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the golden boy becomes the fool ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part five]

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

word count: 22.3k words (i am so sorry)

summary: jake seresin was the golden boy, then there was you, the fool. he had everything—charm, swagger, a future carved out in medals and glory. you were the quiet one, the weird one, the girl he used and tossed aside like a joke. years passed. ranks changed. you rose. he stayed the same, until suddenly he didn’t. thrown back together in the sky and on the ground, bitterness turned to tension, and tension lit a match neither of you were ready to put out. old wounds were reopened, truths finally spoken, and under texas stars, it wasn’t the fool who broke—it was the boy who begged. and now everyone’s asking the same thing: how the hell did the golden boy become the fool?

warnings: angst, unresolved tension, sexual tension, emotional monologues, past bullying, mutual pining, late-night realizations, texas farm setting, childhood trauma, muddy chaos, jake seresin being painfully in love, emotional breakdowns, slow burn, redemption arc, accidental co-showering, stubborn idiots in love, soft!jake, rogue being a baddie, found family feels, one (1) dog named bingo, and a swing set that saw everything. oh, and did we mention? angst.

notes: finally we are in the last part. to be honest, this was supposed to be just two parts and look where we are… part five. thank you so much for the love, for screaming with me in the tags, for the asks, for everything. i cried writing this. like actually. and oh, did i mention that we will have an epilogue? yeah. buckle up again, babe. it ain’t over just yet

part one , part two , part three , part four

masterlist

your call sign is rogue.

- Jake -

Somewhere between Rogue’s final words in the boardroom and the low hum of the air conditioning unit above, Jake started drifting. Not physically — no, his boots were still planted, his arms folded like always, that cocky lean still balanced just right. But in his mind? He was spiraling. Because now, now it was starting to dawn on him: this wasn’t about petty ranks, or her showing off, or the universe punishing him for being an asshole once upon a time. This was about how badly he’d fucked up, and how thoroughly she’d risen from it.

At first, he told himself she was bluffing. That she couldn’t possibly be that good. That maybe this was still the nerdy girl who lit up when he remembered her birthday and blushed when he asked if her puppy was still alive. Then she started talking tactics, commanding a room full of aviators and admirals like it was second nature. And it hit him like Gs to the chest — this was not some lucky rise. This was calculated, earned, forged in fire and fury. Meanwhile, he’d spent the years coasting on talent and charm, grinning his way out of reprimands and leaving his wingmen to hang when it counted.

Then came the real gut punch: the memory of her birthday. Not the part with the cake or the puppy. No — the look on her face when her parents smiled at him. The look that said this is the closest you’ll ever get to mattering to me. And he’d still walked away. Walked away like she was nothing but a sweet girl who wanted too much, too fast — when in reality, she was everything he could’ve hoped to become. And he humiliated her.

Back then, it was so easy. He made jokes at her expense because they made his friends laugh. He forgot her name on purpose just to watch her cover up the hurt with a smile. He told himself she wasn’t important — but only because he didn’t want to admit that she was. And now, here she was: outranking him, outflying him, outclassing him in every possible way. Meanwhile, he was sitting in a debriefing room, unusually silent, drawing side glances from Fanboy and Phoenix like he might be having a stroke.

Jake didn’t know when the silence stopped being peaceful and started feeling like drowning. The squad was talking around him now — soft jokes, nervous energy, half-assed optimism — but it all sounded far away. Because in his head, her voice echoed louder than the rest. The calm command of it. The sharp edges hidden beneath the steel. The way she said, “I was just warming up.” And he couldn’t stop wondering — how much of her command came from pain? How much had he put there?

And worst of all… if this was revenge?God help them all.

But what if it wasn’t? What if she never needed revenge — because she won?

And yet, part of him still clung to denial like it was his last parachute. Because if this wasn’t revenge, then it was worse. If this wasn’t personal — if she wasn’t targeting him — then he didn’t matter at all. That would mean she wasn’t even thinking about what he’d done. That she had risen without him in the picture. That he was just… collateral.

The truth burned more than he wanted to admit.

He’d always been the guy. The one everyone remembered. The one who smiled too wide, flew too fast, talked too much. The one who could get away with anything — until now. Until her. Rogue. The name echoed in his skull, rough and wild. He remembered the way she used to sit quietly, the way she’d light up at every crumb of attention he tossed her. How easy it was to take her for granted. Now, she didn’t flinch when he spoke. She didn’t chase. She didn’t even blink.

And yeah — fuck, maybe that’s what rattled him the most.

She was steady. Cold as steel. Calculated, poised, terrifying in her control. Meanwhile, he couldn’t get through a single day without watching her hands, waiting for a glance, parsing every word she said like it held some secret message just for him. But it never did. Not anymore.

He started wondering when the scales had tipped. Maybe it was during the dogfight — when she’d pulled that impossible maneuver, practically bent the laws of physics, and left him choking on altitude. Or maybe it was earlier. That moment in the hangar, when she looked at him like a stranger. That moment when her voice dropped to a whisper and she said, “You were trying to keep up. I was just warming up.”

God. She hadn’t just outgrown him, she’d left him in the dust.

And what stung wasn’t just the pride. It was the sudden awareness that everything she was — everything she’d become — had happened without him. She had built this legacy on the bones of what he broke, and now she wore it like armor. Commanded fleets. Designed the Gauntlet. Wore the Navy’s respect like it was stitched into her uniform. And he?

He was still trying to figure out how the hell he lost her before he ever even had her.

Meanwhile, the squad kept throwing him glances, poking him for reactions he didn’t give. Rooster said something, probably another crack about how hot she was. Jake didn’t even flinch. His mind was too far away, somewhere between regret and awe, caught in the eye of a storm that had her name written all over it.

He’d laughed at her once — humiliated her in front of friends. Told her she was just some PoliSci nerd who got lucky being around someone like him. Now he was the lucky one, just to breathe the same air. And the worst part? She didn’t seem angry. Didn’t seem wounded.

She seemed finished. Finished with him. Finished with the memory. Finished with needing anything from Jake Seresin. And that terrified him more than anything else in the world.

He didn’t hear when Payback called his name the first time. Barely registered it the second. It wasn’t until Phoenix threw a pen at his chest that he blinked, jolted back into the present like a man surfacing from deep water.

“Jesus, Seresin,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

He wanted to laugh. If only she knew.

Because truthfully, he had. She was flesh and blood, standing tall in that flight suit — but she was also a phantom of every stupid thing he’d ever said, every choice he couldn’t take back. And now she haunted him in the worst possible way: by thriving. By being better. By being so far above him it felt like a cosmic joke.

Jake didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Not without unraveling.

He just leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the debriefing screen even though nothing was playing. He didn’t know how to explain it — the way guilt had sunk in slow and mean, like a knife twisting over years. Back then, he’d thought she’d bounce back. Thought she’d grow out of it, forget about him, find someone more her speed. Not...turn into someone who made admirals hold their breath. Not outrank him. Not be the best goddamn pilot he’d ever gone up against.

He wasn’t used to losing. Not in the air. Not in life. But this? This wasn’t losing. This was a reckoning.

And what made it worse — what really clawed at the insides of him — was the realization that she wasn’t trying to make him feel it. She wasn’t looking at him with revenge in her eyes. She hadn’t dragged the squad through hell just to watch him squirm.

No. She was just doing her job. Brilliantly. Mercilessly. Like she was born to wear command on her shoulders. Like he’d never mattered at all.

And that was the twist of the knife.

Because if she had hated him, maybe he could’ve worked with that. Anger, he could handle. Fury, he could fight. But indifference? That kind of silence? It was the loudest thing he’d ever heard.

So he sat there, quiet. Jaw clenched. Shoulders tense. While the others whispered and stretched and griped about the Gauntlet, Jake was somewhere else. Lost in a memory of a birthday candle, a puppy named Bingo, and the girl who had once looked at him like he hung the stars — back when he barely even knew her name.

And now? Now the whole damn Navy knew hers.

Rogue. Hell of a call sign. Hell of a woman.

And hell, Jake Seresin wasn’t sure if he’d ever stop paying for the day he decided she wasn’t worth remembering. But where the hell did she go?

That sunshine girl — the one with messy notebooks and a smile that could power a damn jet engine — where did she vanish to?

Jake pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, willing the headache behind his brow to quiet down. His teammates were still talking, vague mutters about the next flight schedule, about fuel consumption ratios, about anything but her. But for him, there was nothing else.

Because when he looked at Rogue — Commander Rogue — he didn’t just see the sharp angles and medals and ruthless authority. He saw echoes. Shadows. Glimpses of someone who used to bake brownies for old folks and let him copy her social science notes just because he’d grinned at her once. God, she was so easy to please back then, wasn’t she? All it took was his attention — even if it came wrapped in mockery, even if it was half-hearted, even if it hurt.

And now?

Now she looked through him like he was just another report on her desk. Just another cocky pilot who needed to be broken down and rebuilt.

Jake stared at the faint scuff marks on his boots, letting the silence stretch.

Maybe that sunshine girl didn’t disappear. Maybe she’d been scorched to ash. Burned out by the very heat of his cruelty, until all that was left was steel. Maybe he’d looked at gold and called it dirt. Maybe he’d clipped her wings, thinking she’d never fly without him, and she turned around and soared so far above that now he was the one grounded.

He didn’t deserve her warmth. He never had. But damn it — he missed it.

He missed the way she used to tilt her head when she talked about theories he didn’t understand. He missed the way her voice cracked just a little when she got too excited, the way her eyes sparkled when she believed in something. And even if he’d never admitted it back then, he missed how she believed in him.

Jake hadn’t realized how dark his world had gotten until she walked back in — not with her sun, but with a storm.

She was lightning now. And maybe that made sense.

Because sunshine forgives.

Lightning remembers.

The debriefing room was thick with tension and silence, stale air and the kind of fatigue that only came from barely scraping through a day like Hell Day. The squad sat in various degrees of slouch and stretch, groaning and muttering like overworked soldiers in a trench. Jake hadn’t said a word since the last evaluation — not even when Fanboy elbowed him gently and whispered some sarcastic remark about being emotionally constipated. He just sat there, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded, thoughts swimming miles away from this room and the people in it.

Then the door opened.

He didn’t even look up at first — probably Hondo coming to collect one of them or Mav stepping in to remind them to hydrate. But the sound of boots, the tempo of those confident steps, pulled at something in Jake’s chest like a thread unraveling from old cloth. He lifted his head, just in time to catch a flash of black flight suits — Rogue, Ruin, and Jinx — walking past the debriefing room window. Their faces were unreadable, all business and command, and there was something in the set of Rogue’s shoulders that made Jake’s body move before his brain even caught up.

He shoved out of his chair with such force it squeaked across the tile. He didn’t excuse himself, didn’t check if he stepped on someone’s boot — and based on Payback’s startled grunt, he probably did. He nearly tripped on the step down from the raised platform but caught himself with a sharp curse under his breath. The squad stared, confused and half-concerned, as Jake threw open the door and bolted into the hallway.

“Commander Rogue!” he called out, voice cracking slightly with urgency.

The three of them stopped.

Rogue turned first, her expression unreadable, eyes sharp under the harsh fluorescent lights. Ruin raised a brow, exchanging a look with Jinx, who just crossed his arms and waited.

Jake jogged toward them, slowing only when he was close enough to speak without yelling. His breath came in fast, uneven pulls, and he hadn’t even thought about what to say. All he knew was that if he didn’t talk to her now, if he let her slip away one more time, he’d lose something he couldn’t name.

“Can we talk?” he asked, trying to sound composed, failing miserably.

Rogue didn’t answer right away. She glanced at her watch, then looked over her shoulder, clearly weighing something. “We have somewhere to be,” she said, her tone clipped but not cold — efficient.

“Please,” Jake added, and that word came out quieter, almost desperate. “Just five minutes.”

Ruin let out a low hum and tilted his head toward Jinx. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” Jinx replied, already stepping back.

“We’ll give you the room,” Ruin said to Rogue, then cast Jake a warning glance — not threatening, but definitely cautious. Like he was letting Jake borrow something precious on the condition that he didn’t break it.

Once the two men turned away, Jake followed Rogue in silence as she led the way down the corridor, toward the temporary officer’s office the Big Three had been using since their arrival. Her strides were purposeful, heels of her boots clicking softly against the polished floor. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. And for the first time in his life, Jake Seresin wasn’t sure if he should.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, the kind that sounded louder when tension clung to the air. Rogue walked ahead, moving toward the desk at the far end of the room, her posture still poised and unreadable. Jake lingered just inside the doorway, blinking as he took it all in — the quiet space that somehow screamed the presence of three elite operators even in their absence.

It wasn’t a sterile office. It was lived in.

To his left, a small side table had three neatly stacked folders, the corners dog-eared from frequent flipping. One had a cracked navy emblem, the kind only handed out at high-clearance briefings. Above it hung a photo — an unfiltered snapshot of the Big Three: Rogue in the middle, standing tall between Ruin and Jinx. All three were in flight suits, helmets under their arms, the open sky behind them.

Their grins were wide, real, the kind captured between war and silence. Rogue had her sunglasses shoved into her hair, and the wind had caught her braid just enough to give it movement. Jake stared at it longer than he should’ve.

Near the couch — a beat-up leather one that sagged slightly on one side — were two hoodies tossed lazily over the armrest. One read “Death Before Dishonor” in cracked white letters. The other had Get Wrecked stitched in scarlet red on the chest, clearly Ruin’s sense of humor bleeding through.

