. He pauses, scanning the room, until his gaze lands on you again. That half smile, the one that haunted your dreams and lingered in your memory, tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You freeze midstep, glass halfway to your lips as your heart hammers in your chest. The laughter, the chatter, the cozy familiarity of the party, all of it fades into the background and suddenly all that exists is him.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves, neither of you speaks. It’s like the world has shrunk to just the two of you, suspended in that quiet, impossible moment.

And then, just as quickly, the spell breaks and the room begins to move again, the voices rise, but your mind is already racing. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to act nonchalant. No sudden movements, no obvious staring. Just… blend in.

With your now empty glass in hand, you weave through the room, nodding and smiling at a few friends, letting your laughter sound natural even as your chest hammers against your ribs. Every step toward the kitchen feels measured and deliberate, like you’re performing some delicate balancing act between composure and the chaos of your thoughts.

You tell yourself he probably doesn’t even remember you. Probably doesn’t even notice you. And yet, with every step, you can feel the pull, magnetic and undeniable, drawing him closer.

The chatter fades slightly as you enter the kitchen, a quieter corner of the house at the moment, away from the main cluster of voices. You set your wine glass down on the counter and straighten your posture, trying to look casual. You glance around, pretending to be occupied with arranging dinner glasses and napkins, but your eyes flick toward the doorway out of habit and there he is. Not moving, not speaking, just standing there, like he’s always been part of your memory, a perfect, impossible fixture. 

Your stomach flips. You clear your throat softly, forcing a small, almost casual smile. “Jake,” you say, trying to sound like you weren’t just caught off guard by the last twenty seconds of your life.

He steps fully into the kitchen, the floorboard creaking softly beneath his boots. He looks different and exactly the same all at once. Older, sharper around the jaw, his hair long and wavy in a way that somehow suits him too well. But his eyes… Those are still unmistakably the same. Still his. 

“Hey,” he says, and it's low and a little rough, like he hasn't done much talking today. 

You force yourself to stay grounded, your fingers curling against the edge of the counter behind you. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” you say, letting the truth slip out. 

His mouth curves, “Yeah, I uh– got a flight last minute to come see my family. Figured I couldn’t turn down Henry’s invitation,” he says, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back in a motion so familiar it nearly knocks you over. “Been a while since I’ve seen everybody.”

You nod, “Yeah. Me too.”

He steps closer, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can smell whatever cologne he put on this morning. He looks at you like he's trying to line up the person in front of him with the girl he knew in highschool. 

“So…” he says, “How uh– how’ve you been since—”

You release a breathy laugh, the question suddenly feeling huge. “Since high school? Good. Busy mostly. Cleveland’s… alot. But good. What about you?”

He tilts his head in a familiar way, like he's reading between the lines of your answer. Like he always did. “Great actually. Tired, exhausted really,” he admits. “But I think being home will help with that.”

You nod, clutching your wine glass tighter. “Yeah, I get that.”

The house hums with conversation pouring out of the living room. Jake’s eyes seem to linger on you and you see something flicker within them. Recognition for sure but memory, maybe?

He clears his throat then looks away. 

“You, uh, come in here to hide from everybody? Look busy so you don’t have to socialize?”

You grin, “Maybe.”

His smile is crooked now, “Figured.”

And just when the moment feels too intimate, when you’re dangerously close to being pulled straight back to who you were when you were eighteen, Jillian’s voice cuts through the air. 

“Time to eat!”

You both jump but then he steps aside, holding an arm out for you to go first, “Ladies first.”

—

Dinner is loud in the way only old friends can be. Layers of overlapping conversations, silverware clinking, someone laughing loudly at the end of the table while Jillian tells Henry he didn’t cook the rolls long enough.

You settle into your seat, trying not to be hyper aware of the fact that Jake ended up directly across from you. Which means every time you look up, there he is. Sometimes smiling, sometimes listening, sometimes looking at you before pretending he wasn’t.

You’re halfway through your roll when Jake reaches across the table and plucks your empty glass from in front of you.

“Here,” he says, already rising from his chair, “I’ve got it.”

You blink. “Oh. You don’t have to—”

He just sends you that one sided smile, “I know.”

He disappears into the kitchen, and you try to act like your heart isn’t doing absolutely stupid things in his absence. Jillian elbows you lightly.

“He looks good,” she whispers, wiggling her eyebrows and grinning.

You nearly choke on air. “Jillian.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

You make a face at her, but heat still creeps up your chest.

Seconds later, Jake comes back with your refilled glass and sets it gently in front of you. You thank him, bringing it up for a sip, but pausing, frowning slightly as you study the bottle he places on the table in front of you.

“Wait,” you murmur, leaning in a little. “I thought mine was gone.”

He glances at you, confused for a second, then shakes his head, motioning to the bottle. “Oh—this one’s mine. I brought it. Hope that’s okay?”

Your eyes widen when you spot the label. “You brought St. Julian?”

Jake’s mouth curves into a smile, “Yeah. It’s my favorite when I’m back home.”

You blink. The coincidence lands like a small, quiet shock. 

“Oh,” you say, softer than you mean to. “I um– Me too.”

“Guess some things haven’t changed that much,” he says lightly, but there’s weight beneath it.

You lift your glass again, the rim barely brushing your lip as you meet his eyes over the top.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I guess not.”

He raises his own glass, just a few inches off the table, his gaze still locked on yours.

A silent cheers.

No clink. No words. Just the two of you, glasses tilted toward each other in the softest, most loaded acknowledgment of the night so far.

You both take a slow sip, still watching each other over the rims. You lower your glass first, pulse steady but impossible to ignore, and Jake follows a beat later, his eyes lingering in a way that makes it clear you’re not the only one feeling something.

—

Dinner is in full swing now, with plates half empty, wine glasses half full, and everyone talking over each other like no time has passed. You’re mid laugh at something Sarah said when you hear Cora speak up from the other side of Jake.

“So, Jake,” she says, tapping the stem of her Martini glass, “You must have some wild stories from the road. I mean, you’ve been like all over the place, right?”

Jake looks up, offering her a small smile, “Yeah, I’ve been around a little bit.”

“A little?” Cora laughs. “Come on, you’ve been overseas, like ten times right? Touring and… whatever else you guys get up to. There has to be something exciting.”

Jake shakes his head with a soft breath of a laugh. “Nothing as exciting as people think. Mostly travel, soundchecks, shows, hotel rooms, repeat… not that thrilling if I’m honest.”

Cora tilts her head. “I’d love to hear about it sometime. Maybe fill me in on what it’s really like.”

Jake hums noncommittally. “If I can remember anything worth telling,” he says, taking a slow sip of wine.

She leans in slightly. “Well, maybe I could jog your memory later.”

Jake’s smile tightens, still polite. “I appreciate that,” he says gently, “but honestly, it’s all pretty boring compared to this.”

“This?” Cora echoes, confused.

He gestures lightly to the whole table. “Being home. Seeing everyone again. Feels… nicer than talking about work.”

“Oh.” Cora blinks, thrown off but trying to play it cool. “Right, yeah. Of course.”

Jake nods once, warm but distant. “But thank you.”

And just like that, he turns his attention back to the table. Back to Henry asking about a guitar, back to Sarah laughing about a junior year disaster, back to the conversation that includes everyone.

Cora sits back, swirling the olives in her glass, her smile fixed but tight.

Across the table, you feel that same warm flutter again. He wasn’t rude. He wasn’t cold. He just… didn’t bite. He didn’t give her anything to cling to. Didn’t engage and didn’t flirt back. And without looking directly at you, he somehow makes it very, very clear, he’s not interested in her.

Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

—

The rest of dinner ends up being louder and messier than it has any right to be. Everyone passes dishes over each other’s heads, Jillian shouting for someone to “please, for the love of God, stop double dipping into the sweet potatoes,” and Henry insisting the turkey is dry even though it absolutely isn’t.

Eventually Sarah leans back in her chair and claps her hands together dramatically.

“Okay,” she announces. “Does everyone remember senior year, the football game against Birch Run, when Jake, Henry, and Josh decided they were going to, quote, ‘fix the scoreboard themselves’? Because I think about it at least once a week.”

Henry groans immediately and Jake drops his fork.

“Oh my god,” Henry mutters. “Don’t start.”

Sarah is already laughing. “No, I’m absolutely starting.”

Jake runs a hand down his face but he’s smiling, shoulders shaking. “This is slanderous,” he says, looking around the table for backup. But no one gives him any. They’re all too busy trying not to laugh.

“You three idiots,” Sarah continues, “climbed up onto the roof of the press box with a wrench you stole from Coach Dan’s truck—”

“We did not steal it,” Jake argues, pointing his fork at her. “We were borrowing it. Big difference.”

“It was 9:30 at night!” Sarah cries. “You didn’t even tell anyone what you were doing! The announcer kept saying the score was wrong, and the crowd was booing, and meanwhile you guys are up there in the dark with tools!”

The whole table erupts in laughter. 

Jake is laughing so hard he’s gone a little red, head tipped back, hand covering his mouth. It’s so unguarded. So familiar. So infuriatingly attractive.

Henry shakes his head and points at Jake. “And who dropped the wrench that landed on Jessica Fortune's Tuba?”

Jake slams his hands on the table. “I’ll never tell.”

The table dissolves into hysterics.

You can’t look away from him. You didn’t expect to hear that laugh again, not like this, not across a table, not with ten years of space filling up the room and somehow not mattering at all.

And when he finally glances over at you, still grinning, still breathless from laughing, you feel it land in your chest like a memory snapping back into place.

Something warm and frightening. Something you didn’t realize you’d missed until now.

“Oh my god…speaking of that night,” she says, swirling her wine dramatically, “does anyone remember what Y/N was doing behind the bleachers while you boys were up on the roof?”

Fork halfway to your mouth, you freeze. “Sarah,” you warn lightly, giving her a look. She ignores it completely. Of course she does.

“Because if I recall correctly,” she continues, eyes sparkling with mischief, “you and Greg Thompson were getting very cozy back there.”

Your stomach drops straight through your chair.

“Oh my god, no we weren’t!” you blurt, practically choking on air. “Nothing happened! Nothing! He tried to kiss me and I literally shoved him into a football tackling dummy.”

The table laughs again, but now it’s at your expense.

Cora waves a hand,“Yeah right! You were back there for, like, half an hour!”

“I was hiding!” you protest. “From him! And from that stupid spirit week eagle mascot costume. And from you, because you dared me to streak around the track.”

Jake’s eyebrows lift, amused. “Wait—you almost streaked at the game?”

“Absolutley not,” you say quickly. “I was being bullied.”

“You were being dramatic,” Sarah teases.

“I was being normal,” you counter, pointing at her with your fork. “I was cold, sober, and Greg Thompson smelled like BO and hot chocolate.”

Henry snorts wine up his nose.

But Jake… Jake isn’t laughing as loudly as the others.

He’s definitely amused, but watching you with this quiet, fascinated expression. Like this version of you is new to him, but familiar, too.

“And just for the record,” you add, cheeks burning, “I did not hook up with Greg Thompson. Ever. Not even a little.”

Cora wiggles her eyebrows. “So you say.”

“So I know,” you shoot back, burying your hot face in your hands. And over the rim of your fingers, you catch Jake still looking at you, like that little slice of your past just peeled back something he never got to see.

Before Sarah can dig herself in any deeper, Jillian suddenly claps her hands together from the kitchen doorway.

“Okay! Enough humiliation for one night,” she announces, grinning as everyone laughs. “Who wants pie?”

There’s a chorus of enthusiastic yeses, forks tapping against plates, and Henry already lifting his hand like a kid.

Jillian points at him. “You don’t even know what kind I made and you live here.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Henry says. “Pie is pie.”

You laugh, grateful for the interruption, your heartbeat finally starting to settle. Jillian catches your eye across the table and gives you a wink, as if to say sorry. 

She stands and begins to make her way to the kitchen. “Apple and pumpkin.”

Chairs scrape the floor as everyone stands and flocks toward the kitchen, the room filling with the smell of cinnamon and butter. Jake rises slowly from across the table, eyes flicking to yours for the briefest second before he follows the group.

Your embarrassment fades into something else. Pie is happening. And so is whatever this thing is between you and Jake.

—

Everyone drifts back into the living room with plates piled high, forks already carving into the flaky crust. The lights feel softer now, the wine warmer, the air looser with the easy buzz of people reverting to who they used to be.

You settle into a chair with your pumpkin pie, tucking your feet beneath you as you watch Henry start gesturing wildly mid story. Jake sits across the room, relaxed into the couch with his legs stretched out, his plate balanced on his knee. Every so often, your eyes meet for a blink too long and you both look away like teenagers.

“Okay,” Cora says through a mouthful of apple pie, “do you guys remember senior prom?”

A collective groan ripples through the group.

“Oh God,” Sarah laughs, setting her pie down. “Why are we going there?”

“Because,” Cora smirks, “it’s hilarious.”

Jake lifts a brow, half amused, “I feel like this is gonna be at my expense. Again.”

“Oh, it totally is,” Henry says, pointing at him with his fork. “You and Lacey Turner. Man. What a disaster.”

You perk up a little, even though you try to keep your expression neutral. You remember Lacey. Perfect hair, perfect shoes, perfect everything. You never dared to think Jake would ask you to prom, but you remembered who he went with.

“What happened?” you ask, pretending you don’t remember every single detail of that night.

Cora laughs, delighted. “You don’t remember? Oh my God, you’re in for a treat.”

Jake closes his eyes like he’s bracing for impact. “Please embellish as little as possible.”

Henry ignores him, already launching in. “So Jake shows up in this suit that was like way too big. Like, drowning him big—”

“It wasn’t that big,” Jake mutters.

“It was gigantic,” Sarah insists. “You looked like a 1940’s jazz pianist.”

You snort into your pie, and Jake looks at you with a quick flash of a smile, just for you, before shaking his head.

“And Lacey shows up,” Henry continues, “looking like she walked straight off a bridal magazine cover. Like she was getting married, not going to prom. And she—what was it? She kept complaining about the music?”

“Oh my God yes,” Cora says. “She said the DJ ‘wasn’t playing any sick beats.’”

Jake looks pained. Everyone bursts out laughing and Jake can’t help but laugh too, heat rising in his cheeks but in a cute, self aware way. He shakes his head again, running a hand through his hair.

Henry slaps his knee. “Best part? She left early. Just completely ditched him.”

Jake shrugs. “I wasn’t devastated.”

“No, because—” Cora starts, grinning wickedly, “he came and sat with us the rest of the night. Remember? You, me, Sarah, and—”

She flicks her gaze toward you, smiling. “You. He sat with you guys until the lights came on.”

Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth.

Jake’s eyes shift to you again. Not teasing this time. Almost remembering something he hasn’t let himself think about in years.

“Oh yeah,” Sarah adds, nostalgic and oblivious. “We all slow danced in that stupid circle at the end. Remember? Jake, you danced with Y/N.”

Everyone looks at Jake. And then at you. Your stomach flips so hard you swear you feel it in your throat.

You remember that night. You remember the song. Perfect by Ed Sheeran. You remember his hands, awkward and gentle, at your waist. You remember not sleeping for two days afterward.

Jake clears his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching.  “I remember,” he says quietly.

And for a moment, the room feels too small. And too loud. And not loud enough all at once.

The conversation keeps rolling, everyone laughing and adding details you half remember, and half wish you didn’t. The room feels warmer, louder, and fuzzier around the edges. The wine is catching up to you, and the embarrassment burns beneath your skin.

You laugh along, but you can’t shake the way Jake said I remember, soft and earnest and too much for one crowded living room. You need a minute. You need something to do.

So you stand up from your chair, brushing your hands on your skirt. “I’m just gonna—uh—start grabbing plates,” you say, already collecting empty dessert dishes and abandoned wine glasses from the coffee table.

Jillian waves you off from her spot on the couch. “You don’t have to do that, babe—”

“I know,” you insist lightly, “but you guys cooked. Let me help.”

