♰ @jakebitez - Tumblr Blog

~ 𝓒𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲, 𝓢𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝, 𝓛𝐨𝐯𝐞

After a brutal breakup, you don’t expect the campus playboy to be the one who steps in to help you put yourself back together. Jake Sim has rules. No feelings. No jealousy. No getting attached. As your self-appointed wingman, he teaches you how to flirt, how to have fun again, and how to make your ex regret everything, never expecting that every lesson would pull him closer to you instead. What starts as a joke turns into late nights, blurred lines, and a deal neither of you is equipped to keep. But when misunderstandings, old wounds, and fear collide, walking away is easier than staying, until it isn’t.

𝓖enre: romcom AU, friends with benefits, smut, angst, fluff, FWB to lovers, mutual pining, emotional slow burn, happy ending

𝓟airing: Playboy!Jake x fratgirl!reader

𝓦arnings: excessive drinking, smoking, flirting, banter, yearning, angst (a lot of it), Jake is stupid asf, blonde Jake Sim (this alone should be illegal), weaponized eye contact, hookups, mentions of sex, swearing, strong language, self-doubt, insecurity, hurt, no comfort, they're so in love in hurts, emotional angst, arguments, a red-flag ex, messy breakups in public places, extreme toxic behavior, jealousy, denial, avoidance, and men who run from feelings, campus-wide teasing and wolf whistles, friends who see everything and say nothing (until it’s funny), Jake being a cocky bastard who smirks at the worst times, accidental emotional intimacy, fake rules that absolutely do not work, one (1) grand romantic gesture, speed driving, (probably) underage drinking,

𝓦arnings (SMUT!): 18+ MDNI. Multiple rounds of sex. Make-up sex. Angry sex. Blowjob. Handjob. P in V. Unprotected sex (no!). Creampie. Orgasm. Fingering. Cunnilingus. Marking. Licking. Sucking. Biting. Riding. Missionary. Degradation. Praise. Friends with Benefits. Yearning. Nipple play. Tit job. Hate sex. Oral sex (both m and f recieving), FWB, Grinding. Dry Humping. Spanking. Possesiveness. Dirty talk. Flirting. Teasing. Aftercare. Lots of kisses.

𝓒ameos: Heeseung from Enhypen (as your new bf, for a very short time LMAO), Jay and Sunghoon from Enhypen (As Jake's friends), Giselle from Aespa

𝓘nspired 𝓑y: Crazy, Stupid, Love

𝓦ord 𝓒ount: 31.6k

Sam: Ty ml @si3rren for reading this, and no, @yvampyr, Jake does not die of heartbreak.... (sadly)

[Better Than The Movies] [Masterlist]

DELTA PHI GAMMA.

DPG, for short. You had always thought it was an explicitly obnoxious name. The kind of name that sounded like a bad tattoo decision or a frat guy’s idea of “branding.” Three Greek letters slapped onto a house where something went wrong about 99.9% of the time. The remaining 0.1% was reserved for moments people later referred to as “character development.”

Tonight, apparently, was yours. The music at Delta Phi Gamma is loud enough to make the drywall sweat. Bass thumps through the floor, cups spill on every staircase, someone’s already passed out in a doorway and the night isn’t even halfway over. The living room smells like sweat, vape clouds, and spilled Jungle Juice. Basically: romance’s natural habitat. And you’re getting dumped in the middle of it. Not gently. Not privately. Not even with the decency of a lowered voice. You push your way through the crowd, throat tight, mascara clumping at the corners of your eyes as you replay the last thirty seconds of the conversation that just detonated your night.

Your ex, now officially, gloriously, miserably your ex, didn’t even bother lowering his voice when he said it. “I just don’t think we want the same things.”He’d said it like he was commenting on the weather. Like you hadn’t just spent two years learning the exact way he liked his eggs or pretending you didn’t hate his friends or memorizing the shape of his back in the dark. Which was bullshit, because the thing he apparently wanted was your roommate’s cousin. Emma, you mimicked, mouth turning upwards unpleasantly. At a frat party. During midterms week.

A laugh bubbles up in your chest, hysterical and painful, and you choke on it as you shove into the bathroom. You sob as you burst into the stall, slamming the stall door behind you. The lock barely holds. The music bleeds through the walls in a rhythmic, mocking pulse. You slide onto the toilet seat fully clothed, one hand pressed to your mouth to stifle the sound, the other gripping your phone like you could strangle the memories out of it. The first tear falls. Then another. Then the flood sits you down and wrecks your life.

“Fuck him,” you whisper to yourself, but your voice cracks so hard it sounds like a bad karaoke mic. You open your photo gallery. There he is, smiling in the sun, arms around you on the beach, the stupid fake-candid he forced you to take because he loved the lighting. Delete. Delete. Delete, your thumb hovers over the last one: you wearing matching hoodies, kissing your cheek. Your vision blurs. “God, I hate him,” you choke, wiping at your eyes with the sleeve you don’t realize has mascara stains already smeared on it.

A knock rattles the stall. “Babe? You good? You’ve been in there forever,” your friend calls. “I’m FINE!” you lie, voice cracking like a broken violin. You are absolutely not fine. You hit delete. A pop-up appears: Delete 247 photos? This action cannot be undone. You choke. “Two hundred and—? Ugh, I have no life.” You press confirm. The screen goes blank. Another sob. You grab a half-empty tequila bottle someone left on the counter and take a swig so aggressive it burns all the way down.

The night air out on the balcony isn’t much better, cold, smoky, buzzing with drunken laughter and cigarette glow. You lean against the railing, gulping in breaths like you could rewind your brain. Your friend hands you a drink. “Honey, it’s okay—”

“It’s NOT okay,” you snap, then immediately burst into tears again. “I wasted TWO YEARS of my life on a man who wears socks during sex.”

“Oh no.” “Oh YES,” you say dramatically, waving the bottle. “Guess who’s single and insane and probably going to die alone with seventeen cats?” “Babe—”

“He dumped me during a beer-pong tournament, Alyssa! Who DOES that?!” “Uh—” “And his stupid face, ugh, I hope he trips into a puddle. Of acid. Actually, I hope someone steals his favorite hoodie. And his Spotify playlist.”

Your friend pats your hair. “Okay, you’re spiraling.” “I am FLOURISHING.” You are absolutely spiraling. She takes the bottle before you drown yourself in it and disappears inside to get water, leaving you alone on the balcony with your misery (and the rest of the lot). Someone snorts behind you. You whirl around, ready to fight, and come face-to-face with Jake Sim, leaning against the balcony doorframe like he’s posing for a frat-boy-magazine cover. Backlit by neon lights, jaw sharp, eyes amused, blonde hair slightly messy from the crowd. He’s wearing a black tee that fits like sin, jeans that should be illegal, and a smile that’s gotten at least fifteen people in trouble this semester alone.

DPG’s worst decision. DPG’s biggest problem. DPG’s prettiest manwhore. Everyone knows exactly who he is. Everyone has heard the stories. Half the campus claims to have hooked up with him. The other half wants to. Jake lifts his brow slowly, cigarette resting between two fingers, his smirk lazy and unfairly beautiful. “Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he says, clearly lying. “I just wasn’t prepared for the… socks comment.” You sniff, flipping him off with wet lashes and a quivering lip. He grins wider. Your friends abandon you with a pat to your back, not wanting to be caught in whatever cosmic embarrassment cloud is forming above you. Now it’s just you and Jake. And your humiliation. And your tequila bottle. “You uh…” Jake gestures vaguely toward your face. “You’ve got, like—” He traces under his eye. “Mascara. Everywhere.”

You glare. “You don’t say.” He steps closer, plucks the tequila bottle from your hand, and inspects the label. “Top-tier coping mechanism,” he muses. “Very classy. Very ‘my life is falling apart but I’m committed to the bit.’”

You grab the bottle back. “Mind your business, Sim.”

He places a hand over his heart. “Ouch. Using my last name? Cold.”

Someone walks past him and smacks his ass. Someone else waves and shouts, “Jake, last night was INSANE! Call me!” He finger-guns at her without looking away from you. You roll your eyes. “Wow. Delta Phi’s favorite prostitute.” “Harsh,” he says, amused. “But not incorrect.” You sniff hard, wiping your face. “What do you want, Jake?” “Me?” He shrugs, taking a drag from his cigarette before flicking it aside. “I want to help.”

You stare. He cannot be serious. Jake gestures around. “Breakup at DPG? That’s… brutal. You’re one tequila shot away from crying into someone’s protein shake.” You let out a pathetic half-laugh half-sob. “And,” he continues, stepping closer until he’s uncomfortably, comfortably, warm, “I’m great at fixing people’s lives. Or ruining them. Depends how you use me.” Before you can retort, a girl in a tight red dress walks by behind him and taps his shoulder. “Hey, Jake,” she purrs, giving him a wink so practiced it should be copyrighted.

Jake lifts a hand in greeting. “Hey, Emily.” Emily? Evelyn? Eliza? You can’t keep his roster straight. As soon as she’s out of earshot, you give him a look. He shrugs. “We’re… friendly.” “Friendly,” you repeat flatly. “Right. And I’m the Pope.”

His smile widens, dimples appearing like tiny weapons. “Want me to pray for you?” “Actually, yes,” you say, wiping your face again. “Pray I forget I ever dated that walking red flag.”

You blink at him through thick, salty lashes. Jake softens, just barely. “Come on,” he says gently. “Let me help you forget that loser.” You deadpan. “How?” His grin returns, slow, wicked, lethal. “I’ll be your wingman.” You choke. “You?” “Yeah.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I’m good at this.” “I bet you are.” “I can teach you everything you need,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. “Confidence. Flirting. Getting over someone. Getting under someone. Whatever works.”

Your heart stutters. Your mascara is a disaster. Your night is ruined. Your ex sucks. And the campus playboy, Delta Phi Gamma’s crowned prince of bad decisions, is offering to rebuild your sanity. You stare at him. Jake smirks. “So what do you say? Want the Jake Sim Experience?” You take a shaky breath. “God help me,” you whisper. “Fine.” Jake beams like he just won something. And maybe he did. You don’t remember agreeing to leave the party. One second, Delta Phi Gamma is vibrating under your feet, the balcony lights buzzing, Jake Sim smirking like the devil with a solution, and the next, you’re sitting on the front steps of the frat house with cold concrete seeping through your skirt and a paper towel pressed under your nose. Jake crouches in front of you, elbows on his knees, assessing you like a particularly dramatic puzzle. “Okay,” he says carefully. “Good news is, you’re alive.”

You sniff. “That’s debatable.” He snorts, reaching into his pocket and producing a packet of tissues like this is not his first emotional emergency rodeo. “You cry like someone who hasn’t slept and definitely hasn’t eaten.”

“I had half a pretzel,” you mutter. “Tragic.” You take the tissues, blotting your face. Mascara comes away in thick black streaks. You groan when you see it. “I look insane.” Jake tilts his head, studying you with a seriousness that makes your stomach flip. “Nah. You look like someone who cared. That’s not the same thing.” You stare at him. He freezes, like he didn’t mean to say that out loud. Then, instantly, Jake Sim Mode snaps back on.

“But,” he adds lightly, “you are smearing eyeliner onto your chin, so let’s manage expectations.” You huff out a weak laugh despite yourself. From inside the house, someone screams along to a song that hasn’t been relevant since high school. A group stumbles out the front door, one of them pausing when she sees Jake.

“Jake!” she slurs happily. “You coming back inside?” He doesn’t even look at her. “In a bit.” She blinks, clearly unused to that response, then shrugs and wanders off. You notice. Of course you do. “So,” Jake says, rocking back on his heels. “Walk me through it. What did the idiot do?”

You hesitate. Then everything spills out in one ugly rush. “He said he felt ‘stuck,’” you ramble, voice wobbling. “That I was too serious. That I didn’t know how to have fun. And then I find out he’s been flirting with someone else all night like I’m not even standing there—” Your throat closes. Jake’s expression shifts, something sharper flashing behind his eyes. “He’s an idiot,” Jake says flatly.

“That’s not helpful.” “It is,” he counters. “It’s just not comforting.” You drag a hand through your hair. “I feel stupid. Like… how did I not see this coming?” Jake leans back against the railing, crossing his arms. “Because you trusted him. That’s not stupidity. That’s optimism.” You squint at him. “Are you always like this?” “Like what?” “Emotionally competent when it’s inconvenient.”

He grins. “I contain multitudes.” A beat passes. The noise from the party feels farther away now, like it belongs to another world. Jake glances at your phone, still clutched in your hand. The screen lights up with another memory, your ex’s stupid grin. “You wanna do something cathartic?” he asks.

You look at him suspiciously. “That depends.” “Hand me your phone.” “No.” “Come on,” he coaxes. “I won’t text anyone. Promise.” You hesitate, then reluctantly hand it over. Jake scrolls with lightning speed, thumbs flying. “Okay, first of all, why do you have this many photos of him?” “Because we were together for two years!” “And in none of them is he outshined by you,” Jake mutters. “Tragic.” He starts deleting.

You gasp. “Hey! That one—”

“Gone.”

“That was from our anniversary!”

“Double gone.” You laugh despite yourself, trying to grab the phone back. He holds it out of reach easily, standing to his full height.

“Oh my god, Jake, give it back!”

“Only if you admit this feels a little good.” You freeze. He stops too.

Then you sigh. “…Okay. It does.”

Jake softens. Hands the phone back. “There we go.” You look at the empty gallery, chest aching and lighter all at once.

“I don’t know how to be alone,” you admit quietly.

Jake studies you for a moment. Then he says, casual but certain, “You won’t be.”

You glance up. “What?”

He shrugs. “Not like—” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “But I’ll help you. Get your groove back.”

Your eyebrow arches. “My groove?”

“Yes. Your post-breakup glow-up montage,” he says, dead serious. “Everyone deserves one.”

“And you’re… volunteering?”

He smirks. “You kidding? I live for reinvention arcs.”

You snort. “You’re the worst person to ask for help.”

“And yet,” he says lightly, “here I am.” A pause settles between you, comfortable, unfamiliar. Jake stands, holding a hand out. “Come on. I’m getting you water and greasy food before you pass out dramatically on these steps.” You take his hand without thinking. It’s warm. Steady. He pulls you up easily, doesn’t let go right away. Inside, the party feels louder, messier. Jake guides you through the chaos with a hand on your lower back, protective without being possessive.

Someone yells his name. Someone laughs. Someone whistles. Jake ignores all of it. He plops you onto a couch in the living room, presses a cup of water into your hands, and dumps a plate of fries in your lap. “Eat,” he orders. You obey.

After a minute, you glance up at him. “Why are you doing this?”

He shrugs, leaning against the arm of the couch. “Because I hate seeing people think they’re unlovable when they’re not.”

Your heart stutters. Before you can respond, someone plops down next to Jake and grins at you. “Oh my god, are you the girl from earlier?”

You blink. “Probably.”

She grins wider. “You’re cute. Jake never brings cute girls out of parties.”

Jake groans. “Please don’t psychoanalyze me in front of her.”

She winks at you and disappears back into the crowd. You stare at Jake. He rubs the back of his neck. “Ignore her.”

You smirk faintly. “So. The Jake Sim Experience comes with emotional support now?”

He meets your gaze, something unreadable flickering there.

“Only for you,” he says, then immediately clears his throat. “Temporarily. As a favor.” You smile into your fries. Outside, the night keeps going. And somewhere between the music and the mess and the man sitting too close beside you, you realize, this might be the beginning of something incredibly crazy, stupid. And maybe… something kind of amazing.

You wake up with the distinct feeling that your skull has been hollowed out and refilled with static. Your phone vibrates somewhere beneath your pillow. You groan, roll onto your back, and squint at the ceiling of your dorm room like it personally betrayed you. The light feels too bright. Your mouth tastes like regret and cheap tequila. Your hoodie smells faintly like smoke and, you freeze. It’s not your hoodie. You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The fabric hanging off your shoulders is thicker than yours, darker, worn soft in a way that suggests it’s been stolen before. You stare down at the sleeve like it might explain itself. Your phone buzzes again.

Jake Sim: You alive?

You blink at the screen.

You: Unfortunately.

Three dots appear instantly.

Jake Sim: Good. Meet me for coffee. You owe me for emotional labor.

You groan and collapse back onto your bed. The café off campus is too quiet for the kind of hangover you’re nursing. The smell of espresso makes your stomach twist, but you order anyway, because you’re trying to be a functional adult. Jake is already there when you arrive, sprawled in a chair like he owns the place. Sunglasses on indoors. Baseball cap pulled low. Hoodie that looks suspiciously familiar. You stop short. “That’s my hoodie,” you say flatly.

Jake grins without looking up. “Correction. That’s my hoodie now. You left it in my car.”

“I did not get in your car.”

He finally lifts his sunglasses, eyes bright and far too awake for someone who was at Delta Phi Gamma until two in the morning. “You absolutely did. You cried about fries and declared them your emotional support food.”

You close your eyes. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he says easily. “Sit down before you fall over.”

You sit. There’s a beat of silence while you both sip your drinks. The normalcy of it is strange, sunlight through windows, students typing away, no bass rattling your bones.

Jake watches you over the rim of his cup. “How you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a bus. Reversed over. Then hit again.”

He hums. “Progress. You didn’t cry when you saw me.”

“Give it time.” He smiles. It’s quieter than last night. Softer. And it makes your chest do something uncomfortable. “So,” you say, wrapping both hands around your cup. “About… whatever that was.” “The breakdown?” he offers.

“The… you offering to fix my life,” you clarify. Jake leans back, chair creaking. “Ah. The Wingman Initiative.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“For tax purposes, yes.” You snort despite yourself. “Jake, I don’t need a project.” “Good,” he says immediately. “Because I don’t do projects. I do collaborations.”

You study him. He looks relaxed, joking, but there’s something deliberate in the way he’s paying attention to you, like he actually means this. “Okay,” you say slowly. “Say I agree. What does this… collaboration involve?” Jake straightens, suddenly all business. He pulls a napkin toward him and grabs a pen from his pocket. Step one: ominous.

“Ground rules,” he says. “Very important.” He writes THE WINGMAN PACT at the top of the napkin, underlining it twice. You laugh. “You’re insane.” “Focused,” he corrects. “Now. Objectives.”

He starts listing them off, tapping the pen with each point. “I help fix your confidence. Remind you who you were before your ex convinced you you were boring.” You flinch slightly. He notices. “I help you flirt,” he continues, gentler now. “Like, properly. Not apologizing for taking up space.” You roll your eyes. “I don’t do that.” “You literally apologized to the barista yesterday for ordering coffee.”

“Okay, I do that a little.” He smirks. “I take you out. Get you seen. Get you having fun again.” A pause. “And,” he adds, almost casually, “we make your ex painfully aware of what he lost.” Your lips part before you can stop yourself. “You’re serious.” Jake’s gaze locks onto yours. “Dead serious.” Something flutters in your chest. Dangerous. Hopeful.

“And what do you get out of this?” you ask quietly. He hesitates. Just for a second, but you catch it. “Entertainment,” he says finally. “And maybe a chance to do something that isn’t… meaningless.” That’s the crack. It’s small, but it’s there. You don’t comment on it. You don’t push. You just nod. “Okay,” you say. “What are the rules?” Jake exhales, relieved, and flips the napkin over.

“Rule one,” he says, writing as he speaks. “No feelings.” You snort. “That’s vague.” “Exactly,” he says. “Keeps us safe.” “Rule two,” he continues. “No jealousy.” You raise a brow. “You’re a literal campus legend.”

