Warnings: Canon typical violence, mild mentions of blood, brief NSFW thoughts on behalf of our dear reader. Illusion to past self harm. This fic is basically Santi telling you about his scars.
Excerpt: You slowly raise your fingers to trace along the faint line marring his skin, something you’ve certainly done before but it makes Santi want to cry this time. You don’t notice, don’t look up, too busy watching your fingers move across his skin while your lips form a silent prayer.
Author's Note: I'm back (for now)
Masterlist | Get updated when I post a new fic here
You’ve seen your husband naked before. Of course you have.
You’ve had the pleasure, on obviously more than one occasion, of seeing Santiago Garcia shirtless. You’ve watched the way his back muscles move and flex under his skin, touched his bare chest after he steals his first kiss in bed, buried your nose into the hair on his tummy before you suck his cock. You’ve licked sweat off the fucking man. You’re no stranger to his body, sure you could map every mark and scar if you tried.
So you’re not exactly sure why you’re staring this time, in the dim light of the bathroom while you both brush your teeth before bed. Well, no, you know why you’re staring at him—Santiago is beyond attractive, of course you’re fucking staring at him when he’s standing in only his underwear.
But you’re staring. And Santi can feel it, can tell that it’s different this time. That there’s more meaning, a thoughtfulness behind your eyes that usually isn’t there. Anxiety, maybe, he thinks. But he doesn’t know why.
So he spits his toothpaste into the porcelain bowl and rinses.
“What’s up, baby?”
His words seem to draw you out of whatever hole you fell down, eyes meeting big brown ones in the mirror. Stupid brown eyes.
“Just thinking,” he can barely make out around the sound of your toothbrush. He watches you bend to spit and rinse, letting the comfortable silence carry, knowing you won’t leave him hanging. You wipe your mouth on a towel then turn to face him. “I know your scars.”
Santi’s eyebrows raise into his hairline, and he can’t help the little snicker that rattles through his nose.
You roll your eyes, but also groan at yourself because- “Yeah, okay, that sounded cheesy. But you didn’t let me finish!”
Santiago waves his hand between you as if giving you the floor. He’s afraid you’re going to punch him, but you don’t.
“What I was trying to say was, like, I could tell a doctor every mark on your body if I needed to, y’know?”
“Yeah, and?”
He doesn’t bite. He doesn’t hide his body or shy away from prying eyes at the beach, but you know you’re the only person on the planet who can talk to him about it without teeth.
Well, you and the boys. Frankie, Will, and Benny—his best friends and the very men he earned many of those battle wounds alongside.
So you press on knowing you’re one of those four lucky people. “I only know the story behind a few though.”
Santi’s eyebrows shoot up again, and he tilts his head gently to the side. His eyes are interested, quizzical, but not judgmental. Never judgmental with you. But he quickly pieces it together without needing to ask you.
“You…want to know how I got these scars?”
This time, you snort a laugh while Santi chuckles in the back of his throat. Oh my God—
“That was arguably worse than mine.”
“Oh, no, for sure.”
You’re still giggling quietly, letting it trail off and get lost to silence naturally while Santi smiles fondly at you, adoration clear in those stupid eyes.
Finally, he sighs. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”
Santiago moves across the bathroom to the shower, reaching in to turn the water warm before pushing his black briefs down muscular thighs. Your eyebrows are drawn together when he looks over his shoulder towards you.
“C’mon, strip. If we’re going to do this I want to be warm and comfortable.”
Everyone knows Santi could spend an unreasonably long amount of time in a hot shower, only emerging once his skin was red and scorched. The habit had rubbed off on you too since meeting him. You know what he means when he says “comfortable”.
You meet him in the shower after taking off your pajamas and putting your hair up. He’s already sitting on the shower floor, waiting for you, body dancing with shadows in the faint glow of the lamp you insisted on having in the bathroom rather than the monstrous overhead. You sit next to him, curling into his side, letting the warm water run over your legs.
You’re both quiet again, and it’s still comfortable. It’s always comfortable with Santi. Everything is so easy with him. Even with a ring on your finger, you still find it hard to believe that you found someone who made breathing feel easy for the first time in your life.
You know he feels the same. You know that’s why you’re sitting where you are right now, with Santi trying to figure out where to start.
“You know…” He thinks for another moment. “All the surgical ones. The one on the back of my neck, my knees.”
You nod. The one at the back of his neck was the first one you had ever noticed, peeking out from under the collar of his shirt not long after you met.
Santi sighs, and you want to remind him that he doesn’t have to do this if he doesn’t want to. But he knows what you’re going to say the second you open your mouth, so he opens his instead,
“This one.” He touches a smooth white line above his collarbone, about two inches long, faded with years of life but still visible, still there. “I was in Panama. Got a little too close to somebody’s knife. He got a good swipe in before I dropped him.”
It’s in that moment that you quickly realize one of the reasons Santi doesn’t like talking about his scars—for each mark he earned, someone’s life was taken in return.
Oh, honey.
You slowly raise your fingers to trace along the faint line marring his skin, something you’ve certainly done before but it makes Santi want to cry this time. You don’t notice, don’t look up, too busy watching your fingers move across his skin while your lips form a silent prayer.
Please protect him.
Santi takes a deep breath before continuing. He gently grabs your wrist, guiding your hand lower until it rests over a few small circles. You knew what these were without him needing to tell you. They were always there when your fingers ghosted across his skin in the middle of the night, always there when you were on your knees and kissing your way down his body.
“The first time I was shot.” His voice is somber now, lower, darker. “Almost ended my career before it even really began. First deployment after finishing the Q.”
The first time rings loud in your head. Of course you know he has matching scars along his shoulder. More on his thigh. But you’d never really put a number to it before. Never thought about how many times he’d been shot.
Your fingers move on their own, drifting to the ones along his shoulder blade. You meet his eyes instead of watching your own hand this time, and as soon as you make contact with the puckered, raised skin, Santi’s eyes darken.
“Venezuela,” he sighs, staring at a random tile on the shower floor just to give himself something to look at. You almost ask him not to tell you, don’t want him to if it’s going to cause his PTSD to flare but you know he’s thinking about it now. He won’t stop thinking about it. “After I got out of the service. I was working intelligence with the DEA, went undercover for a while.”
He sighs again, staying quiet for just a second or two while he decides how much he wants to tell you. “They figured me out, but they made it clear they didn’t want to kill me. Not right away, anyways.”
He doesn’t offer any more detail, and you don’t push him to. He finally tears his eyes off the floor and meets your worried ones, flashing you a quick smile that isn’t all there. It doesn’t really reassure you.
“What are you thinking about?” you ask him softly, nudging him just a bit, looking for a way to pull him back out of his head.
A third sigh. “I didn’t think my team was going to come for me. And with the boys, you know…that wasn’t something I would’ve had to worry about. I mean, fuck, we carried Tom-”
He stops himself by physically swallowing his own words, shaking his head gently. You knew about the mission in Colombia, the one where they lost Tom, the one Santi will never stop blaming himself for. You’d met him just a few months after that, when it was still fresh, when he wouldn’t let you sleep in the same bed because he was still waking up in the middle of the night screaming for his friend. He still did, every now and again, when the ghosts came creeping into the night.
Santi shakes his head again, huffing out a short breath before he reaches over for your hand still on his back. He brings your fingers to his left wrist and the thin white lines he usually hides with his watch, and again you don’t need to ask. This time, he doesn’t tell you.
But he goes on. He moves your fingers to the next scar, a little further up his forearm, jagged and maybe an inch long. He’d fallen off his bike when he was seven, tore his arm open on a rock. He tells you how his mother sat him on the kitchen counter to clean and bandage his wound, kissing away his tears before his dad could see. He’s smiling again, small but real, at least. He always smiles when he talks about his mom.
There’s more. On his back, his thighs, his chest. The one on his cheek. The water is cold by the time he’s finished guiding your hands across his body. Your fingers feel numb. You think Santi feels the same.
So you both move silently towards bed. Santi shuts off the water, grabs your towels off the rack. You dry off, slide back into your pajamas, brush your hair. Santi takes his meds and rechecks the locks. When you climb under the sheets, you’re facing each other, eyes locked, eight fingers crossed on the pillows between your heads.
Your gaze is hazy, tired and drooping. The bags under Santi’s eyes are swollen and dark. The silence is still comfortable though, even with new revelations and the heaviness sitting on both your chests.
Santi breaks it first. He usually does.
“You okay?”
Your eyes shift from lazy to confused instantly. “You’re asking me if I’m okay?”
He nods slowly, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“I feel like I should be asking you that,” you huff gently, scooting your face closer to your intertwined hands, kissing over his knuckles a few times. He practically purrs.
“I’m fine. I’ve lived through it already.”
That seems to be Santiago’s mantra whenever he does talk about his past, whenever he tries to downplay his PTSD. He’s already lived through some of his worst days, worst moments. They can’t possibly still hurt him.
You know that’s not how it works. He knows it too really, he’s just fucking stubborn.
So you remind him. “You’re allowed to not be okay.”
Santi falls into a brief silence again, and in the darkness you can still see the gears in his head tick-tick-ticking. He closes his eyes before he speaks again.
“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it was worth a damn thing.”
You know he’s not only talking about the marks on his body. You know he’s talking about Tom, about the other friends he lost while they were fighting for their lives, for a mission they weren’t even sure they believed in anymore. The nightmares he shares with Frankie and the breakdowns Will had in grocery stores for years after they made it home. Benny, sweet Benny with all that anger and nowhere to put it. The drugs, the alcohol, the sex, the money. All of their different gambles and vices. All of the blood.
“Most of the time,” he sighs a moment later. “Most of the time.”
You wish you knew how to take it all away. The self doubt and the loathing. You wish you knew how to help him heal from it, how to help him realize it still means everything.
But you know all you can do is try to comfort him. So you kiss over his knuckles again and swing your leg over his hip to drag your bodies closer.
“Every choice you have ever made led you to me,” you settle with finally, watching the way Santi’s eyes soften as your words register. “Even the ones covered in blood. You did what you had to do to survive and make sure you found your way to me. And I think that we’re worth something, don’t you?”
Santi doesn't miss a beat, your words barely off your tongue before he’s gripping your chin between two fingers and leaning in close to really drive his point home—don’t you ever doubt it.
“Oh baby, I’d do it all over again just to fall back into this bed with you.”
request; Would u write a angsty/make up fic with Jake? Maybe a fight and the wrong thing is said by reader and it causes Jake to clam up and they have to sit like adults and discuss it and then he asks SO quietly "So, we aren't breaking up?" And reader has to so gently and patiently reassure him that one fight doesn't equal a break up
word count; 3.1k
warnings; minor angst, jake having insecurities and not being able to communicate his feelings lowk
a/n; a little hurt/comfort for y'all! i had a lot of fun with this request, thank you for making it! happy reading, let me know what you think<3
masterlist
Jake Seresin isn’t careless with things he cares about. He knows that about himself. He’s meticulous in the cockpit, deliberate in the way he plans his flights, precise when it matters. So when he tells himself that missing a date here and there doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just bad timing, just life getting in the way, it’s because he genuinely believes it.
At least at first.
The thing about you — about whatever this is between you — is that it snuck up on him. One day you were someone he wanted, someone he flirted with shamelessly, chased with the easy confidence of a man who had never really been told no. And then somewhere along the line, without warning, you became someone he needed. Someone whose texts he reread when he couldn’t sleep. Someone whose laugh settled something restless in his chest. Someone he started thinking about in the future tense without even realizing it.
New, yes. But serious. He knows that too.
The first time he missed a date, it felt harmless enough.
You were supposed to meet him at a little taco place near the harbor, nothing fancy, just something you’d talked about wanting to try. He’d texted you that he was running late, then later that he might be a bit more late than expected. One drink at the Hard Deck had turned into three, then four, then into the easy pull of familiar voices and loud laughter and the kind of night that slipped through his fingers before he noticed the time. By the time he checked his phone, your last message — I’m already here — sat unanswered for over an hour.
He’d apologized. Really apologized. You’d accepted it, told him it was fine, that things happened. You even joked about it the next time you saw him, nudging his shoulder and calling him predictable. He’d laughed, relief washing over him, and promised himself he’d do better.
The second time felt more justified.
Training ran long. Then longer. Then long enough that the sun dipped low and the exhaustion settled deep into his bones. He remembered the reservation halfway through debrief, a sharp pang of guilt cutting through the fog in his head. This time he’d called you, voice rough as he explained, as if the truth alone might soften the blow. You’d been quiet on the other end of the line, but you still told him you understood. You always understood. That was the problem— Jake didn’t realize yet how dangerous that word could be.
The third time is when it starts to sit wrong.
This time, there’s no bar, no unexpected training schedule to hide behind. Just poor planning and a million little assumptions stacking on top of each other. He tells himself he has time. That he can squeeze in one more thing, take one more call, handle one more obligation before heading out. He doesn’t notice how late it’s gotten until his phone buzzes in his pocket, your name lighting up the screen.
Are you still coming?
He stops short in the middle of the hallway, chest tightening. The answer is already there, heavy and unavoidable. He types. Deletes. Types again. By the time he finally responds, it’s too late — and he knows it.
The date was supposed to be at your place this time.
That alone should have been enough to make him move heaven and earth to get there on time.
You’d told him you wanted to cook for him, had sounded almost shy about it when you mentioned the menu, like it mattered more than you wanted to admit. He’d teased you, of course, told you he’d eat anything you put in front of him, but there had been something warm in his chest all day at the thought of you in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, music playing while you waited for him. The kind of domestic image that still surprised him with how badly he wanted it.
Now, he’s late. Again.
Jake practically jogs to his car, keys biting into his palm as he unlocks it, movements sharp and restless as he slides behind the wheel. The engine turns over and he pulls out of the lot faster than he probably should, hands tight on the steering wheel as if gripping it hard enough might rewind the last few hours. The guilt sits heavy in his gut, an unsettled, sour feeling that doesn’t ease no matter how many times he tells himself he’s almost there.
Third time this month.
That number keeps echoing, louder with every red light, every mile marker ticking past. Once is a mistake. Twice is unfortunate. Three times feels like a pattern, and Jake hates how aware he is of it now—how easy it suddenly is to line them up and see what they say about him.
His nerves climb the closer he gets to your apartment, chest tightening as familiar streets blur past. The hum of the road fades beneath the sound of his own thoughts, that voice slipping in like it always does the moment he feels like he has something worth losing.
This is it, it tells him. She’s finally had enough.
He swallows hard, jaw clenching. That voice has been with him for as long as he can remember, quiet when things are surface-level and easy, relentless when they start to matter. It tells him he’s not built for this—that he’s too selfish, too cocky, too used to doing things on his own terms to ever really be good at loving someone the way they deserve. It lists his flaws with cruel precision, reminding him of every time he’s chosen himself without meaning to.
Too focused on the job, too comfortable being wanted without having to try. Too late. Too little. Too much of himself.
The idea of you standing in your apartment, dinner getting cold, checking your phone and realizing he isn’t coming on time again makes his chest ache. He imagines the disappointment on your face, the way you’d try to hide it because that’s what you do—give him grace even when he doesn’t earn it. And somehow, that hurts worse than anger would.
By the time he pulls into your parking lot, his stomach is twisted into knots. He kills the engine but doesn’t move right away, forehead dropping forward until it rests against the steering wheel. For a brief, ugly moment, he’s almost afraid to go inside.
Because if you decide this is the fight that ends things, he’s not sure he’d know how to argue with you.
And that terrifies him.
Jake shuts his car door with more force than necessary and starts toward the entrance, shoulders tense, posture already braced for impact. He greets the doorman out of habit, the words automatic, and heads straight for the elevator. As the metal doors slide shut, he finally exhales, dragging a hand down his face before glancing at his phone.
No reply.
He scrolls, like maybe he missed something. A be here soon, an okay, anything.
Nothing.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath as the elevator hums upward, the knot in his stomach pulling tighter with every floor. By the time the doors open again, his pulse is loud in his ears. He steps out, walking faster than usual down the hall, stopping in front of your door like he’s hit an invisible wall.
He knocks once.
Nothing.
“Hey,” he calls softly, leaning closer, forehead almost touching the door. “It’s me.”
He knocks again, gentler this time, saying your name like it might coax you out. He lifts his hand to knock a third time, already inhaling to start apologizing—rehearsing the words in his head, the I’m so sorry, I lost track of time, it won’t happen again spilling forward before he can stop it—
The door opens.
You don’t say anything. You just step back, opening it wider, eyes flicking to the side in a silent invitation that doesn’t feel like one at all.
Jake freezes mid-sentence.
“Oh—hey, I—fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be this late, I swear I thought I could—” His words trip over each other, rushed and uneven, but they die in his throat when you turn away without looking at him.
He steps inside, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.
His eyes land on the table first, and his chest sinks. The candles you’d clearly meant to light sit untouched, wicks still pristine. The flatware has been partially cleared away, napkins folded with care and then abandoned halfway through. And in the center of it all, the eggplant lasagna— homemade, he knows because you’d told him you were nervous about it — sits cold and untouched, the edges already starting to set.
The scene hits him harder than any argument could have.
You move past him without a word, gathering the remaining cutlery with steady hands and carrying it into the kitchen. Jake stands there for a second longer, guilt blooming sharp and painful in his chest as he watches you go, the distance between you suddenly feeling much bigger than the few steps it takes to follow you.
He follows you into the kitchen, stopping just short of the counter, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. He watches the way you move— controlled, deliberate, every motion careful — as you set the cutlery down and rinse your hands like you’re trying to wash the evening off of them. You’re tense, he can see that much, but your face is calm, almost too calm, and somehow that’s worse. He’d rather you yell. Anger, he knows how to deal with. This quiet disappointment feels like standing in front of a firing squad.
“I waited for two hours, Jake,” you finally say, voice steady as you lift your eyes to him.
The words hit him square in the chest.
“I know, baby. I’m so sorry,” he rushes out, stepping closer without even realizing it. “I really am, I—”
You lift a hand, not sharp, not angry, just enough to stop him. “What was it this time?” you ask gently. “The Hard Deck? A debrief you couldn’t get out of? Because those were the reasons the last two times you stood me up.”
He physically winces, jaw tightening as the truth lands exactly where it hurts. “I lost track of time,” he admits, shoulders slumping despite himself. “Mav asked me to finish some reports and… I don’t know. I didn’t check the time like I should’ve.”
He braces himself, heart thudding, already preparing for the moment you tell him to leave.
Instead, you take a breath.
“I don’t like feeling like I have to fight for your attention, Jake.”
Ouch.
The words echo in his head, sharp and final, and his stomach drops like he’s missed a step going down the stairs. This is it, he thinks. This is the part where you realize he’s exactly what he’s always been afraid of— too selfish, too wrapped up in his own world to deserve someone like you.
You keep going, voice still soft, still painfully calm. “I know you care about your job. I know how much it means to you, and I respect that. I really do.” Your gaze doesn’t leave his, and that somehow makes it harder. “But sometimes it feels like I don’t even come second. And I’m not asking to be everything, I just… I need to feel like I matter. Like I’m not an afterthought.”
His chest tightens, breath shallow now, every instinct screaming at him to interrupt, to defend himself, to explain— but he doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve to.
“I’m your girlfriend,” you continue quietly. “And I don’t need grand gestures or promises you can’t keep. I just need to know where I fit. I need to know that when you say you want this — when you say you want me — it’s not something I have to compete for.”
The word girlfriend feels fragile in his ears, like it might shatter if he touches it wrong.
You swallow, fingers curling lightly against the counter. “I know relationships are still kind of new territory for you. But if we’re doing this —if we’re really doing this — I need consistency. I need to know you’re choosing this the same way you say you are.” You finally look away, just for a second. “Because I can’t keep sitting around, wondering if tonight is another night I eat alone.”
Jake stands there, heart in his throat, the weight of your words settling deep in his bones. He doesn’t hear an ultimatum in your voice. He hears hurt. Honest, quiet hurt.
You exhale slowly, shoulders dropping just a fraction. “It’s getting late,” you say, quieter now, tired in a way that has nothing to do with the hour. “And I’m really tired.”
Jake’s head snaps up, panic flaring so fast it almost makes him dizzy. This is it, then. This is the polite end. You’ve said your piece, laid out all the ways he failed you, and now you want space — distance — from him. His chest tightens, words tangling uselessly in his throat as that familiar voice creeps in again, cruel and certain, telling him he knew this would happen, that he was never built to keep something good.
“O-okay,” he manages, already taking a step back. “I’ll— yeah, I’ll leave you alone.” His apology spills out clumsily and rushed, like he’s afraid if he stops talking, he’ll fall apart. “I’m really sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to leave you alone tonight. Not after you did all this. I didn’t—” He swallows, nodding to himself like he’s made peace with it. “I’ll go.”
He turns toward the door, heart pounding, already bracing for the hollow that’ll follow.
“Where are you going?” you ask.
He freezes mid-step, confusion flickering across his face as he turns back to you. “I—I thought…” He frowns, words tentative, almost fragile. “You said you were tired. I thought you wanted me to leave you alone.”
“I said it’s getting late,” you reply gently, like you’re clarifying something obvious. “As in… we should get ready for bed.”
He just stares at you, blinking. “You… you want me to stay?”
“Well, yeah,” you say, tilting your head. “Unless you have somewhere else you need to be.”
He shakes his head immediately, too fast. “No. No, I don’t.”
“Good,” you murmur. “Then we’ll go to bed, and we’ll reheat the food tomorrow.”
You round the kitchen island, closing the distance between you, and Jake’s brain struggles to keep up with the sudden shift. His heart is still racing, still half-convinced this is a misunderstanding he’s about to wake up from.
“Wait,” he says softly, the word barely leaving his mouth. “So… we aren’t breaking up?”
The question comes out small, stripped of all the cockiness he wears so easily, and he hates himself for how much it reveals. For how scared he sounds.
You frown, brows knitting together as you look up at him. “What? Of course not.” A faint, incredulous smile touches your lips. “You think I’m going to break up with you over some cold lasagna?”
His throat tightens. “I stood you up,” he says, voice rougher now. “Again. I disappointed you. It’s the third time this month and I just—” He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping for a second before forcing himself to look at you. “I thought you’d finally be done with me.”
The words tremble on the way out, and he hates that you can hear it. Hates that this part of him is so exposed.
You step closer, close enough that he can feel your warmth, and you lift your hand to his cheek. Your thumb brushes softly along his jaw, grounding, steady.
“Jake,” you say quietly. “We had an argument. That’s it. I’m not walking away from you because we fought.” Your voice is patient, sure. “What matters is that you’re listening. That you understand why it hurt. And you do— I can see that.”
His eyes sting, and he blinks hard.
“I know you’re sorry,” you continue. “And I’m not asking for perfection. I’m just asking to matter.”
He nods, leaning into your touch before he can stop himself. “You do,” he says immediately, like it’s instinct. “You matter more than anything. I swear to you.” His voice breaks just slightly. “I never want to make you feel like you’re fighting for space in my life. You shouldn’t have to.”
He steps closer until there’s barely any space left, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes closing as if that’s the only way he can say this without falling apart. “I’m really, really sorry,” he whispers. “And I’m going to do better. For you.”
You stay there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, the kitchen quiet around you like it’s holding its breath. Jake’s hands hover at your waist, hesitant now in a way you’re not used to, as if he’s afraid that touching you too firmly might break something fragile between you. The thought alone makes your chest ache.
You’re the one who moves first, sliding your arms around his middle and pulling him in until his face tucks instinctively into the crook of your neck. He exhales there, a shaky sound he doesn’t even try to hide, his grip tightening like he’s been holding himself together all evening and is finally letting go.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur softly, lips brushing his temple. “We’re just learning each other. That’s all this is.”
He nods against you, slow and careful, like he’s committing the words to memory. “I’ll learn,” he says just as quietly. “I want to. I don’t want to lose you.”
You lean back just enough to look at him, thumbs brushing under his eyes, grounding him. “You won’t,” you tell him, certain. “Not over one fight. Not when we’re willing to talk it through.”
Something in his shoulders finally loosens, the tension bleeding out of him little by little. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, reverent in the way he does it, like he’s grateful you’re still here, still choosing him.
Later, you curl up together in bed, the room dim and calm, the night wrapping around you both. Jake’s arm is heavy and sure around your waist, his chin resting against the top of your head, breathing slow and even. You fit there easily, like you were always meant to.
For the first time that night, his mind is quiet.
And as you drift off to sleep, tangled together, there’s a shared understanding between you—this isn’t the end of something. It’s the beginning of learning how to hold on, together.
frank with a girl that has never experienced guys doing stuff like opening the car door for her, so when frank does it she’s kind of awkward about it bc it feels so unnatural for a while 😭
Frank would need to be straight-up reminding you. Like, he'd turn off the car and make to get out but then turn back and point a thick finger at you and say "stay where you're at sweetheart" and then get out and walk around the car to open your door. Like he is making the manners stick whether you're used to it or not!
You lift some grocery bags out of the trunk before he can get there and he's jogging over to stop you, saying "eh eh, come on. Don't be liftin' that. Go inside and sit down doll."
And even if you said something like "it's ok Frank. Don't fuss, I've got it," he'd just scoff like "I know you CAN do it sweetheart but I WANNA do it, understand? Don't want me bein' like them losers you dated before right?"
Summary: Every day gets a little harder. Until you can’t take it anymore.
Warnings: Angst!!! Hurt/minimal comfort. Emotions hurt/minimal comfort. Fighting. Established relationship. Break up. I’m really into angst right now, guys!! (If y’all got any angst requests, pls send them~). Whatever else I failed to mention.
Author’s Note: This is the sixth part on my ficmas list. Enjoy! I don’t own Top Gun Maverick. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owners. Similarly, I don’t own any of the gifs or pictures I use for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.
Hope everyone has a great New Year’s!
Word Count: 1,418
Ficmas || Masterlist
You’re reading too much into it.
That’s what you told yourself at first.
You’re overreacting. Putting too much weight on something that wasn’t really something. People forget things all the time. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything.
You repeated it so often it started to sound like the truth.
That was over a year ago—when Jake forgot your anniversary. A cliché, sure. One of those things people laugh about later, shake their heads at. Except you’d been excited in a way you hadn’t let yourself be in a long time. Careful excitement. The kind you nurture quietly so you don’t scare it off.
You’d dropped hints. Little ones. Casually mentioned the restaurant where you’d gone on your first date, how you’d been craving their food lately. Talked about the beach at sunset, how it was getting warmer again. You didn’t want to demand anything. You never did. You just wanted him to notice.
Dinner first. Then a walk along the water. Then…whatever came after. You didn’t need a plan past that. You just wanted to be with him. Wanted to feel chosen.
Jake never showed.
You waited at the restaurant for forty-five minutes, checking your phone even when you knew there wouldn’t be a message. Sitting there in his favorite dress, the one he’d once said made it hard for him to focus. Your hair done, makeup carefully applied, nerves buzzing under your skin. You told yourself he was running late. Then that he’d gotten held up. Then that maybe he was already on his way.
The hostess stopped asking if you were waiting for someone after the first twenty minutes.
Eventually, the embarrassment outweighed the hope. You ordered something to go, your voice tight as you gave your name. You didn’t look at anyone on the way out. You held the bag like it might keep you upright.
Jake only remembered because Bob reminded him.
Later that night, while the squad was at the Hard Deck—laughing, drinking, living—you were at home by then. Showered. Red-eyed. Exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t fix. The food sat untouched on the counter, gone cold, like the night had.
He called. Apologized. Said he was sorry. That he’d never do it again. That it was a slip-up. That you shouldn’t be mad.
Don’t be mad.
You believed him. Or maybe you wanted to. Even though every part of you screamed to hold onto the anger, to let it protect you for once. You swallowed it instead. Smoothed it down. Told him it was okay.
You asked—softly, like you were asking for a favor—if he could take you out to lunch to make it up to you. On whatever day he had off. You didn’t care when. You just wanted something that said it mattered.
Jake said sure.
You smiled then. Small. Careful. A pale imitation of the smile you used to give him without thinking.
He never did take you to lunch.
And that was the thing—you didn’t make a big deal out of it. You told yourself it wasn’t worth starting a fight over. That it wasn’t that bad. You adjusted your expectations instead. Lowered them quietly. Made excuses for him before he ever had to.
And it kept happening.
Not just anniversaries. Little things. Plans half-made and easily broken. Texts answered hours later, if at all. Promises delivered with no follow-through. You learned how to wait without showing it. How to swallow disappointment with a smile and say, It’s fine, really.
Jake didn’t see a problem. To him, nothing was wrong—because you never let it look wrong. You kept trying harder, loving louder, giving more, hoping one day he’d notice the effort it took just to stay.
And every time he let you down, something inside you thinned out a little more.
Not enough to break.
Just enough to ache.
You didn’t realize how much you were losing until you started feeling numb where hope used to be.
* * *
It didn’t happen all at once.
It happened in pieces—missed calls, forgotten plans, conversations that felt like talking into a room Jake had already left. You stopped bringing things up because every time you did, he looked at you like you were asking for too much. Like you were making problems where there weren’t any.
So you learned how to carry it alone.
You learned how to sit on the couch beside him while he scrolled through his phone, nodding at half-heard responses. Learned how to stop dressing up unless it was for yourself. Learned how to keep your expectations so low they barely registered as hope.
Jake still kissed you goodbye in the mornings. Still called you babe. Still said I love you like muscle memory. And you told yourself that was enough—because if you admitted it wasn’t, you’d have to face what that meant.
The fight started over nothing.
Or at least, that’s how Jake would describe it.
You’d made dinner. Nothing fancy. Just something warm, something that said I thought about you today. Jake came in late, barely glancing at the table before dropping his keys and shrugging out of his jacket.
“Hey,” he said, distracted. “The guys are going out. I told them I might swing by.”
Might.
You waited for him to notice. The plates. The way you’d actually set the table this time. The hope you hadn’t bothered to hide.
“You said you’d be home tonight,” you said. Not accusing. Just tired.
Jake sighed, already halfway annoyed. “I didn’t say for sure.”
Something in you tightened. “You said you would.”
“Yeah, well—plans change.” He finally looked at you then, brow furrowed. “Why are you making this a thing?”
That did it.
Not the words themselves. The way he said them. Like this—you—was the inconvenience. Like you always were.
“I’m not making it a thing,” you said. Your voice was steady. That scared you more than if it had cracked. “I just wanted one night.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “See? This is what I’m talking about. You always take stuff so personally.”
You felt it then—the final, quiet drop of something giving way inside your chest.
“Do you hear yourself?” you asked.
Jake crossed his arms. Defensive. “I don’t get why you’re so upset. It’s just dinner.”
It’s just dinner.
It’s just lunch.
It’s just an anniversary.
It’s just you.
“I have been trying,” you said, finally. “For months. For over a year. I keep telling myself you’ll show up eventually if I just wait long enough.”
Jake scoffed. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” you said softly. “What’s not fair is me begging for the bare minimum and you acting like I’m asking for the world.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “I say I’m sorry, don’t I?”
“You say it,” you replied. “And then you do it again.”
Silence stretched between you. Thick. Heavy.
“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” he said at last. “You know I love you. I just don’t think about this stuff the way you do.”