It’s the kind of excuse no one questions. A built in getaway. You move into the dining room, stacking plates in your arms, balancing utensils so they don’t slide off. The sounds of laughter fade just a little behind you, replaced by the steady thrum of your pulse in your ears. You’re halfway through rearranging the stack when you sense someone behind you.

“Here,” a familiar voice says. “Let me take some of those from you.”

Jake.

You freeze for only a second before forcing your grip to relax, letting him take the glasses from your hands. He smells like cologne and your favorite red wine and something uniquely him. He stands close, but neither of you steps back.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says quietly, eyes flicking to yours. “Just figured you could use a hand in here.

“Yeah, um sure,” you say, clearing your throat. “Thanks.”

Things feel awkward. You are positive that both of you are feeling the weight of what was just said in the other room. And what wasn’t.

You shift your arm to grab one last salad plate, just as Jake moves to reach for the same one. Your wrists bump, the glasses tilt and a half full wine glass tips over the edge of the plate stack.

The splash is instant. A bright, growing red stain hits Jillian’s cream colored rug.

“Oh—shit,” you gasp, stepping back.

Jake crouches down automatically, guilt sweeping across his face even though it wasn’t really either of your fault. 

“That was—yep. That was me. Totally me. Shit.”

You try to kneel beside him. “No, I—”

“No,” he insists gently, looking up at you. “Let me take the blame for this one.”

Jillian’s voice calls out  from the living room. “Everything okay in there?”

You open your mouth, ready to take responsibility for the small puddle of red wine blooming across her rug but Jake beats you to it.

“My fault, Jilly,” he calls back immediately, stepping forward like he’s shielding you from gunfire.  “Totally my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going. I’ll clean it up, just tell me where the… uh… supplies are.”

Jillian appears in the doorway, takes one look at the stain, and sighs. “Oh, for God’s sake.” She scans the mess and then Jake. “Hang on.”

She disappears and returns with a small carpet cleaner. 

Jake blinks at it. “What—what is that?”

You can’t help the little laugh that escapes you. “It’s a Bissell, Jake.”

“That tells me nothing,” he mutters, staring at it like she just handed him a piece of alien machinery. “Where’s the spray? Or the paper towels? Or—I dunno—salt?”

“Salt? You don’t need any of that,” Jillian says, pressing the Bissell into your hands. “Y/N clearly knows how to use it. So you two can handle it. I put the water in, just add the solution.” And with a suspicious little smirk that feels like it might be intentional, she leaves the room.

You're kneeling beside the stain before you even realize it, flipping open the water tank. “It’s fine. You just fill this up, add a little solution, and—”

Jake crouches next to you, knees brushing yours. “You’re really calm about this.”

“Well… it’s not my rug,” you say with a small laugh.

“Still. You’re cool under pressure.” His voice drops a little. “Always were. I remember that.”

You freeze with the tank half filled. “…Always were?”

He watches your hands, your wrists, the way your fingers move. “Yeah.”

Something inside your chest tightens. You snap the tank back in place and hand him the sprayer. “Okay. Pull this to release the solution as you spray it over the stain.”

Jake takes it carefully. “Got it.”

You both lean over the rug at the same time, shoulders bumping. The sprayer sputters, then releases a thin line of the cleaner. Jake moves it too fast, smearing the wine outward.

“Whoa, okay. Slow,” you laugh, guiding his hand. “You’ll spread it.”

He makes a low, embarrassed sound. “God, sorry. I’m making it worse I think.”

“No, you’re not. Just—here.” You set your hand over his, fingers sliding lightly across the back of his knuckles as you slow his movements.

Jake stills completely.

“Like that,” you whisper.

His eyes flick to your face, “Yeah. Okay.”

You shouldn’t hold on as long as you do. He shouldn’t let you. But neither of you moves. And the moment your palms part, you feel the spark under the skin, the same one that used to catch you off guard at eighteen.

Your mind flashes without your permission. 

Cherry Coke exploding across the lunch table. Jake’s startled laugh. His hands fumbling with napkins. Your fingers brushing his as you helped clean up the sticky red mess. The look he gave you then.

You swallow. Hard.

“Y’know,” Jake says quietly, breaking the silence, “this isn’t the first time I’ve spilled something around you.”

You give a tense laugh. “My hands were sticky for hours,” you tease, aiming for light and falling short.

“I remember your hands,” he says softly.

You freeze again.

He seems to catch himself, clearing his throat and shifting back a few inches. “Uh—your hands were always… fast. Efficient. I meant—like—you were good at helping.”

“Uh huh,” you say, trying not to smirk. “That’s what you meant.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, flustered. “Listen, I’m having a crisis over here.”

You laugh, and the tension softens just enough that you can both breathe again.

Together, slowly, you work at the stain. You guide his hand once more, accidentally on purpose this time. His shoulder brushes yours every few seconds, close enough that you feel the heat of him even when he pulls away.

After a minute, he leans closer, voice dropping into a whisper. “So… how’re we doing? Think Jillian’s gonna murder me?”

You lean in too, your lips brushing the curve of his shoulder before you realize how close you are. “I think you’re safe. Mostly.”

He doesn’t move away. Not even a little.

“I like when you whisper,” he murmurs.

You shouldn’t feel that in your spine. But you do.

You’re still kneeling over the rug, the carpet cleaner humming softly in the quiet room, hands nearly touching again, and neither of you is pretending it’s an accident anymore.

—

When you rejoin the group, the mood is even looser, full from dinner, soft with wine. Everyone’s on couches or the floor with mismatched throw blankets and pillows.

Someone is retelling a story about the senior year powderpuff game, and laughter fills the room like a heartbeat.

Jake drops onto the arm of the couch near you, his thigh brushing your shoulder in a way he definitely doesn’t apologize for. You curl up with your new glass of wine, cheeks still a little warm from the heat in the dining room.

Sarah pipes up. “Okay okay, do you guys remember the bonfire after homecoming? When Henry fell into the lake?”

Henry groans loudly from across the room. “Don’t bring that up.”

Jake laughs, a real, easy laugh that hits you right under the ribs. “Man, you were soaked. Like…completely. I thought you were gonna cry.”

“I did cry, it was fucking freezing.” Henry mutters, making everyone crack up harder.

You can’t help smiling, warmth blossoming in your chest. Nostalgia settles over the room like a blanket. Jake runs his fingers over his chin, feeling the stubble starting to grow there. He glances sideways at you, grinning.

“Hey,” he says under the chatter, nudging your knee lightly with his knuckles. “You remember that night?”

You swallow, surprised by how quickly the past blooms in your mind, the dark field, laughter in the air, all of you young and reckless and full of possibility.

You nod. “Yeah. I remember.”

Jake’s smile deepens. “Hard to forget.”

The conversation moves on around you, but you feel the weight of that moment, that quiet acknowledgment of your shared history, settle between you like something fragile and important.

“Y/N,” he says quietly. Like he’s starting something. Like he’s sure you won’t stop him. And that’s exactly why you have to.

Your heart thuds once, painful and loud, and your brain snaps back to reality so hard you almost flinch.

No. No, no, no. You know better. This can’t happen. Not like this. Not now. 

You push a breath out, stand too fast, nearly tripping over a blanket. “I—um.” Your voice cracks. Perfect. “I should actually head out.”

Jillian whines, “What? Now?”

“Yeah.” You force a smile, waving a hand vaguely. “I just remembered I have to be up really early. My mom needs help cooking for Thanksgiving dinner and she’ll freak out if I'm not on time. And if I drink any more I won't be able to drive.”

Jake’s face shifts, a shadow of disappointment flickering across his features before he can hide it. He clears his throat. “Yeah, no, sure. That makes sense.”

You grab your bag and coat as every begins to stir, avoiding the temptation to look at Jake again, because you know if you do, that resolve will crack right down the middle.

“Goodnight everyone, I had a great time!”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” they all say in unison. “We love you! Call us soon! Don’t be a stranger!”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. You force your feet forward, past the now clean rug, past the lingering scent of wine, through the hallway where Jillian eyes you knowingly, and out the door into the cold, because staying one minute longer feels impossible.

And because if you stay, you know exactly what’ll happen.

—

The moment you step out of Jillian and Henry’s house, the cold night air hits you like a reset button. Your lungs seize around it, sharp and bracing, the bite of late November sinking into your bones. You stand on the porch for a second longer than necessary, letting the door close behind you with a soft click. 

The sky above Frankenmuth is clear, stars faint behind the glow of the downtown lights, the moon hanging low and cold. You take a deep breath as you walk toward your car, but it’s useless. Your chest is still tight. Jake’s voice is still in your head.

You grip the steering wheel before you’re even fully seated, fingers curling hard into the leather. Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs.

“Why now,” you whisper into the empty car, your breath fogging in the cold.

The drive into town shouldn’t feel like this. You’ve driven these same roads since you were sixteen. The same winding turns, the same bridges over the same quiet water, the same shops lit up like a real life snow globe. But nothing looks familiar tonight because your mind won’t stay with you. It keeps drifting back to kneeling on that rug. Jake’s shoulder brushing yours, your hand on top of his, his breath grazing the side of your face like an accident that definitely wasn’t one.

Your pulse beats wildly.

This is why you left. Why you didn’t come home much. Why you put every crush and spark and almost history between you and Jake in a box with a heavy lid and never dared to peek inside.

Because the second you do, it still burns.

You hit a stoplight at the edge of town and rest your forehead against the steering wheel. The glow of the red reflects across the dashboard, soft and ominous.

“He looks at me like…” You can’t even finish the sentence. You shake your head. “Nope. No. No more of that.”

You’re being ridiculous. It’s the wine. The nostalgia. The crowd, the laughter, the memories flying around the table. Jake being… Jake, but older, more refined, somehow sharper at the same time.

It’s everything. Too much of everything.

You pull into the hotel parking lot, your headlights sweeping across all of the festive decorations. Giant toy soldiers stand guard at the entrance, wreaths wrapped in red velvet ribbon, twinkle lights dripping from the roofline. Frankenmuth really is the Christmas town people claim it to be. Tourists crowd the walkways, bundled in scarves, carrying shopping bags, taking pictures under glowing streetlights. It’s charming and cheerful. But it feels like static in your brain.

You grab your bag from the passenger seat and head inside. The lobby is warm, smelling like cinnamon and pine. A roaring fireplace crackles beside the front desk. Families check in with armfuls of luggage, kids dragging bright red balloons behind them. Couples take selfie after selfie in front of the twelve foot Christmas tree, pretending not to argue. Normally, this would make you smile. Tonight, it’s just noise.

You punch the elevator button and ride up to your floor with two strangers who keep their heads down, murmuring quietly about making dinner reservations. When the doors slide open, you step into the hallway, the carpet muffling your footsteps. 

Inside your room, you toss your bag on the bed and go straight to the minibar. You crouch down, open the little fridge, and scan the shelves.

Liquor. More liquor. Even more liquor. Not a single mini wine bottle.

“Of course not,” you mutter, shutting it with your hip.

You stand there in the silence of your room, hands on your hips, staring at your own reflection in the dark television screen. Your hair is a little messy, your cheeks a little flushed, your mascara smudged just slightly at the corners.

Jake’s face flashes in your mind again.

You need something to shut that down for the night.

Then you remember that this hotel has a bar. All you need is just one more glass of wine. One quiet moment to drown out the buzz in your head.

You peel off your sweater and change into a soft long sleeve shirt. Joggers are next. You tie your hair into a messy ponytail with quick fingers. You leave your makeup on, though. You can’t bring yourself to scrub your face in the state you’re in.

You slip into your shoes, grab your room key, and head out again.

The elevator ride down is slower this time. Every floor feels like it stops just long enough to let your thoughts catch up, which is exactly what you don’t want. By the time you hit the lobby, your heart is thudding again.

The bar is small, maybe fifteen seats total. Warm amber light glows above rows of liquor bottles. A Christmas garland wraps around the counter with little gold bells that jingle every time someone shifts. Only a handful of people sit scattered around the room.

You slide onto the far end stool, grateful for the quiet.

The bartender approaches, drying a glass with a white towel. “What can I get you?”

“Red wine,” you say. “Anything dry.”

He nods and turns away, uncorking a bottle. The clink of glass against wood already has you feeling better.

You sigh and let your shoulders drop for the first time all night. You can almost feel the tension unwinding from your spine, the smallest bit of relief creeping in at the idea of being alone for a few minutes.

You tap your nails softly against the bar, trying to ground yourself. Trying not to think about Jake’s whisper by your ear. The way your hand lingered on his. The scandalous, traitorous thought that maybe—

No. Absolutely not. That door is locked. Triple deadbolted.

The bartender sets a glass in front of you just as a faint scuff of footsteps approaches from behind. You’re about to lift your wine when a voice speaks, low and warm and too close.

“Is this seat taken?”

Your stomach free falls. The world around you goes silent. The air leaves your lungs and your fingers tremble around the stem of your glass. Because you know that voice. You shouldn’t. You wish you didn’t. But you do.

You’re praying you’re wrong, but know you aren’t. Your breath catches hard in your chest. You turn in your barstool, heart beating against your ribs, and there he is.

Jake stands just behind the chair next to you. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, or maybe the alcohol at the party. His waves are a little wind swept, as if he ran a hand through them a dozen times on his walk inside. There’s a faint pinkness on the tip of his nose, a soft contrast to the dark coat he shrugs out of.

He looks… unreal in this light. Golden and warm. A little out of place in the best way.

You somehow swallow. “Uh… no. It’s not taken.”

His lips curve, slow and boyish, and he slides into the stool beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He nods at the bartender. “Bourbon, neat please sir.”

God. His voice. Even lower than earlier. Maybe it’s the room, maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting, your knees almost touching, and his coat brushing your stool when he shifts.

You grip your wine glass a little tighter. “Wha–what are you doing here?”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, turning slightly toward you. “Same as you, I suppose.”

“What, drowning out memories in alcohol?”

Jake smiles, “Pretty much, yeah.”

You bite back a nervous laugh. The bartender sets his bourbon down, and when he reaches for it, his fingers brush yours on the bar. Just barely. He glances at you, and his eyes soften in a way that steals all the air from your lungs.

“You changed,” he says. “Clothes, I mean. I–I liked the skirt, but… I like this too.” His gaze lingers on you.“And your hair. It…looks good up.”

Heat hits your cheeks so fast it’s humiliating. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”

“Didn’t know you were staying here,” he adds, lifting the bourbon to his lips.

“My parents are renovating my bedroom, I think they are turning it into a home gym,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Surprise gift for themselves, I guess. Guest room is full of boxes of my stuff. They booked me a room here for the weekend.”

Jake nods in understanding, his expression softening. “My parents place is… loud right now. Everyone’s home, with guests, my parents are hosting, and everyone’s sleeping over. I figured I’d just stay in town instead, sleeping bags aren’t really my thing.”

“That tracks,” you say, smiling. “You always did try to avoid chaos.”

“Which is ironic, considering my career choice,” he mutters.

You both sip your drinks, the silence between you full but not uncomfortable.

“So,” you finally say, “Friendsgiving.”

Jake groans. “God.”

You laugh. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It wasn’t,” he agrees. “Just… unexpected.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Definitely unexpected.”

He looks at you over the rim of his glass. “Didn’t know you would be there.”

“Same. Jillian just… texted me last week actually.”

“Yeah, Henry too,” he says. “Said the group hasn’t been all together in a long time. Almost didn’t come, but.”

You nod, twirling your glass. “It was nice. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Jake echoes, chuckling.

Your shoulders relax. You didn’t expect to feel this comfortable with him. Not again. Not after all these years. But there’s something familiar in sitting next to him like this, like slipping into an old rhythm you didn’t forget as well as you thought.

“High school sure feels like a different lifetime,” you say quietly, surprising yourself.

Jake’s brow lifts. “You still think about it?”

“Sometimes,” you admit. “Random little things. But I try not to get sentimental.”

He smirks faintly. “I remember you said once that nostalgia is a ‘dangerous little liar.’”

“You remember that?”

“I remember a lot.” He sets his bourbon down, turning fully toward you. “Mostly about…you.”

Your heart stops. Literally stops. You blink at him, your lungs trying to remember how to work. “What?”