“And you’re freshly single,” he counters. “Trust me. It’s necessary.” “Rule three,” he says, slower now. “No kissing each other.” Your stomach drops. “Too intimate,” he adds quickly. “Messes with people’s heads.” “Right,” you say, nodding too fast. “Rule four,” he says, and this time his mouth twitches. “No sex.”

You laugh outright. “That should’ve been rule one.” “Hey, I’m trying to be respectful.” You look at him, really look at him. At the easy charm, the confidence, the danger wrapped up in a pretty smile. This is a terrible idea. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” you murmur. “But… okay. I agree.” Jake’s grin is immediate and bright. “Excellent. Welcome to your hot-girl era.”

“Do not call it that.” “Oh, I absolutely will.” He folds the napkin and slides it toward you like a contract. “Now,” he says, standing and tossing some cash on the table, “your first assignment.” You blink. “Already?” “Always,” he says. “There’s a mixer tonight. Sigma house. You’re coming with me.” Your nerves spike instantly. “Jake—”

“You’re walking in like you own the place,” he says firmly. “Head up. Shoulders back. No shrinking.” “And if I panic?” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Then you look at me.” Your heart skips. “I’ve got you,” he says.

That night, you stand at the edge of the Sigma house living room, music thumping, people everywhere. Your palms are sweaty. Your heart is racing. Jake stands beside you, hands in his pockets. “Ready?” he asks. You nod, even though you’re not. You take a breath, and walk in. Jake watches you move through the room. The way you straighten. The way people look at you. The way you laugh when someone says something stupid. Something sharp twists in his chest. His pupils blow wide. He hates it. And he definitely doesn’t know why. The Sigma house smells like cologne, beer, and bad decisions.

Not the fun kind of bad decisions, either. The kind that end up as blurry Snapchat stories and half-remembered regrets. The air is warm, humid with bodies and sweat, every breath tasting faintly of hops and cheap perfume. Music pulses through the living room, too loud, too bass-heavy, vibrating in your ribs like a second heartbeat. Someone shouts your name from across the room, even though you’re not sure you know them. Red cups everywhere. Neon lights flickering against walls covered in banners, photos, and inside jokes you don’t understand but feel vaguely judged by. A couple is already arguing near the stairs. Someone spills a drink and laughs like it’s the best moment of their life. You take three steps in and immediately want to turn around. Your instinct is to shrink. To fold in on yourself. To make yourself smaller, quieter. To look for a corner, a wall, something solid to press your back against so nothing can sneak up on you. Your foot slows. Jake’s hand lands on the small of your back. Not gripping. Not pushing. Just there.

“Hey,” he murmurs, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath through your hair. “Don’t retreat.” Your spine straightens on reflex.

“I didn’t—” you start. “You did,” he says gently. “Shoulders back.” You do it. Your posture shifts. It feels unnatural at first, like you’re pretending to be someone braver than you are. “Good. Chin up. You walk like you’re apologizing for existing.”

“I am not.”

“You literally are.” You glare over your shoulder. He’s smirking, but his eyes are focused, sharp, locked on you like this matters. Jake leans in closer, voice dropping. “Rule one of flirting: you don’t chase attention. You allow it.”

Your pulse spikes. “Okay, Yoda.”

“Trust me.” He positions himself just behind you, not touching, but close enough that when someone bumps into you from the side, your back brushes his chest. The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends a jolt through you anyway. It feels… dangerous. Anchoring. A guy approaches, tall, loud, already tipsy.

“Hey,” he slurs, eyes flicking over you. “You—uh—you go here?” You open your mouth. Jake’s voice slips in first, low and smooth, meant only for you. “Pause. Don’t answer right away.” You hesitate.

The guy blinks. “…Hello?”

Jake continues, murmuring near your ear. “Smile first. Slow.”

You do. The guy grins like he’s just won something. “Now,” Jake says, “say something unnecessary.”

You swallow. “Depends,” you say lightly. “Is that your opening line?”

The guy laughs. “I mean—”

Jake hums approval behind you. “Good. Tease him a little.”

You tilt your head. “You ask that to everyone, or am I special?”

The guy chuckles again, clearly flustered. “I—maybe special?”

Jake’s breath ghosts your ear. “Eye contact. Hold it.”

Your gaze stays steady. The guy’s ears turn red. Jake exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself now. “See? You’ve got him.” The guy leans closer. “So what’s your name?”

Before you can answer, Jake murmurs, “Now disengage.” You blink. “What?” “Politely,” he adds. “You don’t give them everything.” You smile at the guy. “I’m grabbing a drink. Nice meeting you.” You turn away before he can respond. Your heart is racing. “What was that?” you whisper as Jake steers you toward the kitchen. “That,” he says, voice amused, “was flirting.”

You stare at him. “I didn’t even do anything.” “Exactly.” Someone brushes past you, and Jake automatically shifts closer, hand hovering at your waist without touching. “You see how easy that was?” he says. “You don’t need lines. You need presence.” You scoff. “Easy for you to say. You flirt by existing.”

He smiles faintly. “That’s a learned skill.” You snort. “No it’s not.” Jake opens his mouth to argue, then stops. Something flickers across his face. Gone before you can name it. “Okay,” he says instead. “Round two.” He guides you toward the couch area, where a group is playing some chaotic drinking game. “This time,” he says quietly, “you approach.” “I will die.”

“You’ll live.” A guy with dark curls looks up as you approach. “Hey.” You glance back at Jake. He gives you a tiny nod. You take a breath. “Is this game actually fun or are you all pretending?” The group laughs. Curly-Hair Guy grins. “Depends who’s losing.” Jake’s voice murmurs behind you. “Lean in. Not too close.”

You perch on the arm of the couch, relaxed. Curly-Hair Guy’s attention stays on you. “You wanna play?” Jake’s jaw tightens. “Ask a question,” he whispers. “Make him talk.” You tilt your head. “Only if you tell me your worst drunk decision.”

Curly-Hair Guy laughs. “Oh god—” Jake cuts in softly, almost involuntarily. “Careful.” You glance back. “What?” He clears his throat. “Nothing.” The game continues for a minute. You laugh. You joke. You’re… actually having fun. And Jake? Jake watches. Watches the way you smile easier now. The way you don’t fidget with your hands. The way people lean toward you like gravity shifted. He hates how good you look. You step away from the couch, cheeks warm, adrenaline buzzing. “I think I’m getting it,” you say quietly.

Jake nods. “Yeah. You are.”

A girl walks past and bumps into him. “Jake, where’ve you been hiding?”

“Busy,” he replies curtly.

She blinks. Looks between the two of you. Smirks. You don’t miss it. “So,” you say lightly, “do I get a grade?” Jake looks down at you. Really looks.

“An A,” he says, voice rougher than before. “Easy.”

Something tightens in your chest. You glance around the room, then back at him. “Okay. Your turn.” “My turn for what?”

“You flirt,” you say. “I watch.”

Jake chuckles. “That’s not part of the curriculum.”

“I need to learn what not to do.” He hesitates. Then shrugs. “Fine.” He steps away, smooth as ever, strikes up a conversation with someone near the bar. You watch. It’s effortless. Too effortless. But you notice something strange. He keeps glancing back at you. And when he does, his smile falters just a little. When he returns, you raise a brow. “You were distracted.” He scoffs. “No I wasn’t.”

“You were,” you insist. “You didn’t even get her number.” Jake shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it.” You study him. “You okay?” He meets your gaze. “Yeah,” he says. “I just… wasn’t having as much fun.” Your heart stutters. Before you can respond, Jake straightens. “Alright. Lesson one complete.” “What’s lesson two?” He leans in, voice low, dangerously close. “Learning when to walk away.” You swallow. He offers his arm. “Ready?” You take it. And as you leave the room, head high, confidence humming, Jake knows something is very, very wrong.

Because teaching you how to flirt with strangers? Easy. Teaching himself how not to fall for you? Impossible. Jake steers you toward a quieter corner near the staircase, where the music dulls just enough that you can hear your own thoughts again. The wall vibrates faintly with bass, but it’s no longer rattling your bones. Just… background chaos. “Okay,” he says, folding his arms like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk. “Lesson two.” You take a sip of your drink. “I survived lesson one. I deserve a juice break. Or a medal.”

He snorts. “You’re doing great. Which means it’s time to teach you how not to immediately ruin it.” You squint at him. “Rude.” “Accurate,” he counters smoothly. “Listen. Not everyone who gives you attention deserves access to you.” You scoff. “You say that like you’re not emotionally accessible to exactly no one.” He ignores that with the grace of a man who absolutely heard it and chose self-preservation. He scans the room, nodding subtly toward a cluster of guys near the beer pong table.

“See them?” he asks. You follow his gaze. “Yeah. They look like they’ve been arguing about the rules for twenty minutes.” “Exactly,” Jake says. “Red flag already.” “Green flags versus red flags,” he says. “You need to know who’s worth taking home, and who’s worth avoiding like expired milk.” You choke on a laugh. “Okay, Professor Playboy.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m serious.” He points discreetly with his chin. “Guy one,” he says. “Too drunk. Slurring. Thinks volume equals personality.” The guy in question shouts something unintelligible and spills half his drink on the table. You nod solemnly. “Avoid.” “Guy two,” Jake continues. “Won’t stop checking his phone. Either has a girlfriend or a fantasy football problem.”

You wince. “Both are crimes.” “Exactly.” “Guy three,” he says more slowly, eyes narrowing slightly. “Standing off to the side. Watching you, but not staring. Waiting to see if you notice him.”

Your chest tightens just a bit. “Take home?” Jake hesitates. Just a beat too long. “…Potentially,” he says. “If you want.” You study the guy. He really does look different. Calm. Not desperate. “And how can you tell?” you ask. Jake looks back at you. “Because the right kind of attention doesn’t feel like pressure. It feels like curiosity.” Something about that lands deeper than it should. You blink. “Wow. That was… kind of deep.”

He grimaces. “Don’t spread that around.” You smile. “Too late. I’m tweeting it.” He straightens. “Rule of thumb: if you feel like you have to perform, walk away. If you feel like you can just exist? That’s the one you keep.” You hum thoughtfully. “So… no juggling. No personality auditions.” “Exactly. You’re not on America’s Got Talent.” You glance at him. “You talk like you’ve thought about this.” His jaw tightens. “I have.”

You open your mouth to ask why, before you can, he clears his throat and shifts gears. “Lesson three,” he says abruptly. “Eye contact.” You groan loudly. “Oh my god. I make eye contact.” “No,” Jake says instantly. “You flee eye contact.” “I do not flee.” “You look at people like you’re afraid they’ll invoice you for attention.”

“That is not, okay maybe once.” He steps closer. Too close. Close enough that your back nearly brushes the railing, close enough that you’re suddenly very aware of how tall he is. And how his cologne lingers with the faint smell of wood.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Stand still.” You freeze. “Don’t move,” he adds. “Just look at me.” You lift your gaze to his. His expression changes. The teasing fades, replaced by something intent, focused. Serious. “Now,” he murmurs, “don’t blink. Don’t smile. Don’t apologize with your eyes.”

Your pulse starts to race. “Think of eye contact like a promise,” Jake continues softly. “You’re not asking. You’re offering.” The room feels smaller. Quieter. He holds your gaze steadily, unflinching. “Count to three in your head,” he says. “Then look away first. Slow.”

You do. One. Two. Three. You turn your head slightly, heart pounding. Jake exhales sharply. “Jesus,” he mutters.

You blink. “What?” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Nothing. That—” He clears his throat. “That’s what I mean.”

“Like that?” you ask.

“Yes,” he says too quickly. “Exactly like that.”

“Then,” he says quietly, “you make people forget what they were saying.”

“Oh,” you say, voice light. “That seems… powerful.”

“Don’t abuse it.”

“Absolutely abusing it.”

A guy nearby glances over mid-conversation, then visibly stumbles when you meet his eyes. You hold it. Calm. Steady. Just like Jake taught you. The guy loses his train of thought completely. You look away first. Jake watches the entire thing, something sharp and conflicted twisting in his chest.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “That worked.”

Jake forces a smile. “Told you.”

But his hands are clenched at his sides.

You turn back to him, glowing now, confidence buzzing under your skin. “Okay. What else, Sensei?”

He looks at you for a long moment. Too long. “Careful,” he says quietly. “You’re picking this up fast.”

You tilt your head. “That’s good, right?”

He nods. “Yeah.” Then, softer. Almost to himself. “Too good.”

You grin. “What? Afraid I’ll steal your brand?”

He scoffs. “Please. I’m irreplaceable.”

“Oh yeah?” you tease. “Because I just watched you short-circuit over eye contact.”

“That was—” He cuts himself off. “Irrelevant.”

You laugh, the sound light and easy. “Relax. You’re safe.”

Jake watches you, really watches you, and thinks, That’s exactly what I’m not. The music swells again. Someone yells. Someone drops a cup. Life barrels forward. But Jake stays rooted where he is, watching you like he just handed someone a loaded weapon and realized, far too late, that it’s pointed directly at his heart.

And the worst part? You’re smiling while you aim. You get home buzzing. Not drunk, just… lit from the inside out.

You kick your heels off by the door, toeing them aside without caring where they land, and drop your keys on the counter with a satisfied little sigh. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your chest feels light. Electric. You catch your reflection in the mirror by accident and freeze. You’re smiling. Like, really smiling.

The kind that creeps up on you without permission. You groan softly and press your palms to the counter. Get it together. It was just a party. Just flirting. Just lessons. You peel off your jacket, toss it over a chair, and flop back onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. Your phone buzzes in your hand as if summoned by the thought.

Jake: You survive?

Your lips twitch. You kick one leg lazily, then type back:

You: Barely. I might never emotionally recover.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Jake: Liar. You were glowing.

Your stomach flips. You frown at the screen, then roll onto your side, hugging a pillow to your chest.

You: Don’t flatter yourself.

A pause. Longer this time.

Jake: Didn’t say it was because of me.

You scoff out loud, biting your lip.

You: Sure, Sim.

You stare at the screen for a second too long, then lock your phone and toss it aside. Rules. No feelings. No jealousy. No kissing.No sex. You nod to yourself like this is a pep talk. Then your phone buzzes again. You grab it before you can stop yourself.

Jake: wyd

Your heart does a stupid little hop. You kick your heels off completely, toeing them farther away, and glance down at yourself, dress half unzipped, hair messy, cheeks still warm from the night. A devilish thought sparks. You hesitate. Smile. Type.

You: Changing ;) wanna see?

The three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear. You laugh quietly into your pillow, heart racing, already knowing this is a terrible idea. A beat later, your phone buzzes.

Jake: Absolutely not.

You blink. Then:

Jake:…unless you’re joking.

Your grin turns downright wicked.

You: Guess you’ll never know.

You drop your phone onto the bed and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling again, pulse loud in your ears, smile impossible to wipe away. Across campus, Jake Sim stares at his phone like it personally betrayed him. He locks it. Unlocks it. Throws it onto his bed.

“Rule four,” he mutters to himself. “No sex.” Then, quieter: “Fuck.”

You wake up late. Sunlight filters through your curtains in thin, accusatory lines, your phone warm beneath your palm like it’s been waiting. You squint at the screen. No new notifications. Which is, annoying. You roll onto your side and groan into your pillow. Last night replays in your head in humiliating HD: the party, the confidence, the way Jake watched you like he was trying to memorize something he wasn’t allowed to keep.

The text.

Changing ;) wanna see?

You bury your face in the pillow. Idiot. Rules were rules. You knew that. You’d agreed to them over lukewarm coffee and a stupid napkin contract. You weren’t supposed to be smiling like this the next morning, stomach fluttering every time your phone buzzed with nothing.

You drag yourself out of bed, shower, change into something comfortable, oversized tee, shorts, and make a half-hearted attempt at being productive.

You fail. Your phone buzzes on the counter while you’re pouring cereal. You jump.

Jake: I’m coming over.

You stare at the message.

You: Excuse me?

Three dots. Gone. Back again.

Jake: Relax. Daytime. Educational.

You snort.

You: You don’t just announce that.

Your phone buzzes again, immediate.

Jake: I do.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

You: Why?

A pause. Longer than usual. Then:

Jake: Lesson four.

Your pulse picks up. You’re still staring at the screen when there’s a knock on your door. You glance at the clock. There is absolutely no way, another knock. Firmer this time. You pad to the door, heart thudding, and open it.

Jake stands there like he belongs, sunglasses perched on his head, hair slightly messy, hoodie slung over one shoulder. He looks unfairly good for someone who definitely did not sleep properly. He grins when he sees you.

“Morning,” he says. “You look… awake.”

You scoff. “You’re early.”

“I’m punctual,” he replies, stepping past you without waiting for permission. “And motivated.”

You close the door behind him, watching as he glances around your place like it’s familiar already. “Nice space,” he says. “Very you.”

“What does that mean?”

“That you pretend you’re low-maintenance but own seventeen throw pillows.”

“Get out of my house.”

He laughs and drops onto your bed like it’s second nature, sprawling out, one arm tucked under his head as he props himself up on his elbow. Your heart does something stupid. He looks at you. Really looks. Jake is absolutely too comfortable in your room. He’s sprawled across your bed like it belongs to him, shoes kicked off, hoodie abandoned on your chair, one arm tucked under his head as he props himself up on his elbow. His phone rests loosely in his other hand, screen dark, attention fully on you.

Which is unsettling. Because Jake Sim does not stare. “…What?” you ask, breaking first.

He sits up instantly, like he’s been caught doing something illegal. “Lesson four.” You blink. “We’re still doing lessons?”

“Absolutely,” he says, nodding like this is very serious academic business. “This one’s important.”

You cross your arms. “Okay. Hit me.” Jake’s lips twitch. He glances at your phone on the desk, then back at you.

“Dirty texting.”

You choke. “Excuse me?” He grins, slow, cocky, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Relax. Words only. No pictures. No… extracurricular activities.”

“Jake.”

“You said you wanted to learn how to flirt,” he reminds you. “This is modern flirting.”

You hesitate. “I don’t sext.”

“Texting,” he corrects. “With intention.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

He scoots back against your headboard and pats the bed. “Sit.”

You do, reluctantly, legs crossed, heart already thudding for reasons you refuse to examine.

Jake unlocks his phone. “Rule one,” he says. “Dirty texting is about implication. You don’t spell everything out.”

“Thank god.”

“Rule two,” he continues, eyes flicking up to you, “confidence. You don’t ask permission.”

You snort. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is.”

He smirks. “That’s the point.”

He types something quickly, then nods at your phone.

“Read it.”

Your phone buzzes.

You pick it up.

Jake: You left your window open last night. Bet you slept cold.

Your brow furrows. “That’s not dirty.”

“Patience,” he says. “Now respond.”

“Respond with what?”

“Anything. But don’t apologize.”

You think for a second, then type:

You: I sleep fine.

Jake hums. “Too defensive.” He takes your phone without asking and types.

Jake: Didn’t say you didn’t. Just wondered if you thought about me noticing.

Your stomach flips. You look up at him. He’s watching you, really watching you, eyes bright, smug, pleased. “You’re evil,” you say weakly.

“Effective,” he counters. “Your turn.” Your cheeks warm. You bite your lip, then type:

You: You notice a lot of things.

Jake’s grin widens. “Good,” he murmurs. “Now add intention.” You hesitate, then:

You: Be honest, how many times have you thought about me today? Because I'm losing count over here.

Jake inhales, closing his eyes as he runs his hand through his hair. You try to ignore how good he looks. Your phone buzzes immediately.