On the coffee table sat an abandoned protein bar wrapper and an energy drink can with its tab popped but barely sipped. A flight helmet sat beside it — Rogue’s. Her call sign, ROGUE, stenciled across the side in thick matte letters, scuffed and worn at the edges.

Jake's eyes trailed along the shelves. No dust. Books on naval tactics, missile systems, aerospace combat strategy — well-used. A sticky note stuck out of one of them, the handwriting tiny and precise. He couldn’t read what it said from here.

And pinned to the board by the desk was another photo. It wasn’t labeled, but Jake recognized the location — somewhere in the Middle East, by the look of the sand and the sky. The three of them again, this time wearing gear heavier than regulation. Bulletproof vests. Goggles pushed to their heads. War paint smudged and smeared with sweat. Rogue stood at the front, chin lifted. The leader. Always had been, hadn’t she?

Jake swallowed hard. This wasn’t some office thrown together for convenience. This was their ground. Their turf. It was built off years of flying, of bleeding, of trusting each other with their lives over and over again. He was just a guest here. A trespasser with a fractured past and guilt-riddled shoes.

She didn’t tell him to sit. She didn’t offer him water or some smooth way to start the conversation. She simply turned, leaned back against the desk, crossed her arms, and looked at him with unreadable eyes — the same way she had that night she’d left him speechless on the hangar floor.

“Talk,” she said, not cruelly. Not kindly either.

Jake stared back, hands clenching at his sides. God, where the hell did he even begin?

Jake hesitated, the words stalling at the back of his throat like they were jammed behind the pressure of years unspoken. Rogue didn’t blink. Her gaze was a scalpel, sharp and still, dissecting him before he even opened his mouth. She didn’t need to raise her voice — her silence already screamed volumes.

“I just…” He exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and shifted on his feet like a guilty schoolboy caught cheating on a test. “If this is about what happened back then—”

“It’s not,” she cut in, calmly. Coldly.

Her voice was even, professional, clipped in the way only officers who’ve given too many post-op debriefings know how to deliver. She didn’t flinch, didn’t frown, didn’t soften. She simply corrected him like he was misreading a report.

Jake’s jaw twitched. “It’s not?”

“No.” She stood upright now, uncrossing her arms and stepping closer — but not intimately. She didn’t let him forget where they stood. “You think this is some kind of personal vendetta, Seresin? That I clawed my way through the ranks, designed an entire Navy-certified evaluation gauntlet, and got assigned command on a strategic permanent squadron initiative just to settle an old score?”

He opened his mouth — a reflex — but couldn’t say a damn thing.

She didn’t wait.

“I am here because I earned it. Because I bled for it. Because I sat through mission after mission where people didn’t come back, and I made sure the next ones did. That’s why Warlock signed off. That’s why Cyclone listened. That’s why Maverick respected my word when I said I’d take the lead.”

Jake swallowed, shoulders tensing. “I’m not saying you didn’t—”

“But you are.” She narrowed her eyes. “By assuming this is about you, you’re reducing years of work, risk, loss, and leadership into a high school grudge. You’re disrespecting me. You’re disrespecting Jinx. Ruin. Every damn WSO and pilot who built this alongside me.”

The words hit like thunder — quiet, steady, but impossible to ignore. Jake felt himself shrinking under the weight of them.

“And just so we’re clear,” she went on, voice lowering, more controlled now — like a storm sharpening to a blade, “even if I wanted revenge, I would never risk my integrity, my crew, or my career for it. Unlike you, I don’t use people as stepping stones when I’m running scared.”

Jake flinched. It was subtle, but Rogue caught it. She always caught everything.

“I’m not here to ruin Maverick. Or the Dagger Squad. I fought for them. I reviewed every file, every hour of flight data. You think you’re the only one who cared if they stayed? If this squadron was approved, I fought for it harder than any of you realize.” Her voice cracked slightly — not with emotion, but with restrained fury. “You don't know how many times I had to defend this program. And not once — not once — did I use you as my reason for being here.”

Jake finally found his voice, quiet and thin. “Then why did you say yes to this talk?”

“Because Jinx and Ruin would have called you a coward for running after me in the hallway,” she said, dryly. “And because part of me hoped… maybe you’ve changed.”

She looked at him — really looked — and something unreadable passed through her expression, too fast to name.

But then it was gone, and she stepped back behind the desk.

“You’ve had your say, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

“No,” Jake said, louder this time — steadier. “I’m not leaving.”

Rogue’s hand froze halfway toward a folder on her desk, her fingers curling slowly as if resisting the urge to throw it at his head. Her brows lifted, that calm mask cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of disbelief — or maybe it was disgust.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I’m not leaving,” Jake repeated, jaw tight, eyes fixed on hers. “Not until we settle this.”

“What exactly do you think there is to settle?” she snapped, voice sharp now — the edge of command laced with a storm of personal fury she had long tried to bury under layers of discipline. “You think this is unfinished business? That I owe you some kind of closure? After what you did?”

Jake blinked. “We never talked. Not really. I—I didn’t know what you were going through—”

“And you never asked!” she cut him off, stepping out from behind the desk so fast the chair rolled back with a soft groan of its wheels. “You never once asked me what was happening. Not when you humiliated me in front of your friends. Not when I handed you your damn project so you wouldn’t fail your class. Not when you let people mock me like I was some punchline.”

Her voice trembled on that last word — not from weakness, but from years of venom held tightly in the back of her throat. Jake took a step back, stunned, like he hadn’t expected her to still be carrying all of it. As if his sins were something time alone could wash away.

“You really think I’ve been up at night plotting revenge on you?” she laughed bitterly. “Jake, I forgot you for years. Or tried to. I erased you because it hurt too much to remember what it felt like to believe someone saw me… and then watch them toss me aside like I was nothing.”

“I never meant to—”

“You did mean to.” Her voice dropped. “You wanted your friends to laugh. You wanted to feel cool. And I was just… collateral.”

Jake’s mouth parted. The words he’d rehearsed, the apologies he’d thought might help, all died in his throat. Because she was right. And now, standing in front of her — not sunshine anymore, not soft and sweet, but steel and thunder in a commander's uniform — he realized that even if she forgave him, he’d never stop being ashamed of who he’d been.

But shame didn’t stop his anger from flaring. “Then why the hell did you fight for us to stay, huh? Why go through all this if you don’t even give a damn anymore?”

“Because I do give a damn,” she hissed. “Just not about you. This isn’t about your guilt, or your closure, or your redemption arc. I fought for Maverick because he deserves better. I fought for that squad because they have potential, even if they’re reckless idiots. I didn’t do this to prove something to you—I did it because it’s my job.”

She stepped closer, her voice low now, seething. “So don’t you dare stand here and twist my work into some schoolyard drama you never outgrew.”

Jake stared at her — lips parted, breath heavy, like he was about to say something else.

But Rogue just looked at him like he was a memory she’d already burned once.

Then, flatly: “Are we done?”

Jake didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, like the words were caught somewhere between pride and regret, tangled in barbed wire he didn’t know how to pull free without bleeding for it. Then he exhaled, sharp and quiet, and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“No,” he said finally, voice rough. “We’re not done. Not until I say what I came here to say.”

Rogue gave him a look—dry, sharp, dangerous. But she didn’t speak. She folded her arms and waited, a soldier in command, daring him to step wrong.

Jake let out a shaky laugh, eyes not quite meeting hers. “You think I don’t know I was a dick back then? Because I do. I know it every time someone looks at me like I’m some goddamn hero, and all I can think about is the girl who smiled at me like I was worth something—and how I spat on that.”

He stepped closer, the weight of his boots heavy on the office floor. “I was stupid. I was selfish. I thought you were just this weird, sweet, nerdy girl who’d get over it. But you didn’t. And I didn’t. And now you’re standing here in a uniform that outranks mine, giving orders, saving asses—including mine—and all I can think is, damn. I deserve this.”

He paused, chest heaving.

“But I don’t want them to pay for it. Not the squad. Not Mav. They didn’t screw up—you didn’t screw them over. I did. And if this whole thing is about revenge, if it’s some twisted full-circle karma, then fine. I’ll take it. I’ll walk away. Hell, I’ll quit the damn Navy if that’s what you want.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. Like a man who finally saw the ruin he left behind and realized too late it had bloomed into something unstoppable.

“But don’t punish the rest of them because I was an asshole.”

There it was—Jake Seresin, laid bare. Not smirking. Not cocky. Just raw and scared and desperate to fix a wound he never thought would still be bleeding.

Rogue didn’t flinch. Not once. She stood there, spine like steel beneath her flight suit, arms still folded like she was holding herself back from hurling something—maybe the truth, maybe a fist.

“Oh, so now you want to fix it?” Her voice was low, razor-sharp. “Now that your cushy little ego is bruised, you suddenly care about consequences? Jake, you weren’t just an asshole. You made me the punchline. You played with someone who would’ve walked into fire for you.”

Jake opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a hand, like a blade. “You humiliated me, in front of your friends. In front of myself. You knew how I looked at you. You let me do your work. You let me believe you cared.”

She was breathing harder now, eyes burning—not just with anger, but betrayal, exhaustion, something bone-deep and old. “And now, what, you want a neat little bow on it? A ‘sorry’? A ‘let’s not ruin this for everyone else’? I have news for you, Lieutenant—this is my job. I don’t play god. I don’t hold grudges over people’s careers. That’s you. That was always you.”

Jake flinched at that—visibly, quietly. But she didn’t stop.

“I didn’t design the Gauntlet for revenge. I did it because I’ve nearly died out there. Because I've watched people burn up in the sky because someone wasn’t ready, someone wasn’t honest, someone thought charm was a substitute for leadership. So don’t you dare stand here and ask me to go easy on a team that still flies like cowboys with something to prove.”

Then, softer—but only slightly, and somehow more terrifying for it—she said, “This isn’t about you anymore.”

Jake clenched his jaw. “It was never about me, huh? Then why are you still this angry?”

Her silence was immediate and blistering.

When she did speak, her voice was calm. “Because I expected better. Because once upon a time, I thought you were going to be great. And now all I see is someone still trying to crawl out of the wreckage he made.”

Jake stared at her, speechless.

And then—

“I’m not doing this,” she muttered, pushing off the desk and heading for the door. “You want to talk like adults, you know where to find me. But this pity parade? This guilt-fueled performance?” She shook her head. “Spare me.”

She reached the door, hand on the handle.

“Wait.”

His voice cracked. Not loud, not sharp—just hoarse and human. And that alone made her pause. Just for a breath.

Jake crossed the space between them in two strides. Not to block the door, not to touch her—he didn’t dare—but just enough to make her stop. Just enough to say it.

“I’m sorry.”

She blinked. Not like she was surprised. More like she was exhausted. Like she’d waited years to hear those words and now that they were finally spoken, they rang hollow in the air.

Rogue turned, slow and deliberate. Her eyes swept over him, scanning for the trick, the loophole, the out. Because Jake Seresin never just said sorry. Not without a catch. Not without a punchline.

And yet—there it was. No grin. No wink. Just a man who looked like he’d finally run out of ways to pretend he hadn’t wrecked everything that mattered.

“For what?” she asked.

He faltered. “For... everything.”

“That’s not an apology,” she snapped. “That’s a blanket statement. That’s what people say when they want to be absolved without being accountable. So try again, Lieutenant. What exactly are you apologizing for?”

Jake swallowed. His throat felt tight, raw.

“I’m sorry for using you,” he said. “For making you think you mattered to me when I didn’t even have the guts to admit you did. I’m sorry for letting other people laugh at you, for laughing with them. I’m sorry I was a coward who needed someone like you to lift me up, and the second you did, I kicked the ladder out from under you.”

Her arms had dropped to her sides now, fingers flexing slightly. But her expression didn’t soften. Not even a little.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize who you were until you were already gone,” Jake finished, quieter now. “And I’m sorry I still think about you every damn day, even when I know I don’t deserve to.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone. Rogue stood still, unreadable, a statue carved out of every moment he’d let her down.

Then, finally, she spoke. “You don’t get to apologize and expect forgiveness like it’s some kind of trade.”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t expect anything.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I’m not giving it.”

Then, as if she were brushing the entire moment off her shoulders like dust, she stepped toward the door again. “And don’t worry about dinner tomorrow,” she added, almost too casually. “It’s totally fine if you don’t come. Really.”

Her hand hit the door handle. No hesitation this time. And with her back still to him, she said, “I’ll see you in the sky, Hangman.”

The door closed behind her, and Jake was left standing in the space where a second chance used to be.

Jake walked the corridor like a man returning from war—shoulders squared, boots heavy, jaw set so tight it could’ve cracked granite. His flight suit felt too stiff, too hot, like it was suffocating him from the inside out. Every footstep echoed in his ears louder than it should’ve. He didn’t look back. Not once. Not after the door closed behind her. Not after she said his call sign like it was just another name on her checklist. No emotion, no hint of what he used to mean. Just Hangman. Just another damn pilot.

By the time he reached the debriefing room, the sound of the others inside bled into the hall—low murmurs, the scrape of boots against tile, someone cursing under their breath about the heat. He paused for just a second outside the door. One beat. Two. Then, with a sharp inhale, he threw on the only armor he had left: a smirk.