He shrugs. “It’s true…You know, I just never really made a move because… well, because if I remember correctly, someone told me you weren’t into me like that. That you just wanted to be friends.”

You nearly choke on your wine, “What? No. No way. I thought– I was told you only liked me as a friend.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Who the hell said that?”

“Um– Justin Boswell?” 

He sits back, “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Junior year prom after party at Kelsey Winston’s house to be specific."

“That’s—” he shakes his head, laughing in disbelief “—that’s not true. Never was.”

He reaches out and puts his hand on top of yours. The contact is light but solid. Your breath stumbles in your throat.

His voice drops enough that you notice. “I never thought of you as just a friend, Y/N.”

You can’t look away from him. You don’t want to. Maybe it’s the wine, or the way his thumb moves against your skin.

“Well, I’m sure you have women falling all over you now. Cora sure did tonight.”

Jake’s expression deadpans instantly. “Oh my God.”

You laugh, “She was acting pretty thirsty,” you add teasingly.

“Desperate,” he corrects.

“Interested.”

“Relentless.”

“Persistent.”

He groans, covering his face for a second. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

He drops his hand, his eyes fixing on yours again.  “I know it probably seems like I deal with that all the time. But I don’t typically go for that type of thing.”

“No?”

“No.” He leans in a bit, voice lower. “Never have. I need… more substance than that.”

You swallow. “Oh.”

His gaze dips briefly to your mouth before rising again. “And before you say that you don’t…yes. You have that. Always have.”

Your pulse kicks into overdrive. Your voice is barely a whisper. “How about now? Do you still feel that way?”

Jake’s answer is immediate.

“Do you think I would’ve left the party if I didn’t?”

The air between you sharpens, and neither of you looks away. His eyes are still locked on yours when he shifts, just slightly, but enough that his knee brushes your thigh. 

Your heart pounds hard enough to feel it in your wrists.

Jake notices everything, your uneven breath, the way you’re staring at his mouth instead of his eyes, the way your fingers curl and uncurl against the bar as if you’re trying to keep yourself from touching him.

“Y/N…” he murmurs, softer than before. “You alright?”

No. Absolutely not.

You nod anyway.

He smirks, not cocky, but like he knows exactly what’s happening between you both. Exactly what you’re pretending not to feel.

His voice drops. “You’re lying.”

Your stomach flips so violently you have to grip the bar’s edge.

“Why would I lie?” you whisper.

Jake’s gaze dips to your mouth again, and when he lifts it back to your eyes, there’s something almost hungry there.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice low and warm, “because you feel the same thing I do.”

You don’t breathe. You don’t speak. You don’t even blink. But out of the corner of your eye, you notice a woman at a nearby table is blatantly watching the two of you. Listening, but pretending not to.

Jake notices her a moment later. His jaw tics. His hand slides off yours like he’s trying not to make a scene… but he stays close. He leans in, voice barely above a whisper, meant only for you.

“She’s listening.”

You flick your eyes toward the woman, then back at him. He gives a quiet, humorless exhale.

“I don’t want her assuming anything,” he murmurs. “Not about you. Or me. Or us.”

Us. Your body tightens at the word. 

He watches your reaction, then continues. “I can walk you up to your room if you want to keep talking.” he offers, “Or you can call it a night. Up to you.”

Your heart is pounding against your ribs. You look at his hand on the bar. Long fingers, rings catching the warm light. You imagine them on you. You imagine exactly what you shouldn’t.

“I… want to keep talking,” you say, your breath a little unsteady.

Jake nods slowly, like he was hoping you’d say that.

He stands, pulling out his wallet and tossing a one hundred dollar bill on the bar. He pulls on his coat and settles a hand lightly at the small of your back, guiding you through the bar with a protectiveness that sends heat rolling low in your belly. The hallway to the elevators is quieter, hardly anyone sharing the space with you, but still you can hear your pulse pounding between your ears.

Inside the elevator, the doors slide closed and the two of you are alone. Jake’s breathing shifts. His eyes stay fixed on you, but not on your face…Your mouth. Then your throat. Then lower.

He swallows. “You know,” he says, voice low as the elevator hums upward, “I keep wondering what would’ve happened if we’d told each other the truth back then.”

Your breath catches. “What do you mean?”

He turns fully toward you, the space between your bodies barely a hand’s width.

“I mean…” His eyes drag over you, slow, reverent, hungry. “If I’d known you wanted me.” he pauses, “If you’d known I wanted you.”

It feels like you might melt. 

Then, the elevator dings. 

The doors slide open, but neither of you moves for a second. Jake finally steps aside, letting you exit first, following close behind. His hand finds your lower back again, gentle and guiding, but intimate. Too intimate for old friends, but not enough for what’s humming between you now.

Your room is halfway down the carpeted hallway and as the two of you finally stop at your door, your fingers start trembling slightly as you slide the keycard into the lock.

The green light flashes and the lock clicks as you nervously open the door.

Jake stands just behind you, hands in his coat pockets like he’s trying to keep them there. He looks at you with an expression that feels loaded.

“See you around?” he asks.

“Stay.” you answer. 

“You sure?” he asks, his voice thick.

And without second guessing it, you grab his hand and pull him inside the room with you.

He stumbles forward, catching himself on the wall. The door swings shut behind you with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through your hotel room.

His breath hitches and the look he gives you is nothing short of starved. He stands in the dimness of your hotel room, his chest rising and falling a little faster than before, the soft light from the lamp brushing over his cheekbones. 

He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t crowd you. He just watches you like he’s trying to memorize what you look like right now.

“What’re you thinking?” you whisper, your voice stuck somewhere in your throat.

He licks his lips slowly, so slowly you feel the sweep of his tongue in your stomach.

“I’m thinking,” he murmurs, “That I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

“Yeah?”

He steps closer. One step. Only one. His boots barely make a sound on the carpet.

“Yeah.” he says simply. “Because I wanted you. Every damn day. And now I feel like a fucking fool for letting you believe otherwise for all this time.”

Your breath stutters. “Jake…”

“But I’m also thinking,” he continues, voice lower now, “that I don’t want to do anything you’ll regret tomorrow.”

Your fingers flex at your sides. “And if I don’t regret it?”

His eyes flash up at you. “Then you need to tell me,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Because I’m hanging on by a single thread right now.”

You step closer. It’s instinctive, almost unconscious, completely drawn to the heat of him.

“Jake,” you breathe, “I…want you.”

He closes his eyes. Just for a second. Like the words physically hit him. His hand twitches at his side as if he wants to grab you but promised himself he wouldn’t.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re darker. Hungrier.

“Say it again,” he whispers.

You swallow. “I want you. I would never regret this.”

His jaw flexes, and he takes another step until you’re standing close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. His restraint is now a living thing between you.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

You lift your chin. “Then kiss me.”

His breath catches and one hand finally comes up, fingers brushing your jaw with tenderness. His thumb traces your cheekbone like he’s terrified you’ll disappear.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“So are you.”

He lets out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. I am, aren’t I?”

You lean into his touch, and something in him snaps. His other hand rises to the back of your neck, warm and sure, and he pulls your forehead to his. Not kissing. Just breathing each other in.

“You sure?” he murmurs again, voice raw.

“Jake,” you breathe, “kiss me, damnit.”

He exhales like he’s been starved for air. His thumb drags across your bottom lip, slow and soft and devastating. And then finally he leans in. It's just a whisper soft brush of his mouth against yours, testing the edges of a moment neither of you can undo.

Your breath catches and he pulls back a fraction, just enough to look at you. Just enough to give you an out. You grab his coat lapels and pull him in again.

This time, he kisses you.

Fully. Deeply, and slowly. His lips are warm and patient, his hand sliding from your face to your waist, drawing you closer until your bodies meet in a flush of heat.

His breath mixes with yours. His chest is solid against you. His fingers settle at your hip, squeezing, and kissing you like he has waited years for this exact moment.

You drag your fingers through his hair, and he shudders against you. His mouth parts, deepening the kiss with a low, hungry sound you feel everywhere.

Your back meets the wall, and he braces one hand beside your head, not trapping you, just… keeping himself upright.

“God,” he whispers against your mouth, “you taste exactly like I thought you would.”

Your knees nearly buckle at the confession. His lips trail to the side of your jaw, warm and slow, lingering for a second too long. His breath stirs against your skin.

“You have no idea,” he pauses, “how hard it is not to pick you up and throw you onto that bed right fucking now.”

“Then don’t hold back,” you whisper.

He laughs, low and disbelieving, resting his forehead against your temple.

“Y/N,” he says softly, “if I start… I won’t stop.”

You slide your hands down his chest, fingers curling in his denim shirt.

“That’s the point.”

His breath hitches and then he pulls back, eyes burning into yours, his pupils blown with lust. His mouth meets yours again, this time however, it feels more desperate. His mouth is warm and insistent, lips moving over yours with a kind of controlled urgency, like he’s trying not to devour you too fast. You taste the bourbon on his tongue when he licks into your mouth, slow but greedy, and your knees nearly give out.

He groans and pulls you even closer, one hand sliding down to palm your ass through the soft fabric of your joggers.

“F—fuck, come here,” he mutters against your lips, like you aren’t already pressed against him. He kisses you harder, deeper, the kind of kiss that steals your thoughts and replaces them with instinct.

Your fingers push into his hair again, your nails raking against his scalp.

“Don’t do that unless you want me to lose it,” he says, voice rough against your mouth.

“Maybe I do,” you whisper.

He laughs, his breath hot against your lips, and then he’s walking you backwards with slow, purposeful steps until your thighs hit the edge of the bed.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling fast. His eyes drag over your face, your lips, your neck, your shirt. All of you.

“Tell me you’re sure you want this,” Jake murmurs. His thumb strokes your jaw, soft in contrast to the tension coiled in his whole body.

“I want this,” you breathe. “I want you, Jake.”

He pulls the curtains closed with one sweep of his arm, the room dimming into soft lamplight. Then he turns back to you, and there’s nothing hesitant left in him.

He steps between your legs, hands sliding beneath your shirt, fingertips grazing your waist. His palms are warm, almost hot, and the simple touch sends a shock through you. He lifts your shirt slowly, watching your face the entire time like he’s memorizing every second of this. When the fabric clears your head, he drops it on the floor and inhales sharply.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, taking you in. “You’re… God, you’re fucking beautiful.”

He runs his hands down your bare sides and then he pushes you back onto the bed. Your body sinks into the mattress, your hair spreading around you, and he follows, bracing a knee on the bed between your legs.

His mouth trails down your neck, soft at first, then hotter, his lips pressing open mouthed kisses along your collarbone and down your chest. He unclasps your bra with one practiced flick before he eases the straps down your shoulders. His knuckles drag lightly over your arms, and when he finally pulls the fabric free, he goes still. Not because he’s hesitating but because he’s looking.

“Jesus Christ…” he exhales, his voice dropping into something rougher. His eyes lift to yours for a second, like he needs to make sure you understand he means every word. “You have… unbelievably perfect tits.”

Heat floods your face, but he’s already lowering his mouth, tracing the slope of one with his palm, almost like he’s afraid to blink and lose the vision lying beneath him.

“I mean it,” he says, thumb circling your nipple lazily, watching it tighten under his touch. “The shape… the size…” His mouth brushes the underside of your breast, warm and wet, and your breath catches in your throat. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

He seals his lips around your nipple and you arch up into him. Your hand flies to his hair, fingers tangling into the brown locks as his tongue teases you, drawing slow circles around the peak before sucking it into his mouth with a low groan.

You whine as his teeth make contact with the sensitive skin. 

“Oh–That sound you just made,” he mutters against your skin, shifting to your other breast. “Do it again.”

He takes more of you into his mouth this time, sucking harder, like he’s claiming you. His free hand cups the other breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in the same rhythm as his tongue, and the sensation goes straight to your core, sharp and low and desperate.

Your thighs clench around his hips instinctively and he feels it.

He smirks against your breast, lips still wrapped around you. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nipping lightly. “That’s what I thought.”

His hand slides down your stomach again, slower than before. Teasing and measuring. He meets your eyes as his fingers hook in your waistband.

“You’re shaking for me,” he says softly.

“I—yeah,” you breathe. “I want—”

“Good,” he interrupts gently, tugging your joggers down over your hips. “Because I want it too.”

He kisses down your sternum, your belly button, the edge of your hipbone, leaving warm trails everywhere his mouth lands. By the time he reaches the hem of your panties, you’re already lifting your hips for him.

He doesn’t pull them off right away. Instead, he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh… then another… then another, working higher until his breath is warm and slow right over where you ache for him.

“Take them off,” you whisper, trembling.

He looks up at you from between your legs, pupils blown wide, hair falling into his eyes. He slides his hands under the backs of your thighs, spreading you open just a little more.

“Tell me you want my mouth first,” he murmurs. “I wanna hear it.”

He doesn’t move yet, not toward your panties, not toward your skin. He just looks at you from between your thighs like he’s deciding exactly how he wants to ruin you first. Then he pushes up onto his knees with a quiet, determined sound in his throat.

“Hang on,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it carelessly toward the chair. “If I’m doing this…” He pulls his shirt over his head in a single fluid motion, muscles shifting under warm lamplight. A cluster of silver necklaces hanging against his chest,  “…I’m not doing it half assed. I want to get messy.”

The sight of his bare chest, all lean lines, and a light trail of hair leading down, the flush across his collarbones, hits you hard enough to steal your breath away. You didn’t realize how bad you wanted to see him like this. Wanted him on you like this.

He crawls back down between your legs, slower this time. His hands glide up your thighs, spreading them just a little wider.

“Now,” he murmurs, exhaling warm air over the thin cotton covering your core. “Say it.”

You swallow harshly. “I want your mouth, Jake.”

He grins, “That’s my good girl.”

He hooks his fingers into your panties, finally dragging them down your legs, and his breath catches the second he sees you.

“Oh… sweet thing...” His voice breaks into something raw. “Look how wet you are.”

He slides his hands under your thighs again and pulls you down the bed in one firm tug, settling your hips right at the edge of the mattress. Your legs drape over his shoulders naturally, like his body is made to hold them there.

He kisses the inside of your thigh first, soft and slow. Then higher…and higher.

“You are incredible,” he says against your skin, his nose brushing dangerously close. “I’ve imagined this more times than I should admit out loud.”

Before you can respond, his tongue presses flat against you, dragging a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

Your whole body jolts.

He groans against you,  “Oh, fuck… yeah. That’s it.”

He settles deeper between your legs, mouth sealing over your clit while his hands massage your thighs, holding you open for him. His tongue moves in small circles at first, teasing and patient, savoring you like he’s got all night.

You thread your fingers into his hair, pulling without meaning to. “Jake—”

He hums against you, the vibration shooting straight through your spine. 

“Let me,” he murmurs, slurping against your skin. “Let me take my time.”

He slides one hand down, fingers slicking through your arousal. He moans softly at the feel of it before sliding a finger inside you, slow and smooth.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, hips lifting.

He pulls back just enough to speak against your thigh. “Look how you take my fingers, baby. Fuck, I can’t wait to see you take my cock.”

Then his mouth is on you again, sucking and licking, working your clit in steady, rhythmic strokes while his fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes your breath stutter.

You feel the heat coil low and sharp and impossible to ignore.

“Jake—please—don’t stop—”

“Look at me,” he orders softly, lifting his eyes while his mouth stays exactly where you need it. The sight nearly undoes you. “Come for me. Right on my tongue, beautiful.”

The pressure snaps, hot and overwhelming as your orgasm breaks over you, hips bucking into his mouth. He holds you through every shudder, sucking you through it, licking you like he wants every drop. Only when your thighs start to tremble does he finally pull his mouth from you, lips shiny, chin wet, and pupils blown completely wide.

“Messy enough for you?” he teases, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaning forward to kiss your inner thigh again, like he can’t help himself.

You’re still catching your breath when he rises to his feet, unbuckling his belt with slow, deliberate movements. He drops his pants, steps out of them, and then he’s kneeling between your legs, hard and thick, his tip flushed and already dripping for you. He strokes himself once, slowly, curling his fist around his tip while watching the way your eyes fix on him.