Jake: Maybe I like seeing you flustered.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh before you can stop yourself. Jake freezes. “What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

He clears his throat, shifting slightly. “Nothing. Keep going.”

You smile now, emboldened by the way his ears are faintly pink. You type:

You: You’re doing a terrible job hiding it.

Jake exhales, slow and controlled. He types back, eyes never leaving your face.

Jake: Careful. You’re assuming I want to hide it.

Your breath catches. You look up at him again, and this time you don’t look away. He swallows. For half a second, the room feels charged. Quiet. Too aware. Then he smirks, breaking it deliberately.

“See?” he says lightly. “Dirty texting isn’t about being graphic. It’s about making someone imagine things they shouldn’t.”

You laugh again, softer this time. Jake’s gaze drops to your mouth before he can stop himself. You notice. Your smile turns mischievous. “So… am I passing?”

He leans back, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter: “Unfortunately.”

You tilt your head. “Unfortunately?”

He catches himself and scoffs. “I mean, you’re learning fast.”

You grin. “You’re just mad I’m good at it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You have no idea.”

You stretch out on the bed beside him, phone resting on your stomach. “Any other tips, Professor?” He considers you for a moment. The flush in your cheeks. The spark in your eyes. That damn giggle.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “One last thing.”

“What?” He leans closer, not touching, but close enough that your breath mingles.

“Never dirty text someone you wouldn’t be okay with accidentally thinking about you at three in the morning.”

Your heart stumbles. You swallow. “Noted.” Jake straightens abruptly, claps his hands once. “Lesson over.” You blink. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he says too quickly. “We’ll, uh—continue next time.” He grabs his jacket, suddenly very interested in leaving. You watch him go, phone still warm in your hand. Outside your door, Jake pauses, presses his forehead briefly against the wall, and mutters under his breath, “Fucking hell.”

After Lesson Four, everything changes. Not in a big, dramatic way. No lines are crossed. No rules are broken. But suddenly, Jake is everywhere. Your phone lights up constantly, while you’re brushing your teeth, walking to class, lying in bed at 2 a.m. staring at the ceiling. It’s always him.

Jake: You flirted with your TA today didn’t you.

You: He’s married and forty.

Jake: Didn’t answer the question.

You smile every time. You hate that. Sometimes the texts are instructional.

Jake: Eye contact. Three seconds longer than comfortable. Then smile like you know something they don’t.

You: You’re evil.

Jake: And effective.

Sometimes they’re not instructional at all.

You: I hate group projects.

Jake: I hate when you use periods. It sounds aggressive.

You: I am aggressive.

You fall asleep with your phone in your hand more than once. You start measuring time in notifications. And that’s when it gets dangerous. Because you notice things. Like how every guy on campus suddenly feels… dull.

Too eager. Too awkward. Too obvious. You’ll be mid-conversation with someone cute, someone objectively hot, and catch yourself thinking:

Jake would’ve told him to slow down. Jake wouldn’t laugh like that. Jake would know when to shut up. You hate that thought.

You shove it down and remind yourself this is literally his thing. He’s done this before. With dozens of girls. Probably hundreds. He’s a playboy. A manwhore. You picture him sprawled across someone else’s bed, head propped on his palm, saying the same lines. Watching another girl flush. Smirking the same way.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You set your phone face down and stare at the wall. Get over it. That night, he texts you.

Jake: You okay?

You hesitate. Then:

You: Yeah. Just tired.

Three dots appear. Disappear.

Jake: You don’t lie well.

Your heart drops. Before you can respond, another message comes through.

Jake: Come with me.

You: Where?

Jake: I’ll pick you up.

You: Tell me why I’m concerned-

Your phone buzzes again.

Jake:Trust me.

You do. That’s the problem. His car smells like his woody cologne and something fried when you slide into the passenger seat. He hands you a paper bag without looking at you.

“McDonald’s,” he says. “Emergency therapy.”

You peek inside.

“Two cheeseburgers?”

“You strike me as a two-cheeseburger person.”

You snort. “Rude.”

He pulls out of the parking lot, one hand on the wheel, the other already unwrapping his burger. You sit in comfortable silence, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too used to someone. Grease drips onto his fingers. He licks it off without thinking. Your eyes flick away quickly.

“So,” he says casually. “What’s wrong?” You swallow. “Nothing.”

He hums, unconvinced, and parks somewhere quiet. The campus lights glow faintly in the distance. “You’ve been distant,” he says. “And before you deny it, yes, I notice.”

You pick at the wrapper. “You probably notice everything.”

He glances at you then. Really looks. “Only you,” he says, like it slips out.

The silence that follows is heavier. You force a laugh. “Bullshit.”

“Okay,” he says. “Mostly you.”

That makes your heart do something stupid. You take a bite of your burger, chew too fast, and finally say it. “Do you… do this a lot?”

He frowns. “Do what?”

“This,” you gesture vaguely between you, the car, the food, the late hour. “Helping girls.”

His jaw tightens just a fraction. “Used to.”

Your stomach sinks. “Oh.”

He sighs and leans back in his seat. “Not like this.” You look at him. “What does that mean?”

He meets your gaze. His usual cocky grin is gone. “It means I don’t usually care if they text back,” he says quietly. “Or if they’re smiling at someone else.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t usually replay conversations in my head like an idiot.”

The air shifts. You stare at him, heart pounding, every rule screaming in your ears. No feelings. No jealousy. You swallow hard.

“Well,” you say lightly, forcing a smile. “Guess I’m special.” He laughs softly. “Unfortunately.”

You both eat the rest of your burgers in silence, knees almost touching, radio low, something warm and terrifying settling in your chest. When he drops you off, he doesn’t come in. He just looks at you, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. You’re halfway out of his car when he speaks.

“Wait.”

Something in his voice, low, rough, stops you cold. You turn back, one hand still on the door. “What?”

Jake’s jaw tightens like he’s made a decision he hates. He kills the engine, the sudden quiet loud between you. “I’m not done,” he says.

Before you can process that, he’s out of the car, keys abandoned, following you up the steps. You fumble with your door, heart racing, and the second it clicks open, he’s inside.

The door shuts behind him with a soft, final sound. “Jake,” you start, laughing nervously, “you said—”

“I know what I said.” He moves closer. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just inevitable. He doesn’t touch you at first. Just stands too close. Close enough that you can smell him, soap, something warm and familiar, a hint of fries still clinging to his hoodie. Close enough that when he exhales, you feel it brush your cheek.

You back up without realizing it until your shoulders brush the wall. Cool paint. Warm body. His hands come up, not touching you, not yet, but caging you in, palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. Your breath stutters.

“Jake,” you murmur, unsure whether you’re warning him or yourself. His jaw tightens. His pupils are blown wide, dark and unreadable, like he’s staring at something he shouldn’t want as badly as he does.

“You trust me?” he asks quietly.

The question shouldn’t feel dangerous. It does anyway. You nod. “Yeah.”

“This is lesson five,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “Fake moans?”

“Yeah.”

He’s close enough now that you can see it, the way his pupils have blown wide, dark swallowing the brown. His chest rises and falls faster than before. “This is about control,” he says, voice rougher. “About sound. About knowing what you’re doing to someone without touching them.”

Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. “And you’re going to practice on me?” you whisper. A corner of his mouth lifts. Not smug. Strained.

“I trust you,” he says, like that’s the most dangerous thing he could’ve said.

Your breaths mingle. You can feel the warmth of him, the heat rolling off his body, the way he leans in just enough that your noses almost brush. You wet your lips, suddenly too aware of everything, how close he is, how the wall presses into your back, how his gaze flicks to your mouth and lingers a second too long.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “Give me something believable.”

You laugh softly, nerves bubbling. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” he asks, eyes never leaving your mouth. “Because you’re blushing.”

You hate that he’s right. The sound that leaves you is awkward, too loud, too forced, wrong in every way. It echoes faintly in the quiet apartment. He winces. “No.”

“Hey!”

“That sounded like you were mocking me.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, expert. You try not being weird about it.”

His laugh is short, breathless. “Trust me. I’m being very normal.”

He doesn’t move away. Instead, he exhales, long, slow, and the expression on his face changes. Like someone bracing for impact.

“This is a terrible idea,” he mutters.

Then he does something neither of you planned. Jake leans down. Not fast. Not rough. Deliberate. His hand slides up, not to your waist, not anywhere scandalous, but to the wall above your head, fingers curling slightly as he dips his face toward your neck. You feel the brush of his breath first, warm and teasing. Your pulse explodes.

“Jake—”

“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Just, listen.”

His mouth ghosts along your skin. Not a kiss. Not really. Just the faintest press of lips near your collarbone, a gentle nip that makes you gasp despite yourself. Your hands curl instinctively in the fabric of his hoodie. He does it again, lighter this time, then drags his lips slowly upward, a soft tickle that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

Your body betrays you. A sound slips out. Not loud. Not practiced. Not fake. A soft, breathy sigh that you didn’t mean to make. The room goes still. Jake freezes. His breath turns ragged, shallow. You feel the tension snap through him like a wire pulled too tight. Your fingers slide into his hair before you can stop yourself, just for a second, just enough to feel how warm he is, how real.

His eyes meet yours. Dark. Shaken. Ruined. “Fuck,” he breathes, then catches himself. “Okay. That, yeah. That’s dangerous.”

Your heart flips. You look up at him. “Jake?”

He swallows hard. His gaze drops to your lips, then snaps back to your eyes like it burns. “You don’t understand,” he says quietly. “If you do that to the wrong guy, they won’t stand a chance.”

Something twists in your chest. “What about the right guy?”

The question hangs there, reckless and unguarded. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then he leans in, close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours, and says, barely audible:

“The right guy would lose his mind.”

His breath ghosts your cheek. His control is fraying, you can feel it in the way he shifts, the way his jaw clenches like he’s holding himself back by sheer will. You shouldn’t notice that. You definitely shouldn’t love it.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like a caged animal. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “I knew better.”

You hug yourself, heart aching in a way you weren’t prepared for. “Jake…”

He looks at you then, really looks, and for a split second, the playboy mask is gone entirely. What’s underneath is raw and dangerous and far too honest. He pulls away suddenly, stepping back like he’s been burned.

“Lesson over,” he says too quickly.

Your lungs ache when you finally breathe. “Jake—”

“Rules,” he cuts in, not looking at you. “We said rules.”

He heads for the door, hand already on the knob. Before he leaves, he glances back once. His eyes are dark. Honest. Wrecked.

“Don’t practice that on anyone tonight,” he says. Then he’s gone. And you slide down the wall, heart racing, knowing, deep down, that something just broke. And it’s not going to be fixable.

You tell yourself it’s casual. You repeat it like a mantra as you walk beside Jake down the street, hands stuffed into your sleeves, the late afternoon sun warming your skin.

Casual. Educational. Very normal. “Coffee doesn’t count,” Jake says, like he’s reading your thoughts. “It’s a neutral setting.”

You snort. “You’re the one who suggested it.”

“For strategic reasons.”

“Sure.”

The café is small and warm, the kind with mismatched chairs and soft music playing just loud enough to fill the silence. Jake holds the door open for you without thinking. His hand lingers at the small of your back as you step inside.

You pretend not to notice. You order first. He remembers how you like your coffee without asking.

That should not make your chest tighten. You sit across from each other by the window. Sunlight catches in his hair. He’s wearing a simple black tee and a jacket, nothing flashy, no frat boy bravado, no playboy armor.

Just Jake. You wrap your hands around your cup. “So,” you say. “What’s today’s lesson?”

He leans back in his chair, studying you. “Observation.”

“Of what?”

“Of you,” he says easily.

Your stomach flips. “That’s not a lesson.”

“It is when you’re pretending you don’t notice things.”

You kick his foot under the table. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins. “You like it.”

You hate that you don’t deny it. A couple at the table next to you laughs softly. Someone reaches for someone else’s hand. You look away too quickly.

Jake notices. “You okay?” he asks.

You hesitate. Then shrug. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile falters. “This doesn’t feel like training,” you say quietly.

His gaze sharpens. “What does it feel like?”

The truth sits heavy on your tongue. Like comfort. Like safety. Like something you don’t want to label because labeling makes it real. You stir your coffee instead. “Like we’re cheating.”

He blinks. “On who?”

You shrug again. “The rules.”

He laughs softly, but it dies too fast. “Yeah,” he admits. “A little.”

You both fall quiet, watching people pass by the window. Your knees bump beneath the table and neither of you moves away. Jake breaks the silence first. “You know,” he says, casual but careful, “I don’t usually do this.”

You look at him. “Coffee?”

“Daytime,” he clarifies. “Talking. Listening.”

Your heart stutters. “Why me?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers trace the rim of his cup. “Because you don’t want me to impress you,” he says finally. “You just want me to be… here.”

Your throat tightens. “Don’t,” you whisper.

“Don’t what?”

“Say things like that.”

He watches you for a long moment, eyes soft, almost vulnerable. “Okay,” he says. “Then don’t smile like that.”

You realize you are. You both laugh quietly, the tension easing just enough to be survivable.

Jake notices before you do. You’re mid-sentence, something stupid about how the foam art on your latte looks like a heart, when his posture changes. He goes still, eyes locking onto something over your shoulder.

His jaw tightens. “Hey,” you say. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s already standing, already reaching for you. “Jake?”

“We’re leaving,” he says, calm but firm. Not a question.

Your stomach drops. “Why—?”

Then you see it. Your ex. Across the café. Laughing. His hand wrapped around someone else’s wrist like it belongs there. Someone pretty. Someone new.

Your breath stutters. Jake’s hand closes around yours instantly. “Don’t,” he murmurs, already pulling you up. “Don’t look.”

“I—I can’t—”

He steps closer, blocking your line of sight with his body. You’re pressed briefly into his chest, the scent of coffee and him filling your lungs.

“I’ve got you,” he says, low and certain. “Come on.”

He doesn’t rush you, but he doesn’t give you time to spiral either. One hand stays firmly linked with yours as he steers you through the café, past the door, into daylight.

Only when you’re outside does your breath come apart. You shake. You didn’t even realize you were shaking until he notices.

“Hey,” Jake says softly. He guides you toward his car, opens the passenger door, and waits until you’re seated before closing it gently, like you’re something fragile. He circles to the driver’s side, gets in, but doesn’t start the engine right away. The silence is loud. Your hands are in your lap, fingers curled tight. You stare straight ahead, chest aching.

“I didn’t know he’d be here,” you whisper, embarrassed by how small your voice sounds.

Jake exhales slowly. Then he reaches over. His hand finds yours. Warm. Steady. No hesitation. Your breath catches. He laces his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “It just, caught me off guard.”

“I know.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and grounding. “He doesn’t get to ruin your day,” Jake continues. “Or your coffee. Or you.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “That latte was expensive.”

“Exactly,” he says, lips quirking. “Criminal behavior.” You glance at him, expecting his usual teasing grin.

It’s not there. Instead, he’s watching you, really watching. Concern etched into his features, brows pulled together, jaw tight with something that looks dangerously close to anger. “He’s an idiot,” Jake says, suddenly sharp. “And I’m not saying that because I hate him.”

You blink. “You don’t?”

He scoffs. “Oh, I do. But that’s not why.”

He lifts his free hand and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering for half a second too long. “Anyone who lets you walk away,” he says softly, “doesn’t deserve a second of your doubt.”

Your chest tightens painfully. Jake seems to realize what he’s doing a beat too late. He pulls his hand back, loosens his grip, but doesn’t let go completely.

The engine hums to life. As he drives, your joined hands rest on the console between you, undeniable. You don’t pull away. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the set of his shoulders, the way he checks on you at every red light, thumb brushing your skin like a reassurance he doesn’t even know he’s giving.

And it hits you. This isn’t a lesson. This isn’t wingman behavior. This isn’t casual. Jake Sim has feelings. And the way his hand tightens around yours tells you he knows it too, even if he’s terrified to say it out loud.

The car slows to a stop outside your place. Neither of you moves. The engine hums softly, a low vibration beneath the silence. Your hands are still tangled together on the console. You can feel his pulse through his thumb. It’s fast.

Too fast.

“Hey,” you murmur, finally. “You okay?”

Jake exhales like he’s been holding it in for miles. He turns toward you, and stops.

You’re close. Too close. Close enough that you can see the faint freckle near his jaw. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath when he swallows. Neither of you lets go.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says quietly.

“Done what?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. “Touched you like that.”

Your heart thunders. “Jake—”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, voice strained. “I crossed a line.”

You shift without thinking, drawn in by gravity, by comfort, by him. Your knee brushes his. “I didn’t mind,” you whisper.

That’s when it happens. He leans in. Slow. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to pull away.

You don’t. Your breaths tangle, soft and uneven. His forehead nearly touches yours. Your lips are a whisper apart, close enough that the moment feels suspended, fragile, electric, inevitable.

His thumb strokes your knuckle once. Your eyes flutter shut.

And for half a heartbeat, you’re certain—

He freezes.

His breath stutters. His hand tightens abruptly before dropping away like he’s been burned. He pulls back. Fast. Too fast. “Fuck,” he breathes.

You open your eyes. Panic flashes across his face, raw and unguarded. His pupils are blown wide, chest rising sharply like he can’t quite get enough air.

“I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I—I can’t do this.”

Your heart sinks. “Jake?”

“This is how it starts,” he continues, words tumbling now. “This is how I mess things up. And I promised, I promised I wouldn’t be that guy.”

“That guy?” you whisper.

“The one who ruins you,” he says, voice breaking just a little. “The one who pretends it’s nothing when it’s clearly not.”

Silence crashes down between you. You stare at him, chest aching. “I don’t think you’re ruining me,” you say softly.

He looks at you like that’s the most dangerous thing you could’ve said. “That’s the problem,” he murmurs.

He opens the door, stepping out into the night air like he needs it to breathe. You sit there, stunned, watching him rake a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back. “I’m sorry,” he says, eyes sincere, wrecked. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

You swallow hard. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He hesitates. “I did.” He closes the door gently, like earlier, like you’re still something precious.

“Text me,” he says, voice low. “Please.”

Then he walks away before you can answer. Inside, you lean against your door, heart racing, lips tingling with something that never happened.

Across the street, Jake stands beside his car for a long moment, head bowed, fists clenched. Because he knows now. There’s no lesson left that can save him from this.

And there’s no rule strong enough to stop what’s coming next. You don’t move for a long time after he leaves.

You stand there with your back against the door, fingers pressed to your lips like you might still feel him there if you try hard enough. Your heart won’t slow down. Your skin feels too tight, like it knows something before you’re ready to admit it.

You slide down until you’re sitting on the floor. And that’s when it hits you. Not all at once, no. It’s quieter than that. Heavier.

You like him. Not liked. Not maybe. You like Jake Sim like it scares you.

You like the way he remembers how you take your coffee. The way he notices when you’re lying. The way he got angry, not jealous, not possessive, just furious, on your behalf.

You like the way he touched your hand like it mattered. Like it was something to be careful with. You laugh weakly to yourself, dragging a hand down your face. “Oh, I’m fucked,” you whisper.

Because it isn’t a crush. It isn’t a rebound. It’s the kind of liking that settles deep and makes a home where it shouldn’t.

And somewhere across campus, Jake doesn’t even make it to his bed properly.

He kicks his shoes off, shrugs out of his jacket, and collapses face-first into his mattress like gravity finally won. He groans into his pillow, muffled and frustrated, then flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

Your face flashes behind his eyelids. Your mouth. Your breath hitching. How close he got, how close he almost went.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself.