And there it was.
The thing he didn’t realize he’d been saying all along.
You nodded slowly. “I know.”
That seemed to throw him. “Then why—”
“Because I’m tired,” you said. “I’m tired of caring enough for both of us.”
Jake’s face shifted then—confusion giving way to something like panic. “Wait. What are you saying?”
You looked at him, really looked. The man you’d bent yourself around. The one you’d waited for. The one who never noticed how much you were shrinking just to fit into his life.
“I’m done,” you said.
His voice rose. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
He stepped toward you. “We can fix this.”
You shook your head. “You don’t fix something you never thought was broken.”
That was the end of it. No screaming. No slammed doors. Just the quiet devastation of realization settling in.
After, Jake tried.
He texted. Called. Apologized again—longer this time, more frantic. Promised dinners, dates, effort. He finally started saying the things you’d needed to hear when they still mattered.
You read the messages with a strange sense of distance. Like they were meant for someone else. Someone who still believed him.
But you were tired of surviving on potential.
You didn’t hate him. That was the cruelest part. You just didn’t love him enough to keep hurting anymore.
And when you finally stopped responding, Jake was left alone with the weight of everything he hadn’t done—learning, far too late, what it costs to take someone for granted.
summary: Jake Seresin never feared risk until loving you gave him something worth losing.
a/n: hi everyone! long time no...write? i have been SO busy but i finally get a break (thank goodness) and i have some WIPs that i am finishing up. i really loved this one and i am so glad it is finished so i can share it with you all! this is my first *real* go at angst...so let me know what you think!!! <3
Jake Seresin had never believed in hesitation.
He believed in speed, in instinct, in trust. Trust in the machine beneath him, the training drilled into his bones, the sky that always opened when he asked it to. Hesitation got pilots killed.
That was the version of himself he’d perfected long before you.
The first time you notice it, it’s small.
Jake stands in front of the mirror in your shared bathroom, flight suit halfway zipped. You’re leaning in the doorway, pretending not to watch the ritual you’ve come to know by heart. He checks his watch. His boots. His name patch. All normal.
Then his hand stills at the zipper.
Just for a second.
You blink, convinced you imagined it. Jake Seresin doesn’t pause. Jake Seresin doesn’t second-guess.
But when he finally turns to you, his smile is softer than usual. Less sharp. Like it’s meant only for you.
“Back tonight,” he says.
He always says it like a statement, never a promise.
You nod anyway. “Fly safe.”
Jake leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead. It lingers longer than it used to.
You didn’t expect to fall for a pilot.
Not really. You knew the reputation, how they are always usually don’t like to commit, always halfway gone. Jake had seemed like exactly the type you should avoid: cocky grin, call sign that matched his ego, eyes that dared the world to challenge him.
But beneath all that was someone startlingly human.
Jake who memorized your coffee order after one morning.
Jake who listened more than he talked when you mentioned your fears.
Jake who pretended he wasn’t domestic but folded laundry like it mattered.
Somewhere along the way, he became yours.
The tension builds quietly.
Jake grows meticulous. Double-checks everything. Triple-checks, sometimes. He teases less before missions, jokes don’t come as easily. When they do, they feel forced, like armor he’s snapping into place.
You find him awake late at night, staring at the ceiling.
“Nightmares?” you ask once.
He shakes his head. “Nah. Just thinking.”
Jake never used to think like this.
The day it finally cracks is the day a mission goes wrong. Phoenix was the one to reach out to you, just to make sure you were aware it happened.
Not catastrophic, though. Just enough miscalculation to remind everyone how thin the line really is.
You’re waiting when he gets back, arms crossed, heart in your throat. You don’t run to him. You’ve learned better. Jake needs space before he needs comfort.
He doesn’t meet your eyes.
“J?”
“I’m fine,” he snaps, too quick.
You don’t push, at least not yet. But later, when the adrenaline fades and the silence stretches, you sit beside him on the couch.
“You scared me,” you say quietly.
That’s when he finally looks at you.
And there it is.
Fear.
Raw and unguarded and nothing like the man who owns the sky.
“You knew what this was,” he says, voice tight. “Dating a pilot, this comes with the territory.”
The words land like a slap.
You stand. “So does caring. If that’s a problem—”
“I don’t want you worrying every time I fly,” he cuts in.
“And I don’t want you shutting me out,” you fire back. “I’m not asking you to stop. I’m asking you to stop pretending this doesn’t affect you.”
Jake opens his mouth. Closes it.
For the first time, he has nothing.
That night, he doesn’t sleep.
Neither do you.
The space between you feels inexplicably wide, your backs facing each other.
The confession comes days later, quietly.
You’re sitting on the hood of his car at sunset, the air heavy with salt and heat. Jake leans beside you, shoulders tense.
“I’ve never been afraid of dying,” he says suddenly.
You turn to him.
“I know.”
His jaw tightens. “That changed when you showed up.”
The words hang there.
“I strap into a jet now and all I can think about is what I’m leaving behind.” He exhales, shaky. “I used to fly like I had nothing to lose. Turns out, that was the easy part.”
Your chest aches.
Jake looks at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I don’t know how to do this. Love someone and still be the pilot they expect me to be.”
You reach for his hand.
“Then don’t do it alone.”
He swallows. Hard.
Things don’t magically become perfect.
Jake still struggles. Still flinches when he sees your fear after a long mission. Still sometimes pulls away before catching himself.
“You know,” he says quietly, “loving you didn’t ground me.”
You raise a brow.
“It gave me a reason to land.”
You smile through the ache in your chest. “I love you, Hangman.”
He kisses you. Deep, certain, real.
No hesitation.
***
hehehe i really love how this came out!!!! i didn't want to dabble too deeply into the angst because i fear i am truly not there yet...i'm still too obsessed with writing fluff and staying happy. i hope you love it and it feels so nice to be writing again!
summary: Jake Seresin never feared risk until loving you gave him something worth losing.
a/n: hi everyone! long time no...write? i have been SO busy but i finally get a break (thank goodness) and i have some WIPs that i am finishing up. i really loved this one and i am so glad it is finished so i can share it with you all! this is my first *real* go at angst...so let me know what you think!!! <3
Jake Seresin had never believed in hesitation.
He believed in speed, in instinct, in trust. Trust in the machine beneath him, the training drilled into his bones, the sky that always opened when he asked it to. Hesitation got pilots killed.
That was the version of himself he’d perfected long before you.
The first time you notice it, it’s small.
Jake stands in front of the mirror in your shared bathroom, flight suit halfway zipped. You’re leaning in the doorway, pretending not to watch the ritual you’ve come to know by heart. He checks his watch. His boots. His name patch. All normal.
Then his hand stills at the zipper.
Just for a second.
You blink, convinced you imagined it. Jake Seresin doesn’t pause. Jake Seresin doesn’t second-guess.
But when he finally turns to you, his smile is softer than usual. Less sharp. Like it’s meant only for you.
“Back tonight,” he says.
He always says it like a statement, never a promise.
You nod anyway. “Fly safe.”
Jake leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead. It lingers longer than it used to.
You didn’t expect to fall for a pilot.
Not really. You knew the reputation, how they are always usually don’t like to commit, always halfway gone. Jake had seemed like exactly the type you should avoid: cocky grin, call sign that matched his ego, eyes that dared the world to challenge him.
But beneath all that was someone startlingly human.
Jake who memorized your coffee order after one morning.
Jake who listened more than he talked when you mentioned your fears.
Jake who pretended he wasn’t domestic but folded laundry like it mattered.
Somewhere along the way, he became yours.
The tension builds quietly.
Jake grows meticulous. Double-checks everything. Triple-checks, sometimes. He teases less before missions, jokes don’t come as easily. When they do, they feel forced, like armor he’s snapping into place.
You find him awake late at night, staring at the ceiling.
“Nightmares?” you ask once.
He shakes his head. “Nah. Just thinking.”
Jake never used to think like this.
The day it finally cracks is the day a mission goes wrong. Phoenix was the one to reach out to you, just to make sure you were aware it happened.
Not catastrophic, though. Just enough miscalculation to remind everyone how thin the line really is.
You’re waiting when he gets back, arms crossed, heart in your throat. You don’t run to him. You’ve learned better. Jake needs space before he needs comfort.
He doesn’t meet your eyes.
“J?”
“I’m fine,” he snaps, too quick.
You don’t push, at least not yet. But later, when the adrenaline fades and the silence stretches, you sit beside him on the couch.
“You scared me,” you say quietly.
That’s when he finally looks at you.
And there it is.
Fear.
Raw and unguarded and nothing like the man who owns the sky.
“You knew what this was,” he says, voice tight. “Dating a pilot, this comes with the territory.”
The words land like a slap.
You stand. “So does caring. If that’s a problem—”
“I don’t want you worrying every time I fly,” he cuts in.
“And I don’t want you shutting me out,” you fire back. “I’m not asking you to stop. I’m asking you to stop pretending this doesn’t affect you.”
Jake opens his mouth. Closes it.
For the first time, he has nothing.
That night, he doesn’t sleep.
Neither do you.
The space between you feels inexplicably wide, your backs facing each other.
The confession comes days later, quietly.
You’re sitting on the hood of his car at sunset, the air heavy with salt and heat. Jake leans beside you, shoulders tense.
“I’ve never been afraid of dying,” he says suddenly.
You turn to him.
“I know.”
His jaw tightens. “That changed when you showed up.”
The words hang there.
“I strap into a jet now and all I can think about is what I’m leaving behind.” He exhales, shaky. “I used to fly like I had nothing to lose. Turns out, that was the easy part.”
Your chest aches.
Jake looks at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I don’t know how to do this. Love someone and still be the pilot they expect me to be.”
You reach for his hand.
“Then don’t do it alone.”
He swallows. Hard.
Things don’t magically become perfect.
Jake still struggles. Still flinches when he sees your fear after a long mission. Still sometimes pulls away before catching himself.
“You know,” he says quietly, “loving you didn’t ground me.”
You raise a brow.
“It gave me a reason to land.”
You smile through the ache in your chest. “I love you, Hangman.”
He kisses you. Deep, certain, real.
No hesitation.
***
hehehe i really love how this came out!!!! i didn't want to dabble too deeply into the angst because i fear i am truly not there yet...i'm still too obsessed with writing fluff and staying happy. i hope you love it and it feels so nice to be writing again!
summary; Jake finally meets someone who matches his freak... too bad it's Bradley Bradshaw's little sister.
word count; 9.3k
warnings; porn with very little plot!!!! SMUT, size kink, oral (fem and male receiving), overstimulation, fingering, mentions of bdsm (not used), dom!jake, switch!reader, jake becoming pussy whipped REAL FAST, dirty talk, nipple play, rough sex, choking, hair pulling, unprotected sex (don't do that!!), aftercare,
a/n; this is so nasty, i apologize in advance. i am, in fact, ovulating. also there are some songs references so let me know if you catch any!!
masterlist
For an event meant to celebrate excellence, the Navy’s annual gala was astonishingly dull. The ballroom shimmered with gold light and soft music, floral arrangements taller than your torso lined every table, and hundreds of uniforms moved through the space with effortless, rehearsed formality. It should have been glamorous. It should have felt elegant and exciting. But instead, it felt like you were trapped in the world’s most boring snow globe.
You sat alone at a round table dressed in navy blue, an empty champagne flute hooked loosely between your fingers as you turned it in slow circles. The stem clicked against your nail each time you rotated it, a quiet, repetitive tap that matched your boredom a little too perfectly. You’d taken your time getting ready, choosing the kind of dress that made you feel confident, powerful, almost luminous under the soft lights. Your hair fell just right. Your makeup was flawless. You looked like someone meant to be seen.
And Bradley Bradshaw had left you to collect dust approximately eleven minutes after escorting you inside.
He hadn’t meant to disappear, not originally. He’d walked you in, pointed out the layout of the room, found your table, and promised he’d be right back after grabbing you both drinks. Then a brunette at the bar turned toward him with a smile that could have been seen from space, and Bradley, predictable as the tide, drifted in her direction like a sailor following a siren’s song. That had been… forty minutes ago. Maybe more.
Now you were alone with your thoughts, your empty glass, and the sinking realization that bringing you as his date had been more of a technicality than an intention. Couples glided across the dance floor, command officers traded stories near the stage, and the clinking of silverware rose and fell like rainfall. Everyone seemed perfectly entertained except you.
You shifted in your seat, the satin of your dress whispering against the chair, and let your eyes wander out of sheer desperation. No one looked particularly interesting. No one looked at you at all, really. You could have been a statue planted there for decoration. You lifted your empty flute as if debating whether another drink would help or simply make the night feel longer, and you exhaled a small, frustrated breath that fogged the rim of the glass.
It was that quiet, irritated sigh that caught someone’s attention.
You weren’t aware of it, not at first. But across the ballroom, a pair of sharp green eyes had drifted lazily around the room in search of amusement and landed on you like they’d been pulled by gravity. Lt. Jake Seresin had been pretending to listen to a conversation he wasn’t truly invested in, nursing a half-finished drink and scanning the crowd for anything remotely interesting. And then he saw you — a stunning woman sitting alone, looking both dangerously pretty and dangerously bored — and he straightened a little, expression shifting from polite disinterest to something keen.
You didn’t see him move. He excused himself with practiced charm, rolled his shoulders once as if slipping into a different version of himself, and began making his way through the crowd toward you. His walk wasn’t rushed or obvious, but there was purpose in the way he cut across the room, weaving between officers with the effortless confidence of a man who never questioned whether he belonged somewhere. The lights caught the brass on his dress blues just enough to make him stand out, though he hardly needed help.
You remained blissfully unaware until his shadow stretched across your table and a smooth, warm drawl dipped into your evening like a drop of honey.
“Well now… leaving an empty glass in front of a woman that pretty ought to be considered a crime.”
Your head lifted, startled out of your boredom.
And Jake Seresin was standing there, smiling like meeting you had just become the best part of his night.
Up close, Jake Seresin looked like trouble wrapped in a uniform: all confident posture, golden hair, and a grin that said he’d been complimented his entire life and never once gotten tired of it. He lifted your empty flute between two fingers, inspecting it as if it offended him personally.
“Whoever let this happen,” he said, tilting the glass thoughtfully, “doesn’t deserve to be within ten feet of you.”
You arched a brow, letting your gaze sweep over him slowly, deliberately—just enough that his smile twitched. “Bold assumption,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “How do you know I wasn’t the one who did it?”
“Sweetheart,” he replied, bending slightly so he could speak just for you, “I don’t believe for a second you’d let yourself get bored.”
You hummed, amused, tapping a manicured finger against the tablecloth. “Maybe I was waiting for someone worth my time to show up.”
That earned you the kind of look men usually tried to hide—the quick, sharp flicker of interest that flashed behind Jake’s eyes before he settled back into that lazy confidence of his. He gestured toward the empty chair beside you.
“Mind if I fix your evening?”
You gave him a slow, knowing smile. “That depends. Are you any good at it?”
Jake laughed under his breath, the sound low and rich, before he pulled the chair out and sat without waiting for permission—because of course he didn’t. But the way he angled his body toward you, knees nearly brushing yours, made it clear he wasn’t here to waste time.
“I’m excellent at it,” he said simply.
You plucked the champagne flute from his hand and set it down. “That sounds like something a man would say before disappointing me.”
His grin widened, teeth bright, eyes sharp. “Darlin’, I don’t disappoint.”
You tilted your head, pretending to inspect him. “You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
You smiled, slow and feline. “Good. So am I.”
For a moment he just looked at you—really looked at you, like he was trying to figure out where exactly you’d come from and how the hell he’d gotten this lucky. Then he leaned back, draping an arm casually over the back of your chair, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his sleeve.
“So,” he began, voice dipping into something playful, “a woman like you didn’t show up to this thing alone.”
“Didn’t I?” you teased.
“Nope,” he said, too quickly. “Not buying that. Someone brought you. Question is: who’s the idiot that left you sitting by yourself?”
You shrugged, the movement making your dress catch the light in a way that momentarily stole his train of thought. “Maybe he got distracted.”
“Then he’s dumber than I thought.” Jake lifted his glass, taking a slow sip while his gaze stayed firmly on you. “Should I be worried he’s coming back to claim you?”
You matched his easy tone with one of your own. “I don’t know. Should you?”
He set his drink down, leaning in with a confidence you recognized instantly—because it was the same brand you carried. “Depends,” he said. “If he’s the jealous type, I could be in trouble. But if he’s the blind type… then I think I’m doing him a favor.”
Your lips curved into a smirk. “You don’t even know who he is.”
“I don’t need to.” Jake’s gaze flicked over you, deliberate, appreciative, unhurried. “All I know is he’s not here. I am.”
You let that settle for a moment before raising a brow. “And what do you plan on doing with all that opportunity, Lieutenant?”
His eyes gleamed, and your heartbeat picked up just slightly—not that you’d ever let him see it.
“Well,” he said, voice warm enough to melt pearls, “I thought I’d start by making sure you never get bored again tonight.”
You lifted his champagne glass off the table, took a small, teasing sip, and set it back in front of him.
“That’s a big promise,” you said.
“And I’m a man who keeps his promises.”
You leaned closer, your lips a breath from his ear, voice sweet and wicked all at once. “I guess we’ll find out… won’t we, cowboy?”
Jake inhaled sharply, a tell you savored immediately. “You keep talkin’ like that,” he murmured, “and it won’t just be your glass I’m refilling tonight.”
“Good,” you said, settling back in your seat with a slow smile. “I like a man who follows through.”
And Jake Seresin—poor, clueless, very interested Jake—looked at you like he was already imagining following you anywhere.
—
Jake hadn’t even been sitting beside you for ten minutes, but the air between you already felt warmer, charged, like someone had turned the dimmer switch low and decided to simmer the two of you just for entertainment.
He said something smart-mouthed — something cocky and wicked and absolutely designed to get a rise out of you — and you laughed, slow and throaty. Then you let your hand fall casually onto his thigh, fingers resting just above the sharp line of his uniform crease, nails grazing fabric like you didn’t quite realize what you were doing.
Jake realized.
His breath hitched barely, but you caught it. You always caught things like that.
“So,” you murmured, letting your thumb sweep once along the inside of his leg, “you were saying, Lieutenant?”
Jake leaned closer, way too close, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath at the hinge of your jaw. His voice dropped, honeyed and deliberate. “I was saying… I think you enjoy gettin’ yourself into trouble.”
You tilted your head slightly, playing innocent. “Me?” you whispered. “Not at all.”
“Liar,” he murmured, lips brushing just close enough to make your pulse jump. “You walked right into my evening like you were lookin’ for something to break.”
You leaned in too, matching his tone, your nose nearly brushing his. “Maybe I’m just looking for something fun.”
His eyes flicked to your mouth — quickly, hungrily — before returning to your gaze. “Darlin’, if you wanted fun, all you had to do was ask.”
You laughed softly, stood up without warning, and let your fingers trail along the length of his jaw as you whispered, “Come on then. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
Jake followed. Of course he did.
You led him out of the ballroom with the kind of confidence that made him swallow hard, weaving through the crowd until you found a quiet hallway dimly lit by gold sconces. It curved away from the main floor, shadowed, empty — forgotten.
You stopped beside a recessed bit of wall, turned, and before he could say a damn thing, you grabbed his dress blues by the front and pulled him into you.
Jake’s back hit the opposite wall first. Then he recovered. And when he did, he caged you in, reversing the entire situation in a heartbeat and pressing you back into the hidden corner like he’d been waiting to do it all night.
You looked up at him — forced to, with the height difference — tilting your chin just enough to meet his eyes. And then… you batted your lashes.
Soft. Sweet. Fake innocence painted over molten intent.
Jake’s breath left him in a quiet, reverent curse he didn’t even fully voice. His entire posture changed; his body hovered close, drawn like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rougher than before, “you keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna forget we’re at a damn gala.”
“Maybe I want you to forget,” you whispered back.
He didn’t wait another second.
Jake’s mouth hit yours with the kind of heat that had been building since the moment he spotted you — firm, hungry, but controlled enough to show he knew exactly what he was doing. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your hand sliding up to his collar to pull him closer, your body arching against his in a challenge rather than surrender.
He pressed you harder into the wall; you nipped his bottom lip in retaliation. He growled softly — actually growled — and you smirked against his mouth, delighted.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet, it was a collision — two confident people testing who would give first.
Jake tried to deepen the kiss, trying to take control. You refused, kissing him back with equal claim, fingers threading into the hair at the back of his neck and tugging just enough to make him let out a low, startled sound he clearly hadn’t meant to give you.
His hand slid to your waist, firm, possessive without being presumptuous, and his other braced beside your head as if he needed the support. Your lips parted; his followed; your tongues brushed, and both of you inhaled sharply at the same time.
Jake pulled back just barely, panting softly, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re… somethin’ else,” he breathed, stunned and breathless in a way you doubted he even recognized.
You smiled, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen from kissing. “You started this,” you whispered.
“And you’re gonna finish me,” he muttered, almost dazed, eyes flicking down to your mouth again.
Your fingers slid down the front of his uniform deliberately slowly. “I might,” you said, playing with the fabric like a promise.
Jake’s hand tightened at your waist, his control hanging by a thread. “You’re dangerous,” he murmured.
“So are you.”
“You’re—” He cut himself off by kissing you again, harder, like whatever he was about to say slipped straight into action instead.
Jake broke the kiss with a sound you felt more than heard, breath hot against your lips as he dragged his mouth down your jaw and onto your neck. His lips brushed your pulse once—soft, fleeting—before he sank into you properly. He kissed the spot beneath your ear with slow, deliberate pressure, then nibbled gently, then sucked just hard enough to make your knees weaken.
Your fingers curled into the front of his uniform, and the tiniest sound slipped out of you—sweet, warm, embarrassingly inviting. Jake froze when he heard it, then exhaled a low curse against your skin before kissing you again, this time open-mouthed and hungry, like he was tasting dessert.
You tugged lightly at his jacket, a silent invitation, and Jake groaned into your throat as if that was the confirmation he’d been praying for.
He lifted his head, breathless, lips brushing your ear. “You wanna get outta here?” he asked, voice gravel low and desperate in a way that made your stomach flip.
You didn’t bother answering with words. You nodded once, slow and deliberate, and Jake’s hand closed around yours instantly—warm, firm, claiming without trapping—as he pulled you out of the hallway and back toward the gala entrance.
His stride was purposeful. You followed easily, almost floating as the two of you stepped out into the cool night air. Jake dropped your hand only long enough to hand a valet ticket to the young man in a crisp suit. The valet’s eyebrows lifted when he saw the number on it.
“Right away, sir.”
Moments later, the engine of a very expensive car purred before you even saw the headlights. A sleek Porsche 911 Cabriolet, black, polished to a mirror, glided to a stop in front of the two of you. Convertible top down. Impossibly sexy. Undeniably Jake.
He opened your door like a man who’d been raised right, offering his hand as you stepped in. His touch lingered just a little longer than necessary before he closed the door gently and circled around to the driver’s side.
The moment he settled into his seat, the car came alive with a deep, smooth roar. Jake’s hand gripped the wheel; the muscles in his forearm flexed; his jaw clenched slightly as he tore out of the valet lane with confidence he absolutely enjoyed showing off.
You reached over, plucked his phone from the console, and typed your address into the GPS with the ease of someone who’d already decided exactly how the night would end. Jake glanced your way, eyes flicking briefly from the road to your lips as you handed the phone back.
“Good girl,” he murmured, softer than he meant to.
You let your hand fall casually onto his thigh.
Jake tensed immediately. Not in fear. In anticipation.
You didn’t stop there. You let your palm drift higher, slow, teasing, wicked—your fingertips brushing closer and closer to the place he most definitely didn’t want touched if he planned on driving safely.
His breath stuttered. His grip on the wheel tightened. His jaw ticked.
“Sweetheart…” he warned, voice unsteady in a way that made you smile.
You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned across the center console, lips finding his neck, and you began to kiss him—slow at first, then deeper, doing exactly what he’d done to you back in that dark hallway. You felt his pulse jump. Felt the way his breath caught. Felt the way his whole body reacted to the heat of your mouth.
“Darlin’, I’m drivin’,” he said through clenched teeth, trying and failing to sound unaffected.
“Are you?” you teased against his skin, your breath warm, your fingers slipping a little higher.
Jake inhaled sharply, the sound half-laugh, half-groan. “I swear,” he muttered, “you’re gonna get us pulled over.”
You giggled, brushing your lips higher along his jaw. “Maybe you should pull over yourself,” you whispered, voice dripping with mischief, “and we can… share one seat.”
Jake’s hand slipped off the wheel just long enough to grip the edge of your thigh, firm and possessive.
“Keep talkin’ like that,” he murmured, voice dark and wrecked, “and I just might.”
The Porsche surged forward, the engine growling as Jake accelerated—not reckless, but absolutely not calm.
He was drunk on you. Already. Entirely. And the night had barely begun.
Jake barely had time to suck in a breath before you reached out and toyed with the top button of his dress blues, your fingertip dragging just under the edge of the fabric like a dare. He let out the softest, roughest curse — the kind a man makes when he’s trying very, very hard not to lose the last shred of control he has.
He didn’t succeed.
He yanked the steering wheel to the right, pulling into the first empty patch of curb he saw. The car hadn’t even fully settled before he threw it into park and turned to you like he’d been starving for years.
His hands cupped your jaw immediately, warm and firm and hungry, guiding your mouth to his. The kiss hit like a spark to dry tinder — sudden, scorching, impossible to put out. Your hands fisted in the front of his jacket, dragging him closer even though there wasn’t an inch left between you.
“Jesus,” he muttered against your lips, like he couldn’t believe you were real.
You didn’t give him time to think. You slid one knee over the console, then the other, letting him haul you the rest of the way until you were straddling him in the driver’s seat, your skirt riding scandalously high along your thighs. His hands were everywhere — over your hips, your waist, the curve of your back, memorizing every place he could touch and aching for the places he couldn’t yet.
The hood was still down. The cool night air kissed your bare skin while Jake’s much hotter hands moved over it, the contrast enough to pull a soft, involuntary sound from you. His answering groan was low and broken, like it punched straight out of him.
You rolled your hips without thinking, instinct meeting instinct. Jake’s breath stuttered; his hands tightened on your waist; his head tipped back like he was in pain from how good it felt.
“Fuck, I—” he murmured.
You cut him off by kissing him again, deeper, slower, deliberately ruining his sentence and his composure. Your arms looped around his broad shoulders, struggling to meet behind him — he really was that big — and the slight, helpless gasp he let out when your nails grazed his neck only fueled you more.
His fingers slid up your sides, tracing the shape of you through satin and skin, thumbs brushing just beneath the edge of your dress in a way that made your pulse spike wildly. Your own hands wandered too, exploring the hard lines of his chest, the strength under his uniform, the heat radiating off him in waves.
Every shift of your hips pulled another sound from him, another ragged exhale, another “sweetheart—” whispered like a warning he didn’t want you to listen to.
You didn’t.
You pressed closer, lips brushing his jaw, his throat, the sensitive place just beneath his ear. He shuddered hard enough that you felt it all the way through you, grip tightening on your waist like he needed something to hold onto.
Your voice was a slow, wicked whisper against his skin. “What’s wrong, Lieutenant? Thought you could handle me.”
His laugh came out strangled. “I can.” His mouth found yours again, fierce and breathless. “God help me, I definitely can.”
And with your body moving against his like you were made to fit there, with the night air cold on your back and him hot everywhere else, with the car rocking subtly under the two of you, it was very, very obvious that he meant it.
Eventually — eventually — you pull away from him in the front seat, both of you breathing like you’d just sprinted a mile uphill. Jake looks wrecked in the best possible way: hair messed from your fingers, lips swollen, pupils blown so wide they swallow the green. He takes a beat before he can even speak.
“We’re… we’re driving,” he mutters to himself, like a man repeating instructions in a crisis.
You slip back into the passenger seat, smoothing your dress as if you hadn’t just climbed across his lap and fried every one of his neurons. Your smirk is downright sinful. Jake’s stare lingers on you for a second too long — then he forces his eyes back to the road and shifts the car into drive.
His knuckles turn white around the steering wheel.
He’s trying so hard not to look at you. He fails every ten seconds.
The muscle in his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth, and it’s almost funny how obvious the tension is — physical, coiled, demanding. He adjusts in his seat with a frustrated exhale. The evidence of how badly he wants you strains against his uniform pants, and the longer the drive goes on, the worse his restraint gets.
You don’t help, not even a little.
You trail your fingers along the inside of his forearm, featherlight, making him shiver. You let your heel tap against his thigh, just enough to remind him how close you are. How small you feel next to him. How big he is compared to you.
By the time he pulls up to your place — a small, one-story home tucked behind a fence — Jake doesn’t even glance at it. Not the neighborhood. Not the porch. He barely registers the curb.
He’s laser-focused on you.
You open your door and he’s there instantly, coming around the car with a purposeful, almost predatory step. His hands find your waist the moment you stand, bigger and hotter than you remembered. You swear his whole body aligns behind yours like instinct — broad chest pressed flush to your back, his breath warm against your ear.
“Open the door,” he murmurs, voice low, already kissing a path down your neck.
You fumble with your keys because he won’t stop. His hands bracket your hips, keeping you pinned against him, and the contrast of your height against his becomes its own kind of thrill. He’s massive around you — long limbs, wide shoulders, the whole of him boxing you in. You can practically feel the satisfaction rolling off him at the size difference.
“You’re killing me,” he says into your shoulder, and God, he sounds enchanted.
The lock finally clicks.
You push the door open.
Then you turn on him.
You fist a hand in the collar of his uniform and drag him inside with a force that knocks the breath out of him. For someone barely reaching his chest in heels, you move him like he weighs nothing.
Jake’s lips part — surprised, delighted.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he laughs under his breath, “you’re—”
You don’t let him finish. You pull him down to kiss you again, hard, hungry, claiming. He shuts the door behind him blindly, never taking his hands off you, only to find himself pressed back against it when you push him.
He laughs again — breathless this time — because he didn’t expect you to be this strong-willed, this bossy, this willing to take the lead.
He likes it way too much.
“Bedroom,” you say against his mouth.
And he doesn’t fight, not even a little. He lets you shove him off the door. Lets you take his wrist. Lets you drag him down the hallway as though he belongs to you already. And tonight he does.
He follows willingly, eagerly, eyes locked on your hips, your shoulders, the way your small frame commands the space.
You barely make it two steps into the room before your palm lands on his chest and you shove. Not hard enough to hurt him — just hard enough that he goes, landing on your bed with his back sinking into the mattress, arms flaring slightly in surprise.
Jake’s head lifts immediately, eyes dragging over you with a hunger that’s almost reverent.
You climb onto the bed after him, one knee sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips until you’re straddling him. Even now, even with you on top, he feels massive beneath you — long torso, broad chest, those strong hands already itching to touch.
You lean down first.
Your lips crush into his in a kiss that’s more a claim than a greeting. He answers with a low sound you feel all the way to your toes. You bite his bottom lip on purpose — slow, firm, deliberate — then tug it between your teeth. Jake’s breath stutters, and the second you release him, his hands slide up your back with a kind of desperation he tries (and fails) to hide.