Jake swaggered into the room like nothing happened. Like his heart wasn’t a bruised peach inside his chest. His chin was up, his grin sharp as ever, and when Coyote shot him a look—half worried, half suspicious—he just flashed a wink and dropped into his seat.

“Miss me?” he drawled, leaning back like he hadn’t just been torn apart in a quiet office two halls over.

Across the room, Rooster gave him a narrowed stare, but didn’t push. Bob glanced at him and then at Phoenix, silently asking a question neither of them knew how to phrase. Even Fanboy and Halo had gone quiet, watching him like he might combust if touched too hard.

At the front, Maverick stood with his arms folded over his chest, Hondo just to his right. The air shifted when they noticed Jake’s return, but Mav didn’t comment. Instead, he cleared his throat, stepped forward, and nodded once, firm.

“Alright,” he said, tone clipped. “I just finished a conversation with Commander Rogue.”

Jake’s smirk twitched. He didn’t move otherwise.

“She reviewed every maneuver, every decision, every comm log. Every one of your flights during the Gauntlet,” Maverick continued, his eyes moving from one pilot to the next. “And she’s made her recommendations.”

There was a collective inhale. The kind that filled the room with a buzzing anxiety, a quiet thrum beneath the silence. Phoenix sat straighter. Rooster leaned forward slightly, hands clasped in front of him. Jake kept his mask on, resting one ankle over his knee like he didn’t care. Like he hadn’t just begged her to forgive him, and failed.

Maverick’s voice dropped a note lower.

“She was thorough. And blunt.”

Of course she was.

Jake didn’t flinch. He just smiled wider.

There was a long, loaded pause as Maverick closed the folder in his hands. The sharp clap of it echoed in the room, followed by a beat of silence. Then he looked at them all—really looked—and the ghost of a smile twitched at the edge of his mouth.

“She approved it,” he said.

It took a second to register.

Then it hit them like a missile.

A breath released collectively around the debriefing room, like a pressure valve had finally been turned. Maverick didn’t say it outright, but the weight in his voice, the lack of disappointment in his tone—it was enough. They had passed. Maybe not all with flying colors, maybe not without bruises or scars to their egos, but they were still standing. Still in this. And more importantly, still a squadron.

Phoenix gave a low whistle and leaned back in her chair, throwing Bob a look that said, I told you we’d survive. Bob just blinked, dazed but visibly relieved, like he’d been holding his breath since dawn. Fanboy fist-bumped Payback under the table, a quiet gesture that still earned a grin. Fritz clapped Halo on the shoulder, muttering something about “not getting shot out of the sky” being cause for celebration. Even Omaha and Yale, usually reserved, broke into rare, crooked smiles.

Hondo chuckled from the side, and Maverick just gave a tired, proud nod. “Commander Rogue said you all passed—barely, but you passed. She said she’d rather keep a team that learns than perfect strangers who don’t.”

“Yo,” Coyote said, twisting around to face the rest of them, “I say we celebrate tomorrow. Properly. Barbecue at the beach?”

“I second that,” Rooster chimed in, already looking way too excited. “We got through Rogue’s personal hellscape and lived to talk about it. That’s worth a drink or five.”

Harvard raised an eyebrow, nodding thoughtfully. “And food. A lot of food.”

“I’m not grilling again,” Halo warned, deadpan. “Last time y’all nearly set the sand on fire.”

“That was Fanboy,” Payback said quickly, pointing an accusatory finger. “He thought kerosene was cooking oil.”

“It was labeled confusingly,” Fanboy argued.

Jake stayed quiet, still sitting in that deceptively relaxed posture, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. He chuckled along, but it was thinner, a little too practiced. When Rooster elbowed him in the ribs and asked if he was in, he just offered a lazy shrug.

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

The squad kept tossing out ideas—who’d bring what, who’d be in charge of music, how many coolers they’d need for beer—and somewhere in the blur of chatter, someone casually mentioned inviting the big three.

“They’re part of the team now, right?” Yale said, tapping his pen on the table. “Might as well include them.”

“Yeah,” Fritz added. “Maybe if we feed them, they’ll go easy on us next time.”

“They don’t eat,” Fanboy muttered dramatically. “They feast on our fear.”

Phoenix rolled her eyes but smirked. “Still. Wouldn’t kill us to ask. Especially Commander Rogue—”

No one knew tomorrow was her birthday. No one but one person.

Jake’s jaw tensed, but his smile didn’t falter. He nodded absently, muttering something noncommittal about “good idea.” But behind his eyes, gears were turning. Because he knew. He remembered the date before he remembered her rank, before her call sign was etched into his damn skull.

She wasn’t just Rogue. She was his sunshine. Once.

The Hard Deck buzzed with its usual late-night charm, lights dim and golden, music humming beneath the rhythm of laughter and beer bottles clinking. Dagger Squad clustered around a corner booth, half-shouting over each other about marinades, playlists, and who was bringing what to tomorrow’s beach barbecue. Penny was behind the bar, laughing as Fanboy attempted to mix his own drink and nearly set off the soda gun. It was loud, chaotic, and warm.

Meanwhile, Jake Seresin sat perched at the far end of the bar, staring into the amber depths of a half-finished glass. He wasn't sulking, exactly—but he wasn’t glowing either. His usual charm, the cocky swagger, the teeth-and-dimple grin—it was all there, but thin as tissue paper. A performance. He'd laughed when he was supposed to, nodded at plans he didn’t plan to join, and now he was here, hiding in plain sight with his jaw tight and his eyes distant.

Maverick had been watching him for a while. Quietly. Patiently. He nursed his own drink nearby, leaned against the bar with that weather-worn stillness of a man who had lived through things most people only feared in theory. Eventually, he stepped over and sat down beside Jake without a word. For a few minutes, they both just watched the room, letting the weight of the silence settle between them.

Then Maverick spoke, low and without fanfare. “You alright, Hangman?”

Jake didn’t look at him. He smirked instead, lazy and easy. “Peachy, Cap.”

Maverick nodded slowly. “Sure doesn’t look that way.”

Jake finally glanced sideways, his eyes guarded but not cold. “I’m good. Just tired. Long week.”

“Yeah,” Mav said, letting the word stretch with meaning. “Hell of a week.”

Another beat passed. Jake swirled the whiskey in his glass and chuckled under his breath. “You gonna do the whole mentor thing now? Sit me down and tell me I’m spiraling?”

“I’m not your therapist,” Maverick said calmly. “But I’ve been where you are. Stubborn. Stupid. Pretending like nothing’s wrong when everything’s falling apart.”

Jake didn’t answer right away. Then he exhaled hard and said, “I was a real asshole to someone once. A long time ago.”

“Just once?” Maverick joked, and Jake snorted.

“Alright, wise guy.”

Maverick let him speak, didn’t press. Jake tapped the edge of his glass, his gaze locked on nothing in particular. “She was... good. Kind. A little weird, honestly. Smart in a way that scared me. And I made it my goddamn mission to ruin that.”

He paused. Swallowed.

“I thought I was being funny. Cool. I don’t even know why—I think I just... couldn’t handle it. So I humiliated her. Over and over. Like it was a sport. And she still looked at me like I hung the damn moon.” Jake’s voice dropped. “Then one day, she stopped.”

Maverick was quiet. Then he said, “And now?”

Jake shook his head. “Now, she’s—” But he cut himself off.

Mav already knew. He didn’t need the name. Didn’t need the full picture. He’d seen the way Jake looked at her during briefings. The way his bravado twitched when Rogue walked into the room. The way he clammed up every time her voice took command. Maverick was a lot of things, but he wasn’t blind.

“You remind me of myself,” Maverick said softly. “Back when I was your age, I made a lot of choices that cost me things I didn’t know I’d miss until they were long gone. There’s a danger in thinking we’ve got time. In thinking we can burn bridges and still cross back over later.”

Jake didn’t respond, but he didn’t deflect either.

Maverick took another sip and looked over at the squad laughing across the room. “This job—it’ll take everything if you let it. Your body. Your mind. The people you love. You gotta decide what matters, Jake. And if someone mattered to you, even once—don’t let pride be the reason you lose them for good.”

Jake finally looked at him, really looked, and for a moment, he just nodded.

He didn’t say it out loud, but Maverick saw it in his eyes: he knew.

Jake looked away again, his mouth tightening, shoulders drawing in ever so slightly. He ran a hand down his face, fingers catching on the edge of stubble like he could scrub away the guilt gathering beneath his skin. His voice, when it came, was quieter—almost foreign to him. “But what if it’s too late?”

Maverick’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then it’s too late,” he said simply. “But you still show up. You own what you did. You stand there and take it. And maybe they never forgive you. Maybe they slam the door in your face.”

Jake’s lips pressed together. The idea clearly unsettled him. He was used to being liked, even when he didn’t deserve it. He was used to being the golden boy.

“But,” Maverick went on, tapping his finger against the bar, “you do it anyway. Because that’s what we do. That’s what aviators do. We don’t get to cherry-pick the consequences of our actions. If you left damage behind, you don’t run from it. You clean it up. Even if the person never lets you back in—you clean it up because it’s the right thing to do.”

Jake nodded once, but there was a bitter curl to his mouth. “You ever say something so cruel, you still hear it years later? Like it’s stuck under your skin?”

Mav didn’t smile. He didn’t soften. “Yeah. I have. Still do. Every damn day.”

Jake stared down at the bar top. “I didn’t just screw up. I killed something. She—God, Mav, she looked at me like I was a stranger the other day. Like she didn’t even remember the boy I used to be.”

“And maybe,” Maverick said gently, “that boy wasn’t worth remembering.”

Jake flinched. But it wasn’t meant to hurt—it was meant to land.

Then Maverick leaned in, voice low. “But you’re not him anymore. Are you?”

Jake didn’t answer.

“Figure out who you are now,” Mav said. “Then go be that person. Whether she forgives you or not? That’s on her. But the man who walked in here tonight... he’s got a chance. Don’t waste it.”

Jake didn’t move for a long time. The clatter and laughter of the Hard Deck carried on around them, but it was like he wasn’t in the room at all.

Then, finally, he nodded. Just once. Steady.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay.”

Maverick watched him for a moment longer, his eyes distant like he was seeing something from long ago, something that never really left him. Then he breathed out slowly, leaned back on the stool, and nodded toward the exit.

“Go now,” he said. “Before the years stack up like bad debt and you realize you can't pay it off.”

Jake blinked. His brows drew slightly together.

“Don’t wait for the right moment, Jake. There isn’t one,” Mav added. “Just the one you choose. I waited too damn long, you know? Penny—she didn’t make it easy. I’d hurt her more than I had the right to, but she still showed up. And I…” He shook his head, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “I was a goddamn coward. Kept thinking I’d fix things tomorrow.”

Jake glanced over at Penny then. She was behind the bar, her hair up in a loose bun, laughing at something Bob had said. The light above her shimmered against her skin like she was glowing from the inside out. Jake saw the way Maverick looked at her—the way his whole world tilted ever so slightly toward her, like she was north on a compass.

And that’s when it hit him. Jake Seresin had never looked at anyone like that. No—scratch that. He had once. Years ago.

When she wore a stupid party hat and carried a puppy in her arms, surrounded by candles and family and cake and joy. When her laugh sounded like sunlight. When her hand found his under the table and he thought, this is what forever might feel like.

And now she walked past him in command stripes and called him Lieutenant.

- You, Rogue -

The Texas sun filtered through the windshield like an old friend, golden and familiar, and yet you kept your sunglasses on—not because it was too bright, but because the ache in your eyes hadn’t quite left since you left North Island last night.

You had taken the first flight out, the earliest one available, and didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Not to Rooster, who had made you laugh more than he should’ve been able to. Not to Coyote, who’d offered to carry your bag. And certainly not to Jake Seresin, who had stood in that damn office with those wide eyes and that desperate voice, thinking a single I'm sorry could sew up everything he’d ripped open.

Now, your hands gripped the steering wheel of your mom’s old truck, the same one you learned to drive in when you were seventeen, and the tires hummed against the backroads you used to know like the lines of your palm.

Tall grass danced in the breeze on either side of you. Fences leaned where they always had, weathered by years and still standing. You didn’t need a map for this part of the world—this was home. This was where the sun rose slow and the air smelled like cedar and freedom.

You’d gotten the text early this morning. Change of plans, sweetheart. We’ll celebrate at the old house. Bring an appetite. And maybe don’t wear white—your brother’s bringing the horses in.

You’d smiled at that. It had been a long time since you'd driven this stretch of road. Since you’d seen the wild dogs running along the fence lines or the rusted mailbox that still had the dent from when Jake once hit it with his truck mirror on a dare.

God. Jake.

His voice had replayed in your head all night. That man—no, that boy—had stood in front of you like he still had a right to your time, to your air, to your name in his mouth. And for a second—just a second—you had wanted to believe him.

But the past doesn’t just disappear. Not when he’d humiliated you. Not when you had spent nights trying to convince yourself you were imagining it all. Not when he walked away back then and pretended you didn’t matter.

And now? Now he begged you to let him settle things. As if your pain could be negotiated.

You clenched your jaw, adjusting the volume of the radio, letting the old country songs wrap around your thoughts like smoke. You didn’t forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You weren’t doing any of this for him.

You’d come this far—become this woman—for yourself. Because you had learned how to command rooms, how to fly faster than anyone else, how to hold your head high even when your heart burned like hell.