“You want me to fuck you, pretty thing?” he asks, voice low and rough.

You swallow, your throat dry and your body still trembling from the high he just dragged out of you. Your voice comes out softer than you expect, but certain.

“Y-yes…” you breathe. “I want you to fuck me, Jake.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking in your words. His jaw flexes as he exhales through his nose, steadying himself.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, sweetheart… that’s what I needed to hear from that mouth.”

He leans forward, bracing one hand beside your head while the other guides the thick head of his cock through your slick folds. The first glide makes both of you gasp.

“Oh—fuck,” he whispers, eyes squeezing shut again. “You’re so fucking warm. So wet…”

Your hips tilt up instinctively, searching for him. He groans, a deep, desperate sound.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, Jake, just—”

“I know,” he soothes, kissing you once, slow and warm. “I know, baby… I’ve got you.”

Then he freezes. His breathing is uneven, chest rising and falling hard. He swallows, his eyes locked on where your bodies almost meet.

“Baby…” His voice is rough. “Do you—do you want me to grab a condom?”

It’s not hesitation, just care. A check. A moment of restraint when everything in his body is begging to be inside you.

You shake your head instantly, breathless. “No.”

His eyes snap to yours. “No?” he repeats, voice lower.

“I–I want you,” you whisper. “Just you. I want to feel all of you.”

His jaw flexes, something raw and reverent flickering across his face. He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, exhaling shakily like your answer wrecked him.

“Shit,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Okay… okay, sweetheart. Only you. Only fucking you.”

He pushes in a little, just enough to part you, and your gasp echoes his.

His voice drops to a growl, “Jesus Christ… you’re tight.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders. “More.”

He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your throat, whispering between each press of his mouth.

“Relax for me, baby… let me in…”

You exhale shakily, and he presses forward again, filling you inch by inch. The stretch is overwhelming in the best way, a deep burn that steals your breath. When he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, he chokes on a sound that’s half a moan and half disbelief.

“Fuck.” His voice breaks. “You feel unreal. I’m not—baby, I’m not gonna last long. Not like this. Not with you.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper, clinging to him. “Move. Jake, move.”

He pulls out an inch, then sinks back into you with a slow, deliberate rock of his hips. The low growl he lets out at the feel of you makes your whole body tighten.

“There you go…” he whispers. “You take me so fucking well, baby. The best.”

Your legs wrap around him on instinct, hooking at his lower back. He groans at the shift, allowing him to get deeper. 

“Yeah—keep me there,” he pants. “God, that’s perfect. That’s perfect. Right fucking there.”

He thrusts again, slow, steady, and deep. Every roll of his hips drags against the spot inside you that makes your vision blur and your body feel numb. 

Your breath catches on a moan. “Jake… oh my god…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your throat. “Let me hear all of it.”

You tilt your hips to meet him and he hisses, grabbing your thigh and pinning it higher on his hip.

“Fuck—don’t do that unless you want me to embarrass myself.”

You gasp out a breathless laugh, nails grazing down his spine. “You feel so good… I can’t—”

“Look at me, Y/N.”

Your eyes snap to him.

“This,” he says softly, thrusting deeper. “This is exactly how I always imagined you… underneath me… wanting me…”

Your breath catches. “You thought about this?”

He groans into your ear. “Shit…You have no idea.”

His rhythm stays torturously slow, slow enough to feel every inch of him.

“Jake—please—I need—”

“I know what you need, baby.” he rasps, lifting himself onto his forearms so he can watch the way your body takes him. 

He pulls out almost all the way before sliding back in with one deep, perfect thrust, the sound of your wetness echoing through the room.

“Oh god Jake—”

“That’s it,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you.”

Your back arches, pleasure building fast. He feels it, your tightening, your trembling, and his breath stutters against your chest.

“You’re close.” It’s not a question.

You nod, desperate.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, thrusts going just slightly faster, hips angling to hit you exactly right. “Come on my cock, baby girl.”

You fall apart with a broken moan, your back arching as your body clenches around him so tightly he groans loud and unrestrained.

“Oh—fuck Y/N, baby–don’t—fuck—don’t do that—”

You can feel him losing rhythm, feel the tension rip through him as he pulls out quickly, his hand wrapping around himself to finish.

“Fuck, fuck…look at me Y/N—fucking look at me– watch me cum for you.”

Your eyes flick to his, taking him in, in his most vulnerable state, and that’s all it takes.

He groans, hoarse and guttural, as he cums across your chest. The long, hot ropes of his pearly cum landing on your tits, your collarbone, your stomach… your skin flushed and still trembling from your own orgasm. The sight alone nearly makes you start to shake again.

His breath is ragged and uneven, his hand still around himself as the last pulses leave him. His eyes stay fixed on you the whole time, fully admiring the mess he made.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, leaning back on his heels, chest heaving. “You’re… god, you’re stunning like this.”

He reaches out immediately, his touch gentle now, running two fingers through the warm slick on your tits, spreading it around reverently before leaning down to kiss the curve of one softly.

“Goddamn perfect,” he murmurs against your skin. 

You blush as he cups one breast in his hand, his thumb brushing over your nipple.

“Jake…”

He looks up at you with that soft, post orgasm smile that feels sinful.

“Let me clean you up,” he says quietly, kissing your fingers. 

You watch him rise from the bed, the quiet efficiency in his movements grounding you even as your chest still hammers. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment, returning with a towel. His hands are gentle as he wipes you down, careful not to rush, his touch lingering in all the right places. Every movement makes you feel cherished, wanted, and remembered.

He presses one last kiss to the center of your chest before lying back down, propped on an elbow, eyes never leaving yours. “Room’s locked up,” he murmurs, a soft, satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

You shiver at the sound of his voice, the warmth radiating from him so close to your skin. He shifts slightly, curling his body around yours. One arm snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the other brushing softly along your arm, his fingertips tracing invisible patterns over your skin.

“Stay,” you hear yourself whisper, breathless, almost afraid of what he might say.

He smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Always,” he answers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The bed is warm, the eternal Christmas lights outside dim and distant. Your back rests against his chest, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart, strong and certain. His hands move naturally, threading with yours, holding you tight.

“I can’t believe all of this,” you murmur, leaning back into him, feeling his chin rest lightly on your shoulder. “After all these years… it’s surreal.”

“I’ve wanted this,” he admits, voice low and husky, a hand curling around yours and squeezing gently. “I’ve thought about it… about you… more times than I can count. I–I want this Y/N. Not just tonight, either.”

You swallow hard, your chest rising and falling against his. “Jake… it’s not that easy. I mean… we hardly know each other now—I mean…we’re in different cities. That’s… a lot.”

He tightens his hold around you, chin brushing over your hair, warm breath fanning your ear. “So its the distance? That’s just a word, Y/N. I’ll go to every length to make this work with us. Every single fucking length.”

You shake your head, turning slightly to meet his gaze, fingers pressing into the crook of his arm. “I don’t know, Jake… I just– I don’t want to get hurt. I can’t just… uproot my life. I mean, you’re in Nashville…”

“I’m not asking you to uproot your life, baby,” he says softly, thumb brushing circles over your hand. “I’m saying we figure it out. Together. I’ll show up. Call. Facetime. Fly out. Fly you out. Be here when you need me. I’m… all in. For you.”

You let out a shaky laugh, eyes closing briefly as you bury your face in the curve of his shoulder. “You always were reckless with your heart, Jacob Kiszka. I’m just… not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, lips brushing the side of your head. “But if it’s with you, it’s worth every risk. You’re worth it. Always have been, to me.”

You tense slightly, hesitating, then finally relax into him, letting your hand rest over his, thumb brushing against his knuckles. “And what about your career? Touring? You’re in two bands now, Jake.”

“So you have been keeping up with me…” he grins smugly.

You smack your arm against him playfully, a blush creeping up your body.

He chuckles softly, voice low and confident. “I can make the time. I will make the time. I’ll make it work. You’re too important to not try.” He shifts slightly, the weight of his chest pressing against your back as he snakes an arm around you tighter. “I’ve waited years for this. For something I never even thought could happen. For you. I’m not letting you slip away again.”

You sigh, leaning fully into him, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “I’ve missed you… more than I realized.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I could feel it. Tonight, when I saw you… I knew.”

The room is quiet except for your slow breaths and the faint hum of the heater. He tilts his head, brushing his lips over the crown of your head. “Let's just sleep. No decisions, no pressure. Just… this.”

You nod, heart fluttering, letting his warmth envelop you. “Okay,” you whisper. “Just… for tonight.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the back of your neck, murmuring softly, “That’s all I need. You. Right here. Right now.”

You shift slightly in the sheets, tangled in the warmth of his body, the scent of him still lingering in the curve of the pillow. Jake’s arm drapes over your waist, fingers brushing your hip, and the room is silent. 

After a long pause, you finally speak. “When do you go?”

“Saturday night. My flight leaves Detroit at six.”

You glance up at him, heart skipping a beat. “Saturday?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the ceiling, as if trying to memorize this moment. 

He tilts his head, lips brushing the top of your hair. “I’m sorry,” he says, a little heavier this time, “for… you know, not having the balls back then. When I saw you tonight…I couldn’t… I just couldn’t let you go. I waited all of five minutes before rushing out the door of that party. I talked myself out of it on the drive here, and then there you were, just sitting at the bar like a giant red flashing sign that said ‘don’t fuck this up again’…”

Your chest tightens at his words. “Jake…”

He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, letting the silence stretch for a moment before you speak again. “Will you be home again for Christmas?”

“If I can get away. I have a lot of press on the schedule the next few weeks. But if you’re going to be here, I’m going to try.” he murmurs, and already you feel the weight of the distance pressing on you.

“You’d better,” you tease softly.

 “Would you… maybe wait for me until then?” he asks. 

You sit up slightly, looking into his eyes, your pulse accelerating. “What? Jake, what are you asking me?”

“You know what I’m asking,” he says, voice dropping. “This isn’t just some fling, Y/N. Not to me.”

“No, I know…” you whisper, shaking your head. “Not for me either.”

He runs a hand down your arm, tracing gentle lines over your skin. “I have a few things to take care of at home,” he admits, “important things, but I won’t be able to focus unless I know you’ll be here at Christmas.”

“I’ll be here,” you say, conviction finally settling in your chest. “I may not be in a hotel then,” you murmur, a faint grin tugging at your lips, “but I’ll be here.”

He nods. “Y/N, you know this won’t be easy. But I swear I will make it worth it.”

“I know,” you say, leaning back against him, letting your fingers intertwine with his.

“Christmas… promise me, Y/N.”

“I promise, Jake,” you breathe, feeling the warmth of his hand over yours, and the press of his body against yours, the two of you sharing the quiet intimacy of knowing you’ve both decided to try.

You settle back against him, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, and the room grows quieter with each passing moment. His fingers rub gentle circles over your back, soothing and steady. The weight of him is heavy and comforting, like the world outside has momentarily disappeared. And slowly, inevitably, sleep claims you both.

—

When you wake, the room is quiet. The bed beside you is empty, the weight of him gone, but the sheets still carry the warmth of where he had been. A faint trace of his cologne drifts in the air, catching your senses and making your chest tighten.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it, heart thudding, and see a message from his number. The same number it had been all those years ago.

Jake K: Christmas. I promise. I’ll be there. Just… wait for me, Y/N.

Your fingers hover over the screen, trembling, caught in that tight place between wanting to answer him and wanting to protect whatever’s left of your heart. Sunlight spills across the tangled sheets, the world outside easing into its usual Thanksgiving chatter, but it all feels far away, muted behind the sound of your own pulse.

Because for the first time in years, the possibility of him, of you and him, isn’t some old daydream. It’s real. It’s here. And it shakes you to your core.

You set the phone back on the nightstand, but your hand doesn’t feel like your own. You breathe in, slow and shaky, staring at the window as if it might give you the answer. Christmas. He said Christmas. You picture it without meaning to…Jake stepping through the cold to find you, smiling like he means it, and reaching for you like he still wants more.

You hate how easily the thought unravels you.

The room is silent, but your heart is loud, thudding with a familiar ache, the one you never quite outran. And you already know what’s happening. You can feel it in the way your chest tightens, in the way your pulse jumps, in the way your mind tries and fails to pretend you’re not hoping.

You’re counting down the seconds.

Already.

Helplessly.

Counting them even as another part of you whispers that you’re a fool, that this is how heartbreak starts, that history has never been kind to you and Jake Kiszka.

But wanting him is a gravity you’ve never been able to fight.

And god help you.

Because you’re counting down anyway.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

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[gretavangroupie]

Thanksgiving Day Reblog 🤍

[gretavangroupie]

Ten Years Gone - Part I - Thanksgiving

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x Female Reader

Word Count: 13.4k

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI - Alcohol, Cursing, Dramatic Themes, Kissing, Touching, Dirty Talk, Praise, Fingering, Oral Sex, Unprotected Sex, Pet Names, Yearning.

A/N: Hey guys! Super excited to finally share the first part of this three part story with you. It will follow Jake and Y/N as they reconnect after years apart, during Thanksgiving, Christmas, and finally New Years Eve. I hope it will bring you a few surprises, a little nostalgia, and of course, some heat. I can't wait for you to see how this all unfolds, and as always thanks for every like, comment and reblog. It means the world to me to have readers like you! Happy Thanksgiving! - N

You grab your coat from the hotel closet, the empty hanger swinging freely now in the half empty space. Your hotel room feels too quiet, too small, and you can't stop thinking about what's waiting outside. Frankenmuth hasn't changed much. The streets are still alive and humming with tourists, and the air is still filled with the smell of roasted nuts and fresh winter air. But it feels different this time. Or maybe you’re different. 

It's been too long since you've seen your friends. The ones who knew you before your life started pulling you in a hundred different directions. You can feel the flutter in your chest, the one that comes as you find yourself on familiar streets, remembering high school dances and nights spent telling secrets behind the bleachers at football games. 

As you drive through the quiet streets of Frankenmuth, your mind drifts to Jillian’s text last week that started all of this. 

Jilly: Y/N! Henry and I are hosting Friendsgiving the day before Turkey Day. Pretty sure the whole gang is coming. I hope you can make it! 7:00, same house! 

You remember reading it, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling up all at once. It feels like a lifetime since you’ve seen everyone. You smile to yourself, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. You’re coming back, not just to your hometown, but to a piece of yourself you’d almost forgotten.

You’ve grabbed a bottle of your favorite red, the St. Julian that you can only get at the wine shop on Main Street. It’s always been your favorite when you visit home, and you know it’s perfect to share at a gathering like this one. 

As you step out of your rental car into the cold November air, your mind plays through vivid memories. Running through the first snow of Winter in the park with your friends, the smell in the air as the leaves begin to change color, and all the small quiet corners in this town you once called home. Every detail of home presses in on you, warm and familiar, reminding you how much you’ve missed this. 

You pull your coat tight around you, taking a deep breath. Tonight isn’t just another night, it’s a bridge between the past and the present, a chance to slip back in time, to see who everyone has become.

And as you walk toward the familiar house, a smile tugs at your lips. For the first time in a long time, you feel that simple, exhilarating feeling of being exactly where you’re supposed to be. 

You press the doorbell and wait, the chime echoing like a note from the past. The door swings open before you can knock, and a wave of warmth and chatter spills out. Laughter, the clinking of glasses, the faint smell of roasted turkey and pumpkin pie all hits you at once, a flood of comfort and memories.

“You made it!” Jillian shouts, pulling you into a hug before you can even set the wine bottle down. You can feel the energy of the room, the hum of voices catching up, stories spilling over one another. It’s chaotic, loud, and messy in the best possible way.

You start weaving through the small crowd of friends, exchanging hellos, kisses on cheeks, and quick hand squeezes. Everyone looks older, somehow, but not too different. The kids you knew are still there somewhere, and there’s comfort in that. Proof that while life pulls you all in separate directions, this is still home.

Jillian bustles past, her apron dusted with flour, laughing at a story someone is retelling from high school. You feel the corner of your mouth tug into a smile, your nerves now settling into excitement. You pull the bottle of wine from your bag and set it on the kitchen counter, ready to join the swirl of chatter and warmth.