He’s searching for something, you feel it in the way his fingers map your spine.
Then he finds the zipper.
You hear it before you feel it, that soft, slow whisper of fabric giving way. His eyes stay locked on your face the whole time as he drags it down… down… down… and the dress loosens around your shoulders. He nudges it off with his fingertips, following the cascade of fabric as it falls to your hips, then off completely.
You’re left in nothing but black lace.
Jake makes a sound — not a groan, not a curse, something deeper, something that comes from the bottom of his chest. His head falls back for a second like looking at you actually takes him out.
“Jesus,” he mutters, voice rough, “you’re—”
You cut him off with a smug roll of your hips that earns you another breathy, helpless exhale.
He helps you kick the rest of the dress away, hands warm on your thighs, greedy in the way they travel your skin. You sit up straighter, letting him look — because you want him to. Because the way he stares at you makes your pussy wetter by the second
Then you lean down again, but this time your lips find his ear. Your voice drops to a whisper soft enough to make goosebumps rise along his neck.
“Not fair you’re still wearing all that.”
He smiles — slow, dangerous, unbearably cocky — his head turning just enough that his nose brushes your cheek.
“Well,” he drawls, arrogant and inviting all at once, “sounds like you’ve got a problem to solve, darlin’.”
His hands settle on your hips, fingers flexing, “Go on,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he looks up at you, “fix it.”
You accept his challenge with a slow, knowing smile. Then you start undoing his uniform.
The first button pops open beneath your fingers, and you lean down to kiss the newly exposed skin — warm, taut, already tense with anticipation. Another button. Another kiss. You work your way down the crisp fabric, your mouth following the trail your hands create, and Jake melts back into the mattress with a soft, low sound that’s dangerously close to a groan.
Piece by piece, the layers come off.
His jacket, his shirt, his undershirt. They land somewhere on your floor, forgotten the second they leave his body.
By the time you’re done, he’s down to nothing but his boxers — and every inch of him on display looks like something carved out of pure ego and muscle. His chest is broad and golden under your bedroom’s soft light, his abs tight and defined like they’d been sculpted rather than grown. He’s breathing harder than he should be, muscles moving beneath his skin like they’re alive.
You stare, of course you stare. And Jake notices instantly, of course he notices.
“You see something you like, sweetheart?” he asks, and then — because he’s him — he subtly flexes. His arms, his chest, the cut of his abs, everything hardens under your gaze, and it’s such a shameless show-off move that you actually laugh under your breath.
You’re kneeling between his legs by then, small and wicked and absolutely in control. When you look up at him, lashes lowered, lips parted, expression soft and sinful — Jake’s breath visibly catches.
You nod. Slowly, teasingly. Then you lean in.
Your hands glide up his thighs first, just enough pressure to make him inhale sharply. Then your mouth follows — pressing kisses to his hipbone, then higher, over the ridges of his stomach. His skin jumps beneath your lips, muscles twitching like your touch is too much and not enough at the same time.
You take your time.
Open-mouthed kisses along the line of his abs, a playful nibble beneath his ribs that makes him hiss through his teeth, another kiss right over his sternum.
He props himself up on his elbows, eyes locked on you, chest rising and falling like he can’t get enough air. His gaze is sharp, hungry, watchful in a way that makes heat coil deep in your stomach. He tracks every shift of your body, every dip of your head, every place your mouth lands like he’s memorizing it.
Your lips move higher, dragging a slow, teasing kiss right over his heart. His hand lifts like he means to touch your face, but he stops himself — barely — fingers curling into the sheets instead.
“Careful,” he warns, though his voice is already fraying at the edges, “you keep worshipping me like that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re tryin’ to ruin me.”
You smile against his skin, wicked and sweet.
If only he knew.
Jake holds it together longer than any sane man would, but the second your mouth trails too close to where he’s already aching for you, something in him snaps.
His hands close around your waist — strong, decisive, claiming — and before you can react he flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing. Air leaves your lungs in a startled gasp, your hair fanning across the sheets, your small frame suddenly under him instead of over.
He braces himself above you, one hand beside your head, the other still warm on your hip. His smirk is devastating.
“My turn,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over you like he’s about to devour you whole.
You bite your lip, smiling up at him with lazy challenge. “Be my guest, handsome.”
Jake’s pupils darken so fast it steals a low sound out of him. You arch your back just enough to make his breath catch, your chest lifting toward him. He follows the motion instinctively, sliding his hands beneath you to find the clasp of your bra.
The hook gives with a soft click.
He pulls the straps down your arms, slow, almost reverent, and tosses the last piece of lace aside. The moment you’re bare beneath him, he goes still — eyes sweeping over your body like he’s seeing something he knows he’ll crave for a long, long time.
“God,” he says under his breath, voice roughened, “you’re… unreal.”
Then he lowers himself.
He starts at your collarbone, lips warm and open against your skin. He kisses down your chest with a patience that feels almost torturous, every inch of his mouth a promise. His hands slide along your ribs, his thumbs brushing your sides as he moves lower. You feel the heat of his breath, the slow drag of his lips, the occasional scrape of his teeth that makes your stomach clench.
You suck in a shaky breath when he reaches the curve of your waist. Your hips twitch — his smirk deepens.
He keeps going. Wet, deliberate kisses down the slope of your stomach. One just above your hipbone, another just below your navel.
Your breath hitches the moment his mouth hovers near the top of your panties — so close you can feel the warmth of him, so close you swear he can hear your pulse.
He doesn’t touch you where you want him. No, the teasing bastard skips right over it.
Instead, he kisses the inside of your hip, slow and maddening, before sliding back up your body in a torturous trail of heat and lips and tongue.
By the time he reaches your mouth again, you’re breathless.
He kisses you deep, slow, claiming — like he wants you to taste exactly what he’s been doing to you. His hand cups your jaw, tilting you up into him, and you swear he’s smiling against your lips.
“Think you can handle it?,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheekbone, throwing your words back you.
You lie sprawled out beneath Jake's massive frame, your body humming with need, those thin panties clinging to your soaked pussy like a second skin. The air in the room hangs heavy with the sharp tang of your arousal, mixing with the faint musk of his sweat as he hovers over you, eyes dark and predatory. His rough hands grip the edges of your panties, yanking hard until the fabric tears with a sharp rip, exposing your dripping folds to the cool air.
You gasp, the sudden exposure sending a jolt straight to your core, but before you can snap at him for ruining them, he's already shifting down your body, his strong fingers digging into your hips.
Jake doesn't waste a second. He drags you closer by your thighs, spreading them wide, and buries his face right into your pussy. His hot mouth latches on, tongue lashing out to lick a broad stripe up your slit, tasting every bit of your wetness. You buck instinctively, trying to grind against him for more, but his grip tightens, one massive arm pinning your lower stomach down flat against the mattress.
“Greedy little thing,” he growls against your skin, the vibration making your clit throb. “I'm gonna eat this pussy until you're screaming.”
His lips seal around your clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking relentlessly while he devours you like he's been starving for days. The wet sounds of his mouth working you fill the room, sloppy and obscene, your juices smearing across his chin.
Your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands, tugging hard to keep him right there. He groans into you, the sound rumbling through your pussy, and it only makes you wetter. God, his tongue feels like fire, swirling and probing, dipping inside your entrance before sucking your clit again. You whine, hips twitching under his iron hold, the pressure building fast and fierce.
Then his free hand slides up, a thick finger pressing against your hole. He pushes it in slow at first, stretching your tight walls around his girth—his hands are so fucking big, one finger alone feels like it might split you open. You gasp loud, back arching as he starts pumping it in and out, curling it just right to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.
“Fuck, you're so tight,” Jake mutters, voice muffled against your pussy. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them wide, thrusting deeper while his mouth never lets up, lips sucking your clit like it's his lifeline. The stretch burns so good, your pussy clenching around him, sucking his fingers in deeper.
You cry out, “Oh my god, Jake!” as the coil in your belly snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you hard, walls pulsing, gushing all over his hand and face. Your legs shake uncontrollably, thighs clamping around his head, but he doesn't stop—keeps fingering you through it, tongue lapping up every drop like it's the sweetest nectar.
You scream again as a second wave hits, even stronger, your body convulsing under him. “Too much—Jake, fuck!” you gasp, oversensitive nerves firing wildly, but he just growls and drinks you down, his hips grinding against the sheets, his cock straining hard against his boxers.
The friction must be killing him, but he's focused on you, sucking until you're a trembling mess. Finally, you can't take it anymore—you yank at his hair, pulling him up your body. His face glistens with your cum, lips swollen and smug.
“Need you inside me” you beg, voice hoarse, hands shoving at his boxers.
They slide down, and his thick cock springs free, slapping heavy against his ripped abs. It's massive—veiny, flushed red, pre-cum beading at the tip, making your mouth water.
You wrap your hand around it, squeezing the hot, throbbing length, feeling it twitch in your grip.
Jake moans deep, head falling back. “Shit, baby, I'm not gonna last if you keep jerking my cock like that.”
He swats your hand away roughly, positioning himself between your legs. The blunt head of his dick nudges your soaked entrance, rubbing up and down your slit, coating himself in your slick.
You moan, thrusting your hips up to take him in, desperate for the stretch. “Fuck me,” you whimper, and that's all he needs.
Jake slams forward, burying his cock inch by thick inch into your pussy, stretching you wider than ever before. It burns, the fullness overwhelming, your walls fluttering around him as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight against your ass.
“So fucking tight for me,” he grunts, holding still just long enough for you to adjust, your nails raking down his broad shoulders, leaving red crescents on his skin.
Then he pulls back and thrusts in hard, setting a brutal pace—hips snapping against yours, cock pounding deep with every stroke. The slap of skin on skin echoes loud, mixing with your desperate moans and his ragged breaths. “Not so chatty now. Eh, sweetheart?”
You open your mouth to answer, but all that comes out is another gasp when he buries his face in your chest, mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking it hard between his teeth before biting down. The sharp sting shoots straight to your clit, making you clench around his pistoning cock.
“You like that, huh? Dirty little thing,” he rasps, switching to the other nipple, tongue swirling before nipping again. You arch into him, head thrown back, exposing your neck. He takes the invitation, lips trailing hot kisses up to your throat, sucking marks into the skin while he fucks you relentlessly, cock dragging against your walls, hitting that spot over and over.
“Harder, Jake—fuck my pussy harder,” you gasp, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. He obliges, thrusts turning savage, the bed creaking under the force. Your bodies slick with sweat, his massive frame dominating yours completely, every slam pushing you closer to the edge again.
But he's not done yet—his hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing circles as he pounds away, drawing out more filthy sounds from your lips.
Your body tightens like a vice around Jake's pounding cock, the relentless rub of his thumb on your swollen clit sending you spiraling. The third orgasm rips through you without mercy, your pussy clenching hard, milking his thick shaft as waves of pleasure crash over you.
You scream his name, vision blurring, every nerve ending on fire while your juices soak his balls and the sheets below.
“Fuck, yes—cum on my cock,” Jake growls, his thrusts never slowing, slamming deeper through your spasms. He thinks he's got you broken, fucked so stupid you can't even string words together without gasping, your mind a haze of bliss.
But your ego flares hot—fuck that, you're not done fighting for control.
With your legs still locked around his waist, you summon every ounce of strength, twisting your hips sharply. The momentum rolls you both over, his massive body flipping beneath you with a surprised grunt, his cock staying buried deep inside your dripping pussy.
You land straddling him, thighs clamping his hips, and you grab his wrists, pinning them down on either side of his head against the mattress. His eyes widen in shock, dark and hungry, not expecting you to turn the tables like this.
Realistically, you know you couldn't overpower him if he fought back—he's bigger, stronger, built like a goddamn tank—but he lets you, his muscles flexing under your grip, a smirk tugging at his cum-smeared lips.
“Surprised, big boy?” you taunt, voice breathy but defiant, as you start riding him hard. Your hips roll in a punishing grind, soaked pussy sliding up and down his veiny length, using his cock like your personal toy to chase another high. The stretch feels obscene, his girth splitting you open with every drop, your clit grinding against his pelvis.
Wet squelches fill the room, your arousal dripping down his balls. You release his wrists, hands sliding up to his neck, fingers wrapping around his throat in a light choke—just enough pressure to make his breath hitch, his eyes flashing with raw lust.
“You like that? Me taking what's mine?” you whisper, squeezing a bit harder, feeling his pulse race under your palms.
Jake gasps, the sound rough and needy, but he doesn't stay passive. His huge hands clamp onto your hips, fingers digging bruises into your skin as he yanks you down harder, slamming you onto his cock with brutal force.
“Oh, you're playing dirty now,” he rasps, voice strained from your hold. One hand releases your hip, shooting up to wrap around your throat in retaliation—his grip firmer, possessive, cutting off just enough air to make your head spin in the best way.
You'd wear his hand like a fucking necklace, the pressure making your pussy flutter around him. His other hand tangles in your hair, yanking back sharply to expose your neck, your tits bouncing with the force.
He surges up, back slamming against the headboard, pulling you with him so you're chest to chest, his cock driving even deeper.
“Aren't you sneaky? Might have to tie you up, baby, keep that wild ass in check,” he snarls, eyes locked on yours, thumb pressing into your windpipe just right. The threat sends a thrill straight to your core, your walls clenching him tight.
Despite the slight burn in your lungs, you smirk down at him, grinding slower to tease.
"Good thing chains and whips excite me," you shoot back, voice husky, nails scraping his chest as you pick up the pace again, riding him like you own him.
That flips a switch. Jake plants both feet on the bed, knees bending for leverage, and thrusts up savagely, his hips bucking to meet yours. His cock spears into you over and over, balls slapping your ass, the fight for dominance electric—neither of you yielding an inch.
You choke him tighter; he squeezes your throat harder, hair-pulling yanking your head back as he bites your collarbone, marking you. Sweat slicks your bodies, the room reeking of sex, your moans turning to guttural cries with each punishing stroke.
But he's had enough of your rebellion. With a feral growl, he surges forward, flipping you onto your back again—your head now dangling off the foot of the bed, the world upside down in a dizzying rush. His hand stays locked on your throat, pinning you down, while the other roams your body greedily.
Fingers pinch your nipples hard, twisting the sensitive peaks until you yelp, the pain sparking straight to your throbbing clit.
“My turn to fuck you senseless,” he grunts, cock plunging back in, pounding your pussy with renewed fury. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing rough circles, while his mouth descends to suck a nipple into his hot mouth, teeth grazing the bud.
You writhe under him, legs spreading wider, nails raking his arms. “Yes—harder, harder,” you gasp, the choke making every word a desperate plea. His thrusts turn erratic, cock swelling thicker inside you, veins pulsing against your walls.
Jake's obsessed—your tight, defiant pussy gripping him like a vice, so different from the submissive girls he usually breaks. You want to break him, and fuck, it's driving him wild.
“Shit—gonna cum, baby, gonna fill this pussy,” he warns, voice breaking, hips snapping faster, the bedframe rattling.
But you shove at his chest with all your might, pushing him off and onto his back. Dropping to your knees between his legs, you grab his slick cock—coated in your cream—and shove it into your mouth. The salty tang of your mixed juices floods your tongue as you bob deep, throat relaxing to take as much as you can.
Your hand pumps the base, twisting, while you hollow your cheeks, sucking hard. Looking up through your lashes, you see his head thrown back, abs clenching.
“Fuck—yes, swallow my cock,” he groans, hands fisting your hair, twisting it into a ponytail to guide your head. You gag as he thrusts shallowly, saliva dripping down your chin, mixing with pre-cum.
Then he explodes—hot ropes of cum shooting down your throat, thick and endless. You swallow every drop, moaning around his pulsing length, the taste bitter and addictive making your pussy clench emptily.
Jake's groans echo loud, body shuddering as he holds you in place, fucking your mouth through his release. When he's spent, you pull back slowly, tongue lapping the underside, cleaning every inch. He hisses at the overstimulation, cock twitching sensitive in your grip.
Your lips still tingle from Jake's thick cock, the salty tang of his cum coating your tongue as you savor the last drops. You're kneeling between his spread legs on the rumpled sheets, your knees digging into the mattress, heart pounding from the way he just exploded down your throat.
His chest heaves with ragged breaths, sweat glistening on his broad, muscular frame, that cocky grin already creeping back onto his face despite the exhaustion.
Jake props himself up on one elbow, his green eyes locking onto yours with that playful spark. He lets out a breathy laugh, wiping a hand over his stubbled jaw. "Fuck, doll, and here I thought I was gonna rock your world tonight."
His voice is rough, laced with amusement, but you can see the heat lingering in his gaze, the way his cock twitches slightly against his thigh, not fully soft yet.
You giggle, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly, your body still buzzing from the intensity. Crawling up, you flop down beside him, your naked skin sticking to the damp sheets.
"Guess you're not that good at thinking then, huh?" you tease, turning your head to meet his eyes, your pussy throbbing and slick between your thighs, untouched but aching from the buildup.
He mocks a gasp, clutching his chest dramatically, but it dissolves into another low chuckle that vibrates through the bed. His eyes drop then, roaming down your body without shame—over your flushed tits, the curve of your hips, straight to your pussy.
It's a mess, lips swollen and glistening with your own arousal, juices smeared on your inner thighs from grinding against nothing while you sucked him off. Jake's cock gives another visible twitch, thickening just a bit at the sight, and you feel a fresh pulse of heat low in your belly.
Before you can say anything, he swings his legs off the bed and stands, giving you a full view of his tight ass flexing as he moves. Muscles ripple under his skin, that confident stride taking him toward the bathroom.
You can't help it—a sharp whistle escapes your lips, playful and hungry. "Damn, look at that ass," you call out, biting your lip as you watch him go.
Jake glances over his shoulder, shaking his head with a smirk, but you catch the way his cock bobs with the motion, half-hard again already. "Keep whistling like that, and I'll come back and fuck that mouth quiet," he shoots back, his voice dripping with that dominant edge that makes your clit throb.
“Promises, promises.”
He disappears for a moment, the sound of running water faint in the background, and returns with a warm, damp cloth in his big hand. Without a word, he climbs back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hands are firm as he rolls you onto your back, your legs falling open instinctively. "Spread 'em," he murmurs, his tone casual but commanding, eyes fixed on your dripping pussy.
You comply, parting your thighs wide, exposing the slick folds to the cool air. The warmth of the cloth hits first, Jake's touch gentle but thorough as he wipes away the mess—your arousal, the faint traces of his earlier precum that might have dripped.
It's intimate, this aftercare, his broad chest hovering close, the scent of his sweat and cum still heavy in the air. You hiss softly when the fabric grazes your sensitive clit, but you relax into it, your body melting under his care.
"If you wanted to touch me again, you could've just asked," you tease, your voice breathy, a giggle threatening to spill out as his hand lingers a second too long on your inner thigh.
Jake's eyes flick up to yours, that smirk widening into something wicked. Before you can react, his finger—thick and calloused—slides right into your soaked pussy, no warning, no buildup. It stretches you just enough, curling slightly inside your tight heat, and a sharp moan rips from your throat, swallowing your teasing words whole. Your walls clench around him instinctively, greedy for more, the sudden intrusion sending sparks up your spine.
"Who said I needed permission?" he growls low, pumping that finger once, twice, feeling how you drip around it, your juices coating his skin. His thumb brushes your clit in a lazy circle, making your hips buck up off the bed. Fuck, he's good at this—teasing you right to the edge without mercy, his cock hardening fully now against your leg as he watches your face contort in pleasure.
You gasp, grabbing at his wrist, but not to stop him—hell no, you want him deeper, rougher. "Jake... shit, don't stop," you whine, your voice turning slutty and desperate, pussy fluttering around his invading finger.
He chuckles darkly, adding a second finger without hesitation, scissoring them inside you, stretching your walls while his free hand pins your hip down.
"Look at you, so fucking wet for me already. Sucked my cock like a good girl, and now this pussy's begging for it."
His dirty talk hits like a drug, words rough and urgent, his breath hot against your neck as he leans in closer. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking into you fill the room, obscene and loud, your arousal slicking his hand all the way to his wrist.
Your tits heave with each thrust of his fingers, nipples hard peaks begging for attention, but Jake's focused lower, twisting his digits to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You moan louder, thighs trembling, the afterglow twisting into something raw and urgent again.
His cock presses insistent against your side, leaking precum onto your skin, and you know he's not done — not by a long shot.
He pulls his fingers out abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing, a frustrated whimper escaping your lips. Licking them clean with a deliberate slowness, he meets your hazy gaze.
"Taste like you need more than a tease," he says, voice gravelly, tossing the cloth aside and settling his body over yours, his hard length nudging your thigh promisingly.
—
Jake woke with the kind of bone-deep ache he usually associated with a brutal training day, except this time it had nothing to do with dogfighting and everything to do with you.
Every muscle in his body reminded him, pleasantly and a little sharply, of the night before—your hands clawing at him, your legs locked around his waist, the way you’d begged and taunted and pulled him back for more until neither of you could remember if the number was two rounds or three or four.
You were still asleep beside him, sprawled in the sheets like you’d been poured there. The thin blanket barely covered you, falling low enough that he could see the faint marks he’d left on your collarbone and the curve of your breast, along with the deeper ones he could swear matched the shape of his teeth.
He smirked at that, then felt the sting on his own back when he moved. God, you’d scratched him to hell. And he’d loved every second of it.
For a moment, he just sat there, feet on the floor, running a hand over his face as he let the quiet settle. Sunlight crept through the blinds, warm and soft, catching on the mess of clothes scattered from the door to the bed. His underwear ended up half under your dress. He stepped into them, stretching slowly, shoulders rolling, the long line of his back flexing as everything in him protested in a good, satisfied way.
Coffee. That seemed like the smart next move. Something normal, something grounding while he waited for you to wake up all lazy and smug, probably planning to tease him for how wrecked he currently felt.
He eased the bedroom door open, careful not to wake you, and padded into the hallway. Last night had been too dark, too frantic, too much of your mouth and your hands and your laugh echoing in his head for him to notice anything beyond you.
Now he actually saw your space—pictures lining the walls, framed moments of your life. You with friends, you alone with a bright smile, you as a kid missing a front tooth, and a teenage boy who had to be your brother or some cousin because the resemblance was there but not copy-paste.
He kept walking, still half-distracted by how good he felt and how much he wanted to crawl back into bed with you. Then he passed the large frame hanging dead-center on the next wall.
Your degree.
His steps faltered, then stopped completely.
His vision did not betray him. He blinked anyway, once, twice, then leaned in as if getting closer would somehow change the letters staring him straight in the face.
Bradshaw.
The name punched the air right out of his lungs.
For a second, Jake didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Everything in him went cold, then hot, then cold again. All of last night replayed in his head at warp speed—your laugh, your mouth, the way you’d moaned his name, the way he’d bitten down on your throat because you’d told him to.
He ran a hand through his hair, stared at the degree like it might start explaining itself, and felt the full weight of the situation crash over him.
He had just spent the night doing every filthy, hungry thing he’d ever fantasized about to a woman who might as well have been crafted for him… with Bradley Bradshaw’s sister.
summary: the squad challenge hangman to charm any girl in the bar, and phoenix chooses you, but you end up making more of an impression on him than he's is expecting
notes: i asked for some inspo and i got some! i hope this is okay, i wrote it in a day and just had a bit of fun, so let me know what you think! (i also got another request for jake, and honestly if he's who y'all want, i'm so here for it)
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, text screenshots, and it's a little horny but otherwise fine (let me know if i've missed anything!)
word count: 3304
“Any girl in the bar?” Reuben echoes Jake’s words, disbelief saturating his tone.
Jake nods. “Any available girl in this bar.”
Bradley chuckles into the mouth of his beer bottle as he tips it to his lips while Mickey and Bob crane their necks to survey the busy bar.
“What about that one?” Mickey nods toward a high table where a woman is sitting by herself.
Jake rolls his eyes. “I said available. She’s clearly got a date and he’s just gone to get a drink. Do you see the keys on the table?”
As if on cue, a tall man with thick brows and a very square jaw places two drinks on the table before sitting across from the woman.
Javy chuckles as he subtly points toward the main door where two women have just entered the bar. “What about one of those two, Hangman?”
Jake’s green eyes dart toward the door before returning to his friend and narrowing. “Be kind, Coyote. I would prefer under the age of sixty-five.”
Natasha’s brows shoot up. “Prefer, but you’d be open to-”
“No.” Jake scowls across the table at her.
The group share a laugh before they all return to scouring the bar for an acceptable target. Jake Seresin makes big claims about his ability with ‘the ladies’ but the dagger squad are yet to witness such skill in action.
“Her.” Natasha says, brown eyes focused on someone at the bar.
Every single one of them turn to follow her gaze, and Jake’s mouth twists up into that signature smirk.
-
You sigh and slide your phone out of your back pocket, opening the text chain that made you leave the restaurant you’d been waiting at and order an Uber to the nearest bar. Another message pops up as you stare at the screen, asking where you are and if you got a table yet. You roll your eyes and take a screenshot before going to your text thread with your best friend and sending it to her.
You slide your phone back into your pocket just as the bartender places the beer you ordered in front of you. You glance up with a small smile and open your wallet to find your credit card, but someone beside you is quicker to hand the man some cash.
“It’s on me,” the stranger says, wearing an irritatingly gorgeous grin.
Your eyes narrow as you assess the man beside you. He’s wearing a well-fitting pair of jeans and a dark green button-up shirt, untucked. He’s effortlessly handsome, with sparkling green eyes and light brown hair that is perfectly combed into place. It’s almost as if someone cast a spell on a Ken doll to bring him to life. But you can tell by the way this man is grinning at you that he is much more devious than a newly animated children’s toy.
You pick up your drink and turn to face him, silently asking him to explain himself.
“Hangman.” He winks.
You frown. “I prefer Pictionary.”
His pretty smirk falters for a second before he fully processes what you said, and then he chuckles. “No, it’s my callsign. I’m a naval aviator.”
You’d figured as much – duh, you live on North Island – but you’re not in the mood for this guy’s bullshit right now. “That must be so fun for you.” You push off the barstool with your drink in hand. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Wait a minute.” He doesn’t block your path, but his words are enough to stop you out of sheer habit. “I didn’t catch your name.”
You give him a tight smile. “That’s because I didn’t throw it.”
Despite the dim, yellow lighting inside the bar, his eyes still sparkle like freshly tumbled jades. He doesn’t look as smarmy as he had a few moments ago, he looks more intrigued than cocky now. His smile isn’t quite as smirky, and his gaze is less predatory, but his eyes are still raking up and down your body. On any other day, you’d be willing to give this charming man a run for his money. You’d drag him into a booth and see if he could keep up with your verbal warfare before deciding whether or not you wanted to take him home. But not tonight.
“I’d be willing to earn your name if you give me a chance.”
You look down at your beer and sigh quietly before glancing back up at him. “Look, Hangman, I don’t doubt this routine – this charm – works on most girls, but you have really picked the wrong one tonight.”
He raises one challenging brow. “You look like the right one to me.”
“The right one for what?” You cock your hip and hold it with your free hand. “A good one-night stand or something real? Because you don’t strike me as a guy who’s looking for something real, and I’ve just about had it with one-night stands.”
His mouth pops open, but no words come out.
“And while I don’t doubt that it would be a really good one-night stand, because- well, I’m not blind, I’ve just had a really crappy day and would like to drink my beer in peace while I craft a careful and incredibly scathing text to the asshole who put me in this mood.”
You pause, waiting for him to respond or tell you that you’re crazy, but he doesn’t. He just looks at you with that same curious stare, like you’re a fascinating piece of art in a gallery.
“So, thank you for the drink, but could you please let me have my pity-party alone? You can go tell your friends you got my number, and we can just pretend that I reacted to this whole situation like any other normal person would have.”
His brows pinch as you offer him another tight smile before turning and walking toward a spare table. Once you settle in one of the chairs – your back to the room –, you have to resist the urge to turn around, because a tiny part of you wishes that you could have humoured him. He was hot, there’s no denying that, but he also seemed like an actual gentleman – an experienced gentleman, but one, nonetheless. Which is something that your life is sorely lacking.
You pull your phone out again and open up your text conversation with Declan – the guy you thought you’d been dating for the past three months.
You were supposed to have met for dinner at 7PM, and you'd been waiting at the restaurant since 6:45PM because you were so excited for your date. But after those texts, you threw your napkin on the table and walked right out the door. You hailed a cab and told the driver to take you to The Hard Deck, a bar you’ve only heard of from your friend. The same friend who you’d sent the screenshots of your conversation with Declan.
You shake your head and decide to compose a ‘get fucked’ message to Declan later. You're tired and a little upset, so you tip your beer to your lips and scull the rest of it, plonking the glass down harder than necessary as you stand up.
You call an Uber to take you home and when you slide into the back seat, you feel utterly drained and more than a little guilty about blowing off that gorgeous guy. You open your phone and tap on your text messages, pulling up your conversation with your best friend and typing out a few new messages.
Natasha’s ambiguity would usually make you nauseous with curiosity, but after the day you’ve just had, you can’t find the energy to be anxious about whatever it is she wants to talk about. You send her an affirmative text, accepting the boozy brunch, before tucking your phone away and staring out the car window for the rest of the drive home.
-
Jake has been lying awake for over an hour by the time his alarm goes off. It’s Saturday, which means he doesn’t have to be at the base, but he still likes to start his weekends early with a good workout. Normally, he’d jump out of bed at the sound of his alarm and slip straight into his gym gear, but not today. He’s barely slept, and he feels like his consciousness is on a completely different plane of existence.
He can’t stop thinking about you.
You’d caught him completely off-guard last night. When Natasha had pointed you out, he could clearly see that you were gorgeous, which is why he was more than happy to accept the challenge of ‘charming’ you. Then you had the audacity to be witty, and Jake Seresin is nothing if not a sucker for a woman with a sharp tongue. You didn’t fall for his smirk or his cheesy lines, but you weren’t rude about it either. You’d clearly had a bad day, and he felt bad for borderline harassing you, but now he feels even worse for not at least getting your name.
Jake has never believed in love at first sight, but last night is starting to prove him otherwise.
His workout today is half-assed, and he knows it, but he doesn’t bother pushing himself any further by the time his hour in the gym is up. Usually, he wouldn’t leave until his whole body was slick with sweat, but not today. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see your face, and then he doesn’t want to open them again. He’s worried that the details will start to fade, and he never wants to forget the face of the woman who has so thoroughly rocked his foundations. So that’s why when he gets home, he lays on the couch and closes his eyes, trying to burn your image into the back of his eyelids.
A couple of hours and a lot of unsuccessful internet sleuthing later, his phone rings, the screen lighting up with Natasha’s caller ID photo.
“Hello?”
“Bagman, you sound tired.”
“I’m busy. What's up?”
“Well, now you sound depressed.” He can hear the amusement in her voice. “Are you still bummed about striking out last night?”
He doesn’t care about striking out, he cares about the fact that he’s now seemingly obsessed with a mystery girl he might never see again.
“I’m not in the mood, Phoenix.”
“Alright, alright. I just wanted to see if you were coming to the beach barbecue tonight.” He can hear another muffled voice in the background, but he can’t discern who it is. “It was Payback’s idea, and everyone else is in, but you didn’t reply to the group chat. So?”