Meanwhile, the familiar arch of trees opened up ahead and the house came into view. The white porch. The worn shutters. The yard where you used to set up obstacle courses for your bike and trip over your own feet. The same swing still hung from the oak tree.

You exhaled. Today was your birthday. And for once, it wasn’t about proving anything to anyone.

You were home.

You parked the truck in the dirt patch just to the left of the barn, dust kicking up behind you like the ghosts of old summer days. The door creaked when you opened it, a familiar sound that tugged at the corners of your mouth despite yourself.

Everything was the same. The chipped blue paint on the fence. The faded plastic chairs stacked by the porch. Even the smell—warm earth, hay, a hint of rosemary from your mother’s garden—smelled like memory.

You stepped out slowly, boots crunching on gravel, and tilted your head up to the sky. Texas blue. Endless and unapologetic.

Inside, you could hear your mother laughing with someone—probably your brother—and the sizzle of something on the stove. You didn’t go in just yet. Instead, you wandered around the side of the house, past the rusted wind chimes, letting your hand trail along the familiar wooden siding like it could anchor you to something real. Something before everything.

Before the Navy.

Before Top Gun.

Before Jake Seresin broke your heart and then had the audacity to stand in front of you like a damn open wound pretending he could heal something he didn’t even understand.

You paused by the swing. It swayed gently in the breeze, unbothered by the years. You sat, slowly, gripping the rope like it might tether you back to seventeen—the girl who had once looked at Jake like he’d hung the stars. She didn’t exist anymore. But sometimes, on mornings like this, she whispered from somewhere deep inside you.

And God, the nerve of him. Standing there with his pretty mouth and that I’m sorry like it meant something. He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. Not really. He didn’t understand that it wasn’t just what he said to you that day back then—it was what he didn’t say. The silence that followed. The way he turned away and never looked back. Until now.

Now, when you’d become someone. When you wore medals and held rank and had the power to ground squadrons with a signature.

Now he wanted to talk.

But you weren’t that girl anymore. And this wasn’t about him.

You smiled despite yourself.

Rising to your feet, brushing your palms on your jeans, you turned back toward the house. The sun was warm against your back. The air smelled like cinnamon and barbecue and honeysuckle. You weren’t ready to let Jake back in. Not yet.

But you were ready to celebrate the woman you’d become.

Because today? Today was your damn day.

The screen door hadn’t even finished creaking shut behind you when the stampede began.

Little feet slapped against the worn floorboards as your nieces and nephews burst from the hallway like a pack of wild horses. They were bigger now—older, louder—but still the same blur of joy and sugar-smeared cheeks as they flung themselves at you.

“Auntie!” one of them shrieked, and your heart cracked open just a little more.

You caught two in your arms, staggering slightly with the force of their enthusiasm. The oldest tried to look cool but you saw the grin tugging at his mouth before he lunged in for a hug too.

Behind them came your mother, wiping her hands on a dish towel and already reaching for your face like she had to confirm you were real. “There’s my girl,” she whispered, voice a bit too watery. Your father, quieter as always, stood just behind her, but you knew the emotion was there in his eyes. He pulled you into a brief but firm hug.

Then came the rest.

Your brothers—bigger and broader than you remembered, one already holding a beer, the other pretending not to tear up. Your grandparents, slow but steady, offering words of pride in their soft, worn voices. Aunts and uncles who made jokes about medals and jet fuel, cousins who squealed and poked fun at your rank while hugging you tightly.

You barely had time to breathe.

Laughter bloomed in every room. The table groaned under the weight of food. Music played from the old speakers by the window, some twangy country song you hadn’t heard in years but could still hum along to. You were home. And for a moment, just a moment, the ache in your chest dulled. Just sunshine and sweat and summer in Texas.

Until—

“Damn, y’all didn’t tell me she was gonna look this good.”

The voice sliced through the haze like a whipcrack.

Low. Familiar. Dangerous.

Your whole body locked up.

No.

No no no no no.

You turned so slowly you could feel the blood drain from your face before it even reached your toes.

And there he was.

Jake Seresin.

Standing in your childhood kitchen like he belonged there.

Wearing a plain white t-shirt clinging just a little too well to his broad chest, jeans slung low on his hips, and scuffed cowboy boots that had seen more dirt than you were ready to admit you missed. His blonde hair was slightly messy, a bit damp, and his face was flushed like he’d just come in from outside. Like he’d been working. Or running. Or maybe pacing in nervous circles wondering if you’d show up.

He had sweat on his neck.

Your mother, traitor that she was, beamed from beside the stove. “He’s been here since this morning! Helped fix the gate. Fixed the porch swing, too.”

You stared at her, unblinking.

Jake met your gaze from across the room, and he smiled—slow and dangerous and laced with something like hope. “Hey, sunshine,” he drawled, like it hadn’t been years. Like he hadn’t broken your heart. Like you weren’t standing in front of him with a thousand unspoken things catching fire behind your ribs.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

So many people in this room.

So many things you could throw.

Your mouth dropped open before your brain even caught up with your body. And what came out next was entirely involuntary.

“What the fuck—”

“Ay!” your mom snapped, voice sharp as a whip. “Language!”

Jake had the audacity—the actual gall—to throw his hands up in mock dismay, laughing like this was a damn sitcom. “Yeah, sunshine,” he added, all wide-eyed innocence. “There’s kids present. Watch your language.”

You blinked at him. Once. Twice.

Then your eyes narrowed, lips curling back into something not quite a smile. “You’re joking,” you muttered under your breath, fury simmering under your skin like a Texas thunderstorm just seconds from breaking loose.

“Oh, she’s definitely not joking,” your older brother said, already backing out of the kitchen with his beer like he wanted no part of this incoming Category 5.

Your little niece tugged on your sleeve. “Auntie, who is that cowboy?”

Jake winked at her, all smooth charm and self-satisfaction. “I’m Uncle Jake, darlin’. I used to—”

You cut him off with a stare that could curdle milk.

He grinned wider.

Your hands clenched at your sides. You had dreamed of this moment—Jake Seresin begging at your metaphorical altar. Groveling. Crying. Maybe slipping on a banana peel and falling into a pile of cow dung while you sipped sweet tea on a porch swing, untouched and unbothered.

Not this. Not him in your house. Not here, where the walls still whispered childhood secrets and the air still smelled like soil and sun. This was your place. Your safe haven.

And now it was full of him.

Jake, standing there like he belonged. Looking at you like he always did—like he saw you. All of you.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” you hissed, stepping toward him as your family slowly scattered, sensing something heavy crackling in the air.

Jake shrugged, casual as hell. “Your mom invited me. Would’ve been rude to say no.”

“Would’ve been smart to say no,” you muttered.

Your mother clucked her tongue again from the stovetop, giving you the kind of look that had once kept you from sneaking out after curfew. “He’s our guest, sweetheart. Be polite.”

Jake leaned against the counter, watching you like you were a particularly beautiful storm he couldn’t wait to chase. “Yeah,” he echoed, voice dipping lower. “Be polite, Rogue.”

You wanted to throttle him.

Instead, you straightened your shoulders, took a breath, and gave him the most saccharine, venom-laced smile you could muster.

“Welcome to the party,” you said, voice dripping with southern hospitality and suppressed rage. “Try not to choke on the cake.”

You were going to kill him. Not figuratively. Not symbolically. Kill. The kind of murder you could only get away with because you were loved—deeply, endlessly—by nearly everyone in this yard.

And the worst part? He knew it.

Jake Seresin, with that stupidly white t-shirt clinging to his chest like sin, was roaming your childhood home like he’d grown up beside you. Laughing with your uncle, throwing a ball with the boys, helping your grandpa adjust the damn barbecue coals like he belonged there.

No. Nope. Not today, Satan.

You turned sharply on your heel and marched straight to the little ones—your nieces, your nephews, your cousins’ kids—because at least they wouldn’t ask questions about why your ex crush who shattered your heart into military-grade shrapnel was casually flipping ribs in your backyard.

“Auntie, can you help us with the lemonade stand?” little Mila asked, tugging on your hand, her curls bouncing as she ran ahead.

“Yes, baby,” you sighed, following her like she was your designated emotional support human. “Let’s go make a small fortune before the grown-ups get too drunk to notice they’re tipping us real money.”

She giggled, and just like that, your shoulders dropped a little. Being around the kids always did that. They didn’t care who you were in the sky. They didn’t know about commands or squadrons or callsigns or men who left you when they promised they wouldn’t. They just knew you made the best strawberry punch and that you gave the biggest pushes on the tire swing.

So, you spent the next hour ducking the ache in your chest by being useful. Fixing the lemon mix, adding way too much sugar because Mila insisted, handing out tiny cups to your cousins and childhood neighbors.

You caught up with your Aunt Lou, who still talked with her hands and smelled like gardenia. She pinched your cheek and asked, “When are you getting married?”

You almost choked on a grape.

Meanwhile, your uncle pulled you aside and told you the crops were better this year. Your younger cousin asked about the Navy—not about Jake—and your Granfather gave you a nod of approval that still meant everything.

You wove in and out of the crowd like muscle memory. This was your world. These were your people. This house, this land—this life—shaped you. It was sacred.

And yet, he was here. Like a shadow clinging to your sun.

You did everything to ignore him. Didn’t glance his way. Didn’t listen to the sound of his laugh or notice how often he kept checking where you were. You refused.

But there was no escaping it—the hum in your chest, the crackle in your spine, the way your whole damn body knew he was watching you.

And you’d be damned if it didn’t set you on fire.

He just had to do it.

You were halfway through helping the kids repaint the old wooden lemonade sign—your hands streaked with pastel pink and yellow, your hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun that still had wisps falling loose from the Texas heat—when you heard the familiar sound of children’s laughter crescendo into a shriek of delight.

That’s when you looked up. And saw him.

Jake Seresin, all tall and smug and golden, crouched low in the grass with Mila balanced on his back like a tiny, squealing cowboy. Her tiny arms were stretched like wings, and he was galloping across the lawn on all fours, making horse noises—actual horse noises—as the other kids chased after him.

“Giddy-up, Hangman!” one of the boys shouted between wheezes.

“Yeehaw!” Jake whooped, and it was so stupidly charming you almost forgot to hate him.

Almost.

The kids adored him. Of course they did. He was a walking Disney Channel character with cowboy boots. He let them climb him like a jungle gym. He gave Mila his sunglasses and called her “Commander Cool.” He high-fived every single child like he was campaigning for mayor of the backyard.

And then—then, as if the universe weren’t cruel enough—he glanced over. Right at you.

Eyes locked.

He grinned.

Not the cocky, I-know-you-want-me grin. No. This one was softer. Almost bashful. Like he knew he’d been caught being good and didn’t mind it.

You blinked.

Your heart hiccupped.

Then you glared.

Hard.

His grin widened like the absolute menace he was. He gently helped Mila off his back, ruffled the boy’s hair, and made his way toward the drink table like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just disarmed you with joy and children and that damn dimple.

You turned back to the sign and scrubbed at a smudge of pink paint like it had personally wronged you.

He was trying to worm his way in. You could feel it.

And worse?

It was working.

Of course he wasn’t done. Jake Seresin never quit while he was ahead. Not when there was a mountain to climb or—more accurately—a woman to win back with the same stubbornness that once drove you up the wall and straight out of his life.

You kept your back turned to the lawn, laser-focused on helping Mila paint the corner of the lemonade sign. It was something about the way her tiny fingers clumsily held the brush, her tongue poking out in fierce concentration, that almost made you forget he was still here.

Almost.

Because then you heard him.

Not his boots—he was good at hiding his approach when he wanted to—but his voice. Low, sweet, casual.

“You missed a spot.”

You didn’t even need to look up to know he was standing behind you. You could feel the heat of his presence like sunlight pressing against your spine.

“You’re gonna smudge the paint if you keep hovering like that,” you muttered without turning around.

Jake crouched down beside you, just close enough for his arm to brush yours.

“You sure? Looked like you needed help.”

You gave him a pointed glance. “I don’t need anything from you.”

He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t say you did. Just figured you’d want a break. It’s your birthday, after all.”

You scoffed, dipping your brush back into the pale yellow paint. “Didn’t think you’d remember.”

Jake didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out something folded. Paper. You recognized the edges before he even handed it over.

The sketch.

Your sketch.

The one you’d done on a napkin years ago—of the farm, of the porch swing and windmill and stars. You thought it had been lost in the fallout. Turns out, it had been with him all along.

“I carried it,” he said softly, not trying to smile this time. “Through Pensacola. Through Fallon. Hell, even had it on me in Lemoore. Kept it in my flight bag.”

Your fingers trembled around the brush. You swallowed. Hard.

“Why are you showing me this now?” you asked, voice too thin, too fragile for your own liking.

“Because I’m not good with words,” he admitted. “But I kept this. Every time I saw it, I thought of you. I still do.”

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or throw the paintbrush at his stupid, perfect face. But Mila giggled beside you and tapped your arm with a tiny yellow-streaked hand, and somehow, somehow, you kept it together.

You inhaled slowly.

Then, like a switch had flipped, you plastered on a calm smile, turned your head just enough, and whispered:

“You’re still a jackass, Seresin.”

Jake smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “but I’m your jackass. Right?”

You didn’t answer. You stood, handed Mila the paintbrush, and walked off without a word.

He stayed crouched there, that damn sketch still in his hands, watching you walk away like you were the last star in a dying sky.

You told yourself you weren’t going to look.