Your friend Sarah catches your eye, and you’re pulled back to the countless nights you two spent running from one adventure to the next, chasing after boys and midnight dares, and for a moment, it’s like no time has passed at all.

You grab an empty wine glass from the counter, filling it with the red you brought, and take a slow sip, letting the familiar taste ground you. Laughter rings out from the living room, stories overlapping in a happy, chaotic blur. Someone nudges you gently, and you turn to see Ashlyn, her face lighting up with recognition.

“Y/N! I can’t believe you’re here! Look at you! You’re a vision!” she says, tugging you into a hug. You laugh, the sound spilling out of you easily, and suddenly all the years apart melt away.

You drift out of the kitchen, passing an old photo on the wall of you all in high school, arms slung around one another, grinning like nothing in the world could touch you. You feel a pang of longing, not sad exactly, but wistful, that familiar ache of knowing how far you’ve all come, and how much has changed.

The clatter of plates being set, the smell of roasted turkey, and the warm hum of conversation fills the space, and you let yourself relax, letting the comfort of it all wash over you. Tonight is about laughter, memories, catching up, and sharing pieces of yourselves you’ve kept tucked away during the months and years apart from each other.

You raise your glass to a passing friend, clinking lightly before taking another sip, the warmth spreading through you. For the first time in a long time, it feels effortless to belong, to slip back into the rhythm of this group that’s been part of you for so long.

You turn slightly as Henry, Jillian’s husband, sidles up with a warm grin. “Y/N! There you are!” He claps you lightly on the shoulder. “It’s been too long. How have you been? What’s life like in Cleveland?”

You smile, feeling yourself relax into his easy company. “It’s been good,” you say, setting your wine glass down for a moment. “Busy, you know. Work’s been… well, work, but I love it. Keeps me on my toes.”

He raises an eyebrow, “Ah, the ever famous wordsmith, always keeping busy. And what about the personal life? Still seeing that guy you were dating back in what, April? Barney?”

You laugh, shaking your head, a little embarrassed at how easily the question slips into conversation. “No. No, um, Barrett…That’s… definitely over. Long story, but I’m okay with it.”

Henry chuckles, a deep, warm sound that makes you smile. “For the best,” he says firmly, giving you a knowing look. “Trust me. Sometimes things end so something better can come along. You just have to be patient.”

You nod, sipping your wine again. “Yeah. I suppose that’s true, though you and Jilly never had to figure that out.” you laugh. 

He grins, clapping his hands together. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Well…that’s enough serious talk. Go enjoy the party, catch up, make some new memories. You’re home, Y/N. And you're with people that love you, that’s what matters.”

You smile, letting his words settle in, feeling the comforting weight of old friendships and the familiar warmth of this space. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it here. How much you’d missed them.

The front door opens again, though this time there is no knock, no doorbell, just entry, the cold air sweeping through the front hallway suddenly. You don’t realize who it is at first, just a man dressed in dark clothes and a coat. But it’s when that coat comes off, and the hall light hits his face you realize just who you’re looking at.  

​​Your chest lurches before your brain even catches up. He’s different than you remember, shoulders broader, slightly taller, and with that same easy confidence that always seemed to fill a room. His hair falls to his shoulders now, and for a second, you think you might be imagining his presence all together. 

But no. It’s real. He’s real.

Your eyes meet briefly across the crowded room, and something inside you flips. A spark of recognition, a flash of memory from years ago, and a current that feels impossibly strong. He pauses, scanning the room, until his gaze lands on you again. That half smile, the one that haunted your dreams and lingered in your memory, tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You freeze midstep, glass halfway to your lips as your heart hammers in your chest. The laughter, the chatter, the cozy familiarity of the party, all of it fades into the background and suddenly all that exists is him.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves, neither of you speaks. It’s like the world has shrunk to just the two of you, suspended in that quiet, impossible moment.

And then, just as quickly, the spell breaks and the room begins to move again, the voices rise, but your mind is already racing. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to act nonchalant. No sudden movements, no obvious staring. Just… blend in.

With your now empty glass in hand, you weave through the room, nodding and smiling at a few friends, letting your laughter sound natural even as your chest hammers against your ribs. Every step toward the kitchen feels measured and deliberate, like you’re performing some delicate balancing act between composure and the chaos of your thoughts.

You tell yourself he probably doesn’t even remember you. Probably doesn’t even notice you. And yet, with every step, you can feel the pull, magnetic and undeniable, drawing him closer.

The chatter fades slightly as you enter the kitchen, a quieter corner of the house at the moment, away from the main cluster of voices. You set your wine glass down on the counter and straighten your posture, trying to look casual. You glance around, pretending to be occupied with arranging dinner glasses and napkins, but your eyes flick toward the doorway out of habit and there he is. Not moving, not speaking, just standing there, like he’s always been part of your memory, a perfect, impossible fixture. 

Your stomach flips. You clear your throat softly, forcing a small, almost casual smile. “Jake,” you say, trying to sound like you weren’t just caught off guard by the last twenty seconds of your life.

He steps fully into the kitchen, the floorboard creaking softly beneath his boots. He looks different and exactly the same all at once. Older, sharper around the jaw, his hair long and wavy in a way that somehow suits him too well. But his eyes… Those are still unmistakably the same. Still his. 

“Hey,” he says, and it's low and a little rough, like he hasn't done much talking today. 

You force yourself to stay grounded, your fingers curling against the edge of the counter behind you. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” you say, letting the truth slip out. 

His mouth curves, “Yeah, I uh– got a flight last minute to come see my family. Figured I couldn’t turn down Henry’s invitation,” he says, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back in a motion so familiar it nearly knocks you over. “Been a while since I’ve seen everybody.”

You nod, “Yeah. Me too.”

He steps closer, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can smell whatever cologne he put on this morning. He looks at you like he's trying to line up the person in front of him with the girl he knew in highschool. 

“So…” he says, “How uh– how’ve you been since—”

You release a breathy laugh, the question suddenly feeling huge. “Since high school? Good. Busy mostly. Cleveland’s… alot. But good. What about you?”

He tilts his head in a familiar way, like he's reading between the lines of your answer. Like he always did. “Great actually. Tired, exhausted really,” he admits. “But I think being home will help with that.”

You nod, clutching your wine glass tighter. “Yeah, I get that.”

The house hums with conversation pouring out of the living room. Jake’s eyes seem to linger on you and you see something flicker within them. Recognition for sure but memory, maybe?

He clears his throat then looks away. 

“You, uh, come in here to hide from everybody? Look busy so you don’t have to socialize?”

You grin, “Maybe.”

His smile is crooked now, “Figured.”

And just when the moment feels too intimate, when you’re dangerously close to being pulled straight back to who you were when you were eighteen, Jillian’s voice cuts through the air. 

“Time to eat!”

You both jump but then he steps aside, holding an arm out for you to go first, “Ladies first.”

—

Dinner is loud in the way only old friends can be. Layers of overlapping conversations, silverware clinking, someone laughing loudly at the end of the table while Jillian tells Henry he didn’t cook the rolls long enough.

You settle into your seat, trying not to be hyper aware of the fact that Jake ended up directly across from you. Which means every time you look up, there he is. Sometimes smiling, sometimes listening, sometimes looking at you before pretending he wasn’t.

You’re halfway through your roll when Jake reaches across the table and plucks your empty glass from in front of you.

“Here,” he says, already rising from his chair, “I’ve got it.”

You blink. “Oh. You don’t have to—”

He just sends you that one sided smile, “I know.”

He disappears into the kitchen, and you try to act like your heart isn’t doing absolutely stupid things in his absence. Jillian elbows you lightly.

“He looks good,” she whispers, wiggling her eyebrows and grinning.

You nearly choke on air. “Jillian.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

You make a face at her, but heat still creeps up your chest.

Seconds later, Jake comes back with your refilled glass and sets it gently in front of you. You thank him, bringing it up for a sip, but pausing, frowning slightly as you study the bottle he places on the table in front of you.

“Wait,” you murmur, leaning in a little. “I thought mine was gone.”

He glances at you, confused for a second, then shakes his head, motioning to the bottle. “Oh—this one’s mine. I brought it. Hope that’s okay?”

Your eyes widen when you spot the label. “You brought St. Julian?”

Jake’s mouth curves into a smile, “Yeah. It’s my favorite when I’m back home.”

You blink. The coincidence lands like a small, quiet shock. 

“Oh,” you say, softer than you mean to. “I um– Me too.”

“Guess some things haven’t changed that much,” he says lightly, but there’s weight beneath it.

You lift your glass again, the rim barely brushing your lip as you meet his eyes over the top.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I guess not.”

He raises his own glass, just a few inches off the table, his gaze still locked on yours.

A silent cheers.

No clink. No words. Just the two of you, glasses tilted toward each other in the softest, most loaded acknowledgment of the night so far.

You both take a slow sip, still watching each other over the rims. You lower your glass first, pulse steady but impossible to ignore, and Jake follows a beat later, his eyes lingering in a way that makes it clear you’re not the only one feeling something.

—

Dinner is in full swing now, with plates half empty, wine glasses half full, and everyone talking over each other like no time has passed. You’re mid laugh at something Sarah said when you hear Cora speak up from the other side of Jake.

“So, Jake,” she says, tapping the stem of her Martini glass, “You must have some wild stories from the road. I mean, you’ve been like all over the place, right?”

Jake looks up, offering her a small smile, “Yeah, I’ve been around a little bit.”

“A little?” Cora laughs. “Come on, you’ve been overseas, like ten times right? Touring and… whatever else you guys get up to. There has to be something exciting.”

Jake shakes his head with a soft breath of a laugh. “Nothing as exciting as people think. Mostly travel, soundchecks, shows, hotel rooms, repeat… not that thrilling if I’m honest.”

Cora tilts her head. “I’d love to hear about it sometime. Maybe fill me in on what it’s really like.”

Jake hums noncommittally. “If I can remember anything worth telling,” he says, taking a slow sip of wine.

She leans in slightly. “Well, maybe I could jog your memory later.”

Jake’s smile tightens, still polite. “I appreciate that,” he says gently, “but honestly, it’s all pretty boring compared to this.”

“This?” Cora echoes, confused.

He gestures lightly to the whole table. “Being home. Seeing everyone again. Feels… nicer than talking about work.”

“Oh.” Cora blinks, thrown off but trying to play it cool. “Right, yeah. Of course.”

Jake nods once, warm but distant. “But thank you.”

And just like that, he turns his attention back to the table. Back to Henry asking about a guitar, back to Sarah laughing about a junior year disaster, back to the conversation that includes everyone.

Cora sits back, swirling the olives in her glass, her smile fixed but tight.

Across the table, you feel that same warm flutter again. He wasn’t rude. He wasn’t cold. He just… didn’t bite. He didn’t give her anything to cling to. Didn’t engage and didn’t flirt back. And without looking directly at you, he somehow makes it very, very clear, he’s not interested in her.

Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

—

The rest of dinner ends up being louder and messier than it has any right to be. Everyone passes dishes over each other’s heads, Jillian shouting for someone to “please, for the love of God, stop double dipping into the sweet potatoes,” and Henry insisting the turkey is dry even though it absolutely isn’t.

Eventually Sarah leans back in her chair and claps her hands together dramatically.

“Okay,” she announces. “Does everyone remember senior year, the football game against Birch Run, when Jake, Henry, and Josh decided they were going to, quote, ‘fix the scoreboard themselves’? Because I think about it at least once a week.”

Henry groans immediately and Jake drops his fork.

“Oh my god,” Henry mutters. “Don’t start.”

Sarah is already laughing. “No, I’m absolutely starting.”

Jake runs a hand down his face but he’s smiling, shoulders shaking. “This is slanderous,” he says, looking around the table for backup. But no one gives him any. They’re all too busy trying not to laugh.

“You three idiots,” Sarah continues, “climbed up onto the roof of the press box with a wrench you stole from Coach Dan’s truck—”

“We did not steal it,” Jake argues, pointing his fork at her. “We were borrowing it. Big difference.”

“It was 9:30 at night!” Sarah cries. “You didn’t even tell anyone what you were doing! The announcer kept saying the score was wrong, and the crowd was booing, and meanwhile you guys are up there in the dark with tools!”

The whole table erupts in laughter. 

Jake is laughing so hard he’s gone a little red, head tipped back, hand covering his mouth. It’s so unguarded. So familiar. So infuriatingly attractive.

Henry shakes his head and points at Jake. “And who dropped the wrench that landed on Jessica Fortune's Tuba?”

Jake slams his hands on the table. “I’ll never tell.”

The table dissolves into hysterics.

You can’t look away from him. You didn’t expect to hear that laugh again, not like this, not across a table, not with ten years of space filling up the room and somehow not mattering at all.

And when he finally glances over at you, still grinning, still breathless from laughing, you feel it land in your chest like a memory snapping back into place.

Something warm and frightening. Something you didn’t realize you’d missed until now.

“Oh my god…speaking of that night,” she says, swirling her wine dramatically, “does anyone remember what Y/N was doing behind the bleachers while you boys were up on the roof?”

Fork halfway to your mouth, you freeze. “Sarah,” you warn lightly, giving her a look. She ignores it completely. Of course she does.

“Because if I recall correctly,” she continues, eyes sparkling with mischief, “you and Greg Thompson were getting very cozy back there.”

Your stomach drops straight through your chair.

“Oh my god, no we weren’t!” you blurt, practically choking on air. “Nothing happened! Nothing! He tried to kiss me and I literally shoved him into a football tackling dummy.”

The table laughs again, but now it’s at your expense.

Cora waves a hand,“Yeah right! You were back there for, like, half an hour!”

“I was hiding!” you protest. “From him! And from that stupid spirit week eagle mascot costume. And from you, because you dared me to streak around the track.”

Jake’s eyebrows lift, amused. “Wait—you almost streaked at the game?”

“Absolutley not,” you say quickly. “I was being bullied.”

“You were being dramatic,” Sarah teases.

“I was being normal,” you counter, pointing at her with your fork. “I was cold, sober, and Greg Thompson smelled like BO and hot chocolate.”

Henry snorts wine up his nose.

But Jake… Jake isn’t laughing as loudly as the others.

He’s definitely amused, but watching you with this quiet, fascinated expression. Like this version of you is new to him, but familiar, too.

“And just for the record,” you add, cheeks burning, “I did not hook up with Greg Thompson. Ever. Not even a little.”

Cora wiggles her eyebrows. “So you say.”

“So I know,” you shoot back, burying your hot face in your hands. And over the rim of your fingers, you catch Jake still looking at you, like that little slice of your past just peeled back something he never got to see.

Before Sarah can dig herself in any deeper, Jillian suddenly claps her hands together from the kitchen doorway.

“Okay! Enough humiliation for one night,” she announces, grinning as everyone laughs. “Who wants pie?”

There’s a chorus of enthusiastic yeses, forks tapping against plates, and Henry already lifting his hand like a kid.

Jillian points at him. “You don’t even know what kind I made and you live here.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Henry says. “Pie is pie.”

You laugh, grateful for the interruption, your heartbeat finally starting to settle. Jillian catches your eye across the table and gives you a wink, as if to say sorry. 

She stands and begins to make her way to the kitchen. “Apple and pumpkin.”

Chairs scrape the floor as everyone stands and flocks toward the kitchen, the room filling with the smell of cinnamon and butter. Jake rises slowly from across the table, eyes flicking to yours for the briefest second before he follows the group.

Your embarrassment fades into something else. Pie is happening. And so is whatever this thing is between you and Jake.

—

Everyone drifts back into the living room with plates piled high, forks already carving into the flaky crust. The lights feel softer now, the wine warmer, the air looser with the easy buzz of people reverting to who they used to be.

You settle into a chair with your pumpkin pie, tucking your feet beneath you as you watch Henry start gesturing wildly mid story. Jake sits across the room, relaxed into the couch with his legs stretched out, his plate balanced on his knee. Every so often, your eyes meet for a blink too long and you both look away like teenagers.

“Okay,” Cora says through a mouthful of apple pie, “do you guys remember senior prom?”