He grabs his blanket and drags it over his head like it might save him, like it might smother the heat pooling low in his stomach and the ache sitting heavier in his chest. This isn’t just want.

That’s the terrifying part. He wants to text you. Wants to hear your laugh again. Wants to go back and do it differently,or not pull away at all.

He presses his forearm over his eyes, breathing hard. “I’m in love,” he says quietly, like a confession he never planned to make.

And the realization hits him just as cruelly as it hit you: There are no rules left that can protect either of you now. Not from this.

It happens when you least expect it. You’re walking with Jake across campus, too close, shoulders brushing, pretending this is normal, when someone calls his name.

“Sim.” She’s pretty. Effortlessly so. Cropped top, glossy lips, confidence dripping off her like she knows exactly where she stands in his life.

She doesn’t even look at you. She just steps in, cups his face, and kisses his cheek like it’s muscle memory. “Call me,” she says, low and sweet.

Then she walks away. Just like that. Your chest goes tight. Sharp. Ugly. You don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until Jake does too.

He looks at you, eyes flicking over your face with far too much interest. There it is. The crack. His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smirk.

“You jealous,” he asks lightly, “of something that’s not yours?” That does it.

You turn on him, fire flashing through you. “I’m not jealous of leftovers.” The smirk drops. The air between you crackles.

“Leftovers?” he repeats, incredulous. “That’s what you think?”

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “You act like I don’t know your reputation.”

“And you act like you don’t care,” he snaps back, stepping closer. “Which is it?”

Your heart is pounding now. “I don’t care.”

“Bullshit.”

You’re nose to nose before you realize it, breaths colliding, words spilling out sharper than you mean them to.

“You don’t get to touch me like that,” you say, voice shaking, “and then pretend it means nothing.”

“I never said it meant nothing,” he shoots back.

“Then what does it mean, Jake?” you demand. “Because you can’t keep doing this, looking at me like that, acting like I’m different, and then going back to them.”

His jaw clenches. “You think I want this?” he asks quietly. “You think I don’t notice every time you stiffen when someone looks at me?”

You laugh bitterly. “God, you love this.”

“No,” he says, low. “I hate it.”

That stops you.

His hand comes up, bracing against the wall beside you, not touching, not quite, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him.

“You want honesty?” he murmurs. “Fine. I don’t want to stop wanting you. But I also don’t know how to be anything else.”

Your pulse roars in your ears. “You’re such an asshole,” you snap, but your voice betrays you, too thin, too close to cracking.

Jake laughs under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Wow. Creative. Took you weeks to come up with that?”

“Don’t,” you warn. “Don’t do that thing where you joke like this isn’t exactly what you want.”

He tilts his head, eyes raking over your face like he’s cataloguing damage. “And what is it you think I want?”

You step closer, refusing to be the one who blinks. “You love this,” you say. “You love knowing you can have anyone. That you can flirt, disappear, come back, act like nothing sticks to you.”

“Careful,” he says quietly. “You’re projecting.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “I get jealous once and suddenly I’m crazy? One of your hookups kisses your cheek in front of me and I’m supposed to smile like it doesn’t feel deliberate?”

His jaw tightens. He steps closer instead of backing away, voice dropping. “I’m pissed you keep dangling yourself in front of me like it’s a game.”

Silence. Thick. Charged.

Jake exhales through his nose, eyes dark now, something volatile flickering there. “And you love pretending you don’t care,” he shoots back. “You roll your eyes, you make jokes, you act like you’re above it—”

“So don’t what?” you interrupt, heat crawling up your spine. “Don’t feel something? Don’t want you?”

That stops him. The words hang between you, reckless, naked, irreversible. For once, Jake has nothing ready. No smirk. No deflection.

Your chest rises sharply. Your hands curl into fists, nails biting into your palms like you need the pain to keep you grounded.

“You don’t get to look at me like that,” you say, voice breaking despite yourself. “You don’t get to touch me, protect me, almost kiss me, and then act like I’m insane for reacting.”

“I’m trying not to hurt you,” he says too fast, like the line’s rehearsed.

You laugh, soft, bitter. “Congratulations. You’re failing.”

Something in his face fractures. The mask slips. Just for a second. And before you can overthink it, before fear can catch up, you grab the front of his jacket and kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Messy. Too much and not enough all at once. Every unsaid thing crashing into one breathless second. His lips are warm, familiar in a way that feels unfair, and for half a heartbeat, he kisses you back.

Hard.

Like he’s been starving. Then he freezes.You feel it instantly, the way his body locks up, the way his hands hover at your waist like he doesn’t trust himself to touch you. He pulls away like contact burns. “No,” he says, shaking his head, breath uneven. “We can’t.”

Your heart stutters. “Jake—”

“This is—” he drags a hand through his hair, panic and want tangled in his eyes, “—too messy. Too fucked up.”

He looks at you like he wants to say more. Like he wants to stay. Like walking away is the hardest thing he’s done all day. But instead, he turns.

“Jake,” you whisper, uselessly. He doesn’t stop. He leaves too fast, shoulders tense, like if he slows down even a little he’ll break.

He doesn’t see your eyes burn. Doesn’t see your lip tremble. Doesn’t see the tears spill the second he’s gone.

You stand there alone, chest aching with the weight of it. Because now you know the worst truth of all: You didn’t imagine it. He felt it too. And somehow, that hurts more than if he hadn’t felt anything at all.

You don’t remember how you get home. Your feet move on autopilot, vision blurred, chest aching like something has been scooped out and left hollow. The door clicks shut behind you and that’s all it takes.

You slide down the wall. Your breath comes apart immediately, broken, sharp inhales that don’t go anywhere. Your hands come up to your face like you can hold yourself together if you try hard enough.

You can’t. The sob that tears out of you is loud and humiliating and raw. It hurts your throat. Your shoulders shake violently as you curl in on yourself, knees to your chest, crying like you’ve lost something you never even got to have.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper to no one. “I didn’t mean to—”

Your phone is in your pocket. You don’t take it out. You already know there’s nothing there. You drag yourself to your bed, still crying, still gasping like the air is too thick to breathe. Your pillow is soaked in minutes. You clutch the blanket like it can anchor you, like it can replace the warmth that’s suddenly gone.

Your chest aches with every sob. You cry until your eyes burn. Until your head throbs. Until exhaustion finally drags you under, tears still slipping down your temples as sleep claims you.

Jake doesn’t drive far. He pulls over the second his hands start shaking too badly to grip the wheel. The car idles uselessly as he leans forward, forearms braced against the steering wheel, head dropping hard onto it.

And then he breaks. A sharp, broken sound rips out of his chest, half laugh, half sob. His shoulders cave inward like he’s folding in on himself, breath hitching violently.

“Fuck,” he chokes. Tears spill over fast, hot and relentless, dripping onto the wheel, onto his hands. He squeezes his eyes shut like that might stop it. It doesn’t.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “So fucking stupid.” He says it again. And again. Each time softer. Meaner. Like punishment. “You had her,” he mutters. “You had her and you ran.”

His chest heaves as he sucks in air that won’t settle. His jaw trembles. He presses his forehead harder against the wheel like he deserves the pain. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispers into the empty car. “I didn’t.” But it doesn’t matter.

Because he did. He stays there far too long, crying until his eyes burn, until the tears slow and leave him hollowed out and shaking. Two people, a few blocks apart. Both wrecked. Both awake in the dark. Both thinking the same unbearable thing: I love you. And believing, wrongly,that it’s already too late.

The next day, the campus feels like a minefield.

You move like a ghost, head down, earbuds in, shoulders hunched. Every laugh, every shout, every passing glance makes your skin crawl. Even the familiar chatter of your friends sounds distant, muffled, like it’s happening underwater. You avoid everyone. Everyone except the one person whose presence is a damn knife to your chest.

Jake Sim.

You see him first in the lecture hall, half a dozen seats away, leaning against the back wall, shoulders slumped, gaze following you like a predator who doesn’t want to be seen. There’s no playfulness there today. No teasing smirk. His eyes are rimmed red, heavy, weary, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you realize he’s hurting too. You drop into your seat, pretending to bury yourself in notes. Pretending you don’t feel the weight of his stare, burning holes through your skull. Pretending you’re fine.

But you aren’t. The lecture drones on, a dull, lifeless hum under the storm building in your chest. Every movement from the back of the room, every slight shift in his posture makes your heart stutter. You catch glimpses of him in the corner of your eye, he doesn’t take notes. He doesn’t fidget. He just watches. And somewhere deep down, it terrifies you.

The hallway between classes is worse. You move fast, backpack tight against your chest, pretending not to notice him pacing nearby, pretending not to feel the pull like a magnet you don’t want to obey. Then you brush shoulders, brief contact, and your chest jumps, heart stuttering like a faulty engine. You don’t look at him. You can’t. You know if you do, you’ll melt entirely.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t stop. Not a word. Not a glance. Just the faintest brush of his presence, like a whisper in the back of your mind, dragging everything you thought you were over into sharp, aching clarity. The air around him hums, charged, dangerous, and you can’t breathe properly, can’t think properly, can’t even walk properly.

By the end of the day, you feel hollow. Exhausted. Your chest aches as if it knows exactly what’s coming. Every step home, every turn, every creak of the floorboards in your apartment makes you tense like a spring. And then the universe decides you cannot escape him. A knock at your door. You freeze. One hand gripping the doorknob, the other trembling at your side. You open it.

Jake stands there. Hair plastered to his forehead, clothes soaked through, rain streaming down in dark rivulets. His jacket hangs heavy and useless, dripping water across your threshold, and his eyes are wild, fevered, impossible to read.

“Jake—”

He doesn’t answer. He steps inside. Barely waits for a word. “You,” he growls, low and ragged, voice full of the kind of heat that makes your knees weak, “fuck the rules.”

Your stomach lurches. Your chest tightens. Every rational thought deserts you. “Excuse me?” you whisper, because what the hell else do you say to this?

He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t need to. There’s a predator’s confidence in the way he moves, a heat that doesn’t ask permission. In two long strides, he’s closing the distance between you. The air between you is electric, heavy with tension and rain and words unsaid.

His hands brush against yours as he grips your arms, lightly, teasing, but with enough pressure to make it clear he means it. Fingers dig in just enough to leave sparks along your skin. He leans closer, eyes dark, lips dangerously close, breath ragged. Every nerve in your body screams: he’s not supposed to be here like this. “I don’t care,” he mutters, low, almost a growl, the words scraping over your skin. “I don’t care about rules. I don’t care about anyone else. You. Me. Now.”

And just like that, the fragile, tentative walls you’ve built around your heart crumble. Something wild twists inside your chest. You’re trembling, your knees weak, your thoughts scattered like broken glass. The world narrows until there’s nothing left but him, the rain dripping down his jawline, the heat radiating off him, the pull that feels like gravity.

You realize, with a thud in your chest, that this is how it begins.

The FWB deal. The rules-free, messy, undeniably Jake-and-you dynamic. It doesn’t start with negotiation. Doesn’t start with words. Doesn’t start with agreements.

It starts with heat. Rain. Reckless, uncontainable desire.

And you know, deep down, that neither of you will survive pretending this is casual for long.

Not when his lips are so close you can feel the moisture of the storm. Not when his hands linger too long. Not when the ache in your chest is no longer just yours, it’s his too.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The door slams shut behind him, rain dripping from his hair onto the hardwood floor as Jake crowds you against the entryway wall. His mouth crashes into yours before you can catch your breath, no hesitation, no gentle prelude. Just hunger. His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, tasting like storm and want. Your hands fist in his soaked shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest.

His lips break away only to trail down your jaw, open-mouthed and messy, teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp. When he reaches your neck, he doesn’t hold back. He sucks hard at the sensitive spot below your ear, tongue soothing the sting before he bites down gently, then harder. You arch into him, a broken moan spilling out as heat floods your veins. Another mark, his mouth moving lower, branding your throat with wet, deliberate pulls that leave blooming bruises in their wake. Each one draws another helpless sound from you, louder, needier.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, voice rough and wrecked. His hands grip your hips tighter, fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You’re killing me.”

You can feel how far gone he is, the tremor in his shoulders, the way his breath stutters every time you moan his name. He’s unraveling, and it’s because of you. Suddenly his hands slide under your thighs, and he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. You cling to his shoulders as he carries you up the stairs, mouth never leaving your neck, adding another hickey just above your collarbone that makes your head fall back with a whimper. Every step jostles you against him, friction sparking white-hot where your bodies press together.

He kicks open your bedroom door, shoulders heaving, eyes dark and wild as he lowers you onto the bed without breaking the kiss. The mattress dips under your weight, and he follows immediately, covering you, caging you in. His knee nudges your thighs apart as he settles between them, and you both groan at the contact.

Jake pulls back just enough to look at you, lips swollen, hair dripping, chest rising fast. His thumb brushes over one of the fresh marks on your neck, possessive and reverent all at once. “Tell me you want this,” he says, voice low, almost pleading. “Tell me this isn’t just the rain talking.”

Your answer is to drag his mouth back to yours, legs tightening around him, letting him feel exactly how much you mean it. His hands, still icy from the rain, slip under the hem of your shirt, palms gliding over the warm skin of your stomach. You shiver hard, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the way he’s touching you, deliberate and slow, like he’s memorizing every inch.

Jake pulls back just enough to look at you, a crooked, wicked grin tugging at his lips. “Nervous?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb tracing lazy circles just below your ribs. “You’re shaking, baby.”

You try to scoff, but it comes out breathless. “I’m not—”

“Yeah, you are.” He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “It’s cute. Been driving me fucking insane imagining you like this.”

The confession hits you low in the belly, heat surging through you. He’s thought about this. Not just tonight, not just in passing, too much, he said. The words hang heavy between you, raw and real.

Before you can respond, his hands slide higher, gathering the fabric of your shirt as they go. He peels it up and off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside without looking. Cool air hits your bare skin, and you instinctively move to cover yourself, but he catches your wrists gently, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head.

“Don’t,” he says, eyes dropping to your chest. They darken instantly, pupils blown wide. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Any trace of teasing vanishes. He descends like he’s starving, mouth hot and eager as it closes over one breast. You arch off the bed with a sharp gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets as his tongue swirls around your nipple, teasing it into a tight peak before he sucks, hard. The pull shoots straight between your legs, and you moan his name without meaning to.

He groans against your skin, the vibration making you shudder again. Switching to the other side, he lavishes the same attention, wet, open-mouthed kisses, gentle scrapes of teeth, relentless suction that leaves you writhing beneath him. His hand cups the breast his mouth just left, thumb rolling the sensitive bud until you’re panting, hips rolling up against his thigh in silent plea.

Jake lifts his head just long enough to look at you, lips slick and swollen, eyes feral. “Been thinking about this for months,” he rasps. “How you’d sound. How you’d taste.” He lowers his mouth again, grazing his teeth over your nipple just hard enough to make you cry out. “Not even close to how good the real thing is.”

Jake’s hands move to the waistband of your shorts, fingers hooking under the fabric along with your panties. He tugs them down slowly, eyes locked on yours the whole time, watching for any hesitation. There’s none. You lift your hips to help him, and he slides them off your legs, dropping them somewhere on the floor.

He eases you back against the pillows, the cool sheets a shock against your heated skin. Then he’s over you again, mouth finding yours in a deep, slow kiss before he starts moving lower, kissing along your jaw, your throat, between your breasts, down the center of your stomach. Every press of his lips is deliberate, reverent, like he’s mapping you with his mouth. You’re trembling again, not from nerves this time, but from the building ache he’s stoking with every touch.

He settles between your thighs, hands gentle as they part your legs wider. His breath ghosts over your skin, warm and teasing. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, then another a little higher, lips brushing so close to where you need him that your hips twitch involuntarily. Jake looks up at you, hair messy from your fingers, eyes dark but steady. His voice is low, rough with want but careful.

“Hey,” he murmurs, thumb stroking soothing circles on your hip. “Is this okay? Do you trust me?”

The question hangs in the air, simple and huge all at once. You can see it in his face—he needs to hear it. Needs to know you’re right here with him. You reach down, threading your fingers through his damp hair, and nod. “Yeah,” you breathe, voice shaky but sure. “I trust you, Jake. Please.”

The relief and hunger that flash across his expression undo you. He turns his head, pressing one more open-mouthed kiss to your thigh, a silent thank you, before his hands slide under your hips and he finally, finally lowers his mouth to you.

His mouth is on you the second the words leave your lips, hot, wet, devastating. Jake groans against you at the first taste, the sound rumbling through your core as his tongue parts you, slow and deliberate. He licks a long, flat stripe up your center, then circles your clit with maddening precision. Your hips buck, and he pins them down gently, holding you open for him.

You’re already soaked, trembling, and when he slides two fingers inside you, curling just right, your head falls back with a broken moan. The sounds you make, high, desperate, unrestrained, seem to unravel him completely. He growls against you, sucking your clit into his mouth harder, fingers pumping faster as your moans turn into breathless pleas of his name.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he rasps between licks, voice thick with awe and hunger. “These sounds… you’re gonna ruin me.”

It doesn’t take long. The pressure builds fast and fierce, your thighs shaking around his head as you clutch at his hair. When you come, it’s with a sharp cry, back arching off the bed, waves of pleasure crashing through you so hard your vision blurs. He doesn’t stop, gentle licks through your orgasm, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and boneless. Finally, he pulls back, lips slick, eyes glazed as he crawls up your body. There’s a smug, wicked tilt to his mouth as he hovers over you.

“Sensitive now?” he teases, voice low and rough, brushing a thumb across your lower lip. “Can’t handle a little more, huh?”

You’re still catching your breath, but the glint in his eye sparks something competitive in you. Before he can react, you surge up, hands on his chest, and flip him onto his back. He lands with a surprised huff, eyes wide as you straddle his hips, pinning him beneath you.

“My turn,” you murmur, grinding down just enough to feel how hard he is, straining against his soaked jeans, the outline thick and obvious.

Jake groans, head tipping back, hands flying to your thighs. “Jesus, fuck, okay.”

You lean down, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue, before sitting back. Your fingers make quick work of his belt and zipper, and he lifts his hips to help you drag his jeans and boxers down. His cock springs free, hard, flushed, a bead of precome at the tip, and you wrap your hand around him, feeling him twitch in your grip.

He hisses through his teeth, watching you with dark, half-lidded eyes as you spit into your palm and slide it down his length, slow and firm. Once, twice, twisting at the head just to watch his abs clench and his breath stutter.

“Shit,” he breathes, hips jerking into your hand. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you rise up on your knees, positioning yourself over him. His hands settle on your hips, steadying but not guiding, letting you take control. You meet his eyes as you sink down slowly, inch by inch, taking him in.

The stretch is perfect, overwhelming. You both moan at the same time, yours soft and shaky, his low and guttural. When you’re fully seated, hips flush against his, you pause, savoring the way he fills you, the way his fingers dig into your skin like he’s fighting not to thrust up.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel… so fucking good.”

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, and his head falls back against the pillow with a strangled groan.

You start to move, slow at first, rolling your hips in deep, deliberate circles that drag a ragged groan from Jake’s throat. His hands grip your waist tighter, fingers flexing like he’s fighting to let you set the pace. But the way his eyes are locked on you, hungry, reverent, completely undone, gives you all the power you need.

You rise up slightly and sink back down, harder this time, and your breasts bounce with the motion. His gaze drops instantly, darkening as he watches them move. Another roll of your hips, faster now, and they bounce again, fuller, heavier with each thrust. The sight seems to snap something in him.