You swore you’d steer clear, keep your head down, stay with the kids or the cousins or literally anyone who didn’t make your pulse do Olympic sprints in your throat. But no. Of course not. Of course you looked.

Because he was on a damn horse.

And not just on a horse—riding it like he was born in a saddle, one hand casually gripping the reins, the other resting lazily on his thigh. He sat straight, easy in the way only someone who knew what they were doing ever could. His shirt clung to his back just enough to make you forget how to breathe, a thin sheen of sweat darkening the white cotton at the collar and down his spine.

You hated him.

Jake Seresin, of all people, had the nerve to look like a goddamn cowboy catalog cover while chatting with your brother, who was laughing like they’d been best friends since elementary school. They were talking about something mechanical—tractors maybe? Fencing? You couldn’t hear, too far across the yard, but Jake tipped his head back to laugh and your brother clapped him on the shoulder like he belonged there.

Like he’d always belonged there.

“Stop staring,” your cousin whispered beside you, eyes full of amusement as she handed you a glass of sweet tea.

“I’m not,” you muttered, sipping too fast and promptly choking on the ice.

Your cousin didn’t buy it for a second. “Mmmhmm. Girl, you might as well be writing his name in the clouds.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away from the corral, back toward the porch, your jaw clenched so tight your teeth ached. But the image was seared behind your eyes now—Jake’s long legs, the easy grin he threw at your brother, the way the sunlight kissed his cheekbones as he swung down from the saddle like it was nothing.

You didn’t want him to be beautiful. You didn’t want him to fit in so easily here. This was your space. Your home. Your family.

And yet… he wore it like it had always been his, too.

You pressed a hand to your chest, felt the traitorous flutter there, and cursed under your breath.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, you’d deal with this. With him. With all of it.

But right now? Right now, you needed to not melt into a puddle on the damn porch.

Girl, listen—he had no business being that fine.

You’d tried. Swore up and down to every relative, every sticky-fingered kid clinging to your legs, that you were not going to fall into the trap that was Jake Seresin and his dumb, gorgeous cowboy energy. You were here to celebrate your birthday, not combust into flames.

But then—then—he did something unforgivable.

He took his shirt off.

It started simple enough. He was helping your uncle haul a bale of hay from the shed—one of those heavy ones, wrapped tight, stacked tall. You watched from the shade of the porch with narrowed eyes and a paper plate in your hand, just trying to enjoy your damn macaroni salad. You weren't even looking at him. Not really. Just... in the vicinity.

And then the man tugged at the back of his shirt, lifted it clean over his head, and used it to wipe the sweat from his neck like this was a Marlboro ad come to life.

Time paused. The sun wept. Your fork clattered onto your plate.

Tanned skin, broad shoulders, that stupid tattoo on his shoulder blade you used to trace with your fingertips in the dark—all of it was on full display. His abs weren’t just abs; they were architectural. Like if God had sculpted a man from summer heat and Southern charm and said, “Yup. That’s the one that’s gonna ruin her peace.”

He slung the hay over one shoulder and laughed at something your cousin said, the sound low and smooth, dripping in Texas. Then he spit to the side—spit, for God’s sake—and somehow even that was hot.

“What in the cowboy smut novel is this,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face.

Your mom passed behind you and gave you a little hum of amusement. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, “I’d say someone’s got a type.”

“I don’t,” you snapped. “He just… looks hydrated.”

And maybe you were not.

Because now he was leaning on the fence, shirt still off, muscles flexing as he talked to your older brother like they were planning your family’s next barn renovation. His fingers tapped absently on the wooden post, drawing your eye down, down, down—

“Need a drink?” someone asked beside you.

You didn’t even know who said it. You just nodded and reached for whatever they had.

Water. Wine. Holy water.

At this point, you’d drink it all.

You just needed to breathe.

The house was full. The yard was fuller. There were children sprinting like tiny missiles across the porch, uncles hollering about the grill, your mother fussing about potato salad and forks. And him. Jake Seresin, the unholy Texas mirage, was walking around shirtless like he didn’t just ignite your central nervous system every time he smirked.

So you slipped away—quiet as a whisper—toward the old well tucked behind the barn, the one your grandfather built with his bare hands. It was quiet there. Still. You could almost hear your heartbeat, feel the wind in your hair. That familiar creak of the wooden bucket, the low hum of cicadas in the grass. You rested your hands on the worn stone edge and exhaled.

Just one minute. One moment of peace. No chaos. No memories. No him.

“You always ran off here when you were mad,” came the voice behind you—smooth, low, and damn near sinful.

You didn’t even jump. You just groaned.

“For the love of—” You turned. “Do you own a shirt?”

Jake Seresin stood there in all his shirtless, sun-kissed glory, arms crossed casually over his chest. There was a sheen of sweat on his collarbones and a devil-may-care look in his eyes that made you want to throw something at him. Preferably your dignity.

“Probably,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer. “Didn’t think I’d need one. Not when it’s this hot out.”

“Go away.”

“Can’t. Kinda like the view.”

You rolled your eyes, tried to ignore the way your pulse leapt. “If you’re here to flirt, try again when you aren’t radiating ‘country boy thirst trap’ energy.”

He grinned. “I don’t remember you complaining about it last time.”

“Yeah, well…” You looked back at the well, swallowing hard. “Last time, I was young. Stupid.”

Jake took a few more steps until he was right beside you, the heat from his body sinking into your skin. He didn’t touch you. Just stood close enough that the air felt charged—like lightning waiting to strike.

“I was stupid too,” he said, quieter now. “But not about you.”

You froze. His voice was lower, more honest. The kind of voice you remembered from nights wrapped in his arms beneath a quilt of stars, when he whispered promises against your skin he never had the courage to keep.

You looked at him then, really looked.

And for a second, it wasn’t Commander Rogue or Lieutenant Seresin standing in that golden Texas sun.

It was just you. And him.

The silence between you shimmered—tight, fragile, electric.

Jake was too close. Too warm. Too Jake.

You could smell the sun on his skin, that familiar scent of old leather, cedarwood soap, and whatever reckless sin made him walk around like that in broad daylight. His chest rose and fell, slow and steady, while your own lungs forgot how to work. Every nerve ending in your body was on high alert, tuned to the space between his mouth and yours.

He wasn’t touching you—but god, it felt like he was. Like his heat had fingers, like his gaze was dragging along your collarbone and down your spine. Your grip on the stone edge of the well tightened.

“Still mad?” he asked, low, like he was trying not to spook you.

You turned your head slowly. “Is that a serious question?”

Jake gave a soft, crooked smile—the kind that used to undo you, back when you were foolish and seventeen and let that mouth talk you into the backseat of his truck.

He leaned a little closer. You felt it before you saw it: the flex of his arms, the slight roll of his shoulder as he planted a hand against the well, boxing you in. Not forceful. Not trapping. Just... a little too intimate. A little too familiar.

“You’ve always had a temper,” he murmured.

“And you’ve always been an arrogant jackass,” you shot back, heart pounding.

He chuckled, deep in his chest. “Yeah. But you used to like that.”

You hated the way your body remembered. The way it leaned just slightly into his space before your brain caught up and screamed, abort mission. You turned your face away—big mistake. His breath brushed your cheek.

“You used to like me,” he added, voice like gravel dragged through honey.

“I also used to believe in Santa Claus.”

That made him laugh. And god, that laugh. You remembered it in the worst ways—in dark barns and truck beds and your childhood bedroom when you swore you could keep a secret from the whole damn town.

You tried to step back. Your shoulder hit his arm.

He didn’t move.

Instead, his eyes dipped lower, taking in the line of your throat, the heat flushing your neck. You could see it then—the moment his cocky little grin faltered. The shift. The hunger. Like he’d just remembered the exact sound you made when his hands were on your hips and his mouth was on your skin.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said, voice raw now. Quiet. “Even when I should’ve. Even when I didn’t deserve to.”

You felt your pulse slam against your ribs.

But you didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

Not when every inch of you was screaming, don’t kiss him don’t kiss him don’t kiss him—

“Auntie!”

The two of you snapped apart like teenagers caught behind the barn, you nearly bumping your elbow on the stone lip of the well. Jake blinked, disoriented for half a second, before scrubbing a hand down his face and stepping back.

A herd of small feet came rushing around the corner, your nieces and nephews tearing toward you like a tactical strike team. One of them had a cowboy hat too big for his head; another clutched a popsicle that was now just red sugar water dripping down her arm.

“Auntie, Auntie! Come play tag with us!”

“Uncle Jake’s it!” one shouted, smacking Jake on the hip and running away squealing.

Your jaw twitched. “Uncle—what?”

Jake gave a helpless shrug, smirking like the devil himself. “Guess I got promoted.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’ve known them for less than twenty-four hours.”

“And yet I’m already the favorite,” he said, casually starting to jog after the kids, chest still annoyingly bare, voice all sugar and sin. “You better keep up, sunshine.”

You glared at his back as he disappeared into the trees behind the barn, chased by three of your brother’s kids and what felt like the rising heat of your own blood pressure.

The worst part? You wanted to follow.

God help you.

By the time you caught up to them—shoes soaked, jeans streaked with specks of damp soil—Jake had already been tackled into the grass by a pack of laughing children. One clung to his back like a baby koala, another tried pulling his boot off, and the youngest had climbed onto his stomach with a triumphant yell of, “Victory!”

“Help,” Jake groaned dramatically, his hands pinned by tiny, sticky fingers. “I’m under attack. Man down. Send reinforcements.”

You stopped short at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed over your chest, breath stilling for half a second.

God, he looked... absurd.

Sunlight filtered through the trees, catching in the droplets of water clinging to his hair. His white shirt from earlier had vanished—long forgotten or maybe tossed aside somewhere in the chaos—and his jeans were now grass-stained and muddied at the knees. One of the kids had drawn something across his chest with blue chalk, and another had clearly poured water from the bucket left beside the well.

Jake Seresin, golden boy, Navy pilot, hotshot of North Island—absolutely wrecked by five small children.

It made something in your chest ache.

“Stop staring and get over here, Lieutenant Commander!” he called from the ground, giving you a lopsided grin. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

“Not likely,” you said, but the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

And then the smallest—Avery, your niece—sprinted up, grabbed your hand, and beamed up at you.

“Come on, Auntie! You’re on my team!”

You were halfway through the word “Wait—” when Avery yanked you straight into the mess.

Your boots sank into the mud with a wet squelch. Your balance wobbled. And then, like some twisted cosmic joke, Jake reached up and tugged—lightly, playfully—on your wrist just as you tried to catch yourself.

You landed with a soft oof right beside him in the grass. Mud splattered up your arms and soaked through your shirt.

“Jake!” you gasped.

He blinked innocently. “Oops.”

Before you could lunge for him, he was already rolling out of your reach, laughing, the kids cackling with delight as they jumped in after him.

And suddenly, like it hadn’t been years of anger and silence and ghosts between you, like there weren’t a thousand things unsaid still lodged in your throat—you were laughing, too.

The sound was light. Real. It hadn’t been pulled from you like a demand or forged like armor. It just… slipped out.

Jake looked over from where he lay sprawled on the grass, hair wild, dirt on his cheek, and something almost reverent in his gaze.

“Sunshine,” he murmured under his breath, so quiet even the wind barely caught it.

You didn’t hear him.

But maybe, just maybe, part of you felt it.

- Mom -

From the edge of the porch, camera in hand, your mother watched the chaos unfold in the muddy clearing with an expression somewhere between wonder and suspicion. She stood still, the warm light of late afternoon catching in her silver-streaked hair, her apron smudged with flour from the pies cooling behind her.

She hadn't meant to come out here. Not really. She just wanted to get a peek at the noise—children squealing, someone yelling “mud war!”—and maybe call everyone in for lemonade. That’s all. But what she found instead made her stop dead in her tracks, heart twisting in her chest.

There you were. Laughing.

Muddy from head to toe, grass in your hair, sleeves rolled up, chasing after one of your nieces with wild joy in your eyes that she hadn’t seen in—God, how long had it been?

And right beside you… him.

Jake Seresin, the Texas boy with charm sharp as spurs and a reputation that had, once upon a time, made her raise an eyebrow more than once.

He was covered in mud too, shirtless and grinning, water dripping down his jawline as he hoisted your nephew up in the air like it was the easiest thing in the world. One of the kids had drawn a smiley face on his back with marker. He hadn’t noticed. He didn’t care.

Her breath caught.

And then it happened—you stumbled back from a slip in the wet grass, and Jake reached out without even thinking, catching you by the waist, steadying you as if his body still remembered the shape of yours. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, startled. He said something she couldn’t hear, and you rolled your eyes, trying to shove him off—though not very hard.

Her fingers moved before she even realized.

Click.

One photo. Then another. Then another.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. But there was a knowing tug in her chest—like an old song she hadn’t heard in years playing quietly in the background of her thoughts.

You looked like a girl in love.

And Jake? Well… he looked like he had just remembered what it felt like to come home.

She lowered the camera slowly, eyes never leaving the pair of you, and smiled just a little to herself.

“Maybe,” she murmured under her breath, “just maybe.”

- You, Rogue -

You didn’t mean to fall.

One second you were lunging after your nephew, hand outstretched to snag the edge of his shirt before he could escape the muddy ambush you and your niece had planned. The next, your foot slid in the wet grass, your arms windmilled, and then—

You were airborne.

“Shit!”