There’s a beat of silence. Jake is usually always down to hang out with his friends, but he has half a mind to spend his night scouring every bar and restaurant in town to see if he can run into you again.
“Come on, Seresin,” she presses. “One of my friends is coming too, and I really think you’ll like her.”
At that, Jake’s curiosity piques. Natasha has never offered to set him up with any of her friends before. In fact, she has distinctly threatened him should he ever try to go near any of them.
“You want to set me up with your friend?”
She scoffs. “Well, no, but- Look, you’ll understand if you come. Am I counting you in?”
He lets out a long breath as he falls back against the couch cushions. “Yeah, sure.”
- Three Hours Earlier -
You stare at your best friend in disbelief. You’ve barely taken a sip of your first mimosa, and she’s already telling you that not only was she at that bar last night, but she was the one who told the gorgeous man to approach you.
“Are you mad?” she asks, holding her champagne flute in front of her face as if it could protect her.
You take a deep breath before blowing it out through your nose. “Well, no, but I’m kind of hurt that you saw me walk into the bar and didn’t come say hi.”
She rolls her eyes playfully. “That would have ruined all the fun.”
You raise your brows. “The fun of sending one of your friends into a losing battle?”
Her smile is sheepish. “Look, if you knew Hangman like I do, you’d completely understand. And when I saw you sit at the bar, of course I wanted to come and give you a hug, but then I had this beautiful opportunity presented to me. You got to take out a little bit of frustration on the male species, and Hangman got a nice big bruise on his ego. It was a win-win.”
You take a generous sip of your mimosa and point a finger at her. “Win.”
She gives you a wink before taking a big gulp of her own drink. You spend the rest of the morning talking about Declan and crafting a simple but nasty message to send him before you block his number. After three mimosas and a shared croissant, you’re starting to feel a little boozy.
“Okay, I think we should stop.”
She nods. “Probably. I still need to go shopping for tonight. You’re coming, right?”
You roll your lips and avert your eyes, instead deciding to stare at the crumbs on the plate between the two of you.
“Come on, please.” She leans forward, doing her best puppy-dog eyes. “I know you don’t know my navy friends, but you’re never going to if you keep avoiding meeting them. Plus, Hangman should be there.”
Your heart begins to thump heavily against your sternum, which is ridiculous because you barely know the guy.
“I guess I should probably apologise to him.”
She scoffs. “You don’t need to apologise. I was kind of hoping that maybe you’d reject him again.”
You roll your eyes. “Nat, come on. I was rude to the guy, and he was perfectly-”
“Wait.” Her eyes go wide. “You actually think he’s cute, don’t you? Like, not in a flippant ‘that guy is hot’ kind of way, but in the way where you can’t stop thinking about him.”
Your pulse thrums even faster. “Pfft, no.”
“Oh, my God.” She holds a hand up to her lips to stifle her laughter. “You don’t want to apologise to him, you want to fu-”
“Nat!” you exclaim. “We are in public.”
She can’t stop giggling, her brown eyes like saucers above the hand covering her mouth, and it only takes a few more seconds before you dissolve into laughter too. You’ve definitely had enough mimosas for the morning.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually you compose yourselves enough to pay and exit the cafe. Neither of you had driven this morning, thankfully, so you decide to Uber to the nearest grocery store to get supplies for tonight’s beach barbecue.
You’re turning into the cold aisle where all the meat is cut and packaged when Natasha pulls out her phone and calls Hangman. It’s stupid the way your heart races when you hear his muffled voice, but you can’t help it. You’ve been thinking about this man nonstop for the past fourteen hours and now you’re going to see him tonight. You’ve never really believed in love at first sight, but the memory of those sparkling green eyes is starting to convince you otherwise.
Hours later and after trying on every bathing suit you own, you find yourself walking toward the gazebo on the beach where Nat’s location on your phone is pinging. There’s a fold out table with a portable barbecue on it and half a dozen beach chairs scattered across the sand. There’s also a volleyball net set up, where two very fit men are batting a white ball back and forth.
You’re starting to think that maybe you were doing yourself a disservice by not meeting Nat’s navy friends sooner.
“Hey!” Nat exclaims, yanking two beers out of the ice tub before jogging toward you. “I’m very impressed that you didn’t bail.”
You roll your eyes and try to be discreet about surveying the group for a face you’ll recognise. “Of course I didn’t bail.”
“Come meet everyone.” She links her arm with yours and leans in to whisper in your ear. “Hangman isn’t here yet.”
She points at the two men playing volleyball and tells you that they are Rooster and Payback. Then she pulls you into the gazebo’s shade and introduces you to Coyote, who is manning the barbecue, and Fanboy, who is second in charge. Harvard, Fritz, and Halo are occupying a few of the beach chairs, and apparently there are two more naval aviators on their way. One of which you’ve already met.
Everyone is super nice and incredibly fucking fit. It doesn’t take long for you to relax and enjoy the conversation with Fanboy while Nat argues with Coyote about what ‘medium rare’ looks like.
“Oh, and here’s another one,” Fanboy says, glancing over your shoulder with a grin. “This is Hangman.”
Your heart almost leaps out of your chest when you turn around and come face to face with those gorgeous green eyes.
He smiles, and it’s hot enough to melt your bikini bottoms. “Pictionary, right?”
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “Yeah, that’s right. Nat tells me you’re actually Bagman?”
He rolls his eyes and turns to your best friend, who is grinning like a maniac. “Jake Seresin, this is my best friend. Have you two met?”
Jake.
He says something to Natasha along the lines of calling her evil, but you’re not listening anymore. You’re too busy drinking him in, and oh my, is that a big drink.
He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of khaki shorts, and his taut tan skin is making your mouth water. He has to have been sculpted by the gods, that is the only explanation for this man. Your eyes rake across his broad chest, the smattering of hair at his sternum, and down his defined abdominals. You can imagine licking every line, tasting every inch of his skin and following that V with your tongue below the waistband of his shorts.
Natasha nudges your ribs as she walks past, and you only just catch her wink before you look up and find Jake’s eyes on you. He’s smirking, and this time, it’s working. “Phoenix said you wanted to tell me something.”
Oh yeah, he definitely knows you were just checking him out.
You clear your throat. “I- um, I wanted to apologise for being rude last night. I’d had a bad day, but you honestly didn’t do anything wrong. Any other day I’d probably have jumped right into bed with you.”
Your eyes widen and you smack a hand over your mouth, heat crawling into your cheeks as you realise what thoughts you just let slip through your lips. Jake laughs, his smirk morphing into a genuine and breathtaking grin.
“I’m so sorry,” you say quickly. “I have no filter sometimes.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He licks his lips and looks you up and down, like a predator sizing up its prey. “You don’t have anything to apologise for, but considering this is any other day, why don’t you start by telling me your name? Then we can see about jumping into bed.”
You can feel yourself melting faster than a popsicle in the sun. It’s not that you want to be immediately smitten by this ridiculously gorgeous and charming man, but you can’t help it. Ever since last night, you’ve had a weird feeling about him. A feeling that makes you think he’s important to your story, one way or another.
All you can do now is hope that it’s in a good way.
Summary: When Jake “Hangman” Seresin brings his girlfriend home to Texas for the first time, she steps into a world of wide open skies, loud sibling laughter, and a deck that holds more stories than the family photo albums. Between grilled dinners under string lights, sweet tea on the deck, and the kind of teasing that only comes from real love, she begins to see a softer side of the Navy pilot.
Warnings: Light alcohol use.
Word Count: 2,831
Author's Note: This is my first of 4 entries for the Summer Writing challenge I signed up for as part of @echoingbirdsofprey 's Discord! If you are a fanfic writer (or writer of any kind or just enjoy talking to really cool people like myself) feel free to shoot her a message to get the link to join! Hope you guys enjoy!
Prompt: Eating Outside
Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader
The sun hung low in the sky, casting everything in gold as Jake eased the truck up the long gravel driveway. You could smell the dry earth, the faint sweetness of freshly mowed grass. Beyond the windshield, a white farmhouse came into view. It was modest but charming with a wide porch wrapped around it.
Jake shifted the truck into park, then exhaled.
“This is it” he said, smiling softly as he looked over at you.
There was something different about him in that moment. The lines on his face had seemed to soften. Here he wasn’t Hangman. He was just Jake.
You stepped out into the warm evening air, the cicadas already buzzing in the trees on the edge of the property. You made your way to the front of the truck, and Jake met you there. He reached for your hand, and once your fingers laced together, he didn’t let go.
“You ready?” He asked as he walked you up toward the porch.
Laughter drifted out through the screen door. You took a deep breath, feeling some nerves start to bubble inside you.
“Come on,” he murmured, his voice low and certain. “They’re gonna love you.”
Before you even realized what was happening the front screen door subpoenaed.
“Jakey!” A little voice squealed, and then a blur of pink launched off the porch steps.
Jake let go of your hand as he laughed, and reached down to scoop up the tiny little body mid-run.
“There’s my Lilah bug!” He said, spinning her once before settling her on his hip.
From the porch, a hound dog howled once before bounding down the steps, ears flapping. Another set of little feet followed, trying and failing to corral the redbone puppy at his heels.
“Duke! No! Don’t jump! DUKE!”
Jake reached for your hand just as the pup came skidding across the gravel. You gripped his fingers tightly, caught between laughing and dodging paws.
“Easy, buddy,” Jake said, dropping a hand to scratch behind the puppy’s ears. “He’s bigger than last time.”
“So’s your ego,” called a voice from the porch. A woman stood with one hand on her hip and a glass of sweet tea in the other. You assumed from her appearance that it was Hallie, Jake’s older sister. “Took you long enough to come home.”
Behind her, a flurry of voices rose as the screen door banged again. A small army emerged: Dustin, Hallie’s husband, smiling shyly behind her. Brooks, Jake’s nephew, panting from chasing the dog. Linda, Jake’s mom, wiping her hands on a dishtowel as she stepped forward, eyes locked on her son.
Jake’s grip on your hand didn’t loosen, not even as the chaos swirled around you.
“Hi, Mama,” he said, voice softening.
Linda didn’t speak right away. She just wrapped her arms around him and held tight for a moment too long. Then she stepped back and looked you over with kind, curious eyes.
“So this must be the girl we’ve heard about,” she said. “I’m Linda. Come here, sugar, give me a hug.”
Before you could blink, you were swept into a warm hug. Linda pulled back with a smile full of genuine welcome. “You hungry? We’ve got lots of food and cold beer, and Cheryl made her famous potato salad.”
“Aunt Cheryl?” Jake asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Inside already,” Hallie said. “Trying to keep Pops from sneaking peach cobbler before dinner.”
As if on cue, the screen door creaked open again.
“Look what the wind blew in.” A tall, broad shouldered man stepped out from behind the screen door, a cane in one hand and a beer in the other. His white hair curled around his ears, and his eyes, green just like Jake’s, twinkled with something both sharp and soft.
“Pops,” Jake said, releasing your hand long enough to hug him tight. “Still kickin’, huh?”
“Still drinkin’, too,” Hank replied. “Though I’d trade this beer for five minutes in that plane of yours.”
Jake’s face softened, and he nodded. “One day, Pops.”
Just then, the screen door banged again.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” a woman with bright pink lipstick and wild curls said, stepping out and adjusting her sunglasses. “If it isn’t my favorite nephew.”
“You only have one,” Jake shot back.
She grinned. “Exactly.”
The porch burst into laughter. A dog barked. Someone yelled from the kitchen about sweet tea. And in the midst of it all, Jake looked at you like he’d never been more at home.
* * * * *
The back deck looked like something out of a southern summer postcard. String lights crisscrossed overhead, glowing golden against the slowly darkening sky. The sun had dipped just low enough to cut the heat, leaving behind the kind of warmth that clung to bare shoulders and made cold drinks taste colder.
The long wooden table was already half covered in mismatched dishes—bowls of baked beans, coleslaw, someone’s famous mac and cheese, and a tray of deviled eggs that were down to their final four. Mason jars full of sweet tea and lemonade sweated in the center, right next to a six-pack of Lone Star that had clearly been raided more than once.
Jake stood at the grill like he owned the place, spatula in hand and a beer tucked into the crook of his arm. You sat at the table, angled to watch him work, but also to take in the symphony of chaos happening around you.
Brooks and Lilah were weaving between legs, still hyped up from Jake’s arrival, and Duke the puppy was following behind with his nose to the ground like a bloodhound on a mission. Pops sat in a rocking chair near the edge of the deck, plate already in hand because “ain’t no reason to wait when you’re damn near ninety,” and Maggie curled at his feet like she hadn’t moved in hours.
Linda floated in and out of the sliding door, replenishing drinks, giving the kids warnings they completely ignored, and somehow still managing to get the napkins folded just right.
“Food’s up!” Jake called a few minutes later, and chairs scraped back from the table like a starting pistol had gone off.
Plates were passed, burgers stacked high with tomato slices and onions, and the scent of grilled meat mixed with the warm honey-butter rolls Aunt Cheryl brought in foil-covered baskets. You didn’t even realize how hungry you were until your first bite, and suddenly everything tasted like comfort.
“So,” Linda started, eyeing you across the table, “You’ve seen Jake in a flight suit, but have you seen him in a batting helmet with braces and a black eye?”
You choked on your sweet tea and looked at Jake, who just shook his head.
“No, but now I want to.”
“Please tell her the story, mom,” Hallie begged. “This one’s my favorite.”
Jake groaned and leaned back in his chair, beer in hand. “Y’all don’t have to scare her off on day one.”
“Oh, this won’t scare her. This’ll just make her smarter,” Hallie replied.
Jake’s mom leaned forward. “Picture it: high school playoff game. Jake’s up to bat. Girl he’s been flirting with is watching from the bleachers, right? He’s showboating.”
“She smiled first,” Jake muttered under his breath.
“Anyway,” Linda continued, “he hits the ball, and sends it sailing over the fence. Starts running bases like he’s already in the major leagues. But the catcher? Mad. He thinks Jake showed him up. So he ‘accidentally’ elbows Jake in the jaw as he’s rounding home.”
Jake pointed his beer bottle at her. “He got benched for that, by the way.”
“Jake falls flat on his ass, and gets a black eye,” Hallie added. “Still got the girl, though.”
“He did,” Linda said. “Took her to prom even.”
“Did she dump you the next day?” Hallie asked sweetly.
“No,” Jake said, nudging your knee under the table. “She dumped me two days later.”
You covered your mouth, trying not to laugh, but it was impossible. The mental image was too good.
Jake leaned toward you a moment later, his voice low so only you could hear. “Wanna know the real story?”
You turned, chin resting on your hand. “Obviously.”
“I hit that homer. Did the whole smug jog, sure. But the catcher and I had beef. I’d been talking trash all season. That elbow wasn’t an accident.”
You grinned. “So you earned the black eye.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But she kissed me after, and said it made me look rugged.”
You snorted into your drink. “Of course she did.”
Jake’s hand slid over your knee under the table, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles. He looked more relaxed here than anywhere you’d ever seen him.
Pops cleared his throat from the other side of the deck. “Don’t let ‘em fool you,” he said. “That boy’s always been a little too proud, but he’s got a good heart. He used to carry his grandma’s groceries three blocks in July heat just to keep her from walkin’. And he fixed Linda’s car when he was fifteen with a manual and a prayer.”
Jake groaned again. “Pops—”
“You hush,” Pops said, waving a fork. “She deserves to know what she’s getting into.”
Aunt Cheryl added, “What she’s getting into is a whole lotta trouble with that grin of his. But the boy shows up. Always has.”
You looked over at Jake then, and reached under the table to take his hand. He gave yours a light squeeze, and for a second the noise seemed to fade around you. For that second it felt like you and Jake were alone in the middle of it all.
Then Duke yelped, having discovered that one of the kiddos left a hot dog unattended, and had helped himself to it.
As the evening stretched on and plates emptied, the conversation turned loose and lazy, winding like the breeze through the oak trees. Someone cracked open another beer, and Linda disappeared inside for the peach cobbler.
Jake leaned close and murmured, “C’mon, before they rope us into dishes,” with a conspiratorial grin.
You didn’t hesitate. With fingers still laced through his, he led you through the back door and down the quiet hallway, his thumb brushing gently over yours. The moment you stepped onto the front porch, the air shifted. It was softer, quieter, just the two of you.
Jake took your hand and led you over to the old porch swing. As you sat, it creaked softly beneath you and Jake, swaying in slow rhythm as the evening cooled around your bare shoulders.
Jake leaned back, one arm stretched along the swing behind you. The other held a dripping bowl of vanilla ice cream, two spoons wedged inside.
You took one, scooping a bite of creamy sweetness and groaning softly at how cold and perfect it tasted.
Jake smiled. “Thought you might need dessert after surviving dinner interrogation.”
“You mean the roast of Jake Seresin?” you teased, nudging his knee with yours. “Honestly, it was the best show I’ve seen in months.”
He chuckled, spooning a bite for himself. “They’re relentless.”
“They love you.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, looking out at the driveway where the heat shimmer had finally faded. “They do.”
The porch swing rocked again. Crickets sang in the distance, and the stars blinked down through a haze of warm summer air. Jake went quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful as he scraped his spoon along the bowl.
You leaned your head against his shoulder. “You okay?”
Jake glanced over, a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah.”
You waited.
After a beat, he sighed and looked out over the yard. “I’m good. Just…it’s been a while since I was here like this.”
“Like this?” you echoed gently.
He was quiet for a moment. “With someone.”
You didn’t push, just let the silence fill the spaces he hadn’t found the words for yet.
Finally, he glanced down at his lap, thumb rubbing along the edge of the bowl. “I haven’t brought anyone home since high school. Not since Amber.”
Your brows lifted slightly. You’d heard the name before, just a few times in passing. A chapter he didn’t talk about much. A chapter you had learned not to ask about.
“She was part of this world,” he said, voice low. “Knew the way my mom folds laundry, knew how Pops takes his coffee, knew how to talk to Hallie without getting steamrolled.” He laughed quietly. “It felt easy back then. Familiar.”
You offered another small spoonful to him, and he accepted it with a half smile.
Jake looked at you then, eyes catching the low golden glow of the string lights from around the house.
“Yeah,” he said. “It feels right with you.”
Your heart fluttered. You reached for the bowl again, scooping another bite and laughing when the melted edge dribbled down your chin.
Jake leaned in before you could wipe it away, thumb brushing gently across your skin, right at the corner of your mouth.
“Can’t take you anywhere,” he said, grin tugging at his lips.
You rolled your eyes, smiling as you handed him the bowl. “This counts as a date, you know. Eating ice cream under the stars with a view of your mom’s rose bushes.”
He gave an exaggerated nod. “Romantic. Possibly award worthy.”
You leaned in closer, voice low. “It kind of is.”
Jake’s face softened as he looked at you, one hand still cradling the bowl of mostly melted ice cream between you.
You smiled and leaned your head against his shoulder, the swing rocking gently beneath you.
“I like it here,” you whispered. “I like seeing this side of you.”
He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “You’re still Hangman,” you said, teasing. “But you’re also just...Jake. And I really like him too.”
He squeezed your hand and leaned his cheek against your hair, and for a long moment, the two of you just rocked in the quiet, the stars above and the summer night all around you.
The porch swing had just started its lazy sway again when the screen door creaked open behind you.
Linda stepped out, a dish towel still slung over her shoulder, her expression soft in the warm glow of the porch light. She gave Jake a knowing look before turning her smile on you.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said gently, walking over. “Just wanted to let y’all know that I got Hallie’s old room made up for you, sweetheart. Fresh sheets, window open to catch the breeze.”
You sat up a little, touched by the thoughtfulness. “Thank you, that’s really sweet of you.”
Jake cleared his throat beside you. “That’s real nice, Mama. Though, you know, my room’s got a bigger bed,” he offered casually, with a faint smirk, like he was mostly joking... but maybe not completely.
Linda raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Your room also has that creaky ceiling fan. Wouldn’t want the poor girl being kept up all night.” She turned back to you with a wink. “A good night’s sleep in your own space never hurt anybody. Especially under my roof.”
You smiled, understanding exactly what she was saying, and appreciating how kindly she said it.
Jake held up his hands in mock surrender. “Yes ma’am.”
Eventually, the sounds from the backyard faded, the string lights dimming as the family began to drift inside. Jake gave your hand a gentle squeeze, then stood, offering it to you.
“C’mon,” he said, his voice soft. “Let’s head up.”
You followed him through the quiet house, past half empty glasses on the counter and a dish towel still draped over the sink. The air inside was cooler, the lights low and warm. He led you up the creaky old stairs with practiced steps, slowing near the top as the hallway opened to framed memories and the soft hush of home settling in for the night.
He paused outside a door with faded stickers on the frame. Hallie’s old room.
“Here we are,” he said quietly, pushing it open.
The room was small, a little outdated, but cozy. A quilt tucked neatly over the bed. A stack of books on the dresser. A floral curtain drifting in the window’s breeze.
You turned to him, smiling. “She really did make it nice.”
Jake nodded, leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets. “Yeah. That’s mom for you.”
A beat passed, soft and lingering.
“You sure you’ll be alright in here?” he asked.
You stepped closer, reaching for his hand. “I’ll survive one night without you.”
He tugged you in gently, his forehead resting against yours. “Didn’t say I would.”
You laughed quietly, your hands on his chest. “Goodnight, Jake.”
He kissed you once, slow and soft. “Goodnight, darlin’.”
summary; Everyone thought Hangman’s biggest secret was his ego—turns out, it’s a wife, two kids, and a killer marshmallow recipe.
word count; 6.6k
warnings; nothing. fluff, fun, the daggers being chaotic and dramatic
a/n; you ask i deliver! here's girl dad!jake! this was SO much fun to write, i love these kinds of pieces. i am SO down to keep writing for this little family or just dad!jake in general (i am incapable of writing anything short i'm sorry)
masterlist
The new house still smelled like paint and sunlight.
Boxes towered in the living room like a cityscape, half-labeled and already a little rumpled from the drive. The front door stood open to let in the sea breeze, and the soft whir of ceiling fans stirred the scent of fresh wood floors and cardboard.
“Daddy! This one!” Cami’s voice rang through the hallway like a firecracker. Her curls bounced as she darted from room to room, barefoot and beaming. “This is definitely the best one.”
Jake, still in a gray t-shirt and jeans dusty from the move, peeked around the corner with a smirk. “Didn’t you say that about the last two?”
She planted her little fists on her hips. “Yeah, but this one’s got the biggest window. And look—” she ran over to it and flung her arms wide, “I can see everything!”
From the kitchen, you laughed softly, adjusting the baby sling on your chest. Lex was snuggled close, soft and warm against your body, her tiny fist curled against your collarbone. She made a sleepy noise but didn’t wake, lulled by the rhythm of your movements and the muffled excitement around her.
“She’s going to change her mind five more times,” you called over your shoulder. “Minimum.”
Jake walked in and leaned against the doorframe, watching you unpack a box labeled Kitchen - Fragile in your handwriting. “That’s generous. I was guessing eight.”
He crossed the room to you, brushing a hand along your spine in that absent, instinctive way he always had—gentle, grounding. “You good?”
“I’m good,” you said, smiling up at him. “Lex is asleep, I haven’t dropped a mug yet, and Cami hasn’t tried to climb on the counters. I’m calling it a win.”
Jake glanced down at Lex, and his whole face softened. He reached out to cradle her head briefly with one palm, then kissed your cheek. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“Flattery doesn’t get you out of assembling the crib again.”
“Worth a shot.”
From down the hall came the unmistakable crash of a box being tipped over, followed by Cami’s delighted giggle. “I’m helping!”
Jake’s eyes closed with a sigh, but he was smiling. “That’s my cue.”
He turned and jogged off in the direction of the chaos, and you watched him go, heart aching a little in that sweet, full way. Seeing him like this—barefoot, hair a little messy, completely wrapped around his daughters—it was everything you’d always wanted for him. For all of you.
“Looks like you’re stuck with us, San Diego,” you whispered to Lex, who sighed in reply.
You went back to unpacking, and in the next room, Jake’s voice rose in a playful protest: “No, honey, that’s not a hammer. That’s a whisk. Where did you even get that?”
Cami shrieked with laughter, and you swore your heart couldn't grow bigger.
The sun had started to dip low in the sky, casting soft gold across the living room floor where half-built furniture lay in various states of disarray. Instruction manuals fluttered open beside tiny screws, wooden pegs, and the mysterious metal contraptions that always seemed necessary but never quite explained themselves.
Jake sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, brow furrowed and tongue caught in the corner of his mouth as he studied the baby dresser. He had gotten the frame halfway done. Maybe. Depending on how generous you were feeling.
Cami, perched on her knees next to him, had a tiny screwdriver clutched in her small hand like it was a magic wand. She wore a tutu over her leggings and one of your old t-shirts, which hung off her shoulders like a dress. Her curls were a riot around her face, and her fingers were smudged with something suspiciously marker-colored.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, Lex still tucked snug to your chest. She was asleep again, her little cheek pressed to your sternum, one leg dangling out of the wrap like she owned the place.
“Okay, Daddy,” Cami said with authority, poking the air like a tiny forewoman. “This piece goes on top of the other piece. Like a sandwich.”
Jake blinked at the board she was pointing to. “That’s the bottom panel, baby.”
“But it looks like the top.”
“That’s ‘cause it’s upside down.”
Cami frowned, then flipped the piece over with both hands. It clunked to the floor, just missing his foot.
“See?” Jake said, trying not to laugh. “Now it’s a bottom that looks like a bottom.”
You bit your lip to hide your smile.
From his spot on the floor, Jake glanced up and caught you watching. He grinned, wide and slow and just a little sheepish. “Hey, darlin’. How’s the supervisor?”
You adjusted Lex’s head gently and whispered, “She’s napping on the job.”
“Slacker,” he murmured with a wink, before turning back to the pieces in front of him.
Cami leaned in close beside him, pressing her head to his arm as she whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was made Jake laugh under his breath, then glance back at you with mock-seriousness.
“She says we should throw away the instructions and just use our feelings.”
“Oh God,” you said, laughing. “That explains so much about you.”
Jake chuckled and ruffled Cami’s curls. “You hear that? Mama’s roasting me again. Typical.”
Cami grinned like she’d won something, then leaned against her father’s shoulder, tucking her tiny feet under her.
For a moment, everything was still.
Golden light spread across the wood floors. The air smelled faintly of new furniture, baby lotion, and the faint salt of the ocean drifting in through the open window. The soft rustle of palm trees outside, the distant echo of a car door down the street, and the occasional creak of the settling house were the only sounds besides Jake humming tunelessly as he tightened a bolt.
Jake leaned back, resting his weight on one palm and looking up at you.
“I know we’re not done unpacking,” he said, voice low and a little rough with feeling, “but it already feels like home.”
You smiled, walking toward him slowly. “That’s because you brought your girls home.”
He reached up and touched your wrist, brushing a finger over the baby’s foot.
“We’re lucky you came with us,” you said.
Jake looked up at you, eyes soft. “No,” he murmured. “I’m lucky you waited for me.”
Cami blinked between the two of you, then laid her cheek against his shoulder again with a sigh. “Okay, but are we building this dresser or what?”
Jake snorted, grabbing a screwdriver. “Yes, boss.”
And with his firstborn on one side, and the rest of his world standing just steps away, Jake Seresin went back to building his life—one drawer at a time.
The California sun beat down on the tarmac, sharp and dry, but not even the heat could keep the familiar buzz of energy from crackling through the air.
Top Gun had changed. Sleeker buildings. A brand-new hangar. The same stretch of runway, but with fresh paint and a higher security presence. What hadn’t changed, though, was the group clustered just outside the ready room, voices overlapping as they swapped stories, insults, and half-serious bets on who’d forget their callsign first.
“—told you, man,” Fanboy was saying as Jake approached, sunglasses perched on his head and a wide grin on his face. “He puked in the rental van. Twice. And then tried to blame it on the dog.”
Coyote laughed, arms crossed. “Please tell me that was your neighbor and not your cousin again.”
“Nope. Cousin.” Mickey smacked a hand to his chest like he was proud. “And I had to deep-clean the whole backseat before I drove out here with Bowie.”
“Wait,” Phoenix cut in, squinting at him. “You brought your dog across the country?”
“Hell yeah, I did.” He pulled out his phone and showed a picture of a scruffy, golden mutt hanging its head out the passenger window, tongue flapping. “Look at that face. He’s the real MVP.”
Rooster whistled low. “You’re braver than me. I left my plants behind.”
“They were fake,” Bob said dryly, getting a chorus of laughs.
Jake slid into the circle with a nod, arms folded, boots scuffing a mark into the concrete. “What, no one’s moved with a houseplant, a dog, and a messy break-up? Come on, you’re telling me I’m the only one who had a peaceful move?”
That earned a few snorts.
Rooster elbowed him lightly. “You’re telling me you didn’t bring anything?”
Jake gave an easy shrug. “Couple duffel bags. My truck. That’s about it.”
Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “No roommates? No girlfriend clinging to your bumper? No tragic love story in your rearview mirror?”
Jake let out a short laugh. “Nope.”
He didn’t look at Javy. Not directly.
The lie wasn’t heavy—not yet—but it was sharp. Quick. A reflex. The same one he’d used a hundred times over the years. It felt different now, though. Dirtier. Because this time, he wasn’t hiding a fling or dodging a label. He was leaving his family out of the picture.
Not forever. Just… not yet.
Coyote gave a low whistle beside him, too casual to be anything but a cover. “Guess some people travel light,” he said, and if the words held a second meaning, no one noticed but Jake.
“Hangman, a minimalist,” Phoenix said with a scoff. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
Jake gave her a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “New year, new me.”
Rooster snorted. “You said that last year.”
“And look how great I turned out.”
They all groaned, but the mood held, rolling easy like a wave that hadn’t quite crested yet.
“Alright,” Maverick’s voice cut across the courtyard from the ready room doors. “Let’s see if you all remember how to fly.”
The squad moved in a pack, still joking as they filtered inside.
Jake walked a beat behind the rest, sunglasses shielding his eyes, the weight of the secret pressing a little more firmly against his ribs. It was only a matter of time before they found out.
But for now?
For now, it was just him, his girls, and the silence between.
[..]
It had been a week since Rooster arrived in San Diego and he was already sick of takeout. His fridge held nothing but mustard, half a lime, and a six-pack of beer. It was time to act like an adult — or at least pretend to.
He pushed his cart through the grocery store with a lazy rhythm, sunglasses tucked into his collar, and a list on his phone that he was half-ignoring. Eggs, coffee, something green… cereal.
He turned into the cereal aisle, already reaching for the same red box he always bought, when a familiar figure ahead caught his eye.
Blond. Tall. Broad shoulders. Back turned.
Rooster paused mid-step.
Seresin?
It looked like Jake — same relaxed posture, same stupidly perfect haircut. But the guy was wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt, not his usual base uniform or something annoyingly designer. Casual. Normal.
Rooster took a step forward, ready to call out a sarcastic, "Didn’t peg you for a Cheerios guy," when the man turned slightly to the side.
And that’s when he saw her.