“God, fuck,” he rasps, voice breaking. He surges up, one arm banding around your lower back to pull you closer, mouth latching onto one breast without warning. His lips close hot and wet around your nipple, sucking hard as you ride him, the rhythm of your hips driving you both toward the edge.

Every bounce sends you down onto him deeper, and he meets it with a shallow thrust upward, groaning against your skin. The vibration shoots straight through you, making you gasp his name. He switches to your other breast, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, worshipping like he’s been starving for this exact moment.

Your name falls from his lips over and over, muffled against your skin at first, then louder when he pulls back just enough to breathe. “Baby… fuck… your name… been wanting to say it like this for so long…” It’s not a moan. It’s a confession.

Each time he says it, it cracks open a little more, like he’s been holding it behind his teeth for months, years maybe, waiting for the second he could let it spill out while buried inside you. There’s nothing casual in the way he says it. Nothing friends-with-benefits about the tremor in his voice or the way his free hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb brushing your cheek like you’re something precious. You lean down, forehead pressing to his, riding him faster now, the slap of skin and the creak of the bed filling the room. Your breasts brush his chest with every bounce, and he chases them with his mouth whenever he can, moaning your name like a prayer, like a plea, like he’s finally allowed to admit what this has always been.

This isn’t fucking a friend. This is Jake unraveling beneath you, giving you everything he’s been holding back, and taking everything you’re finally ready to give.

You pick up the pace, grinding down harder, faster, chasing the building heat between you. Jake’s hands slide up your sides, gripping, guiding, urging you on as his hips snap up to meet every roll of yours. Your breasts bounce wildly with the rhythm, and he can’t resist, he surges forward again, mouth latching onto one, sucking and groaning around it like he’s lost all control.

Your name tears from his throat in broken, reverent moans, raw, desperate, nothing hidden anymore. It spills out of him like it’s been caged for months, every syllable laced with something deeper than lust. You feel it in your chest, sharp and undeniable, mirroring the ache in his eyes when he finally releases your breast and crashes his mouth to yours.

The kiss is different this time. Not hungry or frantic, it’s deep, slow, consuming. His tongue slides against yours like he’s trying to say everything he hasn’t dared to. One hand cups the back of your neck, holding you there, while the other tightens on your hip as you ride him through it. You kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers tangled in his hair, bodies locked together, moving as one.

You’re both close, breath ragged, moans muffled against each other’s lips. When you come, it’s with his name on your tongue and his mouth still on yours, swallowing the sound. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep with a guttural groan into the kiss, arms wrapping around you like he never wants to let go.

For a long moment, you stay like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard, hearts hammering in sync. He’s still inside you, softening slowly, but neither of you move to separate.

Then it hits him. His eyes widen slightly, a flicker of panic cutting through the haze. He pulls back just enough to look at you, voice rough and quiet.

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts, swallowing hard, like he’s trying to stuff the moment back into the casual box you both pretended to build. “The kissing thing. I wasn’t thinking.”

You’re still catching your breath, thighs trembling around his hips, but you don’t let him retreat. Not this time. You brush your thumb across his bottom lip, the one you just devoured, and meet his gaze steadily.

“Yes,” you say softly, “you did.” The words hang there, simple and devastating. His breath stutters. Something shifts in his expression, defenses crumbling, vulnerability flooding in. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t laugh it off or make a joke. He just looks at you, really looks, like he’s seeing the truth you’ve both been dodging for way too long.

And the silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s electric. Feelings? Fully, irrevocably unlocked. Uh-oh doesn’t even begin to cover it. You’re still tangled together, limbs heavy, skin damp and cooling in the quiet aftermath. The storm outside has softened to a steady patter against the window, the only sound besides your slowing breaths.

Jake shifts first, easing out of you gently and rolling to the side so he doesn’t crush you. But he doesn’t go far, just enough to grab the sheet and pull it up over both of you. Then he settles back in, one arm sliding under your neck, the other draping across your waist, pulling you into the curve of his body like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You’re lying face-to-face now, noses almost touching. His eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them, the earlier wildness replaced by something careful and unguarded. With the hand tucked under your neck, he reaches up, fingers brushing lightly at your cheek. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, slow and deliberate, thumb lingering on your skin a second longer than necessary. The touch is so tender it makes your chest tighten.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, voice low and rough from everything you just did. It’s not a casual check-in. There’s real worry threaded through it, like he needs to hear you say it out loud.

You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He searches your face for a moment, like he’s making sure you mean it. Then he leans in, not to kiss your mouth, but to press his lips to the column of your neck, right over one of the marks he left earlier. The kiss is feather-light, barely there, nothing like the hungry bites from before. It’s soft, lingering, almost reverent. Affection slips out unbidden, raw and unmistakable.

You feel him freeze the second he realizes what he’s done. He pulls back slowly, eyes flickering with something like panic again. Clears his throat. “That… meant nothing,” he says, too quickly, voice flat like he’s trying to force it back into the safe zone. “Just… habit. Whatever.”

You almost laugh at how badly he’s lying, the way his hand is still stroking your hair, the way he hasn’t moved an inch away from you. “Yeah,” you answer, voice just as unconvincing. “Totally. Meant nothing.”

You both hold the lie for about three seconds. Then his forehead drops to yours, a quiet exhale shaking out of him. Your fingers find his, lacing together under the sheet. Neither of you says anything else. But you both know. And for tonight, pretending is easier than admitting it out loud.

The morning after feels wrong. Not bad, just off. Like the world didn’t get the memo that something seismic cracked open between you and Jake Sim, shifted gravity, rewired the rules. Campus looks the same. The sun is too bright. People laugh too loud. Someone kisses their girlfriend outside the café like nothing in the universe has ever been fragile. You don’t feel like that person anymore.

You sit in lecture with your coffee untouched, fingers wrapped around the cup long after it’s gone lukewarm. Your pulse keeps jumping, too fast, too sharp, every time your brain betrays you and replays him. His hands. His voice in the rain. The way he looked at you like he’d finally stopped running and didn’t know what to do with the momentum. You don’t look for him. That doesn’t stop you from feeling him.

When someone leans too close to you in class, a guy from your discussion section who smells like cologne and confidence, you laugh politely at something he says. It’s automatic. Harmless. You don’t notice Jake until the air shifts. It’s subtle. A pressure change. Like the room inhales. He’s standing near the door. Watching. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pretend. His jaw tightens, muscle ticking once, twice. His shoulders square like he’s bracing for impact. When the guy says something else, something that makes you smile again, just a little, Jake moves before he thinks.

He appears beside you like he belongs there.

“Hey,” he says easily, like this is normal, like he hasn’t crossed half the room on instinct alone. His hand lands on the back of your chair, casual, sure, but unmistakable. A claim without words. “You ready?”

The guy blinks, thrown. “For…?”

Jake’s smile is polite and empty. “She’s late.” You aren’t. But your body betrays you anyway. You stand, heart hammering, because something in the way Jake says it makes it feel true. Makes it feel inevitable. Jake doesn’t touch you as you walk out, but his presence crowds you, close enough to block anyone else, close enough that you’re aware of him with every step. It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud.

It’s protective in a way that makes your stomach flip. Once you’re alone in the hallway, you finally exhale. “What was that?”

He keeps walking for a beat too long before answering. “Nothing.”

“Jake.” He stops. Turns. Finally meets your eyes.

“I don’t like people hitting on you.”

Your heart stutters, trips over itself. “You don’t get to—”

“I know,” he cuts in quickly, almost too quickly. “I know. I’m not saying I do. I’m just—”

He stops himself. His jaw flexes like the rest of the sentence is dangerous. Like if he finishes it, something permanent happens. You don’t wait for him to figure it out. You walk away before the conversation can pull you both apart at the seams. The rest of the day becomes a study in absence.

Jake doesn’t linger. Doesn’t lean in doorways. Doesn’t flirt in the halls. Doesn’t smirk back when people try to catch his attention. It’s like someone flipped a switch and stripped him down to something quieter. Sharper. You see it when a girl from his past finally corners him, someone familiar, comfortable, smiling like she knows him. “You never called,” she says lightly.

Jake barely hesitates. “Yeah. I’m not going to.”

She laughs, expecting charm. Expecting a joke. He doesn’t give her one. “Oh,” she says after a beat, confusion settling in. “Okay.” She walks away. You’re close enough to see it all. Your chest tightens. Because suddenly, painfully, it’s clear. He isn’t just spinning. He isn’t just reacting.

He’s choosing. The day drags after that. Every interaction feels loaded. Every glance lasts a second too long. You keep catching each other’s eyes across rooms, across crowds, quick, unspoken checks, like you’re both making sure the other still exists.

By the time evening rolls around, you’re exhausted. Your phone buzzes.

Jake: You done for the day?

You stare at the screen longer than necessary.

You: Yeah.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Jake: My place today?

Your breath catches. Not come over. Not want to hang out. My place today. Like it’s already a rhythm. Like this is something that continues. Like he’s done pretending it was just one night that got out of hand. You type back before doubt can talk you out of it.

You: Okay.

Across campus, Jake exhales for the first time all day. Because whatever this is, messy, dangerous, impossible, he doesn’t want it to end. And neither do you.

Jake’s place is quiet. Not frat-house loud, not chaotic, no blaring music, no half-empty bottles, no careless mess. Just low lights glowing warm against clean walls, counters wiped down, shoes neatly lined by the door. It smells faintly like laundry detergent and something warmer beneath it, coffee, maybe, or vanilla, or just him.

It disarms you immediately. “Hey,” he says softly, like he’s approaching a skittish animal instead of someone he’s already held in the dark.

“Hey.”

He toes his shoes off and gestures you inside with an easy tilt of his head. “You want a drink? Water? Something stronger?”

“Water’s fine,” you say, suddenly hyperaware of how calm he sounds. How gentle. How normal this feels, like this is just another evening and not a turning point you’re pretending not to see.

He disappears into the kitchen, and you drift farther in, taking in the space. A couch with a blanket folded over one arm. A couple of books stacked neatly on the coffee table. A hoodie tossed over the back of a chair, one you recognize.

When he comes back, he doesn’t just hand you the glass. He pulls you into a hug first. It’s instinctive. Natural. Like neither of you even thought about it. His arms wrap around you, firm but careful, like he’s testing how much he’s allowed to hold you. Your body responds before your brain can interfere. You melt into him, cheek resting against his chest, his warmth seeping into you like it’s always belonged there. His heartbeat is steady, grounding, loud enough that you can feel it beneath your ear.

For a second, just one, everything goes quiet. You feel safe. You feel held. You feel… happy. The realization hits like cold water. You pull back slightly, breath catching, panic flaring sharp and sudden. You remind yourself of everything this isn’t. Everything it’s not supposed to be. The lines you promised not to cross. The way this ends if you stop being careful.

Jake doesn’t seem to notice the shift. He hands you the glass, fingers brushing yours in passing. “Careful,” he murmurs. “It’s cold.”

He moves back to shuffle into the kitchen. And you follow him, curious to see how the campus manwhore’s kitchen looks like. Surprisingly, it’s tidy, tidier than you would have expected it. Jake stood near the stove, his back to you. The glass is cold against your fingertips.

You nod, take a sip, and then something reckless takes over. Impulse. Need. A truth you haven’t learned how to swallow yet. Before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can analyze or overthink, you step forward and wrap your arms around him from behind.

A back hug. Your forehead presses into the soft fabric of his hoodie. It smells like him, clean, familiar, comfortingly Jake. Without thinking, you nuzzle closer, clinging like this is the only solid thing in the room. Like if you let go, something vital might slip through your fingers.

Jake freezes. Every muscle under your arms goes taut. His breath stutters, just once. You almost pull away. Almost apologize. Almost make a joke to defuse the moment, but then he exhales. Slow. Long. Like he’s been holding that breath all day. His shoulders relax. His hands come up to rest over your forearms, warm and steady, not pulling you closer but not letting you go either. A quiet laugh rumbles out of his chest, low, surprised, and you feel it vibrate through him.

“Touchy now, are we?” he says lightly, but his voice is softer than usual, stripped of its edge. You smile against his back, heart fluttering despite yourself.

“Maybe,” you mumble.

He tilts his head back just slightly, like he’s savoring the moment without daring to turn around. Like if he looks at you, something fragile might break.

“Good to know,” he murmurs. You stay like that longer than you should. No rush. No rules. Just the quiet hum of his apartment, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the dangerous ease of being wrapped around him like this is normal.

And that’s when it hits you. This isn’t just chemistry anymore. It isn’t just want, or tension, or heat you can explain away. It’s comfort. It’s the way your body relaxes without permission. The way his hands stay even when they don’t have to. The way neither of you says a word, because you both know, if you do, this moment might dissolve.

And that realization terrifies you more than anything else. Because comfort is where things stop being casual. And you’re not sure either of you knows how to walk away from that. He stays still for another heartbeat, just breathing with you pressed against his back, your cheek between his shoulder blades, arms looped loosely around his waist. The quiet stretches, thick and warm, until finally he moves.

Slowly, deliberately, Jake turns in the circle of your arms. His hands find your hips, guiding you backward until your lower back meets the cool edge of the kitchen counter. The movement is gentle but firm, no hesitation, no asking permission this time. He’s done pretending he doesn’t want this.

His eyes lock on yours for a second, dark, searching, a little reckless, and then he dips his head. The first kiss lands just below your jaw, soft, testing. You tilt your head back on instinct, giving him more, and he takes it. His mouth drags down the column of your throat, open and warm, lips parting to taste your skin. When he reaches the spot that made you fall apart last time, he pauses, breath ghosting over it, before he closes his lips and sucks, slow, deliberate, possessive.

A quiet moan slips out of you before you can stop it. He hums against your skin, pleased, the sound vibrating straight through you. Another pull, deeper this time, teeth grazing just enough to sting in the best way. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he answers by pressing his body fully into yours, pinning you gently between him and the counter.

He works his way across your neck, marking a slow path, each hickey placed like he’s memorizing the spots that make you shiver, make you sigh, make you arch into him. Every time you moan, softer ones turning sharper as he lingers, he growls low in his throat, like the sound alone undoes him.

One of his hands slides up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your shirt, while the other stays firm on your hip, holding you exactly where he wants you. His mouth finds that sensitive place just above your collarbone and stays there, sucking steadily until your knees buckle a little and you have to grip his shoulders to stay upright.

When he finally pulls back, lips swollen and shiny, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to look at the fresh bloom of marks he’s left, eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied. His thumb traces one gently, reverently. Your breathing is uneven. So is his. He leans in again, but this time his kiss is softer, just a brush of lips against the newest mark, like an apology and a promise all at once.

You’re both still saying nothing. But the way he’s holding you, the way he’s tasting you like he’s got all the time in the world, says everything neither of you is ready to admit out loud. This isn’t casual. It never really was. His breath is hot and uneven against your neck, the words slipping out like they’ve been waiting there all along.

“Need you, pretty girl.” Low. Rough. Almost reverent. You feel the way his whole body tenses when you nod, small, certain, and then gently but firmly push at his chest. He lets you, confusion flickering across his face as he steps back half a pace, brows knitting together.

“What’re you—”

The question dies the second your knees hit the kitchen floor. His eyes go wide, pupils blown dark and stunned. Mouth parts on a silent exhale. He looks down at you like he can’t quite believe what’s happening, like this is something he’s imagined too many times and now it’s real, and he doesn’t know how to process it.

Your fingers find the drawstring of his sweatpants. One slow tug undoes the knot. You hook your thumbs into the waistband and drag them down together with his boxers, letting them pool around his ankles. His cock springs free, thick, flushed an angry red at the tip, already leaking. Hard and straining like it’s been aching for hours.

Jake hisses through his teeth when your hand wraps around him, skin hot against your palm. You give him a few slow, firm pumps, base to tip, twisting just a little at the head, and his hips jerk forward on instinct.

“Fuck—” The word is strangled, half-laugh, half-groan. One of his hands flies to the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles whitening as he grips it for balance. The other hovers uncertainly near your head, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch.

His chest rises and falls fast. Eyes locked on you, dark and glassy, like he’s already half gone just from the sight of you on your knees in front of him. You lean in, lips brushing the tip in the lightest tease, and he shudders hard enough that the counter creaks under his grip. “Baby…” It’s barely a whisper, wrecked and pleading. “You don’t have to—”

But the way his cock twitches in your hand says otherwise. You look up at him through your lashes, holding his gaze as you give him another slow stroke, thumb swiping over the bead of precome at the slit. His head tips back, throat working on a swallow. He’s trying so hard to keep some semblance of control. He’s failing beautifully.

You hold his gaze a second longer, letting him see exactly what you want, then lean forward and take him into your mouth. The first slide is slow, hot, wet, deliberate, your lips stretching around the head as your tongue presses flat against the underside. Jake’s breath catches sharp and loud, hips twitching like he’s fighting not to thrust. You sink lower, taking more of him, until the tip nudges the back of your throat. You pull back just enough to breathe, saliva already coating him, glistening, before you push forward again.

This time you don’t stop. You relax your throat and take him deeper, nose brushing his pelvis as you swallow around him. A choked gag escapes you, wet, messy, unavoidable, and the sound seems to snap something in him. His hand finally lands in your hair, fingers threading gently, not pushing, just anchoring himself as his head falls back with a broken groan.

“Fuck—baby—”

You pull off with a slick pop, gasping, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock before you dive back in. Faster now, sloppier, hollowing your cheeks, sucking hard, letting the wet sounds fill the kitchen. Every time you bob down, you take him to the hilt, gagging softly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the stretch. It’s messy on purpose, drool spilling down your chin, coating him, dripping onto the floor. You don’t care. You want him wrecked. And he is.

His thighs tremble under your free hand. His grip tightens in your hair, not guiding, just holding on like he’s about to lose it. Every gag, every wet slide of your mouth pulls another ragged sound from him, curses, your name, breathless pleas. “Look at you,” he rasps, voice shattered. “So fucking perfect, taking me like this—”

You hum around him, the vibration making his hips buck. You feel him swell thicker against your tongue, throbbing hard now. He’s close. You double down, faster, deeper, messier. One hand pumps the base you can’t quite reach, twisting in time with your mouth. The other cups him lower, gentle pressure that makes him curse loud and long.

“Shit—I’m gonna—”

You don’t pull off. You take him as deep as you can, throat fluttering around the head, and he comes with a choked groan, hot, thick pulses spilling straight down your throat. You swallow greedily, milking him through it, gag reflex twitching but holding, until he’s shuddering, spent, fingers loosening in your hair. Only then do you ease off slowly, lips dragging along his length, cleaning him with soft licks as he softens. A final string of spit and come connects you for a second before you break it with a swipe of your tongue.

You sit back on your heels, breathing hard, chin wet, lips swollen. Looking up at him. Jake stares down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. Chest heaving, eyes glassy, completely undone. He reaches down with both hands, cupping your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that escaped and the mess at the corner of your mouth. His touch is so tender it almost hurts.

“Pretty girl,” he whispers again, voice hoarse and reverent. “Come here.”

He pulls you up into his arms before you can even catch your breath, crushing you against his chest like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. He cleans you up gently, warm washcloth from the bathroom, careful strokes across your chin and neck, thumbs brushing away the last traces of mess with a tenderness that makes your throat tight. No words, just quiet glances, soft smiles that linger too long. When he’s done, he presses a kiss to your forehead, quick and instinctive, then pretends it didn’t happen.

You both end up on the couch, some random movie flickering on the TV that neither of you is really watching. He tugs a throw blanket over your legs, pulls you into his side like it’s the most natural thing. You curl into him without thinking, head on his chest, one leg thrown over his, his arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.