You barely got the word out before someone caught you mid-fall, arms wrapping around your waist, the rest of you crashing against something—someone—solid and stupidly warm and annoyingly familiar.

“Gotcha,” Jake drawled right against your ear, like a cowboy catching a tumbleweed.

And just like that, he had you. Picked you up. Just… scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all. His bare chest was damp from sweat and hose water, his jeans soaked and clinging to strong thighs, and you hated the way your breath caught at the feel of him. At the sound of his damn laugh when your muddy hand smeared across his shoulder.

“Put me down!” you shouted, squirming in his grip, even as the kids screamed with laughter around you.

“Nope,” he grinned, spinning with you in his arms. “You look like trouble, darlin’. Gotta keep an eye on you.”

You slapped at his chest, legs kicking. “You’re the one with a smiley face on your back, you idiot!”

He paused mid-spin. “Wait—what?”

You laughed. Actually laughed. The sound cracked out of you raw and surprised. The chaos around you—the kids yelling, someone spraying a hose again, your brother hollering something from the porch—it blurred into a warm blur of color and sound as Jake finally dropped you gently onto a pile of soaked grass.

You landed on your butt with a graceless thud, hair a mess, shirt clinging to your back, and mud streaked down your arms. Jake stood over you, grinning like the damn sun, and offered you a hand like a gentleman.

You took it.

Just to pull him down with you.

He yelped, hit the ground with a grunt, and for a second—just one heartbeat-long second—you both lay there, breathless and laughing, side by side in the summer haze, the world spinning around you in children’s shrieks and distant music and the smell of grilled corn and cut grass.

You turned your head. He was already looking at you.

The sky above was impossibly blue. His eyes were impossibly green. And for a split second, you swore the whole damn world slowed down.

You didn’t kiss him.

But God, it was close.

- Jake -

Jake wasn’t sure when exactly it happened. Maybe it was the moment your laugh cut through the summer air like something ancient and wild, or maybe it was when your muddy hand smeared across his bare chest and you didn’t apologize—just glared at him like you were still that girl who could outmatch him in every way that mattered. Maybe it was earlier, back when he caught you mid-fall and realized that you still smelled like salt and sunshine and the kind of life he never thought he deserved.

Whatever the hell it was, it hit him like a bullet. Fast. Deep. Irreversible.

You were in front of him now, yelling something at one of the kids, your hair sticking to your neck, droplets glinting on your skin like gold in the dying light. The sun hit you just right—like it always had—and he felt that ache all over again. That same gut-punch he felt the first time he saw you grin under the Texas sky years ago, before he messed it all up with his arrogance, his ambition, his own damn fear.

Meanwhile, you were so alive. That’s what wrecked him. It wasn’t just your smile or your voice or the way your jeans hugged your hips—it was the way you moved like you belonged here. Like the earth and sky were built around you. You weren’t just beautiful, you were real. Real in a way most things in his life weren’t.

Then you looked at him. Brief. Barely a second. But you looked at him with those eyes—sharp and guarded and unknowingly soft—and Jake knew. He knew, in the most terrifying, infuriating way, that he was in love with you. Not some crush. Not some what-if. Love. That stupid, all-consuming kind.

He kicked at the grass, trying to shake the thought loose. Tried to convince himself it was the sunstroke or the adrenaline or the leftover tension from every unsaid word between you two. But it wasn’t. It was just you. And the quiet knowing that the second he saw you again, this version of you—commanding and sun-drenched and laughing through mud and kids and chaos—he was a goner.

And worst of all? He didn’t know if he deserved even a second of it. Not after everything. Not after the years. But damn if he didn’t want to try.

Jake Seresin swore the sun had nothing on you.

He’d spent years in cockpits, chasing horizons, burning through the sky like he had something to prove—and maybe he did, back then. But none of it, none of the blinding sunsets or golden-glow mornings that kissed the edges of the world like something out of a dream, ever touched what you looked like in this moment. Hair messy and pulled half-back with a strand falling loose against your cheek. Mud on your knees.

Shirt clinging to your spine in the heat. And that smile—God, that smile—sharp as ever, soft where no one else got to see. He remembered it. He’d never forgotten. It haunted him in the quiet and crept into his thoughts on missions and long flights, the ghost of it grinning like it had unfinished business.

Meanwhile, you were laughing with your cousin’s kid, crouched in the grass like you belonged to the wild. You flicked water at Jake and didn’t even look his way, too focused on teasing the children, too alive to notice the way his entire world tilted. It was maddening. It was holy. It was like watching the kind of woman poets write about and soldiers carve names into locker doors for—except you were real. And you hated him. And maybe he deserved it.

He ran a hand through his hair, watching as you stood up and stretched, the sun hitting the line of your waist in a way that made him clench his jaw. It should’ve been illegal. That easy sway in your hips. That tired but proud glint in your eye like you knew you ruled this little corner of earth and had no plans of giving it up.

Then you bent down to scoop a toddler into your arms, spinning her, laughing as she screamed with delight. And Jake…well, his knees almost gave out.

Not because he imagined you holding his kid like that—though, Jesus Christ, he did—but because it reminded him of everything he’d tried to shut out.

How warm you could be. How dangerous it felt to love someone who glowed from the inside out. And how badly he wanted to earn even an inch of that warmth again.

He tore his eyes away, just for a second, just to breathe—but it was no use. You were everywhere. In the sky. In the dirt. In the back of his goddamn mind. A storm in boots and a baseball cap. A fever he could never shake.

And Jake Seresin was parched. Starving. Hopelessly, humiliatingly thirsty—for a woman who looked at him like he was a closed chapter. A footnote. But still…he stayed.

Because watching you now, sun-kissed and mud-streaked and all fire? It was the closest to heaven he’d ever gotten.

Jake didn’t realize when the noise around him faded—the laughter, the barking dogs, the clatter of beer bottles and ice buckets—until all that remained was the soft lilt of your voice somewhere across the yard.

You were bent at the waist again, helping one of your nieces wash off a muddy hand, and the light struck your profile like it was painting it for keeps. He could trace every angle by memory. He had, once. Quiet nights in his bunk. Long flights with nothing but time and guilt.

And now, the fantasy was whispering again.

It started small—just a flicker in the back of his mind. You in that kitchen you’d once dreamed about. Windows wide open. Coffee brewing. A dog at your feet. Then it deepened.

A blur of tiny footsteps racing across a hardwood floor, squeaky with morning. A giggle that sounded like you. A scowl that mirrored his. And then you, barefoot in the hallway, holding a sleepy-eyed toddler on your hip like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jake blinked hard, suddenly warm beneath his collar. He wasn’t the kind of man who let himself want like that. Not anymore. But the image burned anyway—you and him in a little house tucked somewhere quiet, the kind of place where he could build what he never thought he deserved.

Maybe a swing in the front yard. Maybe a pickup in the driveway with a car seat in the back. Maybe he plants lilies along the fence because you once offhandedly said they were your favorite, and the look on your face when you saw them? Worth every sunburn and scraped knuckle.

He’d never even bought a girl flowers before. Never stayed long enough to learn what they liked. But with you? Lilies. White, soft, stubborn things. Grew in the sun. Survived the storms.

Just like you.

Meanwhile, you stood up and laughed again, brushing your hands off on your jeans. One of the kids tugged at your hand, pulling you back toward the yard, and Jake felt something in his chest twist. Not ache. Not quite. It was want—raw and deep and bigger than anything he’d felt in years.

He wanted to be the one you turned to. The one who carried in the groceries and kissed your temple just because. The one who gave you lilies every damn birthday, no matter where he was in the world. The one you leaned into when the world got loud.

Jake Seresin wasn’t stupid. He knew it wasn’t that simple.

But God, for the first time in his life, he wanted to try.

And if you’d let him—just give him one more chance—he’d give you the whole damn garden.

He didn’t notice you walking up at first. He was too far gone, stuck in that half-dream where your hand fit perfectly into his and the world was quieter, softer, wrapped in summer cotton and the scent of lilies. But then your shadow crossed his boots, and your voice—sharp, familiar, home—sliced clean through the haze.

“Seresin,” you said, firm as ever.

He blinked up, caught like a deer in headlights. Your arms were crossed, your brows drawn together like they always did when you were irritated. There was a smudge of dirt on your cheekbone, a streak of dried mud on your shirt, and somehow you still looked like you could knock the wind out of him without even trying.

You didn’t wait for him to come up with something clever.

“You’re muddy,” you said, blunt and unimpressed. “Go clean up. Dinner’s soon, and my mom will actually murder you if you track dirt onto her porch.”

That tone. That exact brand of annoyed-but-secretly-concerned that made him grin before he even meant to.

“Aw, sweetheart,” Jake drawled, lazy and smug, “you always talk this sweet to your guests, or am I just special?”

Your eyes narrowed into something that could’ve cut steel.

“Don’t push me, Hangman,” you warned, voice low. “You are already on thin ice.”

He lifted both hands, palms up, like he was some innocent cowboy who’d never done a damn thing wrong in his life.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But you didn’t smile. You just gave him one last glare—like a warning shot—and turned on your heel. Your boots squelched softly in the dirt as you headed back toward the house, leaving him blinking after you, still half-caught in the image of you in a sundress and muddy boots, tossing him that same frown thirty years from now with a ring on your finger.

Jake exhaled slowly, watching you disappear into the crowd.

Get it together, Seresin.

Dinner was coming.

And so was trouble.

The guest room was small but warm, the kind of place that smelled like cedarwood and old books, like history and a lifetime of love carved into the floorboards. Jake dropped his duffle bag by the edge of the bed, the springs creaking just a little when it hit. He paused, blinking at the sight of another bag already there—dark green canvas, fraying a little at the seams. Not his. He frowned.

Probably belonged to one of your brothers. Or a cousin. Or a friend of the family passing through. The house was full of bodies and boots and energy, after all. He didn’t think too hard about it. The need to get clean tugged at him harder than the mystery of who claimed what.

Your mother had been sweet, as always, showing him the room like he wasn’t the guy who’d broken her daughter’s heart clean in half once upon a time. She smiled kindly and said, “There’s hot water. Fresh towel’s hanging. Go clean up, darlin’. You look like you rolled through hell and back.”

And he had—in a way.

So, he peeled off his shirt first, tugging the fabric over his head and feeling the dried mud crumble like dust onto the hardwood. His boots came next, then the rest of his clothes. The bathroom mirror caught a glimpse of his reflection—sunburned shoulders, flushed cheeks, that damn stubborn smirk still ghosting across his mouth like a man who had no right.

Jake stepped into the shower and twisted the knob. Steam poured in seconds later, curling up around him like a memory.

The water hit him hot and hard, sluicing over skin and sweat, washing the afternoon off his shoulders. But the thoughts didn’t go away. If anything, the quiet made them worse.

He braced one arm against the tile, head down, water beating across the nape of his neck—and that’s when she showed up.

Not in person, no. In his damn head.

You, soaked in rain and mud, laughing in the yard as kids screamed and chased each other. You, yelling at him to clean up, but eyes flicking down his bare chest like you couldn’t help it.

You, standing under the Texas sun, defiant and glowing, fire in your glare and something soft flickering underneath. A kind of softness he remembered. A kind he used to know.

Jake exhaled, long and low, like he could breathe you out. Like the heat of the water could chase your face from his mind. But it didn’t.

It got worse.

Your voice. Your eyes. Your mouth.

His hand curled into a fist against the slick tile wall.

"Get it together, Seresin," he muttered to himself. "This ain't the time."

But God, it had been a long time. And suddenly, the idea of you sharing this room—of that duffle bag maybe being yours—hit him with the force of a jet engine.

Oh, he was screwed. And not in the way he wanted.

- You, Rogue -

The sun had started its slow descent behind the fields, casting golden rays that poured into the corners of the farmhouse like warm honey. You’d just about had enough of the noise, the chaos, the squealing of kids using your childhood bedroom like it was a damn jungle gym. Your old dresser was littered with dolls that weren’t yours, stuffed animals whose eyes stared blankly, and one suspicious-looking crayon mural on the closet door that hadn’t been there twenty years ago.

You pouted. Unapologetically.

Your father had chuckled, all gravel and warmth. “Spare guest room’s empty, sweetheart. You can crash there for now.”

You didn’t argue—just nodded, already tugging your duffel bag from beneath a pile of someone’s blanket fort. That morning, you had dropped your stuff in the guest room before helping your mom out front.

Now, covered in a layer of dust, dirt, and sticky child-handprints, you pushed the door open and let it shut behind you with a soft click. It was quiet in here, cooler too, the way old farmhouses always held the chill of dusk in their bones.

You locked the door out of habit, drew the curtains, and stripped down without ceremony. Your robe was nowhere in sight—probably left in the trunk of your car—but you weren’t about to go looking. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you padded barefoot across the hardwood, steps quiet as you made your way toward the bathroom.

Then you paused.

There—on the bed. Something that definitely wasn’t yours. A second duffle bag. A wrinkled T-shirt. Socks. Boxers. Oh, for the love of—

You rolled your eyes with the weight of a thousand exasperated sighs, arms folding as you marched across the room to investigate. Maybe it was one of your cousins. Or maybe—

The bathroom door opened with a hiss of steam.

And then—

“Well… well,” came a drawl, slow and rich as molasses.

You whipped around, eyes wide.