A baby.
Strapped to his chest in one of those soft, wraparound slings. A tiny baby — maybe six or seven months old, by the size of her — nestled against his chest, dozing peacefully with a pacifier bobbing in her mouth. One of her socks was missing, her little toes peeking out like she’d kicked it off mid-nap.
Rooster froze.
And then—
“Daddy, look! They have the cinnamon ones!”
A second voice. High-pitched, sweet, and excited.
A little girl — maybe five — stood up in the shopping cart seat and waved dramatically at the shelf of cereal boxes like she’d discovered treasure. Her curls bounced as she wiggled, and she wore a pink t-shirt with sparkles on it and denim overalls with a sticker stuck to one leg.
Jake turned to look at her fully, the side of his face now visible, and Rooster’s heart tripped over itself.
No way.
“Alright, alright, Cin-a-mon Swirls it is,” Jake said, stretching to grab the box while carefully balancing the sleeping baby on his chest. “But only if you promise not to sneak handfuls before breakfast again.”
The little girl giggled. “I don’t sneak. I sample.”
Jake laughed under his breath — that soft, genuine laugh Rooster had never heard from him on base — and dropped the box in the cart.
Rooster ducked quickly behind the display of oatmeal, heart hammering.
What the hell did I just walk into?
Those weren’t nieces. That baby was practically grafted to Jake’s chest, and the little girl had his eyes. The same green-gold color. The same crooked grin. The same exact nose.
Rooster peeked around the endcap.
Jake had one hand resting protectively on the baby’s back and the other guiding the cart while she chattered away, telling some elaborate story about a dragon and a breakfast castle. And Jake? He was listening. Actually listening, nodding at the right moments, smiling to himself like this was the best part of his day.
What the—
Rooster stepped back, the shock settling into something sharper. Confusion. Disbelief.
Hangman has kids?
Real kids. Not nieces. Not a girlfriend’s kids. His. There was no mistaking it. That little girl might as well have been a clone.
And he’d said nothing.
Rooster stood frozen, cart forgotten, eyes still locked on the aisle corner where Jake had just turned out of sight, baby and child in tow.
He didn’t approach. Didn’t say a word. He just stood there in the cereal aisle, trying to process the impossible.
Jake Seresin — Hangman — had a secret family.
And now, Rooster wasn’t sure who the hell he’d been working with all this time.
Rooster didn’t remember checking out.
He was pretty sure he paid — probably — because the cashier smiled and told him to have a good day. But everything from the cereal aisle to the parking lot felt like a blur. His brain was short-circuiting, looping through the same impossible images like a broken projector.
Jake. Baby. Little girl. Daddy.
He sat in his Bronco, staring blankly at the wheel. The cinnamon cereal he'd ended up grabbing by accident sat in the passenger seat like evidence.
“This is insane,” he muttered. “This is literally insane.”
He could not be the only one to know this. He didn’t want to be the only one. Someone had to validate this reality — and someone had to help him process what the hell was going on.
Which is how he ended up at the base gym, tossing his keys into a locker with a little too much force, pacing past the row of squat racks, and scanning the room like a man on a mission.
Phoenix.
There she was, finishing up reps on the bench press like a total machine, earbuds in, hair tied back, towel around her neck.
“Hey,” he called, voice slightly too loud.
She didn’t hear.
“Hey!”
Phoenix startled, pulling one earbud out with a scowl. “Jesus, Bradshaw. I almost dropped that on my face.”
“Yeah, okay, sorry,” he said, stepping closer. “I need to talk to you. Right now. Privately.”
She raised one eyebrow and sat up slowly. “What, did someone die?”
“No, but—close. I mean—no. It’s not a death death, it’s just—” He ran a hand through his hair. “Just—can we?”
Phoenix stood, towel in one hand, already skeptical. “Okay, drama queen. Come on.”
They ducked into the hallway outside the locker rooms, still sweaty and smelling faintly like antiseptic and rubber flooring. Phoenix crossed her arms.
“Alright. Spill.”
Rooster opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Shook his head.
“Rooster.”
“I saw Hangman with a baby,” he blurted, eyes wild. “And a kid. Like a five-year-old. And he was grocery shopping with them like it was normal. The baby was strapped to his chest like one of those little marsupial carriers and the kid called him Daddy.”
Phoenix stared.
He waited.
She didn’t blink.
Finally, she said, “What?”
“In the cereal aisle! I thought it was him, and I was about to say hi, but then I saw the baby, and the little girl looked just like him and then she said ‘Daddy’ and I—I panicked, okay? I hid behind the oatmeal.”
“You hid behind the oatmeal?”
“I was caught off guard!”
Phoenix let out a snort-laugh. “Oh my God.”
“I’m serious, Nat. They looked exactly like him. The girl had his eyes. His smile. And he was being all—dad-like. It was weirdly gentle. I didn’t know he had a tone like that.”
Phoenix was quiet for a long second, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “No mention of kids. No ring. No pictures. No weird schedule conflicts. If he has a family, he’s gone to serious lengths to hide it.”
Rooster nodded like a bobblehead. “That’s what I’m saying!”
“Are you sure they weren’t his sister’s kids or something?”
“The baby was drooling all over his shirt and the other one was bossing him around like she owned him. And he was listening. Patiently. Hangman doesn't listen patiently to anyone.”
Phoenix stared into the middle distance.
“...Holy shit,” she said under her breath.
Rooster folded his arms. “So what do we do?”
Phoenix blinked at him. “We?”
“You’re involved now!”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“But you know.”
Phoenix gave him a look. “So what—you want to confront him?”
“No,” Rooster said quickly. “God, no. What if it’s, like, a secret family on purpose? What if it’s some Witness Protection-level thing? Or he’s on the run from the PTA?”
Phoenix barked a laugh. “Okay, calm down, you're not in a TV show.”
“I just—I feel like I stepped into the Twilight Zone,” Rooster muttered.
“And I can’t un-see it. Like, every time he opens his mouth now, I’m going to hear that little girl’s voice saying ‘Daddy.’”
Phoenix scrubbed a hand down her face. “Alright. We sit on it. For now. He’ll crack eventually.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
She gave him a slow, sly smile. “Then we accidentally run into him again. Maybe outside work. Maybe at the grocery store.”
Rooster looked appalled. “You want to stake him out?”
Phoenix shrugged. “What? You already started the recon mission. Might as well finish it.”
Rooster groaned. “This is going to drive me crazy.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Bradshaw,” she said, patting his shoulder. “It already has.”
Jake had been minding his own business. Genuinely. For once.
He’d gotten through the morning flight briefing, his simulation review, and even a cup of coffee without roasting anyone. It was a personal record. But then—suddenly, for no reason at all—Bradley and Natasha started acting weird.
“Hey, Hangman,” Rooster said casually, sliding into the locker bench beside him, half-dressed in his flight gear. “What’d you do this weekend?”
Jake squinted at him, one boot half-laced. “What?”
“Just curious,” Rooster said, far too quickly. “Normal question. People ask each other that.”
Jake stared. “I did laundry. Took the truck in for an oil change. Nothing exciting.”
“Cool, cool,” Phoenix chimed in from across the aisle, leaning against the lockers like a detective interrogating a suspect. “Did you, I don’t know, go to the store?”
“The store?” Jake echoed slowly.
“You know,” Rooster added. “For… groceries.”
Jake blinked. “Yeah. Got some eggs. Why?”
“No reason,” they said in unison.
Jake looked between them, brow furrowing. “Did I miss a memo about getting really into meal prep?”
Phoenix gave a tight smile. “We’re just... interested in nutrition lately.”
Rooster nodded solemnly. “Very into breakfast.”
Jake opened his mouth, paused, then slowly tied his boot. “You guys are so weird today.”
Phoenix pushed off the locker. “So you live around here, then?”
Jake’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Obviously.”
Rooster jumped in. “Yeah, yeah, but like... where?”
Jake pulled his boot tighter. “You wanna come over for dinner, Bradshaw? Is that what this is? You finally caving to my charm?”
“No! I mean—unless you’re offering.” Rooster looked at Phoenix. “He could be offering.”
Jake stood, rolling his eyes. “What is wrong with you two?”
Phoenix played it cool. “Nothing. We’re just making conversation.”
“You’re never just making conversation.”
Rooster crossed his arms. “Maybe we’re trying to be your friends.”
Jake paused mid-zip on his jacket, one eyebrow climbing like it was headed for the stratosphere.
“My friends?” he repeated. “You think this is the first week of kindergarten and we’re picking lunch buddies?”
Phoenix shrugged, entirely unfazed. “Stranger things have happened.”
Jake gave her a long look. “Are you both dying?”
“No.”
“On drugs?”
Rooster smirked. “Only caffeine and a burning need for the truth.”
Jake stared for a beat longer, then shook his head and walked out of the locker room with a muttered, “Y’all are exhausting.”
Phoenix turned to Rooster once he was gone. “Okay, new plan. We’re terrible at this.”
Rooster groaned. “I thought the grocery question was subtle.”
“It wasn’t.”
“He’s too smug. He has secrets and he knows we want to know them.”
Phoenix sighed. “And he’s enjoying the hell out of this.”
Rooster tilted his head thoughtfully. “He might be just confused. That would track.”
They both stood in silence for a moment before Phoenix said, “We need to try again. Cooler. Smarter.”
Rooster gave her a long look. “You gonna say ‘do you have kids’ in Morse code or something?”
Phoenix’s eyes lit up. “...Maybe.”
Jake pushed open the front door with his shoulder, juggling his keys, a bottle of wine, and the pink glittery water bottle Cami had insisted on bringing to preschool. The house smelled faintly of laundry and lemon cleaner, and somewhere in the background, Taylor Swift’s voice floated out from the kitchen speaker.
You were at the counter, barefoot in leggings and one of his old Academy hoodies, hair piled on top of your head like a soft crown of chaos. Lex was in her bouncer on the floor nearby, babbling softly to her toes like they were telling her secrets.
Cami was on the couch with a coloring book and a stack of markers that had no hope of staying uncapped for long.
Jake dropped his keys in the bowl and stepped into the kitchen, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “I survived another day of being interrogated by two weirdos.”
You smiled without looking up from the dishwasher you were loading.
“Phoenix and Rooster.” He opened the fridge and tucked the wine onto the bottom shelf. “They’re acting weird. Like, weirder than usual.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘weird.’”
Jake pulled out a leftover container and leaned against the counter. “Asking where I live, what I did this weekend, if I’ve been to the grocery store. They were so subtle it was almost adorable.”
You bit back a smile. “Huh.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“Maybe they already know.”
Jake froze, Tupperware in hand. “Know what?”
You turned and gently nudged the fridge closed with your hip. “About us. About me. About the girls.”
Jake blinked. “How?”
“I don’t know,” you said, scooping up a bib from the table. “Maybe they saw us out. Maybe someone mentioned something. Cami does talk to strangers like they’re long-lost cousins.”
Jake groaned. “Oh God. Did she tell the cashier I’m a Top Gun pilot again?”
“She told the woman at the post office that your call sign is Hangman because you ‘always hang upside down on the monkey bars.’”
He dropped his head to the counter with a muffled laugh. “She’s gonna get me court-martialed.”
You smiled as you stepped closer and gently carded your fingers through his hair. “You said you liked them. The squad.”
“I do,” he mumbled, voice slightly muffled. “Most days.”
“Maybe it’s time they knew the truth.”
Jake lifted his head, watching you carefully. “You think so?”
You tilted your head, soft and teasing. “What’s the worst that could happen? They start calling you Daddy-man?”
Jake winced. “I just threw up in my mouth a little.”
You laughed, warm and easy, and leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Seriously. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about. You have a great life. You have a family who loves you. And a baby with thighs so chunky they deserve their own zip code.”
Jake looked down at Lex, who had stopped babbling long enough to blow a spit bubble.
He sighed. “You’re right.”
You bumped your shoulder against his. “I know.”
Cami’s voice floated in from the living room. “Mom! Daddy! Where’s the sparkly purple marker? It’s an emergency!”
Jake shouted back, “Check under the couch! Or in your hair!”
You wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your head against his chest. “Well… when you’re ready, we’re ready too.”
He kissed the top of your head, arms sliding around you with a quiet, grateful squeeze.
The squad had claimed their usual table on the outdoor patio of the base commissary — sun shining, aviators on, trays full of fries and whatever passed for lunch that day. It was the kind of afternoon that made everything feel like summer break, even if they were technically on duty.
“Well, I hope you’re all happy,” Bob was saying dryly as he unwrapped a sandwich. “I checked my mailbox today and it was filled with glitter.”
Fanboy leaned back in his chair, beaming. “You’re welcome. That’s the kind of magic only Bowie and I can bring to a neighborhood.”
“You named the dog after David Bowie?” Phoenix asked, chewing on a carrot stick.
Mickey grinned. “Ziggy Stardog.”
Groans went around the table.
“Unreal,” Coyote muttered. “That’s terrible and I’m impressed.”
“I live to serve.”
Jake was halfway through a burger, content to let the chaos unfold, when Maverick appeared like a ghost with sunglasses, stepping out of nowhere and holding a coffee in one hand like it was sacred.
“Don’t mean to interrupt,” he said, voice easy, “but Penny wanted me to let you all know we’re doing a bonfire tonight. Out by the beach. Her place. Says it’s a welcome-back thing, so don’t bring beer, don’t bring drama, and for the love of God, don’t bring your motorcycles onto the sand again.”
Everyone snickered. Rooster threw his hands up defensively. “That was one time.”
“And it’ll stay that way,” Mav said with a pointed look.
Jake straightened slightly, setting down the last bite of his burger. He glanced around the table, pulse oddly steady. The decision had settled itself sometime that morning between spooning oatmeal into Lex’s mouth and Cami asking—again—when she could meet Daddy’s new friends.
“Mav,” he said, casual but clear. “Is it cool if I bring some people with me?”
The table went quiet.
Maverick blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, sure. That’s fine.”
Jake gave a little smile and nodded. “Appreciate it.”
Everyone stared.
Fanboy was the first to break the silence. “Uh… what people?” He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t even like people.”
Payback looked mildly alarmed. “Are we being replaced?”
Jake just shrugged, reaching for his drink like this was the most normal conversation in the world.
But Phoenix was watching him like a hawk.
And Rooster was actively vibrating with contained energy, a fry halfway to his mouth, completely forgotten.
“You’re being weird again,” Jake said, pointing his straw at Rooster.
“You’re bringing people,” Rooster shot back, eyebrows in the stratosphere.
Phoenix leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, a slow smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “We talking plural as in roommates? Or plural as in… little people who call you Daddy?”
Jake’s eyes flicked to hers, the tiniest tilt of amusement in them. “I’m just saying,” he said evenly, “if I show up with the most beautiful girl at the party, don’t be surprised.”
Rooster choked on his fry.
Phoenix kicked him under the table.
Fanboy looked around, utterly lost. “What is happening?”
Bob squinted suspiciously. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
Jake only smirked and stood, brushing the crumbs off his shirt.
“See y’all tonight,” he said, casual as anything. “Save me a seat by the fire.”
And with that, he walked off — calm, unbothered, and just smug enough to make Rooster groan into his hands.
Phoenix leaned back, arms crossed, a gleam in her eyes. “It’s happening.”
Rooster looked haunted. “I knew that baby wasn’t a hallucination.”
Payback stared between them. “What baby?!”
The house smelled like sunscreen, baby lotion, and a little bit of anxiety.
Cami was bouncing from room to room like a ping-pong ball, wearing a sparkly denim jacket over a pink sundress and clutching her favorite plush unicorn in a tiny fist. She kept popping into the bathroom to check her hair in the mirror, then running back to Jake.
“Do I look okay, Daddy?”
Jake crouched to her level, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “You look perfect, honey.”
She beamed for a second, then hesitated. “What if your friends don’t like me?”
Jake blinked. “What?”
Cami twisted the unicorn’s mane around her finger. “What if they think I talk too much? Or that I’m weird?”
Jake’s heart ached in that split-second way it always did when she got serious. He smoothed her curls gently and gave her that look — the one he reserved for bedtime promises and skinned knees.
“They’re gonna love you, bug,” he said softly. “Because you’re smart, and funny, and you make the best marshmallows on the planet.”
Her brow furrowed. “But we haven’t even made them yet—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jake whispered, grinning. “You still win.”
That got a giggle out of her, and she hugged his neck, throwing her little arms around him with enough force to knock him off balance onto the hallway rug.
“I love you, Daddy,” she said into his shoulder.
Jake’s voice caught. “I love you more.”
You stepped out of the nursery then, Lex already strapped to your chest in a soft carrier, cheeks pink and drool bib firmly in place. She was wide awake and blinking like the golden light in the living room was the most interesting thing in the world.
Cami ran to grab her tiny heart-shaped sunglasses from the coffee table. Jake stood and watched you for a second longer than necessary, just taking it all in.
“How’s Lex?” he asked, crossing the room to meet you.
“She’s been cooing at the ceiling fan for fifteen minutes straight,” you said. “I think it’s her soulmate.”
He smiled and reached out to gently fix the strap across your shoulder, his thumb brushing your collarbone.
“You okay?” you asked quietly, looking up at him.
Jake hesitated. “Yeah. I mean... yeah.”
You gave him that look — soft and knowing and full of the kind of patience he still didn’t fully understand how he’d earned.
“It’s not a bad kind of nervous,” he said after a second. “Just… new. I’ve never brought my family to anything like this. Not with coworkers. Javy doesn’t count.”
“He absolutely doesn’t count,” you agreed.
Jake chuckled under his breath, then exhaled, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “I just… this is the part where it’s not just mine anymore, you know? Where they get to know you. The girls. The best parts of me.”
You stepped in closer, pressing your hand to his chest. “We’ve always been yours, Jake.”
He looked down at you, green eyes a little glassy now. “Yeah,” he said. “But tonight... I guess it starts being real to everyone else, too.”
You smiled. “And that’s a good thing. Because it means more people get to see what I see. That you’re a good man. A good husband. A good dad. And the people who matter? They’ll never forget that.”
Jake swallowed hard and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then one to Lex’s. Then one to your mouth — soft, slow, like a thank-you.
“Alright,” he said, voice lighter. “Let’s go make an entrance.”
“Let’s go blow their minds,” you replied, already grabbing the baby bag.
Cami burst back into the room, sunglasses on upside down. “Do I look like a cool kid?”
Jake scooped her up with a dramatic gasp. “Coolest kid in the whole world.”
Cami giggled into his shoulder.
And just like that, the Seresins stepped out into the soft evening light, hand in hand, baby bouncing, hearts a little nervous, but completely full.
The sun was just beginning to dip behind the horizon when the Seresin family arrived.
The beach behind the Hard Deck glowed in warm amber and rose, the bonfire crackling at the center of it all, with the Daggers scattered around in folding chairs, drinks in hand, laughter rolling easy on the breeze. A cooler full of seltzers sat half-buried in the sand, and someone had already started a playlist that leaned heavy on Fleetwood Mac and bad decisions.
Jake stepped onto the sand first, Lex balanced easily on his hip in a floral romper and a soft pink headband that did absolutely nothing to keep her hair down. She let out a content little sigh and sucked on two fingers like she’d been born for the beach life.
You followed beside him, Cami’s small hand clasped tightly in yours. Her sparkly jacket caught the firelight as she walked, pink sunglasses pushed up into her curls, gripping her unicorn under one arm like backup.
To anyone watching, it was immediate.
They looked like Jake.
Same eyes. Same golden skin. Same confidence — even Cami, who clung to your side but stood tall, taking it all in.
The Daggers didn’t notice them at first.
Not until they got close enough that Bob glanced up and nearly choked on his drink.
Then Rooster turned — already half-expecting it — and froze with his cup halfway to his mouth.
Phoenix elbowed him like don’t say anything stupid but her own jaw had gone slack.
Fanboy actually gasped.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
Coyote just sat there grinning like he’d known all along — because, of course, he had.
Jake stopped just in front of the fire, let the conversations fizzle into stunned silence, and gave them that damn cocky smile — the one they all knew so well — only this time, it was softer. Warmer. The kind of smile that said this is everything to me.
“Evening,” he drawled. “Hope we’re not late.”
Nobody said a word.
Cami peeked around you, her voice small but clear. “Are these the pilot friends?”
Jake looked down at her and nodded. “Sure are, baby.”
You smiled gently at the group, then bent to whisper something in Cami’s ear. She stepped forward a little, still clutching the unicorn, but brave in that way only five-year-olds could be.
“I’m Camila Seresin,” she said proudly. “But you can call me Cami.”
Jake gave a slight nod, then shifted Lex on his hip. “And this little one is Alexandra. Lex, if she likes you.”
Lex burbled in response, blinking sleepily at the circle of stunned adults. Jake’s arm slipped around your waist, pulling you close.
“And this is my wife,” he said, voice soft but certain. “The love of my life. The reason I’m not a complete disaster.”
You gave a small, amused wave. “Hi.”
Phoenix finally blinked. “You’re married?”
“To her?” Payback added, looking between you and Jake like he was trying to process a physics equation with no numbers.
Fanboy leaned forward. “You’re married married. Like… full on?”
“With kids?” Bob choked.
Jake smirked. “Is it that hard to believe?”
“Yes!” they all said in unison.
Coyote just raised his beer and clinked it against Jake’s bottle. “About time, hermano.”
Phoenix gave you a look of genuine bafflement. “I mean, no offense, but you’re… like… stunning. And you married Hangman?”
“I know,” you said with a dramatic sigh. “We all make mistakes.”
Jake pressed a hand to his chest. “Wounded.”
Payback was still staring at Cami, then Lex, then Jake. “They look exactly like you.”
“They should,” Jake said. “Made ‘em myself.”
Phoenix groaned. “Okay, we’re leaving.”
Jake just laughed and tucked Lex’s head against his shoulder. “Cami, wanna roast some marshmallows?”
“Yes please!” she squeaked, already dragging you toward the snack table.
Jake looked around at the still-shocked faces of his squad — his friends now, he supposed — and gave them a rare, genuine smile.
“Welcome to my real life,” he said.
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and the flames of the bonfire cast soft flickers across everyone’s faces. Music drifted low from someone’s speaker, mingling with the sound of the waves and the occasional snap of firewood.
It should’ve been a normal night.
But nothing felt normal now that Jake “Hangman” Seresin was casually sitting cross-legged on the sand, marshmallow stick in his hands, helping his five-year-old daughter make the perfect s’more.
“I said not too toasted,” Cami whispered urgently. “Just golden. Like the picture.”
Jake nodded seriously. “Golden. Got it. This is high-stakes work, sweetheart.”
Phoenix nudged Rooster with her foot. “Who is this man?”
Rooster, still visibly reeling, shook his head like it might clear the image in front of him. “I thought he ate protein powder straight out of the tub and slept on a bed of ego.”
“He’s using baby talk, Bradshaw.”
Rooster narrowed his eyes. “And I think the baby just giggled at him.”
“Not the baby,” Fanboy said from behind them. “Me. I’m giggling. This is surreal.”
Across the fire, Jake caught the tail end of the conversation and gave them a smug little look, tossing a marshmallow at Mickey that he expertly dodged.
You were nestled beside Jake on a blanket, Lex sleeping soundly against your chest now that she’d exhausted herself chewing on everyone’s fingers (with permission, of course). You leaned into Jake’s shoulder with a soft smile, watching Cami flit between the snack table and her latest obsession: Bradley Bradshaw.
“Hey, Mr. Rooster?” she called, holding her unicorn in one hand and a half-eaten graham cracker in the other.
Bradley blinked. “Uh, yeah?”
“Can I touch your mustache?”
Jake nearly dropped his beer.
Phoenix howled.
Rooster sat very still. “Um. Sure?”
Cami wandered over and patted it with her little marshmallow-sticky fingers, studying it like a curious scientist.
“It’s soft,” she declared. “Like a cat. You should name it.”
Jake groaned. “Cami.”
“What?” she asked innocently. “It’s just a suggestion.”
Jake shot Rooster a look over her head. “Don’t get any ideas.”
Rooster raised both hands. “Hey. I’m just standing here. With a face.”
You leaned over to whisper, “You’re really going to lose sleep over your daughter flirting with a mustache, aren’t you?”
“She has bad taste,” Jake said grimly.
Before anyone could tease him further, Coyote appeared at Cami’s side with a juice pouch and a twinkle in his eye. “Hey, kiddo. Want to help me find more sticks for the marshmallows?”
“Uncle Javy!” Cami cheered, grabbing the juice and launching herself at him like a tiny cannonball.
Phoenix blinked. “Uncle?”
Jake shrugged. “He’s the only one who knew. Got promoted early.”
“You told Javy?” Rooster cried, scandalized. “You told Javy and not me?”
Coyote slung Cami onto his shoulders with practiced ease. “I’m the trustworthy one.”
Jake smirked. “He didn’t try to follow me home or interrogate me about my grocery list.”
Rooster folded his arms. “That was one time.”
Phoenix grinned. “Still your worst stakeout.”
As the night deepened and the stars came out, the squad began to shift from disbelief into something sweeter: genuine admiration. Watching Jake tuck a blanket around Cami’s legs, kiss the top of her head. Seeing the way Lex instinctively settled in his arms, one tiny hand curled into his shirt. Hearing the way he said darlin’ to you like it meant something old and permanent.
This wasn’t a side of Jake Seresin anyone had expected to see.
summary; How each member of the Dagger Squad found out Jake's been married for over a decade.
word count; 3.6k
warnings: nothing. established relationship, secret/private marriage, found family, fluff, all good stuff.
a/n; i am a SUCKER for a secret relationship trope. this concept is so cute i want to write a hundred different pieces about it. also, if you're reading my jake series, next part should be up tomorrow :))
masterlist
A year after the Uranium mission, the aviators once known as the Dagger Squad were summoned back to Miramar. Expecting another top-secret assignment, they were instead offered something unexpected: a chance to stay on at Top Gun indefinitely. Their answer was almost immediate—a resounding yes, with an enthusiastic "hell yes" from Fanboy.
But when they arrived, one thing was clear: Jake hadn't accepted the offer yet.
"Can't believe Hangman's playing hard to get with Admiral Simpson," Phoenix muttered, eyeing the empty spot where he should’ve been.
"Bet that promotion to Lieutenant Commander already went to his head," Rooster quipped.
"If you’re talking about Jake, he’s coming," Maverick said. "He just asked to report in on Monday."
He left the room without another word. The Daggers exchanged looks, then shrugged. It was Jake, after all—he probably just wanted to make an entrance, with nothing but his damn ego walking through the door first.
When Monday rolled around, he strolled in with that trademark smirk and a swagger only he could pull off. Annoying? Absolutely. Eye-roll inducing? Without question. Missed? More than anyone was willing to admit.
“Be honest—did you tear up a little when you thought I wasn’t coming back?”
Bob and Phoenix.
Bob had a thing for those absurdly healthy smoothies from a place called Erewhon. Overpriced, organic, and influencer-approved—it was his guilty pleasure. Naturally, it wasn’t long before he dragged his favorite front-seater into it.
“What the hell is a Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie, and why does it cost twenty bucks?”
The line was a nightmare—packed with people who all looked like they drove Teslas, had just come from Pilates, or were on their way to pitch a startup to their fiancée’s hedge fund bros.
Phoenix couldn’t quite figure out what Bob saw in these overpriced green sludge drinks, but she was usually down to try something new, even if her wallet cried a little every time.
“I don’t really get the hype either, but my husband’s obsessed,” You said with a shrug. “If it’s your first time, I’d go with something simple—maybe the pitaya, or the post-workout one is solid too. You look like you work out.”
They startled slightly when you turned around, smiling and introducing yourself after your unsolicited smoothie rant.
“I’ll take your advice—I’m Natasha,” Phoenix said, shaking your hand. It was only then that you noticed the massive emerald-cut ring on her finger, catching the light like it knew it was expensive. Bob followed with a shy introduction, a soft blush creeping into his cheeks.
Sticking to your word, you went ahead and ordered the absurdly named Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie, along with a few other things. Once you paid, you turned back to them with a grin.
“If you’re free, my husband’s just parking the car—want to sit and chat for a bit?”
“Oh, we’d love to,” Phoenix said, “but we’re running late for a few apartment showings—this line took forever. But we should exchange numbers, maybe grab lunch sometime?”
“I’d love that! We actually just moved here, so it’d be nice to make some friends.” Your smile didn’t waver; wide, bright, and straight out of a movie scene.
After saying your goodbyes, you grabbed your order and stepped out of the line, letting them move forward. With one last wave—bright, effortless—you pushed through the door and disappeared into the sunlight.
Phoenix turned back to the cashier, halfway through her order, when her gaze drifted to the large front window—and froze.
"Holy shit."
Bob instinctively looked where she was staring, and his brows shot up so high they nearly vanished into his hairline.
Jake Seresin was outside, casually leaning against a matte black Jeep Wrangler like he belonged in a magazine ad. Arms crossed, aviators in place, his flight jacket unzipped just enough to hint at the crisp white tee underneath. That usual cocky smirk was on his face—or at least, they thought it was.
But it wasn’t a smirk.
It was a smile—wide, open, and so bright it looked like it had cracked straight through his usual armor. Jake Seresin was glowing. Radiant. Practically lit from within.
And then they saw why.
You stepped out into the sunlight, heading straight for him, holding that ridiculous Hailey Bieber smoothie like it was a gold medal. Jake’s face lit up even more. He threw his head back and laughed, his whole body moving with it—unrestrained, joyful, real.
Then he reached for you, pulling you into his arms with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. One hand at your waist, the other settling on the small of your back, fitting you against him like you belonged there.
Phoenix’s jaw dropped slightly. Bob just stared.
Jake lifted his sunglasses, pushing them up onto his head, and looked down at you like you hung the stars. The softest expression they had ever seen on his face—like the man didn’t know how to look away. You said something that made him laugh again, and you handed him the smoothie like it was some inside joke.
They must have been staring too long. Jake’s head turned slightly—just enough to catch them in the reflection.
His eyes found theirs through the glass. For a split second, something flickered across his face.
Surprise. Panic. Maybe even guilt. Just enough to register—before he shoved it back down and straightened up, as if nothing had happened.
He opened your door and helped you in, careful not to jostle the armful of overpriced smoothies and whatever else you’d picked up. Then he turned back toward the window, his eyes meeting theirs once more.
A subtle nod. Barely there. But it carried weight—an unspoken request.
Not for secrecy exactly, but something quieter. A plea to let it be. To pretend they hadn’t just seen past Hangman… and caught a glimpse of Jake.
Phoenix and Bob exchanged a long look, sipping their drinks in stunned silence as they tried to process what they’d just witnessed. It was easy to box Jake in as the poster boy for cockiness—the walking embodiment of swagger and ego—but deep down, they’d always suspected there was more.
More to him than the sharp one-liners and smug grins. More than the call sign.
And now, they’d seen it.
Guess this was it.
The next day, Jake showed up with his usual swagger, every step as self-assured as ever. But his eyes—sharp, watchful—carried a flicker of guardedness. It was subtle, the kind of thing only Phoenix and Bob would pick up on.
“Hey, Strawberry Glaze,” Phoenix said casually.