It’s breaking every unspoken rule you ever pretended to have. No kissing during sex? Broken. No staying over? About to be shattered. No feelings? Laughable at this point. His heartbeat is steady under your ear, his body warm and solid. The movie drones on, but you’re lulled by the rise and fall of his breathing, the faint scent of his skin, the way his hand keeps drifting up to play with your hair. Your eyes grow heavy.

At some point, you drift off. You don’t feel him carry you, but you stir just enough to register being lifted, cradled against his bare chest as he walks down the hall. He lays you down in his bed, his bed, not the guest room, not the couch, and pulls the covers up over you. The mattress dips as he slides in beside you, shirtless, skin still warm from earlier.

He hesitates for a second, then shifts closer. One arm slips under your neck, the other drapes over your waist, pulling you back against him. You’re half-asleep, but you feel him press a soft kiss to the back of your shoulder, just once, barely there, like he thinks you won’t notice.

You do. He settles in, breath evening out against your hair. The rules? Completely demolished. And neither of you minds even a little.

You wake up slowly. Not jolting. Not startled. Just drifting upward, consciousness heavy and warm and disoriented. The room smells like him, clean, familiar, faintly comforting, and for one blissful second, you don’t remember why that matters. Then you shift. Your arm brushes warm skin. Bare skin. Your eyes snap open.

Jake is right there. Shirtless. Asleep on his back, one arm thrown over his head, hair a mess, lashes resting against his cheeks like he has no idea he’s about to ruin your entire emotional stability before breakfast. Your heart drops straight into your stomach.

Oh. Oh no. You lie there, frozen, staring at the rise and fall of his chest. The memory of last night creeps in slowly, him pulling the blanket over you, murmuring something soft you were too hazy to respond to, the careful way he tucked you in like you mattered. Like this wasn’t just sex. Your pulse spikes.

Because the rules, they are absolutely, catastrophically gone.

You glance around the room like it might confirm this is a dream. His room is quiet, peaceful. Morning light spills across the bed, catching on his collarbones, the faint marks on his skin you absolutely should not be noticing. But you are. You definitely are. Your chest tightens. This isn’t panic because he’s hot. It’s panic because this feels… intimate. Because he stayed. Because he tucked you in. Because you woke up next to him like this is normal. Like this could be something. As if sensing your stare, Jake shifts. You freeze again.

He blinks awake slowly, eyes unfocused for a second, then they land on you. Recognition dawns. And instead of smugness, instead of cocky teasing, his expression softens.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep. Your heart absolutely betrays you. “Hi,” you reply, too fast. There’s a beat. Then another. Neither of you moves. You’re acutely aware of the silence. Of the space between you that feels too small and too large at the same time.

Jake exhales quietly and rubs a hand down his face. “You okay?” That simple question nearly ends you. You nod. Then immediately shake your head. “I—yeah. I mean. I don’t know.”

He pushes himself up on one elbow, sheet slipping lower without him noticing. “We can talk,” he says gently. “Or not. Whatever you need.”

You stare at him. That’s when it really hits. This isn’t a wingman. This isn’t a hookup. This isn’t rules and distance and pretending. This is Jake Sim, shirtless in the morning light, asking how you feel. And suddenly, the scariest thought of all settles into your chest: You don’t want the rules back.

You just don’t know what replaces them. You don’t talk about it. That’s the unspoken agreement as you both stumble around his apartment, half-awake and aggressively pretending last night didn’t fundamentally alter your brain chemistry. You borrow a hoodie. He pulls on the first jeans he finds. Someone nearly brushes teeth with the wrong toothbrush and pretends it didn’t happen. It’s fine. Totally fine.

You rush out together, hair still messy, fingers still a little too aware of each other’s presence as you speed-walk across campus like you’re late for a crime scene. The thing you don’t notice at first? You don’t look at anyone else. Not the guy by the café who usually makes you double-take. Not the flirty senior from psych. Not even out of habit.

Your attention stays glued forward, toward Jake’s shoulder, his stupid profile, the way he keeps matching his pace to yours without thinking. You only realize it when,“Oh my god.”

You both freeze. Your friends are already there. Sitting. Watching. Waiting. Their eyes flick from your borrowed hoodie… to Jake’s rumpled hair… to the way you walked in together like a matched set.

Then, a very loud, very unnecessary wolf whistle.

“WOOOO,” someone hollers. “LOOK AT YOU TWO.”

Another adds, “Messy hair? Together? In THIS economy?”

Your soul leaves your body. Jake, meanwhile, smirks like he’s been training for this moment his whole life. You glare at them. Hard. “If any of you make one more sound, I will commit violence before my first lecture.” That only makes it worse.

“So,” your friend grins, chin propped on her hand, “you guys are basically together now, right?”

Jake drops into the seat beside you, entirely too relaxed. “Basically?” he repeats, amused.

You elbow him. Hard. He only laughs. “Wow,” someone says. “Didn’t know campus housing allowed sleepovers with benefits.”

You choke. “We did NOT—”

Jake leans back, arms crossed, absolutely enjoying this. “Relax. Let them have their fun.”

You shoot him a look. “You are not helping.”

“I think I’m helping plenty,” he replies, eyes sparkling. “You’re very convincing when you’re angry.”

Your friends are eating this up. One of them fans herself dramatically. “The tension. The denial. The way you walked in like you just finished a third act reconciliation.”

Another wolf whistle. You bury your face in your hands. Jake nudges your knee under the table, voice low, teasing. “Hey. Could be worse.”

You peek at him. “How?”

“They could think we’re married.”

He flashes that grin again. Your heart does something deeply inconvenient. You straighten, glare around the table, and announce, “For the record, we are not together.”

Jake hums. “Didn’t say we were.” Your friends exchange looks. The oh-this-is-going-to-be-fun kind. You sigh, already exhausted. This is going to be a long semester. And judging by Jake’s smug expression, he’s going to enjoy every second of it.

By the end of the day, you’re exhausted. Not academically. Emotionally. Everywhere you go, someone looks at you. Whispers. Grins. One person actually has the audacity to say, “Morning-after glow looks good on you.”

You consider homicide. Jake, of course, is thriving. He doesn’t deny anything. Doesn’t confirm anything either. Just exists beside you like a smug little storm cloud, shoulders brushing yours in hallways, knee nudging yours under desks, voice dropping every time he talks to you like it’s a private joke.

At one point, during lecture, he leans over and murmurs, “Relax. You’re doing great.” You hiss back, “You are the reason I’m suffering.” He only smiles wider. By afternoon, you’re so tired you barely react when someone whistles again as you pass by.

Jake does, though. He glances at you, then deliberately, deliberately, winks. Slow. Lazy. Criminal. Your stomach flips. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. You know exactly what it means. Another… session.

You drop your head back against the wall and sigh, long and dramatic. “You are ruining my life.”

Jake laughs, low and warm, leaning in just enough for you to feel it. “Funny,” he says. “You didn’t seem that miserable last time.”

You glare at him. “You are unbearable.”

“Mm,” he hums, eyes dragging over your face like he’s memorizing it. “Yet here you are.”

You hate that he’s right. Hate that the idea of later tonight makes your pulse jump. Hate that you already know you won’t say no. Hate that when he walks ahead of you, he glances back just to make sure you’re following. You are. Every time. And the worst part? When he flashes that stupid, knowing grin again, you don’t even bother pretending you don’t like it. Time skips quietly.

Not abruptly. Not cleanly. It slips, soft and strange, like it doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that something has shifted. You’re on your bed now, sheets rumpled beneath you, the room still warm with the aftermath of him, of Jake, even though nothing explicit lingers. There’s no proof he was here except the way the air feels heavier, fuller, like it hasn’t caught up yet. Except for the faint crease in the pillow where his arm had been. Except for the way your body still feels tuned to his, like it forgot how to exist alone.

He had to leave for practice. He’d said it like it was no big deal, like it didn’t fracture something in your chest when he glanced at the clock and groaned under his breath.

“Shit,” he’d muttered, rubbing his face. “I’m late.” You’d tried to play it cool. Tried not to let it show.

“Rain check?” he’d asked, already leaning down to kiss you anyway, already smiling like he knew you wouldn’t say no.

One kiss turned into five. Five turned into him crowding you gently against the door, hands braced on either side of your head, not trapping you, just there. Grounding. His mouth was softer then, slower, lingering like he was trying to commit the shape of you to memory. Like leaving wasn’t just inconvenient, it hurt.

You’d laughed, giddy and stupid, when he pressed one last kiss to your forehead, thumb brushing your temple like it belonged there.

“Get dressed,” he’d murmured. “You’ll catch a cold.” As if he wasn’t the reason your knees still felt weak. As if he hadn’t unraveled you just by staying a little too long. Now he’s gone.

And you’re staring at the ceiling, heart doing that slow, aching thud it’s been doing more and more lately. Not sharp pain. Worse. The kind that settles in and refuses to leave. This, whatever this is, has stopped feeling like pretending. Your phone sits beside you on the bed. Earlier, it buzzed, his name lighting up the screen like it belonged there.

Jake: text me when you get up Jake: eat something Jake: don’t skip class 🙄

You’d smiled at that. Actually smiled. The kind that pulls at your cheeks before you can stop it. The kind that lingers after the screen goes dark. The kind that makes your chest feel warm and unbearably tight all at once. That’s when it hits you. Not like a thunderclap. Not dramatically. Quietly. Honestly. Irrevocably.

You’re in love with him. Not the playboy reputation. Not the teasing smirk everyone talks about. Not even the way he touches you like it’s instinct, like his hands always know where to go. Him. The way he tucks you in without being asked. The way his voice softens when he thinks you’re upset, even when he pretends not to notice. The way he stays, really stays, even when every rule you never officially agreed on says he shouldn’t. And that’s the problem.

Because Jake Sim does not fall in love. Jake Sim leaves. Jake Sim runs. Jake Sim breaks hearts and laughs it off like it never mattered.

You roll onto your side, curling in on yourself, hugging a pillow to your chest like it might anchor you. Like it might replace the weight of his arm, the quiet reassurance of his presence. This is going to end badly. You can feel it in your bones, in the way every kiss feels like it means too much, in the way his absence already aches like a missing limb, in the way your heart has quietly, stupidly decided this is worth the risk.

You stare at the wall, then close your eyes. And despite everything, despite what you know about him, despite what you know about yourself, you still hope you’re wrong. You hope, just a little, that this time will be different. That he won’t run. That when it starts to hurt, he’ll stay.

And that hope? That’s what scares you the most. Oh, he’s absolutely not okay either. Jake sits in his car long after practice ends. Engine off. Lights dark. The parking lot emptying out one car at a time until it’s just him and the hum of cooling metal. His phone is face-down on the passenger seat like it might burn him if he looks at it too long. Like if he sees your name again, something in him will crack all the way open. His chest still hasn’t settled.

He keeps replaying the way you looked at him before he left, soft, a little dazed, hair mussed, eyes warm in a way that scared the hell out of him. The way you smiled like you trusted him. Like he was safe. Like he wasn’t a mistake waiting to happen. That’s the problem.

You feel safe. Not exciting-safe. Not fun-safe. Real safe. Quiet safe. Stay-safe. The kind that doesn’t let him hide. He presses his forehead to the steering wheel and exhales shakily, breath fogging the glass for a second before disappearing. His hands are still buzzing, like they don’t know what to do without you under them, curled into him like it was instinct.

He hates the quiet. He’s never been good at this part, the after. The stillness. The thinking. The realizing. When things stop moving, when the noise fades, when there’s nothing left to distract him from the weight in his chest, that’s when it gets dangerous. He tells himself it’s just sex. Just comfort. Just two people blowing off steam. That’s the script. He knows it by heart. Has lived by it for years.

But scripts don’t include the way you tucked your feet under his thigh like you belonged there. Scripts don’t include the way you laughed into his shoulder like the world wasn’t sharp. Scripts don’t include the way leaving your place felt wrong in his bones, like he was walking away from something fragile and alive. His phone buzzes.

The sound is too loud in the quiet car. He freezes. Then flips it over despite himself.

You: did you make it?

His chest tightens immediately, sharp, sudden, like someone reached inside and squeezed. He stares at the message longer than necessary. He types. Deletes. Types again.

Jake: yeah Jake: u eat?

God. He groans softly and lets his head fall back against the seat. He sounds like a fucking idiot. Like someone’s boyfriend. Like someone who cares. He stares up at the roof of the car, jaw clenched so tight it aches. He can still feel you under his hands. The way you curled into him without thinking. The way you sighed, quiet, content, like you belonged there. Like being with him didn’t cost you anything.

That’s when it hits him. Not all at once. Not dramatically. In pieces. He doesn’t want anyone else touching you. Doesn’t want anyone else making you laugh like that.Doesn’t want anyone else seeing you soft and unguarded and real.

And worse, he doesn’t want to be the guy who ruins this. Which means he already has. “Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face, fingers dragging down hard like he can physically pull himself together if he tries hard enough. This was supposed to be simple. Rules. Distance.No feelings.

Something contained. Something temporary. Something he could walk away from without looking back. But every time he leaves your place, it feels wrong. Like he’s abandoning something unfinished. Like he’s choosing the familiar ache of running over the terrifying possibility of staying.

He picks up his phone again, thumb hovering over your name.

He wants to say something. Anything. Wants to tell you to stop looking at him like that because it makes him want things he can’t afford to want. Wants to tell you that you’re dangerous to him in the quietest way possible. Wants to tell you that he doesn’t trust himself not to fall all the way if you keep letting him stay. Instead, he does what he always does. He chooses restraint dressed up as responsibility.

Jake: get some sleep Jake: see you tomorrow

He stares at the sent messages like they’re a lie he’s practicing believing. Then he finally starts the car. The engine roars to life too loud in the empty lot, heart pounding just as hard, like it’s betraying him with every beat. As he pulls out, hands steady on the wheel despite everything inside him unraveling, he knows.

This is going to hurt. Because he’s already falling. And Jake Sim has never been good at landing. He almost turns the car around. It’s stupid, he knows that. Reckless. The kind of impulsive, heart-first decision he’s spent years training himself not to make. The kind that ruins carefully constructed exits. The kind that leads to explanations, expectations, things he doesn’t know how to survive.

But he’s barely halfway down the block when his hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, chest caving in like his lungs forgot their job. The road blurs for a second, headlights streaking, and suddenly all he can see is you. Barefoot on your bed. Hair everywhere. Eyes warm. Open. Trusting. Smiling at him like he wasn’t a bad ending waiting to happen.

“Don’t,” he mutters to himself, voice rough, like if he says it out loud it’ll hold. The car slows. The engine hum drops. His foot eases off the gas without permission. For half a second, half a fucking second, he lets himself imagine it.

Pulling back into your driveway. Killing the engine. Walking up to your door like an idiot with nothing rehearsed. Knocking. You opening it, confused, soft, maybe smiling like you always do when you see him. Him saying something honest for once. Saying he can’t stop thinking about you. Saying he doesn’t know how to do this without fucking it up. Saying he’s scared because you feel like something he could actually lose. Saying he wants more, and that wanting you feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing how to land.

His turn signal clicks. Once. Twice. His heart is pounding so loud it’s almost painful, like it’s begging him to choose differently. Then fear wins. It always does. He exhales sharply, jaw locking, and forces the wheel straight like it’s an act of violence. The car accelerates, the street disappearing behind him, and the relief that follows is hollow and sickening. He drives away like a coward. Heart still racing. Chest burning. Knowing, deep down, that this is the part where he fucks it up.

—

The next day, he’s unbearable. Not loud-unbearable. Worse. Sharp. Edged. Like he’s made of glass and anyone who touches him is going to bleed. Practice is a mess. His body’s there, but his head’s somewhere else, back in your room, back at the door he didn’t knock on, back in the moment he chose running because it was easier than staying.

“Jake, chill,” one of his friends laughs when he misses an easy shot. “You’re off today.”

“Don’t tell me to chill,” Jake snaps, voice harsher than he means it, but not apologetic either.

The laughter dies immediately. Someone mutters, “Damn,” under their breath. Another guy avoids his eyes altogether. Jake doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t soften it. Doesn’t even realize how tight his fists are until his nails dig into his palms.

The looks his friends exchange say everything. Oh. He’s gone. This is new. He pushes everyone away like they’re obstacles, like they’re in the way of something he refuses to name. Like if he lets anyone close, they’ll see the cracks forming. Until you show up. You don’t announce yourself. Don’t demand his attention. You just step into his space like you always do, quiet, familiar, grounding. Like you belong there.

“Hey,” you say softly. Something in him gives. Just a fraction. Just enough. His shoulders drop, barely noticeable, but real. His jaw unclenches. His eyes flick over you immediately, searching, automatic, instinctive, like he’s checking for damage he’s responsible for. “What?” he asks, already softer, already undone.

“You okay?” you ask. The concern in your voice hits him harder than any confrontation could.

He scoffs, forcing a shrug. “Yeah. Fine.” You don’t believe him. He knows you don’t. That’s the problem, you never do.

“Jake,” you start, hesitant, careful. “About… us—”

Panic spikes. He cuts you off before you can finish, before you can say something he won’t be able to undo. “There is no us,” he says too fast, too clean, like he practiced it in the mirror. “We agreed on that, remember?”

Your face stills. Not dramatic. Not angry. Just… quiet.

“Oh,” you say after a beat, voice small but steady. “Right. I just thought—”

He looks away immediately, like he can’t stand to see what that did to you. “That’s the problem,” he mutters. “Thinking.” The silence that follows is brutal. It presses in, heavy and suffocating, full of everything he’s too scared to say and everything you’re finally starting to understand. His friends watch from a distance, pretending not to, because it’s obvious now, painfully obvious.

You’re the only one who can calm him. And you’re the one thing he won’t let himself keep. You step back, nodding once, like you’re accepting something you already knew but hoped you were wrong about.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Then… see you around.” You turn to leave. Jake watches you go.

Doesn’t call your name. Doesn’t stop you. Just stands there, jaw tight, chest aching like he ripped something vital out of himself and pretended it was necessary. And the worst part? He knows. The moment he didn’t turn that car around, the moment he chose fear over honesty, was the moment he started losing you.

And no amount of running has ever saved him from that. You go for a walk because staying still feels like suffocating.

Your body needs motion, air, distance, something to keep your thoughts from closing in on themselves. The streetlights blur past as you walk without direction, hands shoved into your pockets, shoulders tense like you’re bracing for impact. Your phone is face-down in your pocket, but you swear you can feel its weight. Like Jake’s name might burn straight through the fabric if you let it. You haven’t texted him. Haven’t not texted him either. You’re suspended in that awful in-between where every thought circles back to him whether you want it to or not. The way he dodged you. The way his voice hardened the second you said us.The way it still softened when he looked at you, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo his mouth was trying to send.

It hurts in a quiet, persistent way. Not sharp. Worse. Like longing with nowhere to go. Like something alive inside you pacing against its ribs. You don’t even realize you’ve slowed until a familiar voice says your name. You stop. Turn.

Your ex stands a few feet away, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture tentative, like he’s testing unstable ground. He looks the same. Too familiar. Too easy to place in a past you worked hard to survive.

“Hey,” he says. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

For a split second, your heart jumps, pure muscle memory. Then the ache evaporates, replaced by something hot and electric. Rage. It floods you all at once. Every sleepless night. Every moment you twisted yourself smaller to keep the peace. Every time you were made to feel like wanting more was asking for too much.