Jake Seresin stood there in nothing but a towel, drops of water tracing the carved lines of his chest, the ridges of his abs, glistening like he was carved out of sin and every bad decision you ever made. His hair was damp, mussed perfectly without trying. His smirk? Lethal.

And oh—his eyes locked on you, towel-clad and stunned mid-step, and lit up like the Fourth of July.

“Would you look at that,” he said again, voice lower now. “Talk about walking into paradise.”

You blinked.

He grinned.

And the towel around your body felt suddenly very, very insufficient.

The steam curled from the bathroom like smoke from a lit match, clinging to the air with the scent of cedar soap and something sinfully masculine. You barely had time to process the fact that the mystery toiletries on the sink weren’t yours before the door swung open—and there he was.

Jake Seresin.

Dripping wet.

Shirtless.

Smug as hell.

And wrapped in a towel that was doing the bare minimum.

His broad shoulders glistened, golden from the remnants of the setting sun slipping through the curtains. Water ran in rivulets down the defined lines of his chest, cutting through the faint dusting of freckles and tan like the universe was outlining sin itself. That damn smirk curled onto his lips the second he saw you—towel wrapped tight, hair damp, standing in front of the bed like a deer caught in a thunderstorm of what the actual hell is happening.

He didn’t even flinch. No shame. No embarrassment. Just that cocky, damn-near-illegal glint in his eyes as he leaned lazily against the doorframe, water still dripping off the ends of his hair, traveling down the slope of his neck and vanishing behind the cotton barrier wrapped snug on his hips.

“Well,” he drawled, voice deep and slow like whiskey on a southern summer night. “Wasn’t expecting company… but I gotta say, I’m not mad about it.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. Words were there—maybe a curse, maybe a scream—but none made it out. Instead, you just stared. At him. At his bare chest. At the way his abs flexed subtly when he shifted. At the slight dip of the towel where his hipbone peeked out like a damn invitation to ruin your life.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you finally hissed, clutching your towel tighter with both hands like it was a lifeline.

Jake blinked, faux-innocent. “Your mom said the spare room was free. Guess we both had the same idea.”

You were going to combust. Not from embarrassment—no, that ship had sailed the second you caught a glimpse of the way a single droplet of water trailed down his sternum and disappeared beneath the fold of the towel—but from sheer, blinding, seething indignation.

“This is my room,” you snapped.

“Looks like it’s our room now, darlin’,” he said, cocking a brow as his gaze slipped—not rudely, but boldly—from your face down to the curve of your towel-wrapped figure. “Unless you want me to leave.”

You wanted to punch him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw something.

And maybe—just maybe—you wanted to drop the towel and see if he’d still be standing there all smug.

Jake must’ve sensed that dangerous crossroads of thought because he stepped forward slightly, his voice dipping. “You gonna kick me out, sunshine? Or are you gonna admit that you missed me?”

You scoffed, cheeks burning. “I didn’t miss you. I forgot you existed.”

“Oh,” he murmured, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, eyes still on you like you were something sacred and forbidden. “Then why are you staring like that?”

You weren’t staring. You were not staring. Absolutely not. You were simply—

Then his towel slipped just an inch lower on his hips, and you made a noise in your throat that could only be described as a choke.

“Eyes up here, sweetheart,” Jake teased, grinning.

You snapped out of your stupor like you'd been slapped. “Put some damn clothes on.”

“Say please.”

“Jake.”

He winked, slow and lazy, then stepped back toward the bathroom door. “Alright, alright. I’ll be good.”

He turned—and you got a full view of his back muscles working under skin still damp from the shower. You gulped.

The door closed behind him.

And you just stood there, staring at the space he’d been in, cheeks burning, pulse racing, and towel clutched like a lifeline.

Hell.

This was going to be a long weekend.

By the time Jake exited the bathroom, the air around him was thick with the scent of soap, aftershave, and smug satisfaction. He was still towel-drying his hair, now dressed in a white t-shirt that clung too well to his chest, and a pair of jeans that hung low on his hips in a way that should’ve been outlawed in polite society. His boots were off—thank God—but that cocky, heat-soaked grin? That was very much still on.

He passed you with a small nod and a whistle-soft, “Don’t take too long now. Dinner’s soon, birthday girl,” before tossing his damp towel onto a nearby chair like he owned the damn place.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

Because the second the door clicked shut behind him, you lunged into the bathroom like it was your last salvation.

The moment the door locked behind you, your back hit the wall, and your towel nearly slipped with the force of your breath. Your chest rose and fell like you’d just run a five-mile sprint—not walked in on a man you allegedly forgot you were in love with. The steam in the room hadn’t dissipated yet, and it wrapped around your skin like a memory, thick and too damn hot.

You blinked.

His soap still clung to the air. His scent still lingered in the steam.

You cursed under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Why the hell was Jake Seresin always ten times hotter when you were actively trying not to think about him? Why did he have to look at you like that? Talk to you like he had all the time in the world and nothing to lose? Stand there like a walking sin with a towel hanging so low on his hips you were pretty sure your ancestors felt that down their spines?

You were burning up.

Not just from the heat in the room, but from the fire crawling up your neck and down your spine like molten sugar and hellfire. That man had the audacity to exist like that—just exist—with a smirk and soft drawl and biceps that looked like they could throw you over a fence.

And you let him.

You watched him.

You remembered every drop of water sliding down his chest, every twitch of that cocky little smirk, every brush of his voice when he said your name like he’d never forgotten it.

God, you needed a cold shower inside a blizzard under a glacier.

Instead, you groaned and stepped under the still-warm spray of water he’d left behind, muttering curses to yourself as if that would rinse the images of him out of your head.

They didn’t. They only got worse. Because now you could see him there, in this space—his footprints still on the mat, his breath still clinging to the mirror. And your knees might’ve wobbled just a little as you gripped the edge of the sink and whispered to yourself—

“Get a grip.” But you didn’t believe it. Not even a little.

You were finally clean. The kind of clean that only came after scrubbing off not just mud but the weight of the entire day — your skin warm from the water, your hair damp and curling against the nape of your neck, steam fogging up the mirror like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. You’d taken your time, hoping the silence might scrub away the image of Jake Seresin standing shirtless in the same damn bathroom just minutes ago. It didn’t work.

Wrapped snugly in a towel, you turned toward the door, ready to put an end to this spiral — only to realize something crucial. Your clothes. Your actual, decent, non-humiliating clothes? Still in your duffel bag. Which, naturally, was not in the bathroom. No. It was on the bed. Out there. With Jake.

Your stomach dropped. Your face flushed instantly with heat that had nothing to do with the shower. You stared at the bathroom door like it had personally betrayed you.

You considered your options. You could march out, wrapped in nothing but your towel, and grab the bag yourself — risk walking past the man who’d already seen far too much. Or, you could bite the bullet. Ask for help. Humble yourself.

Groaning under your breath, you cracked the door just slightly and peeked through the gap. Jake’s voice drifted through before you could even speak — humming off-key to some old country song like he was just a man enjoying his own company and not the reason you were considering climbing out the bathroom window.

You exhaled sharply and said his name. “Jake?”

The humming cut off, replaced by a beat of silence. You could hear the shift of fabric, the soft creak of the floorboards as he turned toward the door. Then, far too amused for your liking, he answered, “Well, well. Sunshine. Miss me already?”

You resisted the urge to bang your head against the doorframe. “I need my duffel.”

Another beat. You knew exactly what kind of grin was spreading across his face. The smug one. The one that belonged to a man who had never once let you live anything down.

“You mean the one out here? With your clothes in it?” he asked, faux-innocent.

You closed your eyes. “Yes, Jake. That one.”

A low chuckle rolled from his chest, and you heard him moving, footsteps heading toward the bed. “I got you,” he said. “Only because it’s your birthday. And because I’m a gentleman.”

You didn’t grace that with a reply. Just pushed your arm through the crack in the door, fingers wiggling impatiently. The second the canvas of the duffel hit your palm, you yanked it through — but of course, Jake couldn’t help himself.

“You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I’ve dreamed about this moment before.”

You were already turning away when he added, just loud enough to reach you, “Didn’t say it was a dirty dream.”

The door shut on his smirk, and you leaned your forehead against the cool tile, clutching the duffel bag like it was a shield. Your pulse was still hammering. Your ears were red. You hadn’t even changed yet and already you felt half undone.

Inside the steam and silence, you whispered to yourself, “You are not losing your mind. You are not attracted to him again. You’re just... hot. It’s just the weather.”

But even as you unzipped your bag, you couldn’t deny the truth.

Jake Seresin, the human migraine, was getting under your skin again. And he hadn’t even really started yet.

The backyard had been completely transformed. String lights were strung between trees and porch posts, glowing amber for the deepening blue of a Texas evening later. Long tables had been set with checkered cloths and mismatched plates, pitchers of iced tea and lemonade sweating on every surface. The smell of grilled meat lingered heavy in the air, tangled with the warm, comforting scent of sun-warmed grass and citronella candles. Laughter echoed like a hymn — soft and constant, as if the whole world had taken a breath and decided to stay right here.

You stepped into it dressed and clean, your hair still damp, pulled back in a quick braid that clung to the back of your neck. You had slipped into a loose cotton dress that your mother had left on your childhood bed, the kind of thing that made you feel like someone softer than what the Navy hardened.

Your boots hit the porch step with a solid thud. Then you scanned the crowd — cousins shouting over a cornhole match, your uncles gathered around a cooler, your aunts near the grill gossiping like it was religion. And right there in the thick of it, beer in hand and talking to your brother like he’d belonged all his life, was Jake.

He looked up like he felt you before he saw you. His eyes met yours across the backyard, and for a moment, the noise faded out. He was wearing a clean white t-shirt now, sleeves rolled up, jeans low on his hips, his hair still damp from the shower — the cocky bastard looked every inch like the boy you used to curse under your breath and secretly stare at. But this wasn’t some reckless flyboy anymore. This was a man, and that was somehow worse.

You tried to act unaffected, crossing the yard with your chin high and spine stiff. But the way Jake stood up when you got closer — the way he pulled out the chair beside him, grinning just slightly — you knew he was going to get under your skin again. He always did.

“Birthday girl,” he greeted as you dropped into the seat, ignoring the flutter in your chest.

The plate in front of you was empty for two seconds before Jake reached for it and started piling on food like muscle memory. Ribs, your aunt’s corn pudding, slices of brisket, and a scoop of the macaroni your cousin swore she made from scratch but absolutely did not.

“This much brisket?” he asked, shooting you a look.

“You’re lucky I don’t shove it down your throat.”

Jake grinned like you’d just told him a love poem. “Threatening violence on your birthday. Classic you.”

“You want me to add the fork in your eye to my wish list?”

“I missed you,” he said under his breath, and that? That almost made you drop your glass. Almost.

The table was loud — too loud, and the warmth in your chest too unfamiliar. Jake passed you the cornbread without asking, refilled your lemonade like he had every right to. He didn’t push. Didn’t flirt. Just stayed close, smiling whenever you spoke, listening when you didn’t.

Then came the moment you’d been dreading.

“Happy birthday to you…”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hand as your family sang with full volume and zero tune. Jake leaned in close, voice low beside your ear.

“No use hiding, sunshine. Take it like a pilot.”

You elbowed him hard in the ribs, and he just laughed. He never even looked at the cake — his eyes stayed on you the whole time, like you were the flame, not the candles.

When it was time to blow them out, he leaned in again. “Make a wish.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I already got what I wanted.”

His brows lifted in surprise. “Oh yeah? Me?”

“Silence,” you deadpanned, then took a bite of cake like you didn’t notice the way his smile turned into something tender.

Your mother raised a toast. Your father gave a speech. The table clinked glasses and passed plates, and through it all, Jake didn’t move from your side. And you let him stay.

Dinner had long wrapped, but the yard still buzzed with life. Lanterns swung lazily from the trees, casting a soft, golden glow over the evening. Kids shrieked and laughed as they ran barefoot across the grass, dodging sprinklers and slipping in the mud.

Adults lingered in clumps around the grills and tables, voices lowered now, soothed by full bellies and the sweetness of homemade pie. It was the kind of night that made time feel like it bent a little — like it curved inward and held everything close.

You were about to help clean up when a familiar sound cut through the hum of conversation. A wheeze. A low huff. Nails on the wooden porch.

You froze.

And then you saw him.

“Bingo?” you breathed out, like the word alone might summon him closer.

The old Labrador came hobbling down the porch steps, slower than he used to be, his once-golden fur now dulled to a soft cream shot through with gray. His tail swayed, not wagging as wildly as it had when he was younger, but still moving, still trying. Still happy.

You dropped down into the grass without a second thought, your dress catching on a twig, your hands reaching out. “Hey, old man,” you whispered, cradling his tired face. “You still remember me?”

Bingo leaned into your hands and licked your cheek, huffing softly against your skin. You laughed, even as your throat tightened, and blinked against the burn behind your eyes.

And then, like gravity — like clockwork — Jake was there. He moved into the scene like he belonged, crouching down beside you, boots sinking into the earth. His gaze softened at the sight of the dog.

“Damn,” he murmured, running his hand down Bingo’s back with a tenderness you hadn’t seen in years. “Still kickin’.”

“He’s a tough one,” you replied, not looking at him.

“I always knew he’d outlive all of us,” he said with a lopsided grin, still looking at the dog. “Still got better instincts than half the squadron.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Bingo huffed again, content to lean his weight against both of you — like he didn’t care about time, or history, or everything unspoken hovering between the two people he loved most.