She could’ve let it slide—pretended like nothing had happened—but she couldn’t resist poking at him just a little. Jake shot her a look sharp enough to make most people flinch.
She just laughed.
The words had been soft, low enough that no one else could hear. And the smile she gave him—amused, knowing, a little smug—said it all:
Your secret’s safe with me.
2. Bradley.
Bradley hated shopping. He wasn’t good at it—never had been. He took forever to decide what he liked, forgot to write down what he actually needed, and always left the store with random things and none of the essentials.
This time, though, he had a mission: crockery. At the moment, he owned exactly two plates and three mismatched forks. And if he was serious about settling down here, it was probably time to get his shit together.
Normally, he’d drag Nat along—not because she was a woman and supposedly knew about this stuff, but because she was mean enough to keep him on task. She had no patience for his two-hour deep dives in the mug aisle, where he’d examine every single one before deciding he didn’t like any of them.
But Nat had bailed on him, leaving him to fend for himself. Now he was aimlessly wandering the store, eyeing every dinnerware set like it might reveal the meaning of life, tossing random items into the trolley with no real plan—just vibes and mild confusion.
Ever the gossip, Bradley’s ears perked up at the sound of a laugh he knew far too well.
Hangman.
“Darlin’, if you put one more candle in the cart, I’m gonna start thinking you’re trying to burn the house down.”
“But Jake, smell this one—it’s amazing. And it says limited edition, so they won’t have it next time,” you replied, dropping not one, but two candles into the cart.
Bradley watched, stunned, as Jake didn’t even argue. He just shook his head with a helpless smile and kept pushing the cart like a man who knew resistance was pointless.
“I also saw this gorgeous botanical garden plate set online—we have to get it.”
“Whatever you want, doll,” Jake said, voice low and warm as he pressed a kiss to your temple and gave your hip a casual, affectionate tap.
Bradley was pretty sure his jaw hit the floor. He wasn’t stupid—and he definitely wasn’t blind. He saw the massive rock on your finger and the way Jake looked at you like you hung the stars.
Hangman, married?
The motherfucker was married.
He could hardly believe what he was seeing.
Bradley had always assumed Jake Seresin was the type who’d never settle down—too cocky, too stubborn, too Hangman. Honestly, he’d half-expected the guy to grow old alone, flirting with waitresses and arguing with air traffic control until the bitter end. Harsh? Maybe. But Jake had never given them any reason to believe otherwise.
Yet here he was—married, domesticated, and currently letting his wife toss candles and dinner plates into the cart like she owned the place. And judging by the look on his face, she did.
The man Bradley was low-key stalking from behind a shelf of overpriced wine glasses wasn’t the Hangman he knew from the skies. This wasn’t the ruthless, lone-wolf aviator who treated teamwork like a contagious disease and would rather eat glass than back down in a briefing.
No—this Jake looked… soft. Happy. In love.
And it was messing with everything Bradley thought he knew.
He ducked behind the endcap as you turned down the next aisle, nearly knocking over a pyramid of mason jars in the process. This wasn’t eavesdropping, he told himself—it was reconnaissance. For team cohesion. For morale. For… reasons.
Jake Seresin, hopeless romantic and candle mule, was not something Bradley had mentally prepared for.
He peeked around the corner again just in time to see Jake reach for a throw blanket you were eyeing. Without hesitation, he tossed it into the cart. “Matches the couch, right?” he said.
“Exactly,” you beamed, and Bradley swore the corners of Jake’s mouth lifted in something dangerously close to a fond sigh.
Who was this man?
Bradley had spent years knowing Jake as a walking testosterone complex with aviators and a call sign, someone who’d charm the hell out of a bartender and then ghost her before the first date. The idea that this man—this patient, domesticated, grocery-hauling version of Jake—existed at all was blowing his mind.
And worse? He looked good at it. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to play husband in a West Elm ad.
Bradley finally backed away from the aisle, muttering to himself, “I need to go look at forks before I lose my grip on reality.”
Still, as he wandered toward the kitchen section, a weird feeling settled in his chest—part disbelief, part amusement… and maybe a little bit of envy. Not the kind that stings, exactly, but the kind that pokes at something you didn’t realize was hollow.
Because despite all his jokes, all his gripes about shopping and settling down, maybe there was a tiny part of him that wouldn’t mind someone tossing limited-edition candles in his cart, either.
But first, he really needed more than three forks.
3. Payback and Fanboy.
It was just past 7 a.m. when Fanboy and Payback jogged down the beach trail, sneakers thudding lightly against the packed sand. The sun had barely risen, casting a warm, golden glow over the shoreline, and the waves rolled in slow and steady, their rhythm soft and soothing beneath the buzz of gulls overhead.
It was the kind of morning that made you forget how exhausting the week had been.
“If Mav makes us watch one more hour of grainy debrief footage, I’m walking into the ocean,” Fanboy grumbled between breaths, arms swinging loose at his sides.
“You say that, but last time he caught you checking your phone, he added another hour to the session,” Payback replied, grinning.
“I’m just saying—death by drowning would be less painful than another slideshow.”
They rounded a gentle bend in the trail, where the dunes opened up to a more secluded stretch of beach. The tide had pulled back, leaving wide, smooth patches of sand dotted with seashells and a few early footprints.
Payback slowed, frowning. “Wait. Who’s already out here?”
A large cream-colored blanket had been spread beneath a sun-bleached lifeguard stand. A wicker picnic basket sat off to one side, its lid open and lined with fabric. There were iced coffees, a brown paper bag, a small vase of wildflowers—wildflowers, at the beach—and two people.
One of them crouched near the cooler, pulling out what looked like a container of fruit. The other approached barefoot, holding two drinks, sleeves of a linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, light catching in his sandy hair.
Fanboy’s eyes narrowed. “Hold on a second…”
The barefoot man looked up—and grinned.
Jake Seresin.
Hangman.
Golden-boy aviator, squadroom shit-talker, human ego parade.
Except… something was different.
He stepped forward, took one of the iced coffees from your hand with a quiet thank-you, then leaned in and kissed your temple with the kind of easy, familiar affection that made both Fanboy and Payback freeze mid-stride.
Jake said something with a lazy smile and you laughed, the kind of laugh that came from your belly—bright, genuine, totally unfiltered. Then you plopped down on the blanket, legs curled underneath you, pulling a croissant from the paper bag as if you’d done this a hundred times.
And maybe you had.
Because Jake didn’t hesitate. He shrugged out of his jacket and laid it behind you, just in case the blanket wasn’t enough cushion. Then he sank down beside you, stretching his legs long across the sand and casually slipping one arm around your waist.
Payback immediately ducked behind a nearby dune like he’d just witnessed a war crime. “Tell me I’m not seeing this.”
Fanboy crouched next to him, equally stunned. “What the hell is happening right now?”
Jake leaned back slightly, watching you unwrap something else—probably another baked good—and tilted his head, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. You fed him a bite without even looking, and he accepted it like it was second nature. Then he reached up and tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.
“I’m in shock,” Fanboy whispered. “He just tucked her hair behind her ear. That’s a boyfriend move.”
“That’s not a boyfriend move,” Payback muttered. “That’s a married guy move.”
Fanboy squinted. “Wait—zoom in. Look at her hand.”
A glint of metal caught the sunlight as you reached for your coffee. Simple but elegant. An emerald-cut diamond, gold band. The kind of ring that said permanence. The kind of ring that didn’t come off easily.
“Oh my God,” Payback breathed. “He’s married.”
Jake leaned back again, one hand lazily tracing circles along your knee while you showed him something on your phone. Whatever it was made him chuckle low in his chest, and he leaned in to kiss your cheek before setting the coffee down in the sand.
Fanboy was frozen, processing. “So Hangman—Hangman—sneaks off on weekends for romantic beach picnics… with his wife.”
“And we never knew.”
“I thought he lived off protein bars and sheer arrogance.”
“Same.”
You pulled something else from the basket—what looked like a floral plate set, one of those whimsical ones you’d find in a lifestyle magazine. Jake took it from you with care, set it between you, then reached for the wildflowers, adjusting the little vase so it wouldn’t tip over.
Fanboy stared. “He brought flowers.”
Payback shook his head. “He packed a goddamn centerpiece.”
They both crouched lower behind the dune, as if Jake might sense them. The only thing louder than the waves at that moment was the sound of their worldviews shattering.
Fanboy finally whispered, “Okay, but like… how dare he be this soft and not tell us?”
“We’re his squadmates. This is betrayal.”
“We were supposed to know before the blanket picnics started. There’s an order to these things.”
“I mean—what’s next? He gets a dog and starts doing couples yoga?”
Fanboy paused. “He would be good at couples yoga.”
Jake leaned back, hands behind his head, face turned up to the morning sun as you laid your head on his chest, sipping your drink and humming along to some song playing quietly from a speaker. You looked perfectly at ease, like this was your favorite part of the week.
Like he was.
“Okay,” Payback muttered. “We can’t tell anyone.”
“Agreed.”
“But also,” Fanboy added, eyes still wide, “we are absolutely never letting him live this down.”
“Obviously.”
They finally stood, dusting off their legs, still stunned but grinning. One last glance over their shoulders showed Jake pressing a kiss to the top of your head, like you were the only person on earth that mattered.
Hangman hadn’t just settled down.
He’d crash-landed into love, and apparently? He was thriving.
4. Javy (ten years ago)
The bar was thick with smoke and the smell of spilled beer, its low-ceilinged walls pulsating with neon light and the steady beat of a bass-heavy pop song. The air was warm and sticky, full of laughter, shouting, and the occasional off-key karaoke warble daring to take the stage. Jake leaned casually against the back wall, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the corner where you and your friends were holding court.
You were the heart of the group—laughing without restraint, glass in hand, your voice rising clear and confident above the din. Your friends egged each other on to the microphone, but you owned the room like it was yours, moving effortlessly through the crowd, radiating that kind of joy that was impossible not to notice. Jake’s gaze softened as he watched you—like you were a secret he had stumbled upon, the kind of thing you didn’t want to shout about but couldn’t stop looking at.
Javy, never one to let an opportunity for teasing pass, nudged Jake sharply. “You been staring at her all night, man. You planning to say something or just get a reputation as the creepy aviator?”
Jake barely glanced at him. “I’m just… watching.”
Javy smirked, shifting on his feet. “Right. Watching. She’s having fun—seems like she owns this place. You gonna sing or what? Or just keep mooning over her?”
Jake’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “I don’t sing.”
“Everyone sings at karaoke night. Even you.”
Before Jake could respond, you stood with your friend, grabbing the microphone like it was a lifeline. The opening notes of a popular pop song spilled through the speakers, and suddenly, the bar seemed to hush just enough to let your voice soar.
You sang with an easy confidence, playful yet sincere, the kind of performance that made people stop talking and just listen. Jake felt his breath hitch—the way you smiled at the crowd, the way you closed your eyes briefly on the high notes—it was like watching sunlight break through storm clouds.
Javy elbowed him hard. “Dude, you look like you’re about to pop the question right here, right now.”
Jake shot him a sharp look. “I just met my wife.”
The words slipped out quieter than intended, but Javy caught them all the same and grinned wider, clearly not buying it.
After your song ended, the room erupted into applause. You laughed, cheeks flushed, and caught Jake’s eyes from across the room. It was a brief glance, but electric—like a door quietly opening.
Jake made his way over, weaving through the small crowd until he was standing right beside you. “Hey,” he said, voice low and just above the music.
You smiled, a little breathless. “Hey.”
Jake nodded toward the microphone stand. “That was… impressive.”
You shrugged, flicking your hair back. “Well, I had a good duet partner.” You glanced at your friend and winked. “But it’s nice to have an audience.”
Jake laughed softly, eyes never leaving yours. “So, what’s your name?” You offered it to him, along with your hand to shake. “Jake,” he replied, taking it. His grip was firm but gentle, like he was trying to make sure you felt it. “And I’m supposed to be focused on training missions, but I can’t stop watching you.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is that so? What’s more distracting—the music or me?”
He smiled, just a little crooked. “Definitely you.”
You laughed, and the sound was like a spark in the dim bar light. For a moment, it was just the two of you—no crowd, no noise, just the hum of a song fading out and the start of something new.
Javy sidled up, grinning. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. But remember, Jake, if you break her heart, I’m coming for you.”
Jake’s grin turned serious. “I don’t plan on breaking anything.”
You looked up at him, feeling a flutter you hadn’t expected. “Good.”
summary; Jake Seresin never planned on kids—until he fell for a woman who came with two. Now he’s fighting for something more than love: a place in their family.
word count; 7.9k (yikes)
warnings; jake is in his late-thirties in this one, a bit angsty but nothing big, domestic!jake, the daggers giving him a hard time, english is not my first language happy ending!!!
a/n; i've just started writing for jake but i can't stop lol, i also can't stop writing him as a softie, if you have any other concepts requests are open!! thank you for reading <3
masterlist
Jake Seresin never wanted kids. Not in the casual, maybe-one-day kind of way, but in the firm, I’ll-pass-on-the-whole-diaper-and-daycare-deal kind of way. He liked his life just fine the way it was—clean, uncomplicated, and blissfully quiet. He was content to play the role of the charming, overenthusiastic uncle who showed up twice a year with expensive gifts, got everyone riled up on sugar and bad jokes, and then peaced out before bedtime. It was perfect. No PTA meetings, no meltdowns over mismatched socks, and certainly no existential parenting panic at two a.m. He wasn’t built for the full-time responsibility of small, emotionally complex humans. That was for other people.
And yet—here he was.
It was eight in the damn morning. On a Sunday. He was sitting in a flimsy folding chair that might have been made of recycled soda cans, parked on the sidelines of a grassy field that was already too hot, too dusty, and too full of screaming parents. He sipped burnt coffee from a paper cup that was somehow both scalding and lukewarm. And next to him sat a fifteen-year-old girl with crossed arms, a withering stare, and the kind of quiet contempt usually reserved for people who talk during movies. Olive. Your daughter. She hadn’t said a word to him since they’d arrived—unless eye rolls counted as conversation, in which case they were having a spirited debate.
Jake shifted in his seat and dared a glance at her. She was scrolling on her phone, earbuds in, gaze flicking up occasionally just to make sure he didn’t get any bright ideas about speaking.
Right, he thought. Definitely would push me off a cliff if she thought she could get away with it.
Maybe he was being dramatic.
But maybe not.
After all, she had muttered “God help us” under her breath when he offered her a donut that morning. He was trying, damn it. He’d gotten up early, worn the team shirt (even though he didn’t know what sport this even was until last night), and brought snacks. Snacks! That had to count for something.
He sighed and looked back toward the field, where your son—Matthew—was running after the ball like his life depended on it. Jake smiled a little despite himself. The kid had hustle. Grit. And sure, maybe he hadn’t said more than three words to Jake all week, but he also hadn’t told him to go to hell. Yet.
Progress. Probably.
Jake leaned back, trying to ignore the way Olive turned slightly away from him, as like even their folding chairs touching might contaminate her. This wasn’t exactly the version of his life he’d pictured for himself.
And yet—he hadn’t thought about leaving once.
You met exactly a year ago. Jake swears the moment you walked into the Hard Deck—laughing at something your friend said, eyes scanning the room like you belonged there—his whole world shifted on its axis. By the time you made your way over and introduced yourself, it was already over for him. Completely and hopelessly gone.
The version of him that had once thrived on casual flings and a phone full of first names and vague memories? Dead on arrival. The guy who used to change numbers every few months just to keep things light, to make sure no one ever got too close—that guy hadn’t stood a chance the moment you smiled at him.
Jake didn’t fall often. But with you, he didn’t fall.
He plummeted.
He didn’t care that you were divorced, or that you came with two kids and a complicated past shaped by an ex-husband who barely remembered to call on birthdays, let alone show up. None of it scared him off. Because you were worth it. You were worth early mornings and cold bleachers, worth waking up at six a.m. just to watch your ten-year-old sprint in the wrong direction on the soccer field with mismatched socks and untied cleats. You were worth every withering stare and dramatic sigh your teenage daughter aimed his way, as if his very existence was a personal offense. You were worth the nights spent helping with school projects he didn’t understand, sitting through animated movies he didn’t care about, and learning how to braid hair badly but with genuine effort.
You were messy and real and grounded, and he had never wanted anything more.
He was in love with you—undeniably, irreversibly, the kind of love that settled into his bones and made everything before you feel like a half-lived life. Truly, madly, deeply. But even in the glow of that certainty, Jake understood something crystal clear: no matter how deeply you loved him back, it wouldn’t be enough if he couldn’t find a way into the hearts of your children. Sooner or later, that unspoken wall would become too heavy for even the strongest love to carry.
And he couldn’t let that happen.
Not when—for the first time in his life—he was certain he’d found someone worth becoming more for. Someone who made him want to be softer, better, different.
You were the one. And he was determined to prove it… not just to you, but to the two people who mattered most to you in the world.
"You did so well! That was a great game, sweetheart!" you beamed, pulling your son into a hug the second he was close enough—not caring that he was dripping with sweat, covered in mud, and tracking grass across your shoes. He grinned, breathless and proud, his cheeks flushed from the effort.
"Nice job, buddy," Jake added, clapping a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. "You were the only one who scored a goal out there."
He said it just loud enough for a few nearby parents to hear, smirking when a couple of them shot him thinly veiled looks of irritation. Was it petty? Maybe. But he was riding high on team spirit—and frankly, their kids had sucked a little.
To be fair, so had Matthew, but Jake wasn’t about to let accuracy cost him stepdad points.
"You're such a liar," Olive muttered under her breath, arms crossed and tone dripping with teenage disdain. "He almost scored for the other team more times than his own."
Jake raised an eyebrow but wisely said nothing.
"Honey, that’s enough," you said evenly, not missing a beat. Your voice was calm, practiced, the kind of tone that had been honed over years of parenting and wasn’t up for debate. "Why don’t you be helpful and take out the earbuds—maybe start folding the chairs?"
Olive sighed dramatically, like you'd asked her to lift a car instead of clean up after her own brother’s game. But she yanked out one earbud anyway and trudged toward the chairs, muttering something about child labor under her breath.
Jake watched the whole exchange with cautious admiration. You handled her like a pro—firm, loving, and entirely unshaken. Honestly? It was kind of hot.
“Thanks for coming, Jake!” Matthew grinned up at him, cheeks still pink from running, his voice full of that unfiltered, ten-year-old sincerity that made Jake’s chest tighten just a little. Then he turned and took off toward the car, eager to help his sister load up the gear.
Jake’s eyes lingered on him for a second longer than necessary, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t much—but it was something. A crack in the wall. A win.
“One down, one to go,” you teased beside him, slipping your hand into his just long enough to give it a squeeze and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
Jake turned his head, not fast enough to catch your lips, but just in time to catch the warmth still lingering in your smile before you walked away to help your kids.
And God help him—he felt like he’d just been handed a trophy.
[...]
“Who would've thought a fifteen-year-old would be your downfall?” Rooster laughed, clapping a heavy hand on Jake’s shoulder as he took a long sip of his beer. “Hangman, taken down by a teenager. It's almost poetic.”
Jake rolled his eyes, leaning back in the patio chair with a groan. “Wait until you meet her—then we can talk.”
Rooster smirked. “What’d you even do to make her hate your guts so much? Steal her charger? Eat the last slice of pizza?”
“Nothing!” Jake threw his hands up in defeat. “I’ve been on my best fucking behavior since day one. I’ve carried grocery bags, I’ve watched musicals, I sat through a three-hour cheer competition in a gym that smelled like feet. And the most I’ve gotten out of her—the most—was a stiff, one-armed side hug after I gave her Taylor Swift concert tickets for her birthday.”
Rooster nearly choked on his drink. “You gave her Eras Tour tickets and she hugged you like you were a tax auditor?”
Jake stared off into the distance, hollow. “Didn’t even make eye contact.”
Rooster whistled low. “Brutal. You’re in deep.”
Jake shook his head. “Deeper than I’ve ever been. And I can’t even bribe my way out of it.”
“And what are you gonna do?” Phoenix asked, raising an eyebrow over her drink as she leaned back in her chair.
Jake let out a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his soul. “I have no idea. None. But if I can’t get her to at least stop rolling her eyes and groaning every time I walk into the room, I can kiss my beautiful girlfriend goodbye.”
Phoenix smirked. “That dramatic, huh?”
Jake nodded grimly. “She doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. I walk in, she sighs like I just ruined her whole life. I say good morning, she looks at me like I’ve personally offended her entire bloodline.”
Phoenix snorted. “Yeah. That sounds about right for fifteen.”
“I’m fighting for my life out here,” Jake muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she’s winning.”
Phoenix leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Okay, so… maybe stop trying so hard.”
Jake blinked at her. “Excuse me?”
“I mean it,” she said, shrugging. “Teenagers can smell desperation from a mile away. If you’re going in guns blazing with snacks and fake enthusiasm, she’s gonna see right through you. Ease off. Give her space.”
“She has space,” Jake argued. “She has an entire closed door between us at all times.”
Rooster laughed. “That’s not space, man. That’s a fortress.”
Phoenix smirked. “Which you’re not getting into by showing up with concert tickets and forced smiles. You need to stop trying to impress her and start trying to understand her.”
Jake slumped in his chair. “I don’t even speak teenager. She talks in memes and sarcasm. I tried asking her about school and she hit me with a ‘that’s crazy’ and walked away.”
Rooster raised his beer. “Classic.”
“Okay, what do you know about her?” Phoenix asked, cutting in more seriously now. “What does she like—besides Taylor Swift?”
Jake thought for a second. “Um. She likes… sketching. I’ve seen her doodling in a notebook. She listens to those true crime podcasts. And she watches these weird movies where no one smiles and everyone stares out windows a lot.”
“So she’s an artsy, brooding little gremlin,” Rooster said, nodding thoughtfully. “Got it.”
Phoenix rolled her eyes. “She’s fifteen. It’s basically a requirement.”
Jake tilted his head, something shifting behind his eyes. “She had a pencil in her bun the other day. I asked about it and she looked at me like I was interrupting a sacred ritual. But she didn’t roll her eyes. Just kind of… blinked. And then walked off.”
Phoenix grinned. “That’s not nothing. Find a way in through that—her art. Ask her about it without being weird or fake. Be curious, not performative.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “You think she’ll talk to me if I ask about what she’s drawing?”
“She might,” Phoenix said. “Or she might grunt and leave the room. Either way, don’t take it personally. Just show up. Be consistent. Let her see you’re not going anywhere.”
Rooster leaned in. “And don’t try to be cool. You’re not.”
“Hey!” Jake protested.
“You’re Hangman, not ‘cool stepdad TikTok guy.’ Know your lane.”
Jake huffed a laugh, then shook his head. “You guys are the worst support group.”
Phoenix raised her glass. “And yet, here we are—saving your ass one reluctant teenager at a time.”
Jake smiled, just a little. “One day, if she ever stops sighing when I breathe, I’ll buy you both dinner.”
“I want steak,” Phoenix said.
“I want her to not call you cringe at the table,” Rooster added.
Jake leaned back and sighed. “God, I’m doomed.”
But there was a flicker of something behind the complaint. Hope, maybe. Determination.
Because maybe he was doomed.
But he was going to keep trying anyway.
[...]
Jake pushed the cart with one hand, the other resting comfortably on your lower back as you wandered down the cereal aisle. It was a lazy kind of Sunday afternoon, the store humming with the sound of rolling wheels, distant chatter, and the occasional beeping of price scanners. The fluorescents buzzed overhead, but you didn’t seem to notice, happily weighing two boxes of granola like the fate of the world depended on it.
“This one has flaxseed,” you said, holding up a box. “That’s supposed to be good for digestion, right?”
Jake leaned over to glance at it. “Sounds like it tastes like mulch.”
You laughed—warm, unbothered, familiar. The sound settled in his chest like something sacred. “It does. But Matthew likes it for some reason.”
Jake tossed the box into the cart with a dramatic sigh. “Of course he does. The child eats like a seventy-year-old yoga instructor.”
You snorted, nudging him with your hip. “He’s trying to be healthy.”
“Right,” Jake said, steering the cart around the corner. “And Olive only eats organic chicken and lives off sarcasm.”
You didn’t say anything right away, but you reached out and took his hand, giving it a light squeeze. The simple gesture—casual, instinctive—hit him harder than he expected.
Jake glanced sideways at you as you pushed the cart together, and something in his chest gave a quiet, almost painful tug. The way your hair fell loosely down your back. The curve of your smile as you scanned a list on your phone. The comfort in how you moved beside him like he’d always been there.
This was your life—grocery runs, granola debates, two kids and a household full of routines he was slowly learning to fit into. It was ordinary and messy and sometimes chaotic.
And he wanted it. God, he wanted it.
He’d never imagined himself here—debating flaxseed cereal and comparing price-per-ounce on almond milk—but standing next to you, stealing a kiss near the end of aisle seven like it was nothing, Jake knew with stunning clarity:
He couldn’t lose this. He wouldn’t.
He’d take a hundred awkward side-hugs from Olive and sit through every chaotic soccer game Matthew played if it meant he could keep showing up next to you like this. Laughing in grocery stores. Holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re staring,” you said softly, eyes flicking up from your phone, amused.
Jake smiled, a little slower, a little softer. “I just like watching you do normal things.”
You tilted your head, skeptical. “Normal like… read cereal labels?”
“Exactly like that,” he said, pulling you a little closer by the cart. “You’re hot when you’re being responsible.” You laughed again, shaking your head as you continued down the aisle.
“Careful, Seresin. You keep talking like that, and I’ll make you do the budgeting next time.”
Jake chuckled, following after you, already reaching for the next item on your list.
And in his mind, he was already planning dinner for four.
[...]
Jake didn’t get much detail—just a rushed call from the school saying you’d been stuck dealing with a work emergency and couldn’t make it in time to pick up Olive. It was already past six, and her practice had ended twenty minutes ago. Without thinking, Jake had grabbed his keys and left his half-full grocery bags on the counter.
He didn’t even turn off the engine when he spotted her sitting on the curb outside the gym, arms crossed, hoodie pulled over her head, glaring at the pavement like it had personally offended her.
“Hey,” he called as he rolled the window down. “Sorry I’m late.”
She didn’t answer, just stood and yanked the car door open. Slammed it shut behind her like she was hoping it might shatter. Jake swallowed whatever sarcasm was on his tongue and pulled away from the curb.
The silence lasted a good two minutes.
“Do you want to grab something to eat on the way back?” he asked carefully, glancing at her. “I know your mom won’t be home for a bit."
“No.”
“Alright,” he said slowly, trying to keep his tone neutral. “You don’t have to bite my head off. I’m just trying to help.”
“I didn’t ask for help,” Olive muttered, eyes fixed on her phone.
Jake’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Look, I get that I’m not your favorite person—”
“You’re not even a person to me,” she snapped, not looking up. “You’re just some guy my mom is dating who thinks buying popcorn and giving rides makes him part of the family.”
Jake exhaled hard through his nose. He made a sharp right and pulled over to the side of the road, throwing the truck into park with more force than necessary.
“What are you doing?” she asked, finally looking up.
“We’re not doing this passive-aggressive bullshit in the car,” he said flatly, turning to face her. “You don’t like me? Fine. But at least be honest about why instead of pretending I’m invisible.”
She blinked at him, stunned for a second, then shoved her phone into her hoodie pocket. “You want honesty? Okay.”
Jake raised his eyebrows, bracing himself.
“You’re not my father,” she said, her voice rising with each word. “You’re not even close. And you never will be. You can keep pretending like this happy family thing is gonna work, but it’s not. My dad doesn’t even care enough to call. He forgot my birthday. Again. So no, Jake, I don’t need another guy pretending to care when it’s convenient.”
The car went quiet, her words hanging in the air like smoke.
Jake blinked, stunned silent—not by her anger, but by the pain behind it. “Olive…” he started, but his voice caught.
She shook her head, eyes glossy now, but she blinked the tears away before they could fall. “Just drive.”
He wanted to say something—anything—but everything that came to mind felt like it would make things worse. So he shifted the truck back into gear and pulled away from the curb, the silence between them sharper than it had been before.
No more words. No music. Just the hum of the engine and the ache in his chest.
They didn’t mend things that night.
But for the first time, Jake saw the truth clearly. Olive wasn’t just angry—she was hurting. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fix it with concert tickets or car rides.
Not yet.
But he wasn't giving up.
You knew something was off the second Jake walked through the door. He didn’t say anything at first—just set his keys on the counter a little too quietly, slipped off his boots, and ran a hand through his hair like he was trying to ground himself.
“Thanks for picking her up,” you said gently, glancing up from the dinner you hadn’t touched. “I know that wasn’t ideal.”
“She’s safe,” he replied, voice low. “But… it wasn’t great.”
Your stomach twisted. “What happened?”
Jake leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest with a sigh. “We had a fight. She… she said some stuff. I didn’t handle it as well as I should’ve.”
You nodded slowly, trying to blink back the sting in your eyes. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
Jake looked at you then, really looked at you. You weren’t crying, but you looked tired—bone tired. The kind of tired that didn’t come from work or errands, but from carrying too much for too long.
“She told me I’m not her father,” he said carefully.
“She’s right,” you whispered, pressing your lips together. “You’re not.”
The silence that followed wasn’t bitter. It was honest.
You turned away to busy yourself with clearing the dishes, even though they hadn’t been used. “You know… I didn’t expect my ex and I to stay friends. I didn’t even expect him to be particularly involved. We hadn’t loved each other in years, and ending it was mutual. We were better as two than we were as one.”
Jake stayed quiet, letting you speak.
“But I thought…” You swallowed. “I thought that at the very least, he’d show up for them. I thought no matter what happened between us, he’d still be their dad. And for a while, he was.”
You paused, gripping the edge of the counter like it might anchor you.
“And then one day, the calls stopped. The visits stopped. Olive made excuses for him for a while—said he was busy, said he forgot. But she knew. And Matthew… he still asks if they can call him at bedtime, like maybe tonight he’ll pick up. And every time he doesn’t, I have to lie through my teeth about why.”
Jake’s chest ached.
You finally turned to face him, arms crossed, but not in defiance—just holding yourself together. “Olive’s not mad at you, Jake. Not really. She’s mad at him. But you’re here, and he’s not. So she gives her anger somewhere to go.”
Jake moved toward you, slowly, giving you space to stop him if you needed to. You didn’t.
“I’m doing everything I can to keep them okay,” you said, voice cracking just enough. “But Olive grows colder every day, and Matthew still believes in people who have already left. And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know if I can. Some days I feel like I’m failing them both.”
Jake didn’t say anything at first. Just closed the distance between you and gently pulled you into his arms.
You let yourself fall into him, your forehead resting against his chest, breathing in the calm that always seemed to follow him—even if it wavered sometimes.
“You’re not failing them,” he said softly, his voice vibrating through you.
“You’re doing everything they need, even when they don’t know how to ask for it.”
He paused, then added, “And I’m not going anywhere. Even if Olive wishes I would. Even if she never likes me. I’m still here.”
You closed your eyes, letting yourself believe him for a moment. Letting yourself rest, even if just for tonight.
Because if nothing else, you didn’t have to carry it alone anymore.