A collective groan ripples through the group.

“Oh God,” Sarah laughs, setting her pie down. “Why are we going there?”

“Because,” Cora smirks, “it’s hilarious.”

Jake lifts a brow, half amused, “I feel like this is gonna be at my expense. Again.”

“Oh, it totally is,” Henry says, pointing at him with his fork. “You and Lacey Turner. Man. What a disaster.”

You perk up a little, even though you try to keep your expression neutral. You remember Lacey. Perfect hair, perfect shoes, perfect everything. You never dared to think Jake would ask you to prom, but you remembered who he went with.

“What happened?” you ask, pretending you don’t remember every single detail of that night.

Cora laughs, delighted. “You don’t remember? Oh my God, you’re in for a treat.”

Jake closes his eyes like he’s bracing for impact. “Please embellish as little as possible.”

Henry ignores him, already launching in. “So Jake shows up in this suit that was like way too big. Like, drowning him big—”

“It wasn’t that big,” Jake mutters.

“It was gigantic,” Sarah insists. “You looked like a 1940’s jazz pianist.”

You snort into your pie, and Jake looks at you with a quick flash of a smile, just for you, before shaking his head.

“And Lacey shows up,” Henry continues, “looking like she walked straight off a bridal magazine cover. Like she was getting married, not going to prom. And she—what was it? She kept complaining about the music?”

“Oh my God yes,” Cora says. “She said the DJ ‘wasn’t playing any sick beats.’”

Jake looks pained. Everyone bursts out laughing and Jake can’t help but laugh too, heat rising in his cheeks but in a cute, self aware way. He shakes his head again, running a hand through his hair.

Henry slaps his knee. “Best part? She left early. Just completely ditched him.”

Jake shrugs. “I wasn’t devastated.”

“No, because—” Cora starts, grinning wickedly, “he came and sat with us the rest of the night. Remember? You, me, Sarah, and—”

She flicks her gaze toward you, smiling. “You. He sat with you guys until the lights came on.”

Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth.

Jake’s eyes shift to you again. Not teasing this time. Almost remembering something he hasn’t let himself think about in years.

“Oh yeah,” Sarah adds, nostalgic and oblivious. “We all slow danced in that stupid circle at the end. Remember? Jake, you danced with Y/N.”

Everyone looks at Jake. And then at you. Your stomach flips so hard you swear you feel it in your throat.

You remember that night. You remember the song. Perfect by Ed Sheeran. You remember his hands, awkward and gentle, at your waist. You remember not sleeping for two days afterward.

Jake clears his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching.  “I remember,” he says quietly.

And for a moment, the room feels too small. And too loud. And not loud enough all at once.

The conversation keeps rolling, everyone laughing and adding details you half remember, and half wish you didn’t. The room feels warmer, louder, and fuzzier around the edges. The wine is catching up to you, and the embarrassment burns beneath your skin.

You laugh along, but you can’t shake the way Jake said I remember, soft and earnest and too much for one crowded living room. You need a minute. You need something to do.

So you stand up from your chair, brushing your hands on your skirt. “I’m just gonna—uh—start grabbing plates,” you say, already collecting empty dessert dishes and abandoned wine glasses from the coffee table.

Jillian waves you off from her spot on the couch. “You don’t have to do that, babe—”

“I know,” you insist lightly, “but you guys cooked. Let me help.”

It’s the kind of excuse no one questions. A built in getaway. You move into the dining room, stacking plates in your arms, balancing utensils so they don’t slide off. The sounds of laughter fade just a little behind you, replaced by the steady thrum of your pulse in your ears. You’re halfway through rearranging the stack when you sense someone behind you.

“Here,” a familiar voice says. “Let me take some of those from you.”

Jake.

You freeze for only a second before forcing your grip to relax, letting him take the glasses from your hands. He smells like cologne and your favorite red wine and something uniquely him. He stands close, but neither of you steps back.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says quietly, eyes flicking to yours. “Just figured you could use a hand in here.

“Yeah, um sure,” you say, clearing your throat. “Thanks.”

Things feel awkward. You are positive that both of you are feeling the weight of what was just said in the other room. And what wasn’t.

You shift your arm to grab one last salad plate, just as Jake moves to reach for the same one. Your wrists bump, the glasses tilt and a half full wine glass tips over the edge of the plate stack.

The splash is instant. A bright, growing red stain hits Jillian’s cream colored rug.

“Oh—shit,” you gasp, stepping back.

Jake crouches down automatically, guilt sweeping across his face even though it wasn’t really either of your fault. 

“That was—yep. That was me. Totally me. Shit.”

You try to kneel beside him. “No, I—”

“No,” he insists gently, looking up at you. “Let me take the blame for this one.”

Jillian’s voice calls out  from the living room. “Everything okay in there?”

You open your mouth, ready to take responsibility for the small puddle of red wine blooming across her rug but Jake beats you to it.

“My fault, Jilly,” he calls back immediately, stepping forward like he’s shielding you from gunfire.  “Totally my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going. I’ll clean it up, just tell me where the… uh… supplies are.”

Jillian appears in the doorway, takes one look at the stain, and sighs. “Oh, for God’s sake.” She scans the mess and then Jake. “Hang on.”

She disappears and returns with a small carpet cleaner. 

Jake blinks at it. “What—what is that?”

You can’t help the little laugh that escapes you. “It’s a Bissell, Jake.”

“That tells me nothing,” he mutters, staring at it like she just handed him a piece of alien machinery. “Where’s the spray? Or the paper towels? Or—I dunno—salt?”

“Salt? You don’t need any of that,” Jillian says, pressing the Bissell into your hands. “Y/N clearly knows how to use it. So you two can handle it. I put the water in, just add the solution.” And with a suspicious little smirk that feels like it might be intentional, she leaves the room.

You're kneeling beside the stain before you even realize it, flipping open the water tank. “It’s fine. You just fill this up, add a little solution, and—”

Jake crouches next to you, knees brushing yours. “You’re really calm about this.”

“Well… it’s not my rug,” you say with a small laugh.

“Still. You’re cool under pressure.” His voice drops a little. “Always were. I remember that.”

You freeze with the tank half filled. “…Always were?”

He watches your hands, your wrists, the way your fingers move. “Yeah.”

Something inside your chest tightens. You snap the tank back in place and hand him the sprayer. “Okay. Pull this to release the solution as you spray it over the stain.”

Jake takes it carefully. “Got it.”

You both lean over the rug at the same time, shoulders bumping. The sprayer sputters, then releases a thin line of the cleaner. Jake moves it too fast, smearing the wine outward.

“Whoa, okay. Slow,” you laugh, guiding his hand. “You’ll spread it.”

He makes a low, embarrassed sound. “God, sorry. I’m making it worse I think.”

“No, you’re not. Just—here.” You set your hand over his, fingers sliding lightly across the back of his knuckles as you slow his movements.

Jake stills completely.

“Like that,” you whisper.

His eyes flick to your face, “Yeah. Okay.”

You shouldn’t hold on as long as you do. He shouldn’t let you. But neither of you moves. And the moment your palms part, you feel the spark under the skin, the same one that used to catch you off guard at eighteen.

Your mind flashes without your permission. 

Cherry Coke exploding across the lunch table. Jake’s startled laugh. His hands fumbling with napkins. Your fingers brushing his as you helped clean up the sticky red mess. The look he gave you then.

You swallow. Hard.

“Y’know,” Jake says quietly, breaking the silence, “this isn’t the first time I’ve spilled something around you.”

You give a tense laugh. “My hands were sticky for hours,” you tease, aiming for light and falling short.

“I remember your hands,” he says softly.

You freeze again.

He seems to catch himself, clearing his throat and shifting back a few inches. “Uh—your hands were always… fast. Efficient. I meant—like—you were good at helping.”

“Uh huh,” you say, trying not to smirk. “That’s what you meant.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, flustered. “Listen, I’m having a crisis over here.”

You laugh, and the tension softens just enough that you can both breathe again.

Together, slowly, you work at the stain. You guide his hand once more, accidentally on purpose this time. His shoulder brushes yours every few seconds, close enough that you feel the heat of him even when he pulls away.

After a minute, he leans closer, voice dropping into a whisper. “So… how’re we doing? Think Jillian’s gonna murder me?”

You lean in too, your lips brushing the curve of his shoulder before you realize how close you are. “I think you’re safe. Mostly.”

He doesn’t move away. Not even a little.

“I like when you whisper,” he murmurs.

You shouldn’t feel that in your spine. But you do.

You’re still kneeling over the rug, the carpet cleaner humming softly in the quiet room, hands nearly touching again, and neither of you is pretending it’s an accident anymore.

—

When you rejoin the group, the mood is even looser, full from dinner, soft with wine. Everyone’s on couches or the floor with mismatched throw blankets and pillows.

Someone is retelling a story about the senior year powderpuff game, and laughter fills the room like a heartbeat.

Jake drops onto the arm of the couch near you, his thigh brushing your shoulder in a way he definitely doesn’t apologize for. You curl up with your new glass of wine, cheeks still a little warm from the heat in the dining room.

Sarah pipes up. “Okay okay, do you guys remember the bonfire after homecoming? When Henry fell into the lake?”

Henry groans loudly from across the room. “Don’t bring that up.”

Jake laughs, a real, easy laugh that hits you right under the ribs. “Man, you were soaked. Like…completely. I thought you were gonna cry.”

“I did cry, it was fucking freezing.” Henry mutters, making everyone crack up harder.

You can’t help smiling, warmth blossoming in your chest. Nostalgia settles over the room like a blanket. Jake runs his fingers over his chin, feeling the stubble starting to grow there. He glances sideways at you, grinning.

“Hey,” he says under the chatter, nudging your knee lightly with his knuckles. “You remember that night?”

You swallow, surprised by how quickly the past blooms in your mind, the dark field, laughter in the air, all of you young and reckless and full of possibility.

You nod. “Yeah. I remember.”

Jake’s smile deepens. “Hard to forget.”

The conversation moves on around you, but you feel the weight of that moment, that quiet acknowledgment of your shared history, settle between you like something fragile and important.

“Y/N,” he says quietly. Like he’s starting something. Like he’s sure you won’t stop him. And that’s exactly why you have to.

Your heart thuds once, painful and loud, and your brain snaps back to reality so hard you almost flinch.

No. No, no, no. You know better. This can’t happen. Not like this. Not now. 

You push a breath out, stand too fast, nearly tripping over a blanket. “I—um.” Your voice cracks. Perfect. “I should actually head out.”

Jillian whines, “What? Now?”

“Yeah.” You force a smile, waving a hand vaguely. “I just remembered I have to be up really early. My mom needs help cooking for Thanksgiving dinner and she’ll freak out if I'm not on time. And if I drink any more I won't be able to drive.”

Jake’s face shifts, a shadow of disappointment flickering across his features before he can hide it. He clears his throat. “Yeah, no, sure. That makes sense.”

You grab your bag and coat as every begins to stir, avoiding the temptation to look at Jake again, because you know if you do, that resolve will crack right down the middle.

“Goodnight everyone, I had a great time!”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” they all say in unison. “We love you! Call us soon! Don’t be a stranger!”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. You force your feet forward, past the now clean rug, past the lingering scent of wine, through the hallway where Jillian eyes you knowingly, and out the door into the cold, because staying one minute longer feels impossible.

And because if you stay, you know exactly what’ll happen.

—

The moment you step out of Jillian and Henry’s house, the cold night air hits you like a reset button. Your lungs seize around it, sharp and bracing, the bite of late November sinking into your bones. You stand on the porch for a second longer than necessary, letting the door close behind you with a soft click. 

The sky above Frankenmuth is clear, stars faint behind the glow of the downtown lights, the moon hanging low and cold. You take a deep breath as you walk toward your car, but it’s useless. Your chest is still tight. Jake’s voice is still in your head.

You grip the steering wheel before you’re even fully seated, fingers curling hard into the leather. Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs.

“Why now,” you whisper into the empty car, your breath fogging in the cold.

The drive into town shouldn’t feel like this. You’ve driven these same roads since you were sixteen. The same winding turns, the same bridges over the same quiet water, the same shops lit up like a real life snow globe. But nothing looks familiar tonight because your mind won’t stay with you. It keeps drifting back to kneeling on that rug. Jake’s shoulder brushing yours, your hand on top of his, his breath grazing the side of your face like an accident that definitely wasn’t one.

Your pulse beats wildly.

This is why you left. Why you didn’t come home much. Why you put every crush and spark and almost history between you and Jake in a box with a heavy lid and never dared to peek inside.

Because the second you do, it still burns.

You hit a stoplight at the edge of town and rest your forehead against the steering wheel. The glow of the red reflects across the dashboard, soft and ominous.

“He looks at me like…” You can’t even finish the sentence. You shake your head. “Nope. No. No more of that.”

You’re being ridiculous. It’s the wine. The nostalgia. The crowd, the laughter, the memories flying around the table. Jake being… Jake, but older, more refined, somehow sharper at the same time.

It’s everything. Too much of everything.

You pull into the hotel parking lot, your headlights sweeping across all of the festive decorations. Giant toy soldiers stand guard at the entrance, wreaths wrapped in red velvet ribbon, twinkle lights dripping from the roofline. Frankenmuth really is the Christmas town people claim it to be. Tourists crowd the walkways, bundled in scarves, carrying shopping bags, taking pictures under glowing streetlights. It’s charming and cheerful. But it feels like static in your brain.

You grab your bag from the passenger seat and head inside. The lobby is warm, smelling like cinnamon and pine. A roaring fireplace crackles beside the front desk. Families check in with armfuls of luggage, kids dragging bright red balloons behind them. Couples take selfie after selfie in front of the twelve foot Christmas tree, pretending not to argue. Normally, this would make you smile. Tonight, it’s just noise.

You punch the elevator button and ride up to your floor with two strangers who keep their heads down, murmuring quietly about making dinner reservations. When the doors slide open, you step into the hallway, the carpet muffling your footsteps. 

Inside your room, you toss your bag on the bed and go straight to the minibar. You crouch down, open the little fridge, and scan the shelves.

Liquor. More liquor. Even more liquor. Not a single mini wine bottle.

“Of course not,” you mutter, shutting it with your hip.

You stand there in the silence of your room, hands on your hips, staring at your own reflection in the dark television screen. Your hair is a little messy, your cheeks a little flushed, your mascara smudged just slightly at the corners.

Jake’s face flashes in your mind again.

You need something to shut that down for the night.

Then you remember that this hotel has a bar. All you need is just one more glass of wine. One quiet moment to drown out the buzz in your head.

You peel off your sweater and change into a soft long sleeve shirt. Joggers are next. You tie your hair into a messy ponytail with quick fingers. You leave your makeup on, though. You can’t bring yourself to scrub your face in the state you’re in.

You slip into your shoes, grab your room key, and head out again.

The elevator ride down is slower this time. Every floor feels like it stops just long enough to let your thoughts catch up, which is exactly what you don’t want. By the time you hit the lobby, your heart is thudding again.

The bar is small, maybe fifteen seats total. Warm amber light glows above rows of liquor bottles. A Christmas garland wraps around the counter with little gold bells that jingle every time someone shifts. Only a handful of people sit scattered around the room.

You slide onto the far end stool, grateful for the quiet.

The bartender approaches, drying a glass with a white towel. “What can I get you?”

“Red wine,” you say. “Anything dry.”

He nods and turns away, uncorking a bottle. The clink of glass against wood already has you feeling better.

You sigh and let your shoulders drop for the first time all night. You can almost feel the tension unwinding from your spine, the smallest bit of relief creeping in at the idea of being alone for a few minutes.

You tap your nails softly against the bar, trying to ground yourself. Trying not to think about Jake’s whisper by your ear. The way your hand lingered on his. The scandalous, traitorous thought that maybe—

No. Absolutely not. That door is locked. Triple deadbolted.

The bartender sets a glass in front of you just as a faint scuff of footsteps approaches from behind. You’re about to lift your wine when a voice speaks, low and warm and too close.

“Is this seat taken?”