Then your mother’s voice called out from the porch, light and warm, “Hey! Let’s get a picture. Come on — just like the one from before!”

You looked up, heart sinking just a little.

Before.

Before everything.

Still, you didn’t argue. Not when your dad had already joined your mom on the steps, waving you both over. Not when Bingo began trotting that way with all the shaky dignity he could muster.

You stood and followed, wiping your hands on your dress. Jake moved beside you, just far enough not to touch, but close enough to feel.

On the porch, the photographer — your cousin Ellie — arranged you quickly. “Okay,” she chirped, “just like before! You and Jake in the middle. Bingo between you. Your parents on either side.”

You and Jake took your places, shoulders brushing. You both knelt again. Bingo plopped his butt between you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jake glanced at you, his arm settling gently behind Bingo’s back. “Ready?”

You didn’t look at him. “Just smile, Seresin.”

The camera clicked. And there it was. A snapshot.

You in your old boots and a sundress, Jake in a white T-shirt and jeans, his hands muddy and hair a mess. Your parents standing tall and proud on either side. And Bingo, the last link to who you used to be, smack in the middle.

You felt something lodge in your throat when you stood. Something small, sharp, and unspoken. You didn’t know what it meant yet. Maybe you didn’t want to.

Jake’s hand brushed yours when he stood beside you. You didn’t flinch, but you didn’t reach back, either.

The swing creaked as you sat down, the familiar groan of old wood and rusted chains filling the quiet air like a memory. The sun had dipped lower now, slanting gold across the horizon, painting shadows long and low across the fields you once called home.

You swayed gently, toes brushing the dust-soft ground, fingers curled loosely around the chain links. The cool breeze carried the scent of cut grass, barbecue smoke, and rain that had never quite come.

And then you heard footsteps.

Not rushed. Not hesitant either. Just… there. Steady, familiar. And you didn’t have to look to know.

You kept your eyes on the sky, the pale orange bleeding into pink. “If you’re here to bother me again,” you said, voice calm, cool, unreadable, “I swear to God, Seresin—”

“I’m not here to bother you.” His voice was quiet, too quiet for Jake Seresin, and that alone made your hands tighten around the swing’s chain. “I just… saw you come out here. Thought maybe—” He paused. “Thought maybe you didn’t want to be alone.”

You snorted. “You thought wrong.”

He didn’t answer. You heard the rustle of grass as he walked around, and then he was in your peripheral vision, hands in his back pockets, boots scuffing the dirt like he was twelve years old and about to confess to breaking a window.

You didn’t look at him. He didn’t sit.

“I wasn’t going to come,” he said finally, voice low. “To today. To any of this.”

“No one asked you to.”

“I know.” A pause. “Your mom did.”

You closed your eyes briefly, jaw clenching. “Of course she did.”

He shifted again, then leaned against the old post of the swing set. You could feel his gaze, hot and heavy, but still you didn’t turn.

“I meant what I said. Back there, in the office.” His voice was quieter now, steadier somehow. “I wasn’t lying to you.”

“And that’s supposed to mean something?” you asked, tone sharp like a snap of wire. “You weren’t lying now, but you were lying then. You lied to me, Jake. You used me.”

“I was a kid,” he murmured.

“So was I,” you snapped, finally looking at him. The anger rose like a tide, quick and bright. “But I didn’t turn someone’s heart into a party trick.”

Jake didn’t flinch. He just looked at you, solemn and still. “You left.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said you left.” His jaw worked. “You didn’t just walk out of my life, you disappeared from the damn map. No calls. No message. Nothing. I turned around and you were just… gone.”

Your chest tightened. “I left because I had to. Because staying meant looking at the version of myself I became around you—small, pathetic, invisible.”

“I never wanted you to feel that way.”

“But you didn’t stop it either,” you said, standing now, fury crackling beneath your skin. “You stood there while they laughed. While I was trying so hard not to cry in front of everyone. And when I gave you everything I had—my time, my loyalty, my belief—you threw it back like it was nothing.”

Jake’s voice came out quieter. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize it meant that much to you.”

You laughed, cold and bitter. “You think this is about a grade? About a project? You were the first person to make me feel like I was worth seeing, Jake. Like maybe I wasn’t just the weird, quiet girl who loved jets and read manuals for fun. And then, when it mattered… you made me feel like I was a joke.”

Silence stretched between you. The wind pulled gently at your dress, lifting strands of hair across your cheek. Jake’s face was pale in the soft light, his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but didn’t know what the hell to say.

Finally, he stepped forward. “I don’t expect forgiveness. I’m not asking for that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what are you asking for?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Maybe just… to not be a ghost in your story anymore.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

He wasn’t the boy you remembered—too smug, too handsome for his own good, too damn reckless with hearts that weren’t his. This man in front of you was older, weathered in ways you hadn’t expected. He wore guilt like a second skin, pride chipped away beneath a uniform and call signs and medals that didn’t erase the kid who once broke you.

But still.

It wasn’t enough.

“You’re not a ghost,” you said finally, voice soft but cold. “You’re the bruise that never fully faded.”

And with that, you turned back to the swing, sitting down again with a sigh. The air felt heavier now, but somehow clearer too. Jake didn’t say anything else. He just stood there, watching the woman he once thought he could forget.

Meanwhile, the cicadas began their slow chorus. The stars blinked into being, one by one. And neither of you moved.

Jake exhaled. It was shaky, like it had been trapped in his chest for years. Then, quietly: “I know I don’t deserve to ask anything from you.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, but you said nothing.

He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing right in front of you. You didn’t move. Not away. Not toward. Just still.

“But I’m going to say it anyway,” Jake murmured. “Because I’m tired of letting the best things in my life slip through my fingers just because I was too proud or too scared to admit I screwed up.”

There was a tremor in his voice now. Barely there. But it cracked on the next breath.

“I used to think you were a detour,” he said, his hands clenched at his sides. “Just a stop along the way. A girl who knew too much about engines and didn’t laugh at the right jokes. But you… God, you were everything. I just didn’t know it yet.”

You stared at him, heart thudding, lips parted in disbelief.

“You were fire wrapped in softness. You were brilliant, and kind, and so damn loyal it scared me. And I—” his voice broke, and he looked away for the first time, dragging a hand through his hair like he was trying to hold himself together.

Then he looked back. And his eyes… they were wet.

“I was the fool. Not you. I was the coward who needed everyone to think he was cool, even if it meant throwing away the one person who actually saw me. Really saw me. And I hurt you. I used you. I mocked what you gave me like it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered more than anything.”

His throat bobbed, his voice raw and cracking as he stepped even closer, as if the distance between you was burning him alive.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he whispered. “You don’t even have to look at me again. But I needed you to know... I love you. I never stopped.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, the words hitting like a punch to the chest.

Jake’s shoulders shook now. He tried to breathe, but it came out a choke. He covered his mouth with his hand, tried to blink it back, but the tears were already falling—silent, slow, like the kind that don’t beg for pity. Just truth.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’ve loved you since the day you handed me that stupid project and told me not to fail. I just didn’t know how to be someone who deserved you.”

You stood slowly, eyes locked on his. He was crying, nose pink, jaw trembling—Jake Seresin, who never flinched in dogfights, who never let anyone see the cracks.

And now, all of him was cracked wide open. Just for you.

Your voice was quiet at first. Almost too quiet to hear above the creak of the swing swaying slightly behind you. But Jake heard it—heard you—and the sound of your breath hitching as you tried to keep control, tried to keep steel where there was only the slow-melting ache of grief.

“I wanted to forget you,” you whispered, eyes burning. “And God, I tried. For years. I told myself you didn’t mean anything. That it didn’t matter how you looked at me like I was worth nothing in front of your friends. That it didn’t matter how you let them laugh, let them joke about the quiet girl who knew too much and felt too much.” You swallowed, hard. “I told myself you didn’t mean it. That maybe you were just young. Stupid. Caught in the wrong moment.”

Jake stood frozen, barely breathing, eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that had ever mattered. Because you were.

“And now?” you continued, voice breaking at the edges. “Now you show up like this. With words I waited for years to hear. And it’s not that I don’t want to believe you—God, Jake, part of me wants to. But I’m terrified.” Your voice cracked completely now, tears slipping down your cheeks like they’d been waiting for this. “Because if I forgive you… if I let myself fall for you again, and you leave—if you break me again—I won’t come back from that.”

Jake’s face crumpled. All of his armor, the cocky smirks, the playboy confidence, the golden-boy glow—shattered. He stepped closer, slowly, then dropped to his knees right there in front of you, in the dirt, like none of it mattered. Because it didn’t. Not if he couldn’t reach you.

“I won’t leave,” he said, his voice thick and hoarse. “I won’t hurt you again. I swear to you, I swear on everything I’ve got left—I will never, ever let you feel like you’re not enough. Not again.”

His hands were on your waist, trembling, grounding him. His forehead lowered against your stomach, and you felt his body shaking—not with cold or nerves but with something deeper. Something broken and rebuilt, still raw at the edges.

“I love you,” he said again, almost pleading now. “And I know that word isn’t enough. I know I’ve got a hell of a mountain to climb to prove it. But I’ll do it. I’ll prove it every damn day for the rest of my life if you let me. I’ll give you every flower, every sunrise, every second chance you thought you’d never get.”

He looked up at you, eyes wet, voice soft but sure. “I’m not that boy anymore. I’m not running. Not from you. Not from us. I will never leave you behind again.”

And as you looked down at him—at Jake Seresin, on his knees, shaking in your arms, eyes wide and begging like prayers—you realized he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness.

He was asking for forever.

You stared at him, at the man kneeling in the dirt like he wasn’t born of sky and pride but forged from something heartbreakingly human. Jake Seresin—your first betrayal, your oldest wound, your almost. His hands were still on your waist like a tether, like if he let go, he’d float off and lose you again.

And God, your chest ached with it—with the heat of his words, the trembling in his shoulders, the way his eyes never once strayed from yours. You wanted to run. You wanted to scream. You wanted to collapse into his arms and never let go.

Instead, you knelt in front of him.

It startled him—his breath caught, his eyes widened like he didn’t expect you to meet him on his knees. But you did. Slowly. Carefully. As if any sudden move might break you both again.

“I used to imagine what this would look like,” you said, your voice rough, lips trembling with the effort it took to speak. “You, apologizing. Me, finally getting to ask why.”

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head, not finished.

“I used to think if I ever saw you again, I’d slap you. Or worse. And maybe I should’ve.” You laughed wetly, bitter and exhausted. “But then you looked at me. Not the way you used to—God, not like that—but like I was real again. Like I wasn’t just something you stepped over to get where you wanted.”

Jake’s lips parted, but no sound came out. He was still crying—quietly now. Steady. Like it wasn’t a thing he could stop, just a thing he carried.

You reached up, thumb grazing his cheek, brushing a tear away. “You were my first heartbreak, Jake. And maybe that means I’ll always flinch when you get too close. Maybe I’ll always wonder if I’m just a placeholder again.”

Jake gripped your wrist gently, turning into your palm like it was the only lifeline he had.

“But maybe,” you whispered, “I want to find out.”

His breath hitched. “You do?”

“I’m still mad,” you said, your voice cracking with a laugh, with something like fragile hope. “I’m still scared. But if you’re willing to do the work… if you’re really in this, Jake—then yeah.”

His mouth was trembling now, his shoulders shaking harder. “I’m in. I’m so fucking in. I don’t want anyone else.”

“I don’t want pretty speeches,” you warned, even as you leaned closer, forehead pressed to his. “I want the truth. I want actions. I want the man you are now—not the boy who broke me.”

He nodded, over and over like he couldn’t believe you were saying this, like he needed to etch the words into his heart before they disappeared. “I’ll be him. For you, I’ll be him.”

Then, finally—finally—you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. And Jake folded into you like he’d been waiting years just to breathe again.

A quiet, shared exhale against the tender press of foreheads—him on his knees, you holding him like he might fall apart if you let go. And maybe you would too. You could still taste the ache between you. Years of silence, of what-ifs and almosts and never-agains. But in that moment, wrapped in the soft amber of dusk and the hush of the farm behind you, there was only one truth left.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle, not entirely. It was hesitant, then desperate, then sure. The kind of kiss that tasted of memories and apologies, of pain soothed and promises rewritten. His hands cradled your face like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he was scared you’d vanish if he blinked. And you held him like he was no longer the boy who hurt you, but the man who swore he never would again.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard. You looked at him—really looked—and there it was: the wonder in his eyes, the salt of old regrets on his lips, the trembling hope in his touch.

“You’re crying,” you whispered.

“I’ve been crying since I saw you in that swing,” he murmured, grinning through it now. “You kissed me.”

“You begged,” you shot back with a smirk, cheeks burning.

Jake laughed, forehead against yours again. “Damn right I did.”

And somewhere behind you, the sounds of laughter and music and clinking glasses carried from the house. But in the quiet between heartbeats, it was just the two of you. No call signs. No ghosts. No armor.

Just the girl who ran wild in the fields and the boy who didn’t know what he had until she left.

Funny, really.

Once, you’d been the fool for loving him. The quiet one. The invisible one. The girl no one expected to rise.

And he—he’d been the golden boy.

But life has a wicked sense of humor.

Because now, as he knelt there beneath the stars, still trembling from the kiss you gave him, there was no mistaking it:

The golden boy had become the fool.

And he’d never been happier to be one.