“What do you want?” you ask flatly.

He blinks, thrown off. “Wow. Okay. I just—”

“No,” you cut in, voice shaking despite yourself. “You don’t get to just walk up to me like nothing happened.”

“I was just trying to talk,” he says, already defensive. “We didn’t exactly end on great terms.”

“That was your choice,” you snap. “You made it very clear where I stood.”

“That’s not fair—”

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “Leave me alone.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re being dramatic.”

That word hits like a match to gasoline. “Dramatic?” you repeat, stepping closer, hands curling into fists. “You disappear. You lie. You make me feel like I’m asking for too much, and now you think you get to show up and rewrite it?”

People pass by. Someone glances over, then looks away. You don’t care. “I don’t owe you closure,” you say, voice firm now, steady in a way that surprises even you. “I don’t owe you anything. So walk away.”

He stares at you, stunned, pride and guilt flickering across his face like competing signals. “Fine,” he mutters at last. “Whatever. You’ve changed.”

“Good,” you say. “That was the point.” He leaves. Your hands are shaking by the time you turn away, chest heaving, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. It takes a second for the anger to drain, long enough for the aftermath to crash in and leave you hollow.

You’re exhausted. And then, you see him. Jake stands across the street. Still. Rigid. Like he’s been carved into the concrete. His eyes are locked on you, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle ticking. He didn’t hear the words. Didn’t need to. He saw enough, the proximity, the intensity, the way your ex stood too close. The way you didn’t walk away immediately. Something dark moves through Jake’s expression. Possessive. Afraid. Angry.

He moves before you can stop him. “Jake—” you start, but he’s already there, voice sharp as broken glass.

“What the hell was that?”

Your stomach drops. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in. “Don’t lie to me.”

Lie?

“I wasn’t—” You force a breath. “He came up to me. I told him to leave.”

Jake laughs, bitter and disbelieving. “Yeah? Looked real convincing from where I was standing.”

That hurts more than you expect. More than the accusation itself. “You think I’d do that?” you ask quietly.

His eyes flicker, just for a second. Doubt. Fear. Then he hardens again, like softness is dangerous. “I don’t know what you’d do,” he says. “You don’t exactly talk to me anymore, remember?”

“That’s because every time I try, you shut me out,” you shoot back. “You don’t get to act like you care now.”

“I do care,” he snaps, stepping closer. Too close. His voice drops, rough and dangerous. “That’s the problem.”

Silence crashes between you. Heavy. Public. Exposed. “That’s not fair,” you say, voice shaking. “You don’t know what was said.”

“No,” Jake fires back. “But I know how this ends.”

You stare at him, hurt flashing across your face. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“Oh, don’t I?” His jaw clenches. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I was just the rebound.”

The silence is deafening. People walk past. A car honks somewhere. The world keeps moving like this isn’t your chest splitting open on the sidewalk. Jake drags a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “You want to know what it looked like?” he says. “It looked like you going back to him. Like I was an idiot for thinking—”

“For thinking what?” you demand. He stops. Because whatever he was about to say terrifies him. His mouth opens. Closes. “Forget it,” he mutters. “This was a mistake.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “So that’s it?”

“This—” he gestures between you, helpless and furious all at once. “This is exactly why I didn’t want more.” Something inside you goes cold.

“You assumed,” you say softly. “You didn’t even ask.”

His eyes flash. “Because I already know how this ends.”

“Then you don’t know me at all,” you whisper. That one lands. Jake flinches like you slapped him. For a moment, just a fragile, unbearable moment, it looks like he might say something. Something real. Something honest. Like he might finally choose differently.

“I see how it is,” Jake starts, trying to focus anywhere but on your teary gaze, “All you wanted was sex.” Your eyes are glossy. Angry. Wounded.

“How dare you,” you whisper.

Jake falters. “I—”

“No,” you cut in, voice breaking. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to push me away, dodge every conversation, pretend I don’t matter, and then explode the second someone else talks to me.”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. “You don’t want me,” you continue, tears spilling now. “But you don’t want anyone else to have me either.”

“That’s not—” he starts, then stops. Because it is. And he hates himself for it.

“You made rules,” you say softly. “And then you broke them. And now you’re punishing me for it.” Jake swallows hard, eyes burning.

“I was wrong,” he says, voice low, rough. “About everything.”

You shake your head, wiping at your cheeks. “Too late.”

The words land heavier than any insult. You step back, shaking your head, tears spilling freely now. “You don’t get to want me only when it’s convenient. You don’t get to pull me close and then act shocked when I fall.”

“I never asked you to—”

“Yes, you did,” you interrupt, voice rising. “Every time you held my hand. Every time you stayed. Every time you looked at me like I was more.” His shoulders slump, breath shuddering out of him. You turn away, wiping your cheeks furiously. “I’m done.”

Jake’s heart stutters. “Wait—”

You face him one last time. “You said no feelings,” you say quietly. He swallows. “Then stop making me feel things.”

Jake’s heart lurches. “Don’t—”

“Please,” you whisper. “Just… don’t follow me.” You turn and walk away, shoulders trembling. Jake stands there, frozen, watching you disappear into the crowd. And for the first time since this all started, he doesn’t chase you. Because he knows. This isn’t flirting. This isn’t tension. This is the moment he finally broke something he can’t undo.

After the break, Jake does what he’s always done when things get hard. He disappears into noise. He tells himself it’s fine, that this is normal, that this is who he’s always been. He shows up to parties like muscle memory, like instinct. Someone texts him an address, a vague pull up, and he goes without thinking. Music rattles through cheap speakers. Lights strobe. Alcohol burns its way down his throat.

He laughs at the right moments. He throws an arm around someone’s shoulders when they pull him close. He lets people assume things about him because assumptions are easier than explanations. But something is off.

It hits him the first night he realizes he’s sober enough to notice how hollow everything feels. The bass is pounding so loud the floor vibrates, but inside his head, nothing. No rush. No buzz. No spark. Just this flat, empty quiet that makes his chest feel too big for his lungs. He leans against a kitchen counter slick with spilled drinks, watching people dance like they’re weightless. A girl presses into his side, shouting something in his ear. He nods like he heard her.

He didn’t. Another hand slips into his, fingers lacing easily, confidently. Normally, he’d respond without thinking, pull her closer, let the night go where it always goes. Instead, his first thought is you. The way you stand too close when you’re nervous. The way your laugh comes out crooked when something genuinely surprises you. The look on your face when he said, There is no us. His stomach turns.

“Hey,” the girl says, smiling up at him. “You okay?”

Jake pulls his hand back gently. “Yeah. I’m—uh. I’m good.”

She blinks. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He forces a smile. “Just tired.” That word, tired, starts following him everywhere. He leaves early. The next party, same thing. He shows up, stays an hour, maybe two. Drinks less. Watches more. Leaves without saying goodbye. People notice.

“Bro, you ghosting your own reputation now?” someone jokes.

“You used to be fun,” another says, half-laughing, half-confused.

Jake shrugs. “Guess I’m evolving.”

But he isn’t. He’s unraveling. He starts checking his phone compulsively, unlocking it without realizing, thumb hovering over your name before he locks it again. He tells himself he’s not waiting for anything, but the disappointment still hits every time the screen stays empty.

Back at his place, the silence is unbearable. No music. No voices. Just the hum of the fridge, the ticking of time he can’t outrun. He lies on his bed staring at the ceiling, replaying moments he didn’t realize mattered so much while they were happening. The way you used to steal his hoodies. The way you looked at him when he got quiet, not annoyed, not demanding, just concerned. The night on the sidewalk replays on a loop. Your voice. Your eyes. You don’t know me at all.

The words lodge somewhere deep, festering. Because the worst part? He thinks you might be right.

—

You try to do the healthy thing. You don’t sit around waiting for him to come back. You don’t reread old messages. You don’t let yourself spiral every time your phone buzzes.

You say yes when someone asks you out. Heeseung is easy in a way Jake never was. He texts ahead of time. Asks what kind of coffee you like. Actually listens to the answer. When you meet, he smiles like he’s genuinely happy you showed up, like it wasn’t a given. The first time you sit across from him, the conversation flows without effort. He tells stories that wander and circle back on themselves. You laugh. You relax.

It feels… safe. And that scares you a little. The second hangout stretches longer than you expect. You walk side by side, hands occasionally brushing, and he always lets you decide whether it turns into something more. You tell yourself this is good.

This is what moving on looks like. But Jake is everywhere. In the way Heeseung laughs too softly, like he’s careful not to take up too much space. In the way he waits before touching you, like he’s afraid of crossing a line you never drew. In the way he looks at you like he wants approval instead of certainty.

Jake never waited. Jake assumed you’d be there. Jake took space like it belonged to him. Jake scared you and thrilled you and hurt you in ways that felt real. On your third hangout, when Heeseung finally calls it out, you almost feel relieved.

He leans back, studying you with a knowing look. “Okay,” he says. “I have to ask.”

Your stomach tightens. “Ask what?”

“Whoever came before me,” he says lightly. “Because you keep smiling like you’re comparing me to someone I’m not even competing with.” You choke on your drink, coughing, mortified. “I’m not—” He grins. “You absolutely are.” You drop your forehead to the table, groaning. “I’m so sorry.” “Don’t be,” he says easily. “I’m just the-” he pauses, “Replacement goldfish.” You snort, “Why would you call yourself that?” He scans your face, eyes softening once again, “You’re human. And very obviously still in love.” You lift your head, eyes searching his face. “That doesn’t bother you?” He shrugs. “I knew what this was when I asked you out. I just wanted to be sure you knew.” That honesty stings more than anger would’ve. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you say quietly. “Then don’t lie to yourself,” he replies. “That’s how people get collateral damage.”

You nod, throat tight, because he’s right. He grins. “Look, you don’t have to tell me the name. Or actually, please do. I live for the tea.” You laugh despite yourself, head dropping to the table.

Jake sees you together by accident. He’s heading somewhere he doesn’t even want to be, hoodie pulled low, earbuds in with nothing playing. He turns a corner, and there you are. Walking beside someone else. Talking. Laughing. You look… lighter.

Like the weight he dropped didn’t crush you the way he assumed it would. Something breaks open in his chest. He stands there longer than he should, watching the way you tilt your head when you listen, the way your smile comes easier around someone who doesn’t make you second-guess yourself. He turns away before you see him. That night, he stays in.

He scrolls through his phone until his eyes ache, old texts, stupid memes, half-serious promises neither of you realized were fragile. Finally, in the quiet, he lets the truth surface. “I fucked up.” There’s no one to hear it. No one to soften it. He assumed. He panicked. He chose distance because closeness scared him. And now he knows, really knows, what he lost. Whether it’s too late or not doesn’t even matter anymore. He’s utterly, devastatingly in love with you. To the point where he went ahead and got his whole life turned upside down. For the first time, Jake Sim is painfully, terrifyingly certain.

And certainty, he’s learning, hurts like hell. Jake wakes up knowing. Not the slow, creeping realization that usually follows regret. Not the kind that waits for coffee or daylight to soften it. This is instant. Violent. Absolute. It hits him so hard he has to sit up, feet on the floor, elbows braced on his knees like the weight of it might knock him over if he doesn’t anchor himself. His hands tangle in his hair, grip tight, breath stuttering once, twice, before it steadies.

He’s in love. There’s no room to negotiate with the thought. No loopholes. No maybes. It isn’t dramatic in the way movies sell it. It’s quieter than that. Cleaner. Terrifyingly simple. You are it.

Not the convenient kind of affection he’s always been good at. Not the easy heat of bodies and laughter and temporary distraction. This is the kind that rearranges things. That reaches backward and forward at the same time and suddenly makes everything else feel like rehearsal. Every hookup before you fades into static, faces blur, memories flatten, sensations lose color. It all feels like noise he mistook for music.

And then you happened. And now there’s no un-knowing it. Jake exhales, slow and steady, and for once he doesn’t argue with himself. He doesn’t list reasons this is a bad idea. He doesn’t tell himself he’s late or stupid or doomed to mess it up again. He moves. That’s the difference.

He pulls on the first hoodie he can find, yesterday’s, probably, and grabs his keys, heart already racing like it knows where this is going. The mirror catches him for half a second: hair a mess, eyes bright and terrified and alive in a way he hasn’t seen in himself for weeks. “Okay,” he murmurs to no one. “Okay.” Find you. Tell you. Fix this, if fixing is still allowed.

Campus stretches out in front of him, familiar paths suddenly charged with urgency. He walks fast, then faster, like if he slows down he might lose nerve. Your coffee spot is first. The barista shakes her head apologetically. “Not today.” Library next. He scans tables, corners, stairwells, nothing.

He jogs to your lecture hall, breathless by the time he gets there. Empty seats. A professor packing up notes. You didn’t show. A flicker of fear tries to worm its way in. He doesn’t let it. He keeps going. He asks people who barely know him, people who know you better, people who only recognize his face from around. Someone jokes, Thought you two were inseparable, and for once, it doesn’t sting. It just fuels him. “Have you seen her?” “Earlier maybe?” “No? Okay, thanks.”

Hour bleeds into hour. The sky shifts. His legs ache. His phone stays stubbornly silent in his pocket, and every unanswered question presses a little heavier on his chest. What if he missed you? What if this realization came a day too late? By the time the sun starts sinking, spilling gold and pink across the buildings, he slows, not because he’s given up, but because he’s tired in that bone-deep way that comes from caring too much. He stops outside a building without really knowing why.

Breathing hard. Hands on his hips. Staring up at nothing. “Jake.” He looks up. Giselle. She’s watching him like she’s been waiting, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her eyes flick over him, sweat-damp hoodie, flushed face, the unmistakable look of someone mid-reckoning.

“Well,” she says finally. “You look like hell.”

He huffs a weak laugh. “Feel worse.”

That earns him a small smile. Then it fades, replaced by something gentler. More serious. Without ceremony, she steps forward and presses a folded piece of paper into his palm. “No questions,” she says before he can speak. “No spiraling. Just, go.”

He blinks at her. “What—”

“Jake,” she cuts in, softer now. “Don’t mess this up.” And then she’s gone, walking away like she just handed him something precious and trusts him not to drop it. His fingers tremble as he unfolds the note. Small handwriting. Familiar. Uneven. rooftop.

His heart kicks hard, sudden and bright. The rooftop. Of course it is. A laugh breaks out of him, quiet, breathless, disbelieving. Relief washes through him so strong it almost knocks him off balance. He doesn’t hesitate. He takes the stairs two at a time, legs burning, lungs protesting, every step lighter than the last. With each floor, the fear shifts, not disappearing, but sharpening into something clean. Hope.

Not the fragile kind. The determined kind.

Because for the first time since everything fell apart, he isn’t guessing. He isn’t assuming. He isn’t running away. He knows where you are. He knows what he feels. And when he reaches the door at the top, hand hovering over the handle, heart steady despite the chaos, he knows exactly what he’s going to say.

He bursts onto the rooftop like he ran the whole way up. Because he did. The door bangs shut behind him, echoing louder than it should, and for a second he just… folds. Hands on his knees, breath tearing in and out of his chest like he sprinted straight through his own fear. His hoodie clings to him, hair wrecked by wind and sweat and panic, eyes wild in a way that makes it painfully obvious he didn’t rehearse a single word of this.

He straightens too fast when he spots you. You’re by the railing. Arms folded tight. Spine straight. Guard fully, unmistakably up. The wind tugs at your hair, lifting strands across your face like the world itself is urging you to turn away from him. “Hey,” you say carefully. Not softly. Not coldly. Carefully.

That almost destroys him. “Hi—fuck—hi,” he says, immediately rubbing the back of his neck, pacing one step to the side before catching himself. He looks like a caged animal who suddenly realized the door is open and doesn’t know whether to bolt or beg. “Okay. Um. I—yeah. I’m bad at this. Like, criminally bad.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

He winces. “I deserved that. I know. Irony. Laugh later, please.”

He drags a hand down his face, eyes darting everywhere except you, like if he looks too directly he might lose his nerve. That stops you for half a second. He notices. He swallows, shoulders slumping like he’s already stripping away every defense he owns. “I’m not here to be charming,” he says quietly. “I’m not here to talk my way out of anything. I don’t get to do that anymore.”

You don’t respond. So he keeps going. “I messed up,” he says, blunt and unfiltered. “I didn’t just mess up, I hurt you. I assumed. I projected. I saw what I was afraid of instead of what was actually happening, and then I punished you for it.”

Your jaw tightens. Jake sees it and immediately lifts his hands, not surrender, not dramatics. Just honesty. “No, please, don’t shut down,” he says quickly. “You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t have to say anything. Just… let me say this without running away for once.” The wind hums between you. After a long beat, you give a small nod. It feels like mercy. He exhales, shaky and relieved and terrified all at once.

“I’ve spent my whole life leaving first,” he admits. “Before things get real. Before people can see the parts of me that don’t know what the hell they’re doing. And with you… being with you wasn’t scary because it might end.” His voice cracks. “It was scary because it mattered.”

You turn your head slightly, just enough that he knows you’re listening. “When I saw you with your ex,” he continues, voice rough, “I didn’t even ask. I didn’t trust you. I didn’t trust us. I just… decided the ending for both of us like I always do.” He laughs once, humorless, pained. “I tell myself I’m self-aware, but really I just run with better excuses.”

You finally look at him. Really look. His eyes are glassy. Red-rimmed. Open in a way you’ve never seen before. “I went back to partying because that’s what I know,” he says. “Noise. Distraction. People who don’t ask anything of me. And it felt empty. Every single time. I’d be in a room full of people and all I could think was, she would hate this. Or she’d make fun of me for this. Or she’d be laughing right now.” His voice drops. “I missed you in rooms you weren’t even in.”

Your throat tightens despite yourself. “I don’t get to ask you to trust me,” he says quietly. “I broke that. I don’t get to pretend my fear is an excuse. It’s just… a flaw I need to own.” He steps closer, slow, deliberate, but stops a full foot away, like he’s terrified of crossing a line he hasn’t earned the right to cross. “But I am in love with you,” he says. No jokes. No smile. “And I don’t want to be the guy who almost loved you because he was too scared to stay.”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “Jake, you don’t understand how much that hurt.”

“I do,” he says immediately. “I do now. I replayed your face over and over, the way you looked at me when I didn’t even give you the benefit of a question. And if you tell me you can’t do this again, I’ll accept it. I swear I will.” That’s new.

“But if there’s even a sliver of a chance,” he continues, voice breaking, “I’ll do the work. I’ll say the scary things out loud. I’ll stay when my instinct is to bolt. I’ll earn it, slowly. Properly.”

You turn away, gripping the railing hard, blinking rapidly as the city stretches out below you. You remember every lonely night. Every second-guess. Every time you wondered if you were asking for too much just by wanting him to stay. Jake doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t rush you. He just stands there, heart on the floor between you.

“I don’t want rules,” he adds softly. “I don’t want pretending. I don’t want to keep you at arm’s length so I feel safe. I want the version of you who calls me out. Who scares me a little. Who makes me better even when I don’t want to be.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I am… a lot.”

“I know,” he says instantly. “I want all of it.”

Silence again. But this one feels different. You turn back to him slowly. Your eyes search his face, not for charm, not for confidence, but for cracks. You find only sincerity.

“If you do this again,” you say quietly, voice trembling, “if you shut me out or assume the worst or leave without a conversation—”

“I won’t,” he says. Not rushed. Not desperate. Grounded. “And if I ever feel like I’m about to, I’ll tell you. Even if it makes me look weak. Especially then.”