The next morning passed in the kind of hush that only comes after a storm — not tense, exactly, just careful. Olive had emerged from her room wearing headphones, sunglasses, and the universal look of don’t talk to me unless it’s life or death. Matthew, in contrast, was chatty and barefoot, eating dry cereal out of a mug like it was popcorn.
Jake was at the stove, flipping pancakes with the kind of cautious determination of a man who hadn’t cooked for kids much but really didn’t want to mess it up. You leaned against the counter beside him, sipping coffee, giving him an amused but supportive look every time a pancake came out semi-round.
“Do I get a gold star if these are edible?” he muttered under his breath.
“You get two if no one cries before noon.”
“High stakes,” he said, flipping another one onto the plate.
From the table, Matthew asked, “Do I have to go to school today?”
You raised your eyebrows. “Yes. Nice try.”
Jake turned around with the pancake plate in hand. “Alright, team. Syrup's on the table. Who’s ready to pretend this is better than it looks?”
Matthew cheered and Olive rolled her eyes — but quieter this time, more out of habit than spite. She took a pancake, poured a little syrup, then sat down and picked at it.
You caught the glance she gave Jake — not warm, not soft, but not full of fire either. Neutral. Tired.
He didn’t expect anything. He just sat across from her and let the silence sit.
A few minutes passed before Olive spoke, voice low, eyes not leaving her plate.
“Sorry about yesterday.”
Jake blinked, surprised, but didn’t jump on it. “For what?” he asked gently.
She shrugged. “Being... a lot. I was mad. I still am. But you didn’t deserve all of it.”
He nodded slowly, meeting her halfway. “It’s okay. You’ve got every right to be mad. Just... for what it’s worth, I’m not trying to take anyone’s place. I’m just trying to be around. That’s it.”
Olive didn’t answer, but she didn’t flinch away either. She just nodded once and went back to eating.
Matthew, bless him, completely oblivious to the emotional breakthrough happening five feet away, asked, “Can we watch a movie tonight? The three of us?”
Jake glanced at you. You smiled and nodded.
“Yeah, bud,” Jake said. “We can do that.”
The living room looked a little different when it was dimmed down and filled with soft lamplight and the sound of popcorn popping in the kitchen. The couch was a chaotic mess of mismatched blankets and pillows, a fortress cobbled together by Matthew earlier in the day, complete with a sign made from notebook paper that read: "Cuddle Zone: Entry Requires Snacks." Jake had laughed when he saw it, then took it as a personal challenge and returned from the kitchen with a bowl large enough to feed a small army.
Now, the three of you were curled up in the fortress, the movie halfway through, glowing on the screen in that bluish tint that makes everything else look soft and tired. Matthew had claimed the spot in the middle, legs sprawled across both your laps, his head resting on a cushion balanced between your shoulder and Jake’s arm.
You’d chosen a movie everyone had seen before—an old animated favorite, predictable and comforting. Something that didn’t ask too much of anyone.
Jake had come prepared. He didn’t try too hard, didn’t make any awkward jokes or commentary. He just sat, present and warm, occasionally handing Matthew more popcorn or brushing your knee lightly when he passed the bowl. He wasn’t filling the silence with effort. He was just… there.
And Olive was there too.
She sat curled on the far side of the couch, knees tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, a quiet presence at the edge of the moment. She hadn't said much since dinner, but she hadn't disappeared back into her room either. She’d chosen to be here. That was something.
At one point, Matthew mumbled something about a plot hole in the movie and Jake leaned over, voice conspiratorial. “I mean, the main character is a singing raccoon. I think we passed logical realism a while ago.”
To your surprise, Olive gave a soft snort, barely audible. She caught herself almost immediately and looked down, as if embarrassed.
Jake didn’t push it. He just offered her the popcorn bowl wordlessly.
She took a handful.
It was small. Just a passing exchange. But you felt it—the shift. The subtle way the room warmed just a little more.
You glanced at Jake and found him already looking at you, his expression open and gentle. There was something in his eyes, something that looked like awe. Like peace. Like this. All of this—blankets and popcorn and one-word apologies and fifteen-year-old silence broken by reluctant laughter—it was everything.
Jake had never wanted kids.
But now? He couldn’t imagine not wanting this.
Not the clean, filtered version of family life. Not the perfect dinners or the Instagram-worthy moments. No—he wanted this. The complicated, messy, real-life version. The half-mended relationships, the learning curve, the quiet victories of a single laugh or a shared couch. He wanted every sigh, every sarcastic eye-roll, every awkward moment that came with loving people who didn’t owe him anything.
Because he loved you.
And whether Olive knew it yet or not… he was learning how to love her too. In her own time, in her own language.
The credits started to roll. Matthew blinked up at the screen, then yawned wide and dramatic like he’d just climbed Everest. “I’m not tired,” he said, his voice sleep-drenched.
“You’re literally falling asleep mid-sentence,” you said, brushing his hair back.
“Can I sleep on the couch?” he asked, already halfway curled into your side.
Jake smiled. “I’ll get the good blanket.”
As he stood and stepped toward the hall closet, Olive shifted slightly, pulling her knees up to her chest, her voice soft in the quiet.
“You don’t have to try so hard,” she said.
You looked over at her, surprised. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged, not looking at you. “Jake. I know he’s trying. I just… I don’t want him to think he has to do all this just to make us like him.”
You studied her, your heart aching in that complex way only a mother’s heart can. “He doesn’t think that, baby. He’s doing it because he wants to. Because he cares.”
Olive didn’t say anything right away. But when Jake returned with the blanket and tucked it gently around Matthew, she didn’t pull away when his hand brushed hers.
And for the first time, she looked him in the eye and said, “Thanks.”
Just that. A single word. But it was a door cracked open.
Jake gave her a small nod. “Anytime.”
The house had finally settled.
Matthew had been carried to bed without so much as a protest, half-asleep and mumbling something about needing more popcorn next time. Olive had disappeared into her room without a word, not slamming the door this time, which you counted as a solid win. The movie was long over, the lights dimmed low, and the living room was scattered with the remains of a cozy night: blankets askew, half-full mugs of cocoa on the coffee table, and a trail of popcorn Jake kept crunching underfoot.
“Okay, seriously, how did he get it this everywhere?” Jake asked, stooping to pick a kernel out from between the couch cushions.
“He eats popcorn like a wild animal,” you said, amused as you folded one of the blankets. “It’s part of his charm.”
Jake gave you a look. “Charm, huh? That’s what we’re calling it.”
You tossed a pillow at him. He caught it easily, laughing as he dropped it back onto the couch and crossed the room toward you. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his hair a little messy from where you’d run your fingers through it earlier, and he looked so completely at home it made something in your chest swell.
“You’re beautiful when you’re smug,” you said softly, reaching out to straighten the hem of his shirt just to have a reason to touch him.
Jake leaned in, resting his hands on your waist. “I’m always smug. Does that mean you think I’m always beautiful?”
You grinned. “Don’t fish for compliments.”
“Not fishing,” he said, dipping his head to kiss your cheek. “Just confirming what I already know.”
You laughed quietly, leaning into him, hands slipping beneath his shirt to press against his warm skin. He didn’t flinch or tease — just let out a long, contented breath and wrapped his arms around you like you were the thing grounding him.
There was something sacred in that moment. The late-night hush, the soft rustling of the house settling, the way your bodies fit together like you’d been built to find each other.
Neither of you noticed the hallway light shifting slightly.
Just down the corridor, Olive stood tucked in the shadows outside her bedroom door, barefoot and quiet, the glow from the living room casting long shadows on the floor. She hadn’t meant to spy. She’d gotten up to get water, headphones off for once, and she’d paused when she heard you laugh.
Not your mom-laugh — the one you used when someone spilled juice or told a corny joke. But the real one. The laugh that used to live in old photos and short-lived moments before things got complicated. The laugh that lit up your whole face.
And it wasn’t just that you were laughing.
It was him.
Jake had his arms around you like he didn’t want to be anywhere else. He was smiling into your neck, whispering something that made you swat at him half-heartedly, laughing again like the two of you were the only people in the world. You looked happy.
Not polite-happy. Not “holding-it-together” happy.
Just... happy.
Olive didn’t smile. But she didn’t look away, either. She stood there, quietly watching this version of you, one she didn’t get to see often. One she didn’t know if she even remembered.
And without knowing why, without even wanting to admit it yet, she started to understand something:
Maybe Jake wasn’t trying to take anything from her.
Maybe he was just giving something back to you.
Quietly, she turned and padded back into her room, the door clicking softly behind her.
In the living room, you leaned your forehead against Jake’s and whispered, “Thank you. For tonight. For all of it.”
His thumb traced lazy circles over your hip. “You don’t have to thank me. This is the best part of my day.”
“You say that even when we’re cleaning up popcorn at eleven-thirty at night.”
Jake kissed you again, slower this time. “Especially then.”
[...]
Jake glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to see Olive roll her eyes —again— though this time, there was no venom behind it. Just the practiced exasperation of a teenager being forced into an uncool weekend plan.
“A bar,” she deadpanned, arms crossed, legs kicked up on the back of the front seat. “Seriously?”
Jake smirked, shifting lanes. “It’s not like I’m dropping you off at a biker dive in the middle of nowhere. The Hard Deck has food, good views, and I didn’t feel like cooking. Plus, your mom said she didn’t want you guys surviving off cereal and vending machine snacks while she’s stuck at work.”
“You say that like cereal isn’t an elite meal option,” Olive muttered.
“Reese’s Puffs and orange soda,” Matthew added from the back, proudly. “A classic.”
Jake shook his head, trying not to laugh. “Well, luckily for everyone involved, Penny makes real food. Burgers. Fries. That grilled cheese with the fancy bread you liked last time.”
“I did like that,” Olive said, almost to herself. Then: “Is Phoenix gonna be there?”
“She might be,” Jake said, glancing at her. “Why?”
“She sounds cool.”
Jake tried to hide the pleased smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, she is.”
There was a pause, just long enough to notice. Then Olive spoke again, her tone more curious than challenging. “So… how long have you known them? Phoenix. Rooster. The others.”
Jake blinked, surprised — but not wanting to spook her. “A while now. Since flight school, for some of them. Since Top Gun for most. The Navy’s big, but we all kind of circle back around eventually.”
“Are you all, like, best friends or whatever?” she asked, eyes fixed out the window.
Jake chuckled. “More like siblings. We love each other. We also want to strangle each other sometimes. Rooster leaves wet towels on the floor. Bob color-codes his spices. And Phoenix—well, she has this very charming way of calling me out in front of entire rooms full of people.”
Olive cracked a smile before she could stop herself. “So basically, she’s me.”
“Exactly,” Jake said, grinning. “You’d fit right in.”
Matthew leaned forward between the seats. “Do you fly with them all the time?”
“Not always, but when we’re all stationed together like now, yeah. We train together, run drills. And when we’re lucky, we just sit around Penny’s bar and talk about nothing.”
“That sounds kinda boring,” Matthew said.
“That’s because you’re ten and think ‘fun’ means screaming at soccer practice and losing socks at sleepovers.”
Matthew opened his mouth to object but then nodded. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair.”
They lapsed into an easy silence. The kind that didn’t need to be filled. Jake’s hands rested loosely on the wheel, the salt air drifting in through the open windows as they got closer to the beach. The radio played low in the background — some mellow '90s rock song that Matthew was humming tunelessly along with.
Then Olive spoke again.
“Why’d you even say yes to all this?” she asked, and Jake turned his head slightly.
“To lunch?”
“To… us,” she clarified, not looking at him but not bristling either. “Me. Matthew. All of it. You didn’t sign up for any of this.”
Jake took a moment. He didn’t want to brush it off or make a joke. He owed her more than that.
“I didn’t plan for it,” he said honestly. “I never thought I’d end up in a relationship that came with two extra humans and a whole built-in chaos package. But I met your mom… and suddenly, everything I thought I didn’t want didn’t matter anymore.”
Olive finally turned to look at him. Her expression wasn’t skeptical. Just thoughtful.
Jake smiled, eyes flicking between the road and the mirror. “You and your brother? You’re not some inconvenience I’m putting up with. You’re part of the deal. And not in a bad way.”
Matthew piped up again. “Does that mean I get to be your copilot when you fly?”
“Absolutely not,” Jake said instantly, laughing. “You’d eject us just for fun.”
“I would,” Matthew agreed proudly.
Olive let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “You guys are such idiots.”
Jake didn’t miss the warmth in her voice. The ease. It wasn’t a truce, not quite. But it was something better.
It was normal.
When they pulled into the Hard Deck lot and she unbuckled her seatbelt, Olive paused, hand on the door handle.
“I liked talking like that,” she said quietly. “Don’t make it weird.”
Jake gave her a soft smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She nodded, then opened the door and got out.
Matthew immediately shouted, “LAST ONE TO THE DOOR’S A ROTTEN BURRITO,” and took off sprinting.
Jake followed at a slower pace, the sun warm on his back and something lighter in his chest than he’d felt in weeks.
Progress.
The minute they walked into the Hard Deck, the scent of salt and fried food hit them like a wave—along with the sound of jukebox music, clinking glasses, and the easy, familiar laughter of the Dagger Squad. They were already gathered around their usual corner table by the open windows, nursing cold drinks and arguing over a pool game that had clearly gotten personal.
“There he is!” Rooster called out, tipping his sunglasses down his nose to get a better look. “Look who finally showed up with his entourage.”
Jake shot him a look. “Try not to scare them off in the first ten seconds, Bradshaw.”
Rooster put both hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m charming. Kids love me.”
“Bold of you to assume,” Phoenix said, leaning back in her chair. “Remember your goddaughter cried every time you looked at her for the first six months?”
“She had a very expressive face. I don’t think that was about me.”
Jake glanced sideways at Olive, gauging her reaction. She was standing just a half-step behind him, arms crossed, doing her best unimpressed-teenager impression. But her eyes flicked from face to face, quietly taking everyone in.
Matthew, meanwhile, had already made himself at home.
“Whoa, is that a real fighter pilot?” he whispered loudly to Jake, pointing at Payback as if he were spotting a celebrity in the wild.
Payback grinned. “Guilty.”
“You look like a superhero.”
Jake muttered under his breath, “Hey, I'm also a fighter pilot. And don't feed his ego,” but Payback was already puffing out his chest and striking a mock pose.
“You hear that, Phoenix? Superhero.”
“You fly like a sidekick.”
The laughter that followed was easy, unforced. Jake nudged the kids toward the table. “Everyone, this is Matthew and Olive,” he said. “Be cool.”
“Define ‘cool,’” Fanboy said, eyes twinkling.
Jake gave him a warning glance, but it was too late — Fanboy was already leaning across the table toward Olive. “So… what’s your favorite way to torment Hangman? We’re always looking for new ideas.”
Olive blinked, startled, and then — before she could stop herself — smirked. “Well. His taste in music is awful.”
“I knew it!” Phoenix slapped her hand on the table. “He tries to pretend he doesn’t listen to country on long flights, but I’ve seen the playlists.”
“You made one called ‘Maverick Would Hate This,’” Rooster added, laughing.
“I never claimed to be perfect,” Jake said, deadpan.
“Yeah, well,” Olive said, sliding into a seat with a little more ease now. “Neither did we.”
Jake met your daughter’s eyes — and saw it. That spark of dry humor. The subtle shift. The door staying open, just a little wider than before.
He smiled and slid in beside her.
Matthew had launched into a full monologue about his soccer team and how he definitely would’ve scored a goal last week if the referee hadn’t been “so obviously blind.” Bob listened like it was breaking news, nodding thoughtfully and asking follow-up questions like he was analyzing game tape.
“You’re gonna love Bob,” Jake said under his breath to Olive, handing her a menu. “He’s quiet, but he’s the smartest one here.”
“You say that like it’s hard to believe.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “You trying to roast me in front of my friends?”
Olive didn’t smile exactly — but there was something dangerously close to it tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe.”
Phoenix raised her glass from across the table. “To Jake’s teenage nemesis. You’re already my favorite.”
Jake groaned. “God help me.”
But he was glowing. Everyone could see it.
And Olive, tucked between the teasing and the fries and the general chaos of fighter pilots acting like children, finally looked like she belonged — not just as your daughter, but as part of this.
Part of his world.
Everything was finally settling in. Then his orders came.
The tarmac was already humming with motion by the time you pulled up.
Waves of heat shimmered up off the concrete as the carrier loomed in the distance, the size of it enough to make Matthew’s eyes go wide. Planes gleamed in the morning sun, crews moving with swift, practiced efficiency. Everything smelled like metal, jet fuel, and goodbye.
You stood next to Jake near the open trunk of Rooster’s truck, your hand curled tightly around his. The duffel bag at his feet was heavy — so was the silence.
This wasn’t the first time he’d deployed. He was built for this life, raised for it, molded by it.
But this was the first time he was leaving you.
The first time he was leaving them.
And it felt different. It felt real.
You glanced to your left. Matthew was trailing a few feet behind, eyes locked on the nearby jet being prepped, quietly awestruck. But Olive was still near the car, arms folded, face pulled into that careful blankness she’d been perfecting since the day Jake told her about the assignment.
She’s come, though. That meant something.
Jake glanced down at you, brows drawn. “You okay?”
“No,” you said honestly, because there was no point pretending now. “But I will be.”
He nodded once and leaned in to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering a moment longer than usual. “You’ll hear from me as soon as I can write. I swear.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” You forced a small smile, one hand slipping into the pocket of his flight suit, needing just another second of closeness before it was taken from you.
Then Matthew bounded up beside him. “Hey, Jake?”
Jake turned, crouching to his level. “Yeah, bud?”
“Can I still be in charge of bug killing while you’re gone?”
Jake grinned, eyes shining. “You’re my first choice.”
“And can we—” Matthew hesitated, glancing at you for a second before continuing. “Can we call you sometimes? Even just to say hi?”
Jake’s voice cracked just slightly when he answered. “If I get one of those calls, that’ll be the best part of my day.”
You tousled Matthew’s hair as he nodded and wandered back, already chattering about planes to Rooster nearby. Jake exhaled and reached down for his bag.
“It's time.”
But then—
“Jake!”
His whole body stilled. You turned.
And there she was.
Olive had moved before she even realized it — now jogging across the tarmac, ponytail bouncing, Converse slapping against the pavement. Her face was twisted in something caught between panic and fury, tears brimming and very much not contained.
She didn’t stop until she reached him, and then she threw her arms around his waist so tightly it knocked the breath out of him.
Jake froze for half a second — stunned — and then wrapped his arms around her just as fiercely. His eyes slid shut, his chin dropped to her shoulder.
“Be careful,” Olive mumbled into the fabric of his flight suit, her voice cracking. “I mean it. You have to come back.”
Jake’s hand rose, gentle, to the back of her head. His voice was low and uneven. “I will, kid. I swear.”
“I’m not a kid,” she shot back, tears slipping past her lashes, “but I will not be okay if you don’t come back. So you better.”
He gave a small, choked laugh. “Deal.”
You blinked through tears as you watched them, that hug — tight and trembling — undoing every ounce of distance she’d tried to keep between them for so long. No performance, no pretense. Just a girl scared to lose someone she never meant to love, and a man terrified to leave behind the family he never thought he’d have.
When Olive finally stepped back, her cheeks were wet and she immediately wiped at them with her sleeves. “If you die, I’m gonna be so pissed.”
Jake laughed, raw and real. “That’s fair.”
Rooster called his name then — a signal, one final warning. Jake slung the bag over his shoulder and turned to you. Your arms were already around his neck, holding on like he was a lifeline.
“I love you,” you whispered.
“I love you more,” he said. “Take care of them for me.”
You kissed him like it had to last you six months. Because it did.
And then he stepped away.
He didn’t look back.
Not because he didn’t want to — but because if he did, he might not be able to keep walking.
The three of you stood there on the tarmac, shoulder to shoulder, watching him disappear toward the carrier — a green figure swallowed up by steel and sky.
Matthew took your hand.
Olive took the other.
And even with the ache in your chest, you smiled.
Because for the first time in a long time, it truly felt like family.
summary: the squad are sick of you and hangman pining after each other, so they set you up with the cowboy hat rule - 'you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy' (i know it's never specified but because glen grew up in texas, i'm applying that to jake)
notes: i am literally posting this while at work because i am so excited! i'm actually pretty proud of this one right now, so i'm trying not to second guess it and keep rereading it... i really hope y'all enjoy! please let me know all your thoughts! (in case you can't tell, i'm currently reading elsie silver's books)
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption / drunkenness, mention of a student/teacher relationship, and general horniness but no actual smut (i'm sorry, it's already so long)
word count: 10667
You roll your lips as your eyes wander across the faces of your friends, each of them expressing varying degrees of excitement as they discuss the upcoming celebration for Javy’s birthday this weekend. It’s been a good week for the dagger squad, and even Maverick has managed not to piss off the admiral in almost five whole days. Everyone is holding their breath, praying he can hold off for the second half of the day so the team doesn’t get punished with weekend rotation... again.
You’re sitting in the middle of the long table with Natasha to your left and Bradley to your right, and across from you is the most gorgeous man on the planet. You can’t help settling your gaze on him, tracing the bridge of his nose as he faces Javy beside him, lips moving as words spill from them, but you can't possibly know what he’s saying because you’re too busy picturing what else those lips would be good at. His Adam’s apple bobs between statements and his tongue occasionally darts across those lips, making your innocent Friday lunch feel a lot filthier as your thoughts wander in the most inappropriate way.
An elbow nudging into your ribs knocks you off your bullet train of thought, derailing it at high speed as reality comes crashing down and you turn accusingly toward Bradley. “What?” you snap.
He chuckles, “You’re drooling.”
Your hand flies up to your mouth, fingers padding at each corner only to find the skin dry. You scowl at him, “Asshole.”
He has to hide his increased laughter in the mouth of his water bottle, taking a long sip so to not draw the attention of the rest of the group. “Sorry,” he says as he places the bottle back on the table, “but you were about to. I was saving you from yourself.”
You roll your eyes, “Whatever.”
Bradley shakes his head, his amused grin fading as he drops his gaze back to the tray of food in front of him, and a tiny pebble of guilt drops in the pit of your stomach. You suddenly feel bad for snapping at your best friend, so you bump your shoulder against his and reach over to steal a fry from his tray.
He shoots you a glare from the corner of his eye, but the smirk on his lips tells you that he isn’t really mad. You pop the fry into your mouth and chew it with a smile before turning your attention back to the group, startling when you find a pair of green eyes already trained on you. Heat flushes up your neck, colouring your cheeks as you stare back at the man you had just previously been ogling. Time seems to slow down, or speed up, you’re not sure, but what you do know is how pretty Jake’s eyes are, swirling shades of green with flecks of gold that glow in the afternoon sunlight flooding through the high cafeteria windows.
“Hangman?” Javy clicks his fingers in front of Jake’s face, simultaneously snapping you both out of whatever trance you’d been stuck in.
When you look around the table, you notice that most of the group are standing now, holding their empty trays and getting ready to return to work.
Jake blinks a few times, a slight frown creasing between his brows. “What?” he snaps.
Javy chuckles, holding one hand up in surrender. “Calm down, I was just asking what time we should get to your place tomorrow night.”
“Oh,” Jake’s shoulders visibly relax, “1800.”
You roll your eyes playfully as you push up from your chair. “Okay soldier, you can just say 6PM.”
His face breaks into a breathtaking grin as he stands and picks his tray up from the table. “Sorry civilian, I’ll see you at 6PM tomorrow night.”
Low laughter rumbles through the group as you take an extra moment to appreciate the gorgeous man smiling at you, but then Javy tugs on Jake’s arm and interrupts you both for the second time less than a minutes. “Come on man, Mav will be pissed if we’re late.”
“Wait for me?” Bradley asks.
You turn to your best friend and find him looking at you – asking you – rather than his squadmates. “Huh?”
He raises one judgemental brow, a teasing smirk on his lips. “After work, wait for me so I can give you a lift home.”
“Oh,” you nod, “duh, I’m not walking.”
His eyes flash toward Jake’s retreating form before he looks back at you with a grin. “Would you at least try to control yourself? Jesus, it’s so obvious.”
“Oh, shut up,” you frown at him. “Hurry up or Mav will have your ass.”
He stacks his tray on top of yours in your hands and leans forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You’re so sweet to me,” he jokes, before turning on his heel and jogging after the others.
You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you watch him leave, meeting Jake at the exit door leading to the main hangars. Just as they both disappear, you can swear Jake throws an angry glance over his shoulder at you, but the door swings shut before you can be sure.
That glare haunts you on your journey back to the control tower. Had you really seen what you think you saw? Jake had just been grinning at you, joking with you, but then somewhere on his way across the cafeteria he had found a reason to glare at you. It doesn’t make sense.
You try to push the image of his angry face out of your mind as you sit back at your desk, one of eight situated on the fourth floor of the main control tower. Three screens stare back at you, displaying various windows of information about the sky’s conditions and other operational statuses from around the base. You slide your headset on and adjust the dials until you can hear a soft crackle indicating successful connection to the correct frequency. One by one, you watch the faces and callsigns of your friends pop up on the right-most screen as they turn their comms on and ready their jets.
“Maverick to control,” Mav’s voice comes through your headset.
“Good afternoon, Maverick,” you reply, as if you hadn’t already been on the comms with him for half the day.
“Radio check before take-off please, aviators,” he says, “alphabetical order if you geniuses can figure it out.”
You roll your lips to keep from laughing, reminding yourself that despite your personal connection to these people, this is still your job.
“Bob to control, can you hear me?”
“Lound and clear,” you respond, quickly trying to figure out the alphabetical order for yourself.
“Coyote to control.”
“Copy.”
“Fanboy to control.”
“Copy,” you repeat.
“Hangman to control,” Jake says, his voice in your ear sending the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy.
“Copy,” you reply.
The line then goes quiet, a faint crackling the only indication that the radio hasn’t completely dropped out. You wait a beat before speaking again, “Radio check please Payback.”
“Shit, sorry. Copy,” Reuben’s voice responds. “I thought Phoenix was before me.”
“A comes before H, idiot,” Natasha says, followed by a chorus of snickers. “Phoenix to control, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Phoenix,” you reply through your laughter.
“Rooster to control,” Bradley’s voice fills your ears, “your favourite pilot here, bringing up the rear.”
You roll your eyes, “Copy that, Shakespeare.”
Another rumble of laughter comes through your headset as you quickly type into the afternoon’s log that the radio check was successful.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Mav says as the laughter dies down. “Control, are we good for take-off?”
“Skies are clear, Mav,” you reply, “take off at will.”
You tune out the soft chatter as the squad ready themselves for taking off, and one by one watch their altitudes rise on your middle screen. They all pop up as red dots on the radar window, blinking slowly as they cruise through what you know is a cloudy afternoon sky.
“We’ve got a stormfront coming in from the south,” you say, eyes darting to your left-most screen. “We might need to call it a little early this afternoon, Mav.”
Maverick chuckles, “An early mark on a Friday? I don’t know if this lot deserve it.”
A series of protests then fill your ears, almost every pilot falling for Maverick’s taunt and arguing that they do deserve an early mark, even going as far as to say that they’ve had a hard week. You’ve been here all week too, and you probably couldn’t agree with that since this week has been one of the cruisiest in a while.
“Alright, alright,” Mav says to quell the bickering, “if you can perfectly execute the cloak and dagger drill, I’ll let you all land by 1500.”
The complaining turns into cheering, and Bradley threatens the team to perform because he’s not staying back in a storm on a Friday afternoon. Not that Mav could keep them in the skies if the weather gets that bad.
“Listen up,” Maverick says, “Coyote, I’ll be your wingman, and I want Phoenix and Bob behind us. Hangman, Rooster will be your wingman-”
“I’ve been trying, Mav,” Bradley interrupts, his voice dripping with cheek, “but the man is oblivious.”
Your heart leaps into your throat, blocking your airways as you suffocate on the audacity of your best friend. The laughter from your headset sounds distant as you try to remember how to breathe, willing yourself to calm down. Afterall, no one could really know what he’s talking about, right?
“Yes, Rooster,” Maverick chuckles, “we’re all aware of how oblivious Hangman is.”
Your eyes grow wide.
“What are you talking about?” Jake pipes up, and you can almost see the adorable and confused look on his face. His brows pinched together, a little crease between them, and his bottom lip pushed forward in a small pout.
“Point and case,” Bradley says, at which the rest of the squad dissolve into giggles.
Does everyone know about your crush? Is Jake really the only confused pilot right now?
“I don’t get the joke,” Mickey says over the laughter.
You can’t help the smile that cracks across your face, a breathy laugh leaving your lips as you try to focus on documenting the weather warning in your afternoon log. The team continue to giggle, turning their teasing on Mickey before Maverick orders them to focus. They run the drill perfectly, finishing up just before an orange alert pops up on your screen, a notification from the weather analysis team telling you to get the squad on the ground.
“Maverick,” you say, “the storm is coming in fast; you’ve been ordered to land.”
“Copy that,” he responds, before rattling off instructions to the squad.
One by one, you watch their blinking dots on the radar screen approach the runway and land. They manoeuvre toward the hangar, following instructions from the ground team to store the jets for the weekend. You exchange a couple of last words with Mav before they all remove their helmets and start the end of day procedures. You take time to check your emails and send the day’s log to the data analysis team before doing all your usual sign offs. By the time you’re exiting the control tower, it’s almost 4PM.
You pull your phone out of your back pocket, about to text Bradley asking which lot he parked in today when his Ford Bronco skids to a halt three feet in front of you. He leans across the passenger seat and pops the door open with a grin. “Need a ride?”
You roll your eyes, taking two long strides forward and throwing your bag into the back seat before flopping into the passenger seat beside him. “That was quick,” you state. “Doesn’t the debrief usually take longer on Fridays?”
Bradley shrugs, “The admiral left early today so we didn’t have to do a formal debrief, and maintenance are doing a fuel flush on all the jets this weekend so they took them off our hands pretty quick.”
“Oh, nice,” you reply simply before turning your attention back to your phone, checking the notifications you missed during work.
Bradley navigates the base easily, slowing to a stop at the exit gates and having a short chat with the security guard in the booth before the boomgate rises and he hits the gas again. When the car merges onto the main highway, you tuck your phone under your thigh, not wanting to risk motion sickness with Bradley’s driving. Let’s just say, he’s a much better pilot than he is a chauffeur.
“So,” he says, glancing at you with a cheeky grin, “do you want to hear something interesting.”
You sigh, recognising that look. “Who were you eavesdropping on today?”
“I heard Hangman talking to Coyote before I left,” he explains, eyes sparkling with mischief, “and I heard Coyote say to ‘stop making excuses and just ask her out’.”
You frown, trying to tamp down the green-eyed monster rumbling to life in your stomach. “Ask who out?”
“I didn’t hear a name, but I’m assuming-”
“Don’t say me.”
He chuckles, “Not me, you.”
You scowl at him, “Don’t argue with me about semantics.”
He rolls his eyes, “I just don’t understand why you won’t believe me. You heard the whole squad before, everyone knows except Hangman, even Mav!”
“Mickey doesn’t know,” you argue.
“Fanboy is almost as oblivious as your boyfriend.”
Your eyes narrow, “Do not use that word.”