Your stomach free falls. The world around you goes silent. The air leaves your lungs and your fingers tremble around the stem of your glass. Because you know that voice. You shouldn’t. You wish you didn’t. But you do.

You’re praying you’re wrong, but know you aren’t. Your breath catches hard in your chest. You turn in your barstool, heart beating against your ribs, and there he is.

Jake stands just behind the chair next to you. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, or maybe the alcohol at the party. His waves are a little wind swept, as if he ran a hand through them a dozen times on his walk inside. There’s a faint pinkness on the tip of his nose, a soft contrast to the dark coat he shrugs out of.

He looks… unreal in this light. Golden and warm. A little out of place in the best way.

You somehow swallow. “Uh… no. It’s not taken.”

His lips curve, slow and boyish, and he slides into the stool beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He nods at the bartender. “Bourbon, neat please sir.”

God. His voice. Even lower than earlier. Maybe it’s the room, maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting, your knees almost touching, and his coat brushing your stool when he shifts.

You grip your wine glass a little tighter. “Wha–what are you doing here?”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, turning slightly toward you. “Same as you, I suppose.”

“What, drowning out memories in alcohol?”

Jake smiles, “Pretty much, yeah.”

You bite back a nervous laugh. The bartender sets his bourbon down, and when he reaches for it, his fingers brush yours on the bar. Just barely. He glances at you, and his eyes soften in a way that steals all the air from your lungs.

“You changed,” he says. “Clothes, I mean. I–I liked the skirt, but… I like this too.” His gaze lingers on you.“And your hair. It…looks good up.”

Heat hits your cheeks so fast it’s humiliating. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”

“Didn’t know you were staying here,” he adds, lifting the bourbon to his lips.

“My parents are renovating my bedroom, I think they are turning it into a home gym,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Surprise gift for themselves, I guess. Guest room is full of boxes of my stuff. They booked me a room here for the weekend.”

Jake nods in understanding, his expression softening. “My parents place is… loud right now. Everyone’s home, with guests, my parents are hosting, and everyone’s sleeping over. I figured I’d just stay in town instead, sleeping bags aren’t really my thing.”

“That tracks,” you say, smiling. “You always did try to avoid chaos.”

“Which is ironic, considering my career choice,” he mutters.

You both sip your drinks, the silence between you full but not uncomfortable.

“So,” you finally say, “Friendsgiving.”

Jake groans. “God.”

You laugh. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It wasn’t,” he agrees. “Just… unexpected.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Definitely unexpected.”

He looks at you over the rim of his glass. “Didn’t know you would be there.”

“Same. Jillian just… texted me last week actually.”

“Yeah, Henry too,” he says. “Said the group hasn’t been all together in a long time. Almost didn’t come, but.”

You nod, twirling your glass. “It was nice. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Jake echoes, chuckling.

Your shoulders relax. You didn’t expect to feel this comfortable with him. Not again. Not after all these years. But there’s something familiar in sitting next to him like this, like slipping into an old rhythm you didn’t forget as well as you thought.

“High school sure feels like a different lifetime,” you say quietly, surprising yourself.

Jake’s brow lifts. “You still think about it?”

“Sometimes,” you admit. “Random little things. But I try not to get sentimental.”

He smirks faintly. “I remember you said once that nostalgia is a ‘dangerous little liar.’”

“You remember that?”

“I remember a lot.” He sets his bourbon down, turning fully toward you. “Mostly about…you.”

Your heart stops. Literally stops. You blink at him, your lungs trying to remember how to work. “What?”

He shrugs. “It’s true…You know, I just never really made a move because… well, because if I remember correctly, someone told me you weren’t into me like that. That you just wanted to be friends.”

You nearly choke on your wine, “What? No. No way. I thought– I was told you only liked me as a friend.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Who the hell said that?”

“Um– Justin Boswell?” 

He sits back, “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Junior year prom after party at Kelsey Winston’s house to be specific."

“That’s—” he shakes his head, laughing in disbelief “—that’s not true. Never was.”

He reaches out and puts his hand on top of yours. The contact is light but solid. Your breath stumbles in your throat.

His voice drops enough that you notice. “I never thought of you as just a friend, Y/N.”

You can’t look away from him. You don’t want to. Maybe it’s the wine, or the way his thumb moves against your skin.

“Well, I’m sure you have women falling all over you now. Cora sure did tonight.”

Jake’s expression deadpans instantly. “Oh my God.”

You laugh, “She was acting pretty thirsty,” you add teasingly.

“Desperate,” he corrects.

“Interested.”

“Relentless.”

“Persistent.”

He groans, covering his face for a second. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

He drops his hand, his eyes fixing on yours again.  “I know it probably seems like I deal with that all the time. But I don’t typically go for that type of thing.”

“No?”

“No.” He leans in a bit, voice lower. “Never have. I need… more substance than that.”

You swallow. “Oh.”

His gaze dips briefly to your mouth before rising again. “And before you say that you don’t…yes. You have that. Always have.”

Your pulse kicks into overdrive. Your voice is barely a whisper. “How about now? Do you still feel that way?”

Jake’s answer is immediate.

“Do you think I would’ve left the party if I didn’t?”

The air between you sharpens, and neither of you looks away. His eyes are still locked on yours when he shifts, just slightly, but enough that his knee brushes your thigh. 

Your heart pounds hard enough to feel it in your wrists.

Jake notices everything, your uneven breath, the way you’re staring at his mouth instead of his eyes, the way your fingers curl and uncurl against the bar as if you’re trying to keep yourself from touching him.

“Y/N…” he murmurs, softer than before. “You alright?”

No. Absolutely not.

You nod anyway.

He smirks, not cocky, but like he knows exactly what’s happening between you both. Exactly what you’re pretending not to feel.

His voice drops. “You’re lying.”

Your stomach flips so violently you have to grip the bar’s edge.

“Why would I lie?” you whisper.

Jake’s gaze dips to your mouth again, and when he lifts it back to your eyes, there’s something almost hungry there.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice low and warm, “because you feel the same thing I do.”

You don’t breathe. You don’t speak. You don’t even blink. But out of the corner of your eye, you notice a woman at a nearby table is blatantly watching the two of you. Listening, but pretending not to.

Jake notices her a moment later. His jaw tics. His hand slides off yours like he’s trying not to make a scene… but he stays close. He leans in, voice barely above a whisper, meant only for you.

“She’s listening.”

You flick your eyes toward the woman, then back at him. He gives a quiet, humorless exhale.

“I don’t want her assuming anything,” he murmurs. “Not about you. Or me. Or us.”

Us. Your body tightens at the word. 

He watches your reaction, then continues. “I can walk you up to your room if you want to keep talking.” he offers, “Or you can call it a night. Up to you.”

Your heart is pounding against your ribs. You look at his hand on the bar. Long fingers, rings catching the warm light. You imagine them on you. You imagine exactly what you shouldn’t.

“I… want to keep talking,” you say, your breath a little unsteady.

Jake nods slowly, like he was hoping you’d say that.

He stands, pulling out his wallet and tossing a one hundred dollar bill on the bar. He pulls on his coat and settles a hand lightly at the small of your back, guiding you through the bar with a protectiveness that sends heat rolling low in your belly. The hallway to the elevators is quieter, hardly anyone sharing the space with you, but still you can hear your pulse pounding between your ears.

Inside the elevator, the doors slide closed and the two of you are alone. Jake’s breathing shifts. His eyes stay fixed on you, but not on your face…Your mouth. Then your throat. Then lower.

He swallows. “You know,” he says, voice low as the elevator hums upward, “I keep wondering what would’ve happened if we’d told each other the truth back then.”

Your breath catches. “What do you mean?”

He turns fully toward you, the space between your bodies barely a hand’s width.

“I mean…” His eyes drag over you, slow, reverent, hungry. “If I’d known you wanted me.” he pauses, “If you’d known I wanted you.”

It feels like you might melt. 

Then, the elevator dings. 

The doors slide open, but neither of you moves for a second. Jake finally steps aside, letting you exit first, following close behind. His hand finds your lower back again, gentle and guiding, but intimate. Too intimate for old friends, but not enough for what’s humming between you now.

Your room is halfway down the carpeted hallway and as the two of you finally stop at your door, your fingers start trembling slightly as you slide the keycard into the lock.

The green light flashes and the lock clicks as you nervously open the door.

Jake stands just behind you, hands in his coat pockets like he’s trying to keep them there. He looks at you with an expression that feels loaded.

“See you around?” he asks.

“Stay.” you answer. 

“You sure?” he asks, his voice thick.

And without second guessing it, you grab his hand and pull him inside the room with you.

He stumbles forward, catching himself on the wall. The door swings shut behind you with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through your hotel room.

His breath hitches and the look he gives you is nothing short of starved. He stands in the dimness of your hotel room, his chest rising and falling a little faster than before, the soft light from the lamp brushing over his cheekbones. 

He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t crowd you. He just watches you like he’s trying to memorize what you look like right now.

“What’re you thinking?” you whisper, your voice stuck somewhere in your throat.

He licks his lips slowly, so slowly you feel the sweep of his tongue in your stomach.

“I’m thinking,” he murmurs, “That I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

“Yeah?”

He steps closer. One step. Only one. His boots barely make a sound on the carpet.

“Yeah.” he says simply. “Because I wanted you. Every damn day. And now I feel like a fucking fool for letting you believe otherwise for all this time.”

Your breath stutters. “Jake…”

“But I’m also thinking,” he continues, voice lower now, “that I don’t want to do anything you’ll regret tomorrow.”

Your fingers flex at your sides. “And if I don’t regret it?”

His eyes flash up at you. “Then you need to tell me,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Because I’m hanging on by a single thread right now.”

You step closer. It’s instinctive, almost unconscious, completely drawn to the heat of him.

“Jake,” you breathe, “I…want you.”

He closes his eyes. Just for a second. Like the words physically hit him. His hand twitches at his side as if he wants to grab you but promised himself he wouldn’t.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re darker. Hungrier.

“Say it again,” he whispers.

You swallow. “I want you. I would never regret this.”

His jaw flexes, and he takes another step until you’re standing close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. His restraint is now a living thing between you.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

You lift your chin. “Then kiss me.”

His breath catches and one hand finally comes up, fingers brushing your jaw with tenderness. His thumb traces your cheekbone like he’s terrified you’ll disappear.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“So are you.”

He lets out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. I am, aren’t I?”

You lean into his touch, and something in him snaps. His other hand rises to the back of your neck, warm and sure, and he pulls your forehead to his. Not kissing. Just breathing each other in.

“You sure?” he murmurs again, voice raw.

“Jake,” you breathe, “kiss me, damnit.”

He exhales like he’s been starved for air. His thumb drags across your bottom lip, slow and soft and devastating. And then finally he leans in. It's just a whisper soft brush of his mouth against yours, testing the edges of a moment neither of you can undo.

Your breath catches and he pulls back a fraction, just enough to look at you. Just enough to give you an out. You grab his coat lapels and pull him in again.

This time, he kisses you.

Fully. Deeply, and slowly. His lips are warm and patient, his hand sliding from your face to your waist, drawing you closer until your bodies meet in a flush of heat.

His breath mixes with yours. His chest is solid against you. His fingers settle at your hip, squeezing, and kissing you like he has waited years for this exact moment.

You drag your fingers through his hair, and he shudders against you. His mouth parts, deepening the kiss with a low, hungry sound you feel everywhere.

Your back meets the wall, and he braces one hand beside your head, not trapping you, just… keeping himself upright.

“God,” he whispers against your mouth, “you taste exactly like I thought you would.”

Your knees nearly buckle at the confession. His lips trail to the side of your jaw, warm and slow, lingering for a second too long. His breath stirs against your skin.

“You have no idea,” he pauses, “how hard it is not to pick you up and throw you onto that bed right fucking now.”

“Then don’t hold back,” you whisper.

He laughs, low and disbelieving, resting his forehead against your temple.

“Y/N,” he says softly, “if I start… I won’t stop.”

You slide your hands down his chest, fingers curling in his denim shirt.

“That’s the point.”

His breath hitches and then he pulls back, eyes burning into yours, his pupils blown with lust. His mouth meets yours again, this time however, it feels more desperate. His mouth is warm and insistent, lips moving over yours with a kind of controlled urgency, like he’s trying not to devour you too fast. You taste the bourbon on his tongue when he licks into your mouth, slow but greedy, and your knees nearly give out.

He groans and pulls you even closer, one hand sliding down to palm your ass through the soft fabric of your joggers.

“F—fuck, come here,” he mutters against your lips, like you aren’t already pressed against him. He kisses you harder, deeper, the kind of kiss that steals your thoughts and replaces them with instinct.

Your fingers push into his hair again, your nails raking against his scalp.

“Don’t do that unless you want me to lose it,” he says, voice rough against your mouth.

“Maybe I do,” you whisper.

He laughs, his breath hot against your lips, and then he’s walking you backwards with slow, purposeful steps until your thighs hit the edge of the bed.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling fast. His eyes drag over your face, your lips, your neck, your shirt. All of you.

“Tell me you’re sure you want this,” Jake murmurs. His thumb strokes your jaw, soft in contrast to the tension coiled in his whole body.

“I want this,” you breathe. “I want you, Jake.”

He pulls the curtains closed with one sweep of his arm, the room dimming into soft lamplight. Then he turns back to you, and there’s nothing hesitant left in him.

He steps between your legs, hands sliding beneath your shirt, fingertips grazing your waist. His palms are warm, almost hot, and the simple touch sends a shock through you. He lifts your shirt slowly, watching your face the entire time like he’s memorizing every second of this. When the fabric clears your head, he drops it on the floor and inhales sharply.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, taking you in. “You’re… God, you’re fucking beautiful.”

He runs his hands down your bare sides and then he pushes you back onto the bed. Your body sinks into the mattress, your hair spreading around you, and he follows, bracing a knee on the bed between your legs.

His mouth trails down your neck, soft at first, then hotter, his lips pressing open mouthed kisses along your collarbone and down your chest. He unclasps your bra with one practiced flick before he eases the straps down your shoulders. His knuckles drag lightly over your arms, and when he finally pulls the fabric free, he goes still. Not because he’s hesitating but because he’s looking.

“Jesus Christ…” he exhales, his voice dropping into something rougher. His eyes lift to yours for a second, like he needs to make sure you understand he means every word. “You have… unbelievably perfect tits.”

Heat floods your face, but he’s already lowering his mouth, tracing the slope of one with his palm, almost like he’s afraid to blink and lose the vision lying beneath him.

“I mean it,” he says, thumb circling your nipple lazily, watching it tighten under his touch. “The shape… the size…” His mouth brushes the underside of your breast, warm and wet, and your breath catches in your throat. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

He seals his lips around your nipple and you arch up into him. Your hand flies to his hair, fingers tangling into the brown locks as his tongue teases you, drawing slow circles around the peak before sucking it into his mouth with a low groan.

You whine as his teeth make contact with the sensitive skin. 

“Oh–That sound you just made,” he mutters against your skin, shifting to your other breast. “Do it again.”

He takes more of you into his mouth this time, sucking harder, like he’s claiming you. His free hand cups the other breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in the same rhythm as his tongue, and the sensation goes straight to your core, sharp and low and desperate.

Your thighs clench around his hips instinctively and he feels it.

He smirks against your breast, lips still wrapped around you. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nipping lightly. “That’s what I thought.”

His hand slides down your stomach again, slower than before. Teasing and measuring. He meets your eyes as his fingers hook in your waistband.

“You’re shaking for me,” he says softly.

“I—yeah,” you breathe. “I want—”

“Good,” he interrupts gently, tugging your joggers down over your hips. “Because I want it too.”

He kisses down your sternum, your belly button, the edge of your hipbone, leaving warm trails everywhere his mouth lands. By the time he reaches the hem of your panties, you’re already lifting your hips for him.

He doesn’t pull them off right away. Instead, he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh… then another… then another, working higher until his breath is warm and slow right over where you ache for him.

“Take them off,” you whisper, trembling.

He looks up at you from between your legs, pupils blown wide, hair falling into his eyes. He slides his hands under the backs of your thighs, spreading you open just a little more.