You search his face for bravado. There is none. Only sincerity. Only Jake, unguarded, terrified, in love. You step closer. “God,” you murmur, “you’re such an idiot.”

Relief floods his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling through tears. “But you’re my idiot.”

His laugh breaks, half sob, half disbelief, as he pulls you into his arms, holding you like he’s afraid the world might try to take you away again. You step forward. Just one step. Jake doesn’t move until you’re close enough that he’s sure this is real. And this time, he stays. He doesn’t hesitate this time. No pulling away. No second-guessing. No fear winning at the last second.

Jake steps into your space and kisses you first. It’s not rushed, it’s intentional. Like he’s been holding this back for weeks and finally lets himself have it. His hand cups your jaw, thumb warm against your cheek as his lips slot against yours, slow and deep and sure.

You breathe out a soft sound before you can stop yourself. That’s all it takes. His other hand slides into your hair, fingers tangling there like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. He groans quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating straight through you, pulling you closer without even trying.

Your hands clutch at his hoodie, heart racing, every nerve lighting up. He kisses you like he means it this time. Like this isn’t practice. Like this isn’t pretend. Your breathing turns uneven, soft little exhales slipping between kisses, and Jake has to pull back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes dark, chest rising fast.

“Fuck,” he whispers, smiling like he’s overwhelmed in the best way. “You’re killing me.” You laugh softly, breathless. “You started it.” He leans in again, slower now, softer, pressing one more kiss to your lips, then your cheek, then your forehead like he’s grounding himself. This time, when he holds you, there’s no rule breaking. No guilt. No running. Just the certainty that whatever this is, it’s real.

His mouth finds your neck again almost immediately, warm and unhurried, lips trailing down the same path he’s already claimed tonight. You feel the gentle scrape of his teeth, the promise of another mark, and your breath hitches. “Not here,” you whisper, voice soft but firm, fingers threading through his hair to guide him back up.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t argue. Just pulls away with a low, amused hum, eyes dark and sparkling with mischief. In one smooth motion he scoops you up, arms under your thighs, your legs wrapping around his waist like they belong there. You let out a surprised laugh that turns into a half-hearted squeak when he starts walking toward the door.

“Hey—wait, my—”

The protest barely leaves your mouth before his hand comes down on your ass in a sharp, playful spank. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make heat bloom across your skin and a startled giggle burst out of you. “Shh,” he murmurs against your ear, grin wicked. “You’re coming with me.”

You bury your face in his neck, laughing into his skin as he strides across the rooftop, surprisingly balanced. The door clicks shut behind you, cool night air hitting your flushed cheeks as he strides toward his car parked haphazardly in the driveway. He sets you down only long enough to yank the passenger door open, but the second you’re in the seat he’s crowding in after you for one more quick, hungry kiss before jogging around to the driver’s side.

The engine roars to life. He throws it into gear. And then he floors it. The car surges forward, tires chirping against the pavement, and you both burst out laughing, wild, breathless, uncontrollable, like two high teenagers who just stole the night and don’t plan on giving it back. His right hand immediately finds your thigh, fingers splaying wide, possessive and warm through the thin fabric of whatever you’re still wearing (or not wearing). He squeezes once, then strokes upward in lazy, distracting circles, thumb brushing higher every few seconds just to make you squirm.

You’re both giggling like idiots. He’s speeding, way over the limit, taking corners a little too fast, windows cracked so the wind whips through your hair. Streetlights streak past in golden blurs. Every time you glance over at him, he’s already looking back, eyes bright, smile crooked and reckless and so stupidly in love it makes your chest ache.

“Slow down, you maniac,” you manage between laughs, but your hand covers his on your thigh, pressing it harder against you instead of pushing it away.

“Not a chance,” he shoots back, voice rough with joy. “Gotta get you home before I pull over and finish what I started.” You throw your head back against the seat, laughing louder, the sound mixing with the roar of the engine and the music he cranked up without asking. His thumb keeps tracing slow patterns on your inner thigh. Your fingers lace through his.

The city lights flash by. Your heart races faster than the car. And for once, neither of you is pretending this is anything less than everything. The second the front door clicks shut behind you, Jake doesn’t set you down. He keeps you wrapped around him, legs locked at his ankles, arms slung around his neck, and spins so your back slams against the cool wood of the door with just enough force to knock the breath out of you in the best way. Your laugh turns into a gasp as he presses himself flush against you, pinning you there with the solid weight of his body.

His mouth crashes into yours before you can even catch your breath, sloppy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and shared exhales. It’s not gentle. It’s starving. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers digging into his shoulders, tugging at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer like you’re trying to crawl inside his skin. He grinds up against you, slow and deliberate at first, then harder, his bulge thick and straining through his sweatpants, dragging delicious friction right where you need it. You moan into his mouth, hips rolling instinctively to meet every roll of his, the rhythm filthy and perfect. The door rattles faintly with every thrust of his hips.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans against your lips, voice wrecked and low. “Been thinking about this the whole drive.”

His hand slides down between your bodies, rough and sure, slipping under the waistband of whatever you’re still wearing, shorts, panties, doesn’t matter. Fingers find you slick and ready, and he doesn’t tease. He cups you fully, palm pressing against your clit while two fingers slide through your folds, rubbing slow, firm circles that make your thighs shake around his waist.

You whimper, head falling back against the door, and that’s when his mouth moves to your neck. He latches on immediately, hot, open-mouthed kisses turning into hard sucks, teeth scraping just enough to sting before he soothes with his tongue. He’s marking you again, deliberate and possessive, each pull of his lips drawing a fresh bruise to the surface while his fingers keep working you in steady, maddening strokes. Your hips buck into his hand, chasing more, and every time you moan his name it seems to spur him on harder.

“Love these sounds,” he mutters against your throat, voice vibrating through your skin. “Love how wet you get for me.” Another hard suck right below your ear, another bloom of purple blooming under his mouth, and you’re arching, grinding down on his bulge and his fingers at the same time, the door creaking under the force of it all. You’re both a mess already, lips swollen, breathing ragged, clothes half-askew, and you haven’t even made it past the entryway. He doesn’t seem to care. Neither do you.

Not when he’s kissing you like this, touching you like this, claiming you like this. The night’s just getting started. He bridal-carries you the rest of the way down the hall like you weigh nothing, strong arms secure under your thighs and back, your legs dangling over one elbow while your arms loop around his neck. Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently, and you can’t resist pressing open-mouthed kisses along the side of his throat, slow, deliberate, tasting the salt of his skin and the faint thrum of his pulse. Every time your lips brush the spot just below his ear, he lets out a low, rumbling groan that vibrates through his chest and into yours.

“Keep doing that,” he mutters, voice gravel-rough, “and we’re not making it to the bed.” You smile against his neck and nip lightly in answer, earning another deep sound and the way his grip tightens like he’s fighting not to drop you right there in the hallway.

He kicks the bedroom door open with his foot, strides inside, and lowers you onto the mattress with surprising gentleness, easing you down like something precious instead of the frantic heat you both carried through the front door. The sheets are cool against your back, a sharp contrast to the fever of his skin as he hovers over you for a second, breathing hard, eyes roaming your face like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment.

Then he moves. Hands quick but careful, he strips the rest of your clothes away, shirt tugged over your head, bra unhooked and tossed somewhere in the dark, shorts and panties sliding down your legs in one smooth pull. You’re bare beneath him now, completely exposed, and he doesn’t rush to cover you with his body.

He sits back on his heels between your thighs, hands braced on either side of your hips, and just… looks.

His gaze drags over you slowly, hungry, reverent, almost pained. Chest rising and falling fast. Eyes dark and glassy. He closes them for a beat, like the sight of you is too much, jaw clenching as he exhales a shaky curse. “Fuck,” he breathes, voice cracking on the word. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

He says it like a confession, like something he’s been carrying around for too long and can finally let out. His eyes open again, softer now, and he leans down, palms sliding up the outsides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin there. “Been thinking about you like this,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “spread out on my bed, looking at me like that… Jesus.”

One hand moves to your cheek, thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip while the other stays on your hip, grounding you both. He’s still fully dressed, sweatpants low on his hips, shirt rumpled, and the contrast makes the moment feel even more raw, more intimate. He lowers himself slowly, covering you with his weight, forearms bracketing your head as he kisses you deep and unhurried. When he pulls back just enough to speak, his forehead rests against yours. “I could look at you forever,” he whispers, the words so quiet they almost get lost between your breaths.

And the way he’s holding you, gentle but possessive, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go, says he means every single one.

He doesn’t rush. After stripping the last of your clothes, Jake settles between your thighs again, eyes never leaving yours as he lowers himself. His hands find yours first, fingers sliding between yours, lacing tight, palms pressing together like he needs the anchor. You squeeze back instinctively, and the small, intimate connection makes your chest tighten even before his mouth touches you.

Then he does. His tongue parts you slow and deliberate, a long, flat stroke from entrance to clit that has your back arching off the bed. He groans low against you at the first taste, the vibration shooting straight through your core. He doesn’t tease long, he dives in like he’s been starving for this, lips closing around your clit, sucking gently while his tongue flicks in perfect, relentless rhythm. All the while, his fingers stay locked with yours, grip firm, thumb stroking over your knuckles in soft, steady circles. It’s grounding. Tender. Filthy contrast to the way his mouth is devouring you.

When two of his fingers slide inside, thick, curling just right against that spot that makes your toes curl, he keeps the pace slow at first, letting you feel every inch, every drag. Then he picks up, matching the rhythm of his tongue, pumping deep and steady while he sucks harder on your clit.

Your moans turn broken, hips rolling up to meet him, and he lets you, encourages it, free hand sliding up to press your thigh wider, opening you more for him. The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and perfect, and every time you whimper his name, he answers with a muffled groan against your pussy.

You come hard, shattering, thighs clamping around his head, fingers squeezing his so tight it probably hurts. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away, just works you through it with softer licks, slower thrusts of his fingers, drawing out every aftershock until you’re trembling, oversensitive, gasping for air.

Only then does he lift his head, lips slick and swollen, eyes dark and glassy with want. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, soft, reverent, before rising up on his knees. He shoves his sweatpants down in one rough motion, kicking them off. His cock springs free, thick, flushed dark, the tip angry red and glistening with precome. He wraps a hand around himself, gives a few slow, firm pumps, spreading the slickness down his length while staring down at you like you’re the only thing that exists. “Fuck… look at you,” he breathes again, voice wrecked. “So pretty when you come for me.”

He leans over you, bracing one hand beside your head, the other guiding himself. The blunt head nudges your entrance, hot, slippery, teasing just the slightest stretch. He doesn’t push in yet. Just rocks there, letting you feel him, letting the anticipation build until you’re whimpering, hips lifting toward him. Eyes locked on yours, he murmurs, low and rough, “Tell me you want it, baby.” You don’t even hesitate. “I want it. I want you.”

That’s all he needs. He pushes in slow, inch by thick inch, stretching you open, filling you so perfectly your breath catches. When he’s buried to the hilt, hips flush against yours, he stills for a second, forehead dropping to yours, breathing hard. “God,” he rasps, voice trembling just a little. “You feel… so fucking good.”

Then he starts to move. He starts slow, deep, deliberate rolls of his hips that bury him to the hilt every time, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with a slick, satisfying drag that makes you both gasp into each other’s mouths. It’s pounding, yes, hard enough that the headboard taps the wall in steady rhythm, hard enough that your thighs tremble around his waist and your nails rake down his back, but it’s so much more than that.

It’s making love. Every thrust feels like he’s trying to fuse himself to you, like he’s pouring everything unspoken into the way he moves inside you. His forehead stays pressed to yours between kisses, breaths mingling, eyes locked when they’re not fluttering shut from the intensity.

He kisses you constantly. Deep, open-mouthed ones that swallow your moans. Soft, lingering ones against the corner of your mouth when you’re both catching air. Quick, desperate pecks when the pleasure spikes too sharp and he needs to ground himself. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, the tip of your nose, then crashes back to your lips like he can’t stay away for more than a second.

“God, baby,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice wrecked and thick with emotion. “You feel… everything.”

One hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threaded through your hair, holding you close so he can kiss you deeper while the other slides down to grip your hip, angling you just right so every stroke hits that perfect spot inside you. You arch up to meet him, legs tightening around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him harder, deeper. The pace builds, faster, more insistent, but never frantic. It’s purposeful. Reverent. Like he’s savoring every second of being connected to you this completely.

You kiss him through your rising moans, tongues sliding, teeth grazing, sharing every shaky breath. When your climax starts to coil tight, you whimper his name against his lips, and he answers by kissing you harder, swallowing the sound, hips snapping with more force now, chasing both your releases together. “Come with me,” he breathes into your mouth, voice trembling. “Please, want to feel you.” You do. The wave crashes over you at the same time it hits him, your walls fluttering and clenching around him, pulling a broken groan from his throat as he buries himself deep and comes hard, pulsing inside you, hips stuttering through the aftershocks. He doesn’t pull out right away.

He stays there, softening slowly, still kissing you, lazy, sweet, exhausted presses of lips while your heartbeats slow together. His hand strokes your hair back from your damp forehead. Another soft kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth again, like he’s addicted to the taste of you. When he finally eases out and rolls to the side, he pulls you with him, tucking you against his chest, legs tangled, arms wrapped tight like he’s never letting go. No words. Just the quiet sound of your breathing, the gentle brush of his lips against your hair every few seconds, and the unspoken truth settling over both of you like a blanket: This isn’t casual anymore. It never really was. And neither of you wants it to be.

He stays buried inside you for a long, quiet moment after you both come down, breathing together, hearts hammering in tandem. Then he eases out slowly, careful, like he’s afraid of breaking the spell. He doesn’t rush to move away, instead he gathers you close, rolling so you’re tucked against his chest, legs tangled, skin still flushed and damp. Jake presses the softest kiss to your forehead. Then another. And another. Slow, lingering ones that feel like promises. His lips trail down to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your eye, everywhere he can reach without letting you go. “You okay, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked in the best way. His hand strokes down your spine, gentle, soothing, then back up again. “Need anything? Water? A blanket? Me to never let you go?”

You smile against his collarbone, too blissed-out to speak right away, and he takes that as answer enough. He shifts just enough to reach the nightstand, grabs a soft towel he must’ve left there earlier, and starts cleaning you up with careful, reverent touches. No hurry. No awkwardness. Just tender swipes, his thumb brushing your inner thigh like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

When he’s done, he pulls the covers over both of you, cocooning you in warmth. Then his hands find your shoulders, strong fingers kneading slow, deep circles into the muscles there, working out the tension you didn’t even realize you were holding. He moves to your back next, palms gliding down either side of your spine, thumbs pressing into the small of your back in perfect pressure. Every touch is attentive, caring, like he’s trying to pour every ounce of softness he has into you.

You melt under his hands, eyes fluttering closed. He keeps going, massaging your arms, your hands, even threading his fingers through yours to rub gentle circles into your palms. The whole time he’s murmuring little things against your hair—“You’re so beautiful,” “You did so good for me,” “I’ve got you”—quiet, almost to himself, like he can’t help it. After a while, when your breathing has slowed and the room feels impossibly still, he presses one more kiss to your forehead. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, really look, eyes soft, vulnerable, a little scared in the most honest way. He swallows. Takes a breath. “So…” His voice is quiet, almost shy. His thumb traces the curve of your cheek. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

The question hangs there, simple and huge. No games. No pretense. Just Jake, shirtless, hair a mess, heart on full display, asking the thing you’ve both been circling for months. His eyes search yours, hopeful and terrified all at once, like he’s bracing for whatever comes next. But the way he’s still holding you, still touching you like you’re the most precious thing in his world, already tells you the answer he’s hoping for. And the way your heart is pounding, the way every part of you feels safe and wanted and seen in his arms, tells you the answer you want to give.

“Like that’s a question.” You scoff, pulling Jake in for a kiss. You feel his lips curl up against yours as he slides the blanket over both of you.

The words hang between you, soft and serious in the quiet glow of his bedside lamp. Jake’s still holding you close, one hand lazily tracing circles on your bare back, the other tucked under your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops touching you. You can’t help the slow, teasing grin that spreads across your face. “So…” you murmur, voice playful, dragging the word out. “Big bad Jake, the guy who used to have girls blowing up his phone every weekend… officially a simp now?” He lets out a low, breathy laugh that rumbles through his chest and into yours. Doesn’t even try to deny it. Just pulls you tighter, nose brushing your temple. “Yeah,” he says simply. “Hundred percent. Full simp status. No take-backs.” You laugh softly, poking his side. “Look at you. Deleting dating apps, carrying me around like a princess, asking me to be your girlfriend with those big puppy eyes. Who even are you?”

He catches your teasing finger, brings it to his lips and kisses the tip. “You ruined me,” he says, voice dropping quieter, more serious now. His eyes find yours in the dim light, steady and unguarded. “And I’m glad.” The teasing dies on your tongue. Something warm and overwhelming blooms in your chest instead. He shifts, rolling you both so you’re lying on top of him, his arms caging you gently against his chest. His thumb brushes your bottom lip. “I was never really a playboy, you know,” he whispers, like it’s a secret he’s been keeping even from himself. “Just… waiting. For someone who made everything else feel like noise. For you.”

You swallow hard, blinking against the sudden sting behind your eyes. Before you can say anything, he reaches over to the nightstand, grabs his phone, and unlocks it one-handed. You watch as he opens the folder of dating apps, ones you know he hasn’t touched in months anyway, and starts deleting them. One by one. No hesitation. No dramatic speech. Just quiet, final taps until the screen is empty. When the last one’s gone, he tosses the phone somewhere across the bed and pulls you down for a slow, deep kiss. “Done,” he murmurs against your mouth. “No more waiting.”

Later, after more lazy kisses, after you’ve both caught your breath again, you slip out of bed on wobbly legs, claiming you need water. Instead you spot his favorite black hoodie slung over the chair, still smelling faintly of his cologne and rain from earlier. You steal it without asking. Pull it over your head, sleeves swallowing your hands, hem hitting mid-thigh. When you turn around, he’s leaning against the headboard watching you, eyes soft and stupidly fond. “Looks better on you,” he says. You crawl back into bed, straddling his lap, hoodie bunching up around your hips. He immediately slides his hands underneath, warm palms settling on your bare skin like they belong there. The next morning, when you finally leave his place, hand in hand, fingers laced tight, you don’t even make it ten steps into the usual coffee shop before chaos erupts.

Your mutual friends are already there, sprawled across the corner booth. The second they spot you walking in together, properly holding hands, the table explodes. “No fucking way—” “Are you serious?!” “FINALLY—” Someone (probably Jay) actually screams into his coffee cup. Another (definitely Heeseung) starts fake-crying dramatically into Sunghoon’s shoulder while Sunghoon just smirks like he knew this was coming since day one.

Jake doesn’t even blush. Just pulls you closer to his side, chin resting on top of your head, and flips them all off with his free hand. “Shut up,” he says, but he’s grinning so wide it’s useless. “She’s mine now. Deal with it.” You bury your face in his chest, laughing, hoodie sleeves flapping as you try to hide. Later, when the teasing dies down and everyone’s distracted arguing over what to order, Jake ducks his head, lips brushing your ear. “Still think I’m a simp?” he whispers. You turn just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” you whisper back. “My simp.” He hums, pleased, and tightens his arm around your waist. “Good,” he says simply. And that’s it. No more rules. No more pretending. Just you and Jake, ruined for anyone else, and perfectly okay with it. It was crazy. Stupid. But it was love. Crazy, Stupid, Love

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