“Tell me you want my mouth first,” he murmurs. “I wanna hear it.”

He doesn’t move yet, not toward your panties, not toward your skin. He just looks at you from between your thighs like he’s deciding exactly how he wants to ruin you first. Then he pushes up onto his knees with a quiet, determined sound in his throat.

“Hang on,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it carelessly toward the chair. “If I’m doing this…” He pulls his shirt over his head in a single fluid motion, muscles shifting under warm lamplight. A cluster of silver necklaces hanging against his chest,  “…I’m not doing it half assed. I want to get messy.”

The sight of his bare chest, all lean lines, and a light trail of hair leading down, the flush across his collarbones, hits you hard enough to steal your breath away. You didn’t realize how bad you wanted to see him like this. Wanted him on you like this.

He crawls back down between your legs, slower this time. His hands glide up your thighs, spreading them just a little wider.

“Now,” he murmurs, exhaling warm air over the thin cotton covering your core. “Say it.”

You swallow harshly. “I want your mouth, Jake.”

He grins, “That’s my good girl.”

He hooks his fingers into your panties, finally dragging them down your legs, and his breath catches the second he sees you.

“Oh… sweet thing...” His voice breaks into something raw. “Look how wet you are.”

He slides his hands under your thighs again and pulls you down the bed in one firm tug, settling your hips right at the edge of the mattress. Your legs drape over his shoulders naturally, like his body is made to hold them there.

He kisses the inside of your thigh first, soft and slow. Then higher…and higher.

“You are incredible,” he says against your skin, his nose brushing dangerously close. “I’ve imagined this more times than I should admit out loud.”

Before you can respond, his tongue presses flat against you, dragging a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

Your whole body jolts.

He groans against you,  “Oh, fuck… yeah. That’s it.”

He settles deeper between your legs, mouth sealing over your clit while his hands massage your thighs, holding you open for him. His tongue moves in small circles at first, teasing and patient, savoring you like he’s got all night.

You thread your fingers into his hair, pulling without meaning to. “Jake—”

He hums against you, the vibration shooting straight through your spine. 

“Let me,” he murmurs, slurping against your skin. “Let me take my time.”

He slides one hand down, fingers slicking through your arousal. He moans softly at the feel of it before sliding a finger inside you, slow and smooth.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, hips lifting.

He pulls back just enough to speak against your thigh. “Look how you take my fingers, baby. Fuck, I can’t wait to see you take my cock.”

Then his mouth is on you again, sucking and licking, working your clit in steady, rhythmic strokes while his fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes your breath stutter.

You feel the heat coil low and sharp and impossible to ignore.

“Jake—please—don’t stop—”

“Look at me,” he orders softly, lifting his eyes while his mouth stays exactly where you need it. The sight nearly undoes you. “Come for me. Right on my tongue, beautiful.”

The pressure snaps, hot and overwhelming as your orgasm breaks over you, hips bucking into his mouth. He holds you through every shudder, sucking you through it, licking you like he wants every drop. Only when your thighs start to tremble does he finally pull his mouth from you, lips shiny, chin wet, and pupils blown completely wide.

“Messy enough for you?” he teases, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaning forward to kiss your inner thigh again, like he can’t help himself.

You’re still catching your breath when he rises to his feet, unbuckling his belt with slow, deliberate movements. He drops his pants, steps out of them, and then he’s kneeling between your legs, hard and thick, his tip flushed and already dripping for you. He strokes himself once, slowly, curling his fist around his tip while watching the way your eyes fix on him.

“You want me to fuck you, pretty thing?” he asks, voice low and rough.

You swallow, your throat dry and your body still trembling from the high he just dragged out of you. Your voice comes out softer than you expect, but certain.

“Y-yes…” you breathe. “I want you to fuck me, Jake.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking in your words. His jaw flexes as he exhales through his nose, steadying himself.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, sweetheart… that’s what I needed to hear from that mouth.”

He leans forward, bracing one hand beside your head while the other guides the thick head of his cock through your slick folds. The first glide makes both of you gasp.

“Oh—fuck,” he whispers, eyes squeezing shut again. “You’re so fucking warm. So wet…”

Your hips tilt up instinctively, searching for him. He groans, a deep, desperate sound.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, Jake, just—”

“I know,” he soothes, kissing you once, slow and warm. “I know, baby… I’ve got you.”

Then he freezes. His breathing is uneven, chest rising and falling hard. He swallows, his eyes locked on where your bodies almost meet.

“Baby…” His voice is rough. “Do you—do you want me to grab a condom?”

It’s not hesitation, just care. A check. A moment of restraint when everything in his body is begging to be inside you.

You shake your head instantly, breathless. “No.”

His eyes snap to yours. “No?” he repeats, voice lower.

“I–I want you,” you whisper. “Just you. I want to feel all of you.”

His jaw flexes, something raw and reverent flickering across his face. He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, exhaling shakily like your answer wrecked him.

“Shit,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Okay… okay, sweetheart. Only you. Only fucking you.”

He pushes in a little, just enough to part you, and your gasp echoes his.

His voice drops to a growl, “Jesus Christ… you’re tight.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders. “More.”

He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your throat, whispering between each press of his mouth.

“Relax for me, baby… let me in…”

You exhale shakily, and he presses forward again, filling you inch by inch. The stretch is overwhelming in the best way, a deep burn that steals your breath. When he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, he chokes on a sound that’s half a moan and half disbelief.

“Fuck.” His voice breaks. “You feel unreal. I’m not—baby, I’m not gonna last long. Not like this. Not with you.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper, clinging to him. “Move. Jake, move.”

He pulls out an inch, then sinks back into you with a slow, deliberate rock of his hips. The low growl he lets out at the feel of you makes your whole body tighten.

“There you go…” he whispers. “You take me so fucking well, baby. The best.”

Your legs wrap around him on instinct, hooking at his lower back. He groans at the shift, allowing him to get deeper. 

“Yeah—keep me there,” he pants. “God, that’s perfect. That’s perfect. Right fucking there.”

He thrusts again, slow, steady, and deep. Every roll of his hips drags against the spot inside you that makes your vision blur and your body feel numb. 

Your breath catches on a moan. “Jake… oh my god…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your throat. “Let me hear all of it.”

You tilt your hips to meet him and he hisses, grabbing your thigh and pinning it higher on his hip.

“Fuck—don’t do that unless you want me to embarrass myself.”

You gasp out a breathless laugh, nails grazing down his spine. “You feel so good… I can’t—”

“Look at me, Y/N.”

Your eyes snap to him.

“This,” he says softly, thrusting deeper. “This is exactly how I always imagined you… underneath me… wanting me…”

Your breath catches. “You thought about this?”

He groans into your ear. “Shit…You have no idea.”

His rhythm stays torturously slow, slow enough to feel every inch of him.

“Jake—please—I need—”

“I know what you need, baby.” he rasps, lifting himself onto his forearms so he can watch the way your body takes him. 

He pulls out almost all the way before sliding back in with one deep, perfect thrust, the sound of your wetness echoing through the room.

“Oh god Jake—”

“That’s it,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you.”

Your back arches, pleasure building fast. He feels it, your tightening, your trembling, and his breath stutters against your chest.

“You’re close.” It’s not a question.

You nod, desperate.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, thrusts going just slightly faster, hips angling to hit you exactly right. “Come on my cock, baby girl.”

You fall apart with a broken moan, your back arching as your body clenches around him so tightly he groans loud and unrestrained.

“Oh—fuck Y/N, baby–don’t—fuck—don’t do that—”

You can feel him losing rhythm, feel the tension rip through him as he pulls out quickly, his hand wrapping around himself to finish.

“Fuck, fuck…look at me Y/N—fucking look at me– watch me cum for you.”

Your eyes flick to his, taking him in, in his most vulnerable state, and that’s all it takes.

He groans, hoarse and guttural, as he cums across your chest. The long, hot ropes of his pearly cum landing on your tits, your collarbone, your stomach… your skin flushed and still trembling from your own orgasm. The sight alone nearly makes you start to shake again.

His breath is ragged and uneven, his hand still around himself as the last pulses leave him. His eyes stay fixed on you the whole time, fully admiring the mess he made.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, leaning back on his heels, chest heaving. “You’re… god, you’re stunning like this.”

He reaches out immediately, his touch gentle now, running two fingers through the warm slick on your tits, spreading it around reverently before leaning down to kiss the curve of one softly.

“Goddamn perfect,” he murmurs against your skin. 

You blush as he cups one breast in his hand, his thumb brushing over your nipple.

“Jake…”

He looks up at you with that soft, post orgasm smile that feels sinful.

“Let me clean you up,” he says quietly, kissing your fingers. 

You watch him rise from the bed, the quiet efficiency in his movements grounding you even as your chest still hammers. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment, returning with a towel. His hands are gentle as he wipes you down, careful not to rush, his touch lingering in all the right places. Every movement makes you feel cherished, wanted, and remembered.

He presses one last kiss to the center of your chest before lying back down, propped on an elbow, eyes never leaving yours. “Room’s locked up,” he murmurs, a soft, satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

You shiver at the sound of his voice, the warmth radiating from him so close to your skin. He shifts slightly, curling his body around yours. One arm snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the other brushing softly along your arm, his fingertips tracing invisible patterns over your skin.

“Stay,” you hear yourself whisper, breathless, almost afraid of what he might say.

He smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Always,” he answers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The bed is warm, the eternal Christmas lights outside dim and distant. Your back rests against his chest, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart, strong and certain. His hands move naturally, threading with yours, holding you tight.

“I can’t believe all of this,” you murmur, leaning back into him, feeling his chin rest lightly on your shoulder. “After all these years… it’s surreal.”

“I’ve wanted this,” he admits, voice low and husky, a hand curling around yours and squeezing gently. “I’ve thought about it… about you… more times than I can count. I–I want this Y/N. Not just tonight, either.”

You swallow hard, your chest rising and falling against his. “Jake… it’s not that easy. I mean… we hardly know each other now—I mean…we’re in different cities. That’s… a lot.”

He tightens his hold around you, chin brushing over your hair, warm breath fanning your ear. “So its the distance? That’s just a word, Y/N. I’ll go to every length to make this work with us. Every single fucking length.”

You shake your head, turning slightly to meet his gaze, fingers pressing into the crook of his arm. “I don’t know, Jake… I just– I don’t want to get hurt. I can’t just… uproot my life. I mean, you’re in Nashville…”

“I’m not asking you to uproot your life, baby,” he says softly, thumb brushing circles over your hand. “I’m saying we figure it out. Together. I’ll show up. Call. Facetime. Fly out. Fly you out. Be here when you need me. I’m… all in. For you.”

You let out a shaky laugh, eyes closing briefly as you bury your face in the curve of his shoulder. “You always were reckless with your heart, Jacob Kiszka. I’m just… not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, lips brushing the side of your head. “But if it’s with you, it’s worth every risk. You’re worth it. Always have been, to me.”

You tense slightly, hesitating, then finally relax into him, letting your hand rest over his, thumb brushing against his knuckles. “And what about your career? Touring? You’re in two bands now, Jake.”

“So you have been keeping up with me…” he grins smugly.

You smack your arm against him playfully, a blush creeping up your body.

He chuckles softly, voice low and confident. “I can make the time. I will make the time. I’ll make it work. You’re too important to not try.” He shifts slightly, the weight of his chest pressing against your back as he snakes an arm around you tighter. “I’ve waited years for this. For something I never even thought could happen. For you. I’m not letting you slip away again.”

You sigh, leaning fully into him, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “I’ve missed you… more than I realized.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I could feel it. Tonight, when I saw you… I knew.”

The room is quiet except for your slow breaths and the faint hum of the heater. He tilts his head, brushing his lips over the crown of your head. “Let's just sleep. No decisions, no pressure. Just… this.”

You nod, heart fluttering, letting his warmth envelop you. “Okay,” you whisper. “Just… for tonight.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the back of your neck, murmuring softly, “That’s all I need. You. Right here. Right now.”

You shift slightly in the sheets, tangled in the warmth of his body, the scent of him still lingering in the curve of the pillow. Jake’s arm drapes over your waist, fingers brushing your hip, and the room is silent. 

After a long pause, you finally speak. “When do you go?”

“Saturday night. My flight leaves Detroit at six.”

You glance up at him, heart skipping a beat. “Saturday?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the ceiling, as if trying to memorize this moment. 

He tilts his head, lips brushing the top of your hair. “I’m sorry,” he says, a little heavier this time, “for… you know, not having the balls back then. When I saw you tonight…I couldn’t… I just couldn’t let you go. I waited all of five minutes before rushing out the door of that party. I talked myself out of it on the drive here, and then there you were, just sitting at the bar like a giant red flashing sign that said ‘don’t fuck this up again’…”

Your chest tightens at his words. “Jake…”

He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, letting the silence stretch for a moment before you speak again. “Will you be home again for Christmas?”

“If I can get away. I have a lot of press on the schedule the next few weeks. But if you’re going to be here, I’m going to try.” he murmurs, and already you feel the weight of the distance pressing on you.

“You’d better,” you tease softly.

 “Would you… maybe wait for me until then?” he asks. 

You sit up slightly, looking into his eyes, your pulse accelerating. “What? Jake, what are you asking me?”

“You know what I’m asking,” he says, voice dropping. “This isn’t just some fling, Y/N. Not to me.”

“No, I know…” you whisper, shaking your head. “Not for me either.”

He runs a hand down your arm, tracing gentle lines over your skin. “I have a few things to take care of at home,” he admits, “important things, but I won’t be able to focus unless I know you’ll be here at Christmas.”

“I’ll be here,” you say, conviction finally settling in your chest. “I may not be in a hotel then,” you murmur, a faint grin tugging at your lips, “but I’ll be here.”

He nods. “Y/N, you know this won’t be easy. But I swear I will make it worth it.”

“I know,” you say, leaning back against him, letting your fingers intertwine with his.

“Christmas… promise me, Y/N.”

“I promise, Jake,” you breathe, feeling the warmth of his hand over yours, and the press of his body against yours, the two of you sharing the quiet intimacy of knowing you’ve both decided to try.

You settle back against him, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, and the room grows quieter with each passing moment. His fingers rub gentle circles over your back, soothing and steady. The weight of him is heavy and comforting, like the world outside has momentarily disappeared. And slowly, inevitably, sleep claims you both.

—

When you wake, the room is quiet. The bed beside you is empty, the weight of him gone, but the sheets still carry the warmth of where he had been. A faint trace of his cologne drifts in the air, catching your senses and making your chest tighten.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it, heart thudding, and see a message from his number. The same number it had been all those years ago.

Jake K: Christmas. I promise. I’ll be there. Just… wait for me, Y/N.

Your fingers hover over the screen, trembling, caught in that tight place between wanting to answer him and wanting to protect whatever’s left of your heart. Sunlight spills across the tangled sheets, the world outside easing into its usual Thanksgiving chatter, but it all feels far away, muted behind the sound of your own pulse.

Because for the first time in years, the possibility of him, of you and him, isn’t some old daydream. It’s real. It’s here. And it shakes you to your core.

You set the phone back on the nightstand, but your hand doesn’t feel like your own. You breathe in, slow and shaky, staring at the window as if it might give you the answer. Christmas. He said Christmas. You picture it without meaning to…Jake stepping through the cold to find you, smiling like he means it, and reaching for you like he still wants more.

You hate how easily the thought unravels you.

The room is silent, but your heart is loud, thudding with a familiar ache, the one you never quite outran. And you already know what’s happening. You can feel it in the way your chest tightens, in the way your pulse jumps, in the way your mind tries and fails to pretend you’re not hoping.

You’re counting down the seconds.

Already.

Helplessly.

Counting them even as another part of you whispers that you’re a fool, that this is how heartbreak starts, that history has never been kind to you and Jake Kiszka.

But wanting him is a gravity you’ve never been able to fight.

And god help you.

Because you’re counting down anyway.

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[gretavanmoon]

Raise your hand if you’re one of the only few writers left who creates and executes storylines using only your brain and fingertips say aye

[gretavangroupie]

Baby girl your fics are reading like a madlibs template… 😭