He laughs again, “Which one?”
“You know which one.”
He sighs heavily, as if the weight of your unrequited crush was pressing down on his shoulders too. “Look, if you’re going to be stubborn, I’m going to have to take things into my own hands.”
“Please don’t,” you beg, your eyes growing wide.
He shrugs and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, but you’re giving me no choice.”
“Bradley, please,” you plead, turning in your seat to face him, “just leave it alone. I don’t want to ruin the friendship and make it uncomfortable for the whole group.”
“The whole group already is uncomfortable with you two constantly eye-fucking each other!”
Heat creeps up your neck, turning your cheeks pink and making your ears burn. You want to protest and continue arguing with him, because you’re adamant that Jake does not return your feelings, but your brain can’t seem to string a coherent sentence together. Instead, you sink down in your seat and scowl at the road, wondering what you could possibly be in store for if Bradley really is taking matters into his own hands.
The rest of the drive home isn’t long, and soon enough, Bradley is pulling the Bronco into his parking spot in the garage of the apartment block you both live in. You don’t live together, but you do live in neighbouring studio apartments, so it often feels like you live together. You drive to and from work together, you usually have dinner together and watch movies together in the evenings. Basically, if you’re both not busy, you’re with each other, and it’s been that way as long as you’ve both been based on North Island.
The squad had initially teased that the two of you might be more than friends, they even had you questioning it, but one wine-drunk kiss while watching The Bachelor confirmed that neither of you felt anything romantic toward the other. It was that same night that you also confessed to Bradley that you might be falling for Jake, to which he looked at you like you were stupid because duh. Apparently, your crush has been obvious from day one.
Now, here you are, hopelessly in love with a man you not only work with, but you’d also consider one of your closest friends. Rock, meet Hard Place, and you? You’re in the middle.
-
After spending the night on the couch with Bradley and a box of pizza, you took yourself off to bed and dreamed one of the many reoccurring dreams you have about a certain fighter pilot. You managed to sleep in before taking yourself for a long walk and making a mental list of all the things you needed to do before Javy’s birthday party.
Jake had been generous enough to offer having the party at his place, since the squad wanted to do something other than go to The Hard Deck for once. You'd offered to help shop for supplies and set up for the night, but Jake and Javy assured the group that they had it all under control. All you have to do is waste your Saturday and quell your nerves before the party.
At exactly 5:45PM, there’s a knock at your door. You quickly finish applying your lip balm before tucking it into the purse hanging from your shoulder and grabbing the jacket you’d thrown over the back of the lounge. You yank your front door open to find your best friend grinning from ear to ear, his moustache looking particularly fresh.
“You shaved,” you state, stepping forward and forcing him to step back.
He nods before asking, “Did you?”
You finish locking the door, slipping the key into your purse with one hand while the other slaps Bradley’s bicep. “Don’t be creepy!”
He chuckles and rubs his arm. “I’m not being creepy, I’m just making sure you’re prepared for any outcome.”
You narrow your eyes at him, “What are you planning?”
"Nothing in particular,” he replies innocently, though the small smirk on his lips betrays him.
You decide to leave it, since you're already nervous enough, and focus on relaxing the butterflies flapping wildly in your stomach. Bradley decided earlier that he would drive to Jake’s, since it’s hardly ten minutes from where you live, and leave his car in favour of getting an Uber home. Jake had said that anyone who wanted to crash was more than welcome to, but the thought of sleeping at his place only invigorates those nervous butterflies.
“Stop,” Bradley says, one hand leaving the steering wheel to grab your bouncing knee. “Why are you so nervous?”
You shrug, opting instead to wring your hands in your lap. “I don’t know, I just am.”
“You see these people every single day,” he points out, “what’s so nerve-wracking about tonight?”
You sigh, refusing to look at him as you reply, “I’m just feeling a little weird about going to Jake’s apartment.”
His brows shoot up toward his hairline, and you can tell by the way he rolls his lips that he’s holding back laughter. Your cheeks burn, and you have to hide your face in your hands.
“I’m not going to make fun of you,” he says quickly, “I actually think it’s a bit cute.”
You drop your hands, turning to him with a frown. “What? Why?”
He shrugs one shoulder, “I don’t know. It’s cute that you’re nervous to see where you’ll be living once the two of you finally fuck and get marr- ow!”
You cut him off my smacking his arm, the same one as before, harder. “Would you stop being such a pain?!” you exclaim as the car comes to a halt. “You’re supposed to be my best friend; you’re supposed to comfort me, not make my face all red and blotchy right before we go inside.”
He finally lets his laughter win, his shoulders shaking as he chuckles into his closed fist. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m not trying to be a dick, it just comes so naturally.”
You roll your eyes and pop open the passenger door, throwing him a glare over your shoulder. “I know.”
He manages to keep his thoughts to himself while the two of you cross the lobby and ride the elevator up to the fourth floor. This apartment block is shorter than yours, but wider. It’s one of the most coveted locations for naval personnel based on North Island, being the closest two- and three-bedroom apartments to the base. Jake had lucked out when he snagged one of these apartments with another lieutenant, and he’d lucked out even harder when that lieutenant got relocated and he ended up having the apartment to himself.
The sound of Bradley’s knuckles against the hardwood door knocks you back to reality, and you find yourself standing in front of apartment 4B.
“Who is it?” Natasha’s voice calls from the other side of the door.
“Stripper,” Bradley calls back.
“Finally,” the door wooshes open and you watch the liquid in Natasha’s red cup slosh dangerously. “We’ve been waiting all night.”
Bradley winks at her as he strides into the apartment, but before you can follow, Natasha blocks your path. “You need to pay the entry fee,” she says, offering you the red cup.
You frown, “Why me and not him?”
“Because it’ll calm your nerves.”
You catch Bradley smirking over his shoulder, and you scowl at him, wishing you could telepathically punch him for texting Natasha in advance, warning her of your anxiousness.
“Fine,” you sigh, taking the cup and tipping it to your lips.
You drain the cup, ignoring the burn that slides all the way down to your stomach. When you tip your head back to look at Natasha, she’s grinning. “Now you may enter,” she says, stepping aside.
There are a few more people than just the dagger squad in the apartment. You recognised most of them, but you decide that it’s not important enough for you to go around the room introducing yourself to the ones you don’t know the way Bradley is. Outgoing motherfucker. Instead, you beeline for the kitchen where Bob is on the phone reading out an extensive list of pizza orders. He offers you a quick smile before returning his attention to the list.
There’s a makeshift cocktail station set up beside the sink, with an array of alcohol bottles sat on the passthrough window bench. Your gaze drifts past the bottles and into the lounge room where everyone is gathered, landing easily on Jake who is animatedly retelling something to two men you recognise as Fritz and Yale. You’ve never been so charmed by someone in your life, it’s almost laughable the way this man captivates you. You can’t look away from the bright grin on his face, the tiny crease between his brows, and the excitement in his pretty green eyes.
“Hey,” Bob says, startling you out of your trance.
You can feel heat blooming in your cheeks as you turn to face him, leaning your left hip against the countertop. “Hey.”
“Drink?” he asks, a small but knowing smile tipping the corner of his mouth up.
You nod quickly, “Please.”
You chat idly while Bob fixes you both a cocktail that you don’t recognise, not that you’re much of a connoisseur when it comes to bartending, and you’re pretty sure he sneaks an extra shot into yours. Either way, the drink he hands you tastes delicious and fruity, and you’re feeling a little less nervous as you both join the group in the living room. A couple of Javy’s friends who you don’t know have already parted from the dagger squad, starting a foosball competition while the rest of you find somewhere to sit around the coffee table.
“Okay,” Bradley says to the group, “let’s play a little warm up game.”
“Yes!” Mickey exclaims as he settles into a beanbag. “I’m so down.”
Javy chuckles, “Alright, what are we playing?”
“Never Have I Ever,” Bradley replies, his lips curled into an evil smirk.
Your heart stutters, forgetting its usual rhythm before jumping into an erratic beat. You tip your drink to your lips, almost draining the whole thing, and when you finally look back at your best friend across the coffee table, he winks. This is his plan.
“But instead of just putting a finger down,” Natasha says, making you realise that she is in on it too, “you have to take a sip of your drink.”
“Does everyone have a drink?” Bradley asks.
You watch as a few of your friends drain the dregs of their current drinks before getting up to retrieve fresh ones, and you sigh, tipping the last of your cocktail into your mouth. You might as well get drunk with them.
When Bob returns to his seat beside you, he hands you a bottle of blue liquid. “Thought you might need this.”
You smile gratefully, “You’re the best.”
Once everyone is settled again, Bradley and Natasha take turns going over the rules of the high school game, even though it’s not that complicated.
“Oh, one last thing,” Bradley says, eyes trained on you, “nothing is off limits, and if you lie, you finish your drink.”
“How will we know if someone’s lying?” Reuben asks.
“I think there’s enough of us here that know each other well enough to spot a lie,” Natasha replies with a smirk.
Well, fuck.
“I’ll start,” Bradley announces. “Never have I ever slept with someone else in the navy.”
Jake, Javy, Mickey, Reuben, Natasha, and Harvard – who you only know by his callsign – all groan and take a sip of their drinks. Your eyes widen and you turn to Natasha on your right. “Excuse me, why did I not know about this?”
She rolls her eyes, “It was ages ago.”
“Damn, Phoenix,” Reuben says with a smirk, “didn’t think you were a rule breaker.”
“Technically,” Natasha bites back, “it’s not a rule, just frowned upon.”
Laughter rolls through the group before Bradley turns to Jake on his left. “You’re up, Hangman.”
Jake clears his throat as he sits up straighter and surveys the group, lingering on you for a moment longer than the rest. “Okay,” he says, “never have I ever had a secret relationship.”
There’s a beat of silence, a few people’s brows creasing in confusion as everyone stares at Jake.
“That’s a weird one,” Natasha states, though you can see in her eyes that she’s trying to figure out the hidden meaning to Jake’s declaration.
“Well, anyway,” Javy says, chuckling as he tips his beer to his lips.
The rest of the group takes a moment to think before both Bradley and Mickey also take a sip of their drinks. You watch Jake’s eyes widen slightly as he watches Bradley drink, then his gaze darts toward you, as if waiting for you to take a sip too. When you don’t, his shoulders seem to relax.
“Oh, my God,” Natasha whispers so softly that only you can hear, and when you turn to look at her, you find her eyes focused on Jake.
You feel yourself splitting in two, torn between asking Natasha what her revelation is or demanding to know what this secret relationship of Bradley’s was. You decide to go with the less nerve-inducing option.
“Excuse me, Bradley,” you speak across the group, “what was this secret relationship?”
He chuckles, “It was in high school.”
“Oh,” Reuben wriggles his eyebrows and nudges Bradley’s side, “were you a junior and she was a senior?”
Bradley snorts, “Actually, I was a senior and she was a teacher.”
Javy chokes on his second mouthful of beer, and the group suddenly erupts into laughter and questions while Bradley sits there like a king. You join in the laughter and use the commotion to slide your gaze toward Jake, heat rising in your cheeks when you find his eyes already fixed on you. He smirks, and you’re pretty sure your stomach does a triple somersault.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Bradley says. “I know I’m a legend. Now, let’s get on with it.”
Beside Jake, the man you only know as Harvard announces that he has never skinny dipped, at which everyone but Bob takes a sip of their drink. Next is Fritz, who declares that he has never had sex in the shower, and everyone in the group drinks. Your heart starts to race again as Natasha wriggles beside you, clearly excited about it being her turn next.
“Let me think,” she says, rolling her lips as she pauses to think for a moment.
You feel her brief gaze from the corner of her eye, and heat prickles the back of your neck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Never have I ever,” she begins, her brown eyes glowing with mischief, “had sexual fantasies about someone else in this group.”
Your breath catches on its way out, lodging in your throat as you once again forget how to breathe. You can feel your pulse across every inch of your skin, your heart thudding so hard against your ribs you worry it might break free. You can’t lie. You know you can’t lie, because Bradley is giving you a very pointed glare from across the group and Natasha has turned her whole body to face you.
“Fine,” you mutter into the bottle as you bring it to your lips, tipping it up.
You hear Javy's laughter above everyone else’s hoots and hollers, and when you look back at the group, you catch the tail end of Jake taking a sip from his drink. Natasha giggles beside you, subtly nudging your side with her elbow.
Bradley’s eyes are trained on you, and he opens his mouth to no doubt say something taunting when Reuben lifts his drink to his lips, and Bradley turns to him in shock. “You too?!” he exclaims.
Mickey has dissolved into fits of laughter, curling over and holding his stomach.
“It was an accident,” Reuben justifies, the colour of his cheeks growing deeper, “I had one dream.”
“About who?” Jake demands, his frown more accusatory than curious.
Reuben shakes his head, “That is nobody’s business but mine.”
The laughter slowly dies down, and you silently thank any god that might be listening for the distraction before Bradley or Natasha could embarrass you further.
“Okay, my turn,” you say, quickly moving the game along. “Never have I ever piloted a jet.”
The smirk on your lips is incredibly proud, and half the group groans while the other half chuckles as every single one of them tip their drinks to their lips. It was a cheap shot, but you had to distract from all the sex stuff before you spontaneously combusted.
“Alright, Bob,” Bradley says, looking at the man to your left, “what have you got for us?”
Bob clears his throat, a small smile curling his lips. “Never have I ever worn a bra.”
Both you and Natasha roll your eyes and take a swig of your drinks, and across the group so does Bradley. You stare at him wide eyed as a stupid grin stretches across your face.
“Oh, I have got to hear this story,” Natasha says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.
Bradley tries to shrug nonchalantly, but you can see blood seeping into his cheeks, turning them red. “Alright, as if none of you have tried a bra on before,” he says, eyeing the men around the circle.
Everyone bursts into fits of laughter, holding their stomachs or their chests as they fold over and start mocking your best friend. You almost feel bad for him, watching him try to defend himself, but then you remember that he started this game to out your crush and any trace of empathy you had is quickly wiped clean.
“Okay, everyone shut up,” Javy says over the giggling and teasing, “it’s the birthday boy’s turn.”
The noise dies down, and only then do you realise that the group of Javy’s friends by the foosball table are now watching the game of Never Have I Ever as if it’s some enthralling reality TV show.
“Never have I ever,” Javy says slowly, his eyes locked on Jake directly across the circle, “been too chickenshit to ask someone out even though I’m clearly obsessed with them.”
Your heart stutters again, unable to discern the difference between being held at gunpoint and playing a stupid game mostly likely created by high school students. You tip your drink to your lips, not missing the fact that Jake does too, and certainly not missing the way Bradley’s eyes widen and snap toward you. Mickey and Fritz also drink, but to your immense relief, the rest of the group hold off on the teasing for this round.
“Okay, um,” Mickey taps a finger on his chin as he stares into space, “never have I ever ridden a horse.”
Beside him, Reuben frowns, “What?”
Mickey shrugs, “I was looking at the horse.” He gestures toward the narrow bookshelf beside the television cabinet, adorned with a few books, photo frames, and knickknacks. On the very middle shelf is a golden trophy with a little figurine of a cowboy riding a horse, his rope poised in the air mid-lasso.
Reuben turns his quizzical frown toward Jake. “Why do you have a horse trophy?”
Jake’s cheeks are pink, either from embarrassment or alcohol, you can’t tell, but Javy speaks before he can reply. “Didn’t you know baby Hangman was a part of Austin’s champion junior penning team?”
Mickey tilts his head like a confused dog. “What’s penning?”
“It’s a ranching thing,” Jake replies, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re in a team of three on horseback, and you have to separate cattle. There’re all these other rules too, but that’s the basis of it.”
Your chest aches at the sight of Jake Seresin actually looking shy. You’ve never seen this man with less confidence than a stag in mating season, and that mixed with the imagery of a young Jake working on his family’s ranch; well, your heart is just about ready to burst.
Bradley chuckles, “I always forget that you’re a cowboy.”
“Can take the boy out of Texas,” Javy says with a southern twang, “but can’t take Texas out of the boy.”
Jake rolls his eyes playfully and rumples up his empty red cup before tossing it across the circle at his best friend. From what you can gather, Jake and Javy have known each other far longer than just the past few years, and you’re always pleasantly surprised when either of them comes out with historic pieces of information about the other.
“Alright, one more and we’re playing a new game,” Bradley announces, turning his attention to Reuben who is the last to go before it’s back to the beginning.
“Never have I ever,” Reuben says with a cheeky smile, “owned a cowboy hat.”
The group dissolves into another fit of laughter, and you see Natasha and Fritz sip their drinks from the corner of your eye, but everyone’s attention has turned to Jake.
He rolls his eyes again and pushes to his feet. “You people are relentless!” he exclaims, his tone laced with amusement. “I finished my drink anyway, so suck on that.”
Renewed laughter rumbles through the room as Jake storms off down the short hallway, disappearing into a room you can’t see from your position on the lounge. Half the group make their way toward the kitchen to refresh their drinks, while the other half continue joking about Jake’s cowboy ancestry.
You turn your attention back to the bookshelf where the trophy is, letting your eyes wander over all the pieces of Jake that are displayed on the shelves. You hadn’t noticed before, but a lot of the decor in the apartment gives subtle nod to his upbringing. Everything is washed in warm browns and oranges with rich wood furniture, photos of horses and farmland, and trinkets reminiscent of a life on the ranch. He has more than one trophy, you note, and there are a quite a few photos of a young, smiley boy standing proudly beside the same chestnut horse. Your chest squeezes again, reminding you just how enamoured you are with this man.
“Drink?” Bob asks for the second time tonight, offering a different coloured cocktail than earlier.
You nod, “Thank you.”
“Pizza is almost here,” he says, looking at both you and Natasha. “Would you help me go down to the lobby and pick it up?”
You both agree and let the rest of the group know where you’re going before heading out of the apartment door. The pizza guy meets you in the lobby barely a minute after you step out of the lift. Bob pays with cash, and you all stack your arms with boxes of delicious smelling pizza before stepping back into the lift and riding it up to level four.
You can hear commotion the second the elevator doors part, and it gets louder the closer you get to Jake’s apartment. The three of you exchange dubious looks before Bob shifts the boxes in his arms to free one hand and knock on the door. It swings open almost immediately, and you can now very clearly hear some unrecognisable country song blaring while everyone hoots and cheers.
Fritz, who opened the door, takes some of the boxes and calls for more help. As soon as your arms are free, you turn to see what all the fuss is about, your jaw dropping open the second your eyes land on the two men in the middle of the living space.
Jake and Javy are arm in arm, jumping in circles and doing what you assume is supposed to be some country jig. It’s uncoordinated and they’re both laughing so hard they can barely breathe, but it’s not the dancing that has the butterflies in your stomach whirring to life. Atop Jake’s head is a brown cowboy hat. It’s simple and a little worn, the exact same colour as the horse in the photos with young Jake.
Holy fucking shit, does that man look good in a cowboy hat.
You’ve never really considered yourself as having a ‘type’, but right now you couldn’t be more sure that this man is your type. The only person on planet earth that is your type. You can’t help the way your lips are pulled into a grin so wide it hurts, and the fast, uneven thud of your heart against your ribcage, threatening to crack bone.
“Are you okay?” Bradley asks, startling you as he wraps an arm around your shoulders.
You sigh, feeling the pull in your gut that tugs toward the man in the cowboy hat. “No,” you reply, leaning into him, “I’m not okay.”
His chest vibrates with laughter as you hide your face in it, keeping your arms slack by your side as you pretend to sob into your best friend’s shirt. His other arm wraps around you and his laughter doubles, one arm squeezing you tight while the other hand rubs circles on your back. Despite how much of an asshole he can be, you know that Bradley is always there for you when you need him.
You pull out of his embrace when the music dies down and Bob announces that its dinner time. Your eyes easily find the cowboy, watching him walk toward the dining table where all the boxes of pizza are laid open.
“Look at him,” you whisper-shout to Bradley. “Fucking look at him! Don’t you just want to lick-”
“Nope,” Bradley interrupts before you can even finish. “I definitely do not want to lick any part of that man.”
You roll your eyes playfully as he guides you toward the table of pizza. He hands you a plate and you start stacking a few slices on it despite your nervous stomach’s protests. When you glance across at Jake, his piercing eyes are already on you – like they so often seem to be of late – but he doesn’t look nearly as joyous as he had moments earlier. There’s a crease between his brows and tension in his jaw as he chews.
Natasha pops up beside you and starts babbling about what game you should all play next. She’s always a chatty drunk, not at all annoying, but definitely more vocal than usual after a few drinks. You listen to her and Bradley squabble about games before Javy pipes in, declaring that it is his birthday so he should get to decide.
After everyone has eaten their fill, Jake and Reuben pack away the leftover pizza while Bob and Mickey start making a round of cocktails. Meanwhile, Javy announces that he would like everyone to do a shot, which is when three of his mates who you have guessed are not navy make their exit.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Javy mutters, lining up all the mismatched shot glasses on the kitchen counter. “How many do we need?”
You look at Jake, who is standing beside you and craning his neck to count the heads in the room. “Why do you have so many shot glasses?” you ask him.
He pauses for a beat before chuckling and shaking his head. “You made me lose count.”
When he looks down at you, it feels like your lungs constrict, forgetting once again how to do their one job. Your chest aches in the most deliciously painful way, because that ache radiates all the way down to the apex of your thighs. You don't just want this man, you need him.
“I used to like to collect shot glasses,” he finally replies. “I’d try to get one in every city I visited but after about ten, I kept forgetting.”
“We need eleven,” Javy announces, obviously having counted the room while Jake answered your question.
“We’re one short then,” Jake states.
You shrug, your inebriated brain quickly diving into devious thoughts. “Someone could do a body shot off me.”
Every head in a two-foot radius snaps toward you. Jake’s eyes are blown wide, and a huge grin is pulling Javy’s mouth across his face. Bob looks shocked and Mickey looks amused, but Bradley is almost glowing with pride.
You roll your eyes for the umpteenth time, “I’m joking, guys. Calm down.”
Jake’s shoulders sag as if he’s disappointed, but he huffs a short laugh out before picking up one of the bottles to start pouring liquid into the line of shot glasses. “I’ll go last,” he says, looking at Javy. “I’ll just use your glass.”
At Javy’s request, everyone gathers around and picks a shot, clinking them together and spilling drops of amber liquid on the floor before tipping them up to their lips. It burns all the way down and sizzles angrily in your stomach. Sweat prickles the back of your neck as heat breaks out across every inch of your skin. You’re well on your way to being drunk, so you take advantage of the cheering to slip back into the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water. If anything, it might save your head tomorrow.
Twenty minutes later, everyone has a full drink and a seat somewhere around the coffee table. Javy decided that it’s time for another game, and despite protests, he said that he has picked one and there will be no negotiations. You find yourself comfortably between Bradley and Natasha, trying not to ogle at the gorgeous man across the circle. He is no longer wearing his cowboy hat, having taken it off just before doing his shot, hanging it on the back of one of the dining chairs.
“Alright, what are we in for?” Bradley asks Javy.
Javy grins, “Truth or Dare.”
There’s a mixture of cheers and groans, but everyone ends up giggling with each other since the whole group is very happily tipsy by now.
“Okay, okay,” Natasha calls over the laughter, “what rules are we playing?”
Javy and Natasha negotiate the rules of the game, deciding not to move the game in a circle but from player to player; whoever gets asked ‘truth or dare’ then gets to choose the next victim. You glance quickly toward Fritz, Harvard, and Yale, the three you don’t hang out with all that much, and wonder if they’ll ever get a turn.
“And if you don’t want to answer the truth or do the dare,” Natasha says, “then you have to drink.”
Everyone nods in agreeance before Jake announces from beside Javy, “Birthday boy goes first.”
Javy’s eyes scan the circle before settling on Bradley. “Rooster,” he says, “truth or dare?”
“We’ll start of lightly,” Bradley states. “Truth.”
“Is it true that you and Y/N are just friends?”
Your eyes widen and you immediately inch away from your friend, leaning into a giggling Natasha.
“Yes!” Bradley exclaims. “It couldn’t be truer! Are you kidding me?”
Laughter rumbles through the group, everyone but Jake finding Bradley’s disgust rather amusing.
Javy chuckles, “Just checking! You two are pretty cosy.”
You scoff, “He’s like my brother.”
“Alright,” Javy raises both hands in surrender, “I won’t ever question it again.”
“Good,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him.
Bradley clears his throat and the snickering dies down. He looks straight at Jake, “Hangman, truth or dare?”
“Truth,” Jake replies.
“Is it true that you’re totally hung up on someone right now?”
Jakes cheeks turn bright pink and he immediately covers his face with his hand, hiding his sheepish smile. He sighs, “Yes, that is true.”
Your stomach twists itself into a knot, threatening to eject everything you’ve consumed in the past few hours. The rest of the group start giggling again, teasing Jake and making stupid oohing noises as the poor man places his beer on the coffee table to bury his face in both hands.
“Okay,” he chuckles, swatting at Javy as he makes kissy noises, “that’s enough.”
Once everyone manages to mostly compose themselves, Jake asks Bob truth or dare. Bob chooses dare, which lands him in Bradley’s lap for the next ten minutes. Bob then asks Natasha truth or dare, and she picks truth, deciding to drink instead of admitting who she finds the most attractive in the room. You have a feeling Bob might already know the answer to that, which is why she flips him the bird before asking Mickey truth or dare. He picks dare, of course, and has to do a shot of straight vodka.
After he’s finished coughing and hacking, he returns to his spot between Bradley and Yale, turning his attention to you. “Y/N,” he says with an evil grin, “truth or dare?”
“Truth,” you respond.
“Earlier tonight, you told Bradley that you wanted to lick someone; who were you talking about?”
Your heart leaps into your throat, beating erratically as it tries to crawl up and jump right out of your mouth. Bradley bursts into a fit of laughter beside you, and Natasha coughs on the sip of drink she had just taken. You clear your throat before lifting your own drink to your lips, taking a purposeful sip and rolling your lips together.
Mickey whines, “You’re no fun!”
You scowl at him, “You were eavesdropping!”
His grin turns sheepish. “Technically, I overheard.”
You roll your eyes and let the laughter subside before scanning the circle, wondering who you could pick that might keep you safe in return. Your eyes land on Jake and you have to roll your lips again to keep from smiling. Sure, you could dare him to make out with you, but you’d rather not force yourself on him, so you settle your gaze on the man beside him, Reuben.
“Payback, truth or dare?”
His face lights up, “Dare.”
“I dare you to give your WSO a big kiss on the lips,” you say with a grin.
Mickey snorts, “You think we haven’t kissed before?”
“Dude!” Reuben exclaims across the group as everyone loses it to laughter once again.
Mickey giggles as he crawls into the middle of the circle and meets Reuben, who rolls his eyes before grabbing either side of Mickey’s head and mashing their lips together. It’s very brief, but it has the group hooting and hollering like high schoolers as the two blushing boys return to their respective spots.
Reuben shoots you a scowl, “I’ll get you back for that.”
You give him a wink before tipping your drink to your lips, realising that it’s empty. You push yourself to stand, “Drinks?”
You and Bradley work on taking the empties from the group and retrieving fresh drinks for everyone while they start asking questions about Reuben and Mickey’s first kiss. When you settle back into your seat, you see Reuben crouched beside Javy as they whisper into each other's ears, their eyes watching you carefully and their lips curling into evil little smirks.
Well shit.
Once everyone is settled again, Reuben looks toward Javy. “Coyote, truth or dare?”
“Hm,” Javy pretends to think, “dare.”
“I dare you to prank call Maverick.”
Everyone oohs as Javy pulls his phone out, a shit-eating grin stretched across his face. He switches off his caller ID before finding Maverick’s contact, and the group falls silent at the first dial tone. It rings and rings, but Mav doesn’t answer, so when his voicemail requests a message, Javy puts on his gruffest voice. “Maverick, it’s Admiral Simpson. I’ve had a few drinks, and I know this isn’t appropriate, but I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”
He hangs up and wheezes with laughter. Everyone is folded over, some wiping tears from their eyes, because right now, Maverick’s inevitable scolding doesn’t seem to be a worry.
It takes a little longer for everyone to calm down, but once they do, Javy’s eyes narrow on you. “Y/N,” he says, “truth or dare?”
“Me again?” you ask. “I just had a turn.”
He simply shrugs, awaiting your answer.
You sigh, “Fine, dare.”
You played right into his hand, and you know it by the way his lips have split into a Cheshire Cat grin.
“I dare you,” he says slowly, eyes moving past you and across the room, “to put Seresin’s cowboy hat on.”
You frown, letting go of a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. It’s too simple. “What?”
Javy nods toward the hat in the dining room. “Put the cowboy hat on.”
“Coyote,” Jake warns, his voice low.
“It’s just a hat,” you say, pushing off the couch and waving a hand dismissively.
You walk quickly across the living space toward the dining table, taking the hat off the back of the chair and plonking it on your head. When you turn back around, Jake’s mouth pops open, Javy and Reuben giggle, and Mickey and Natasha look like they’ve just realised what the stupid joke is.
“Oh, I get it!” Mickey announces proudly.
You frown at him, “Get what?”
He glances at Reuben, who makes the action of zipping his lips. Mickey turns back to you, “Sorry, I can’t say.”
You roll your eyes. “Alright, Fanboy, truth or dare?”
“Truth,” he says.
“What’s the big joke about the hat?”
“The hat rule,” he replies simply, as if it’s obvious.
“What hat rule?”
“The cowboy hat rule, you know-”
“Nope!” Javy exclaims. “Technically, he answered the question, you can’t get another answer.”
You huff, “Okay, whatever. Play your little games.”
You lean back and cross your arms, the hat still propped on your head. Across the circle, Jake’s eyes are trained on you, and there’s a hint of a smirk on his lips. He looks mildly amused by whatever the joke is that you don’t get, but he also looks a little like he might be enjoying the way the hat is sitting on your head. The alcohol rushing through your veins gives you the courage to hold his stare as you draw your bottom lip between your teeth before pulling it back out slowly. His eyes drop to your mouth, lingering there before he swallows thickly and looks away.
When you tune back into the game, you realise that Fritz is now asking Bradley truth or dare. You’re not sure what you missed, but you’re guessing it was one or two uneventful turns.
“Dare,” Bradley says.
“I dare you to walk out onto the balcony and make some weird, loud sex noises.”
Bradley springs up, excitedly jogging toward the balcony doors, throwing them open and starting to honk and moan the second he steps outside.
Jake chuckles into his hands. “You guys do realise that I still have to live here after tonight?”
“OOH, FUCK YEAH!” Bradley shouts, at which everyone’s laughter doubles.
Natasha nudges you, “Is this what you have to hear whenever he has a girl over?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” you say with a dramatic sigh.
Another few seconds pass of Bradley’s terrible sex noises before Jake calls him back inside. He sits back down beside you with a satisfied grin, his cheeks bright pink and eyes sparkling. He turns his attention to Jake. “Hangman, truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
Bradley clears his throat and casts you a quick glance before looking back at Jake. “What is the cowboy hat rule?”’
Javy and Reuben start to giggle again, and Jake sighs, looking incredibly sheepish as he runs a hand through his hair. “It’s uh- well,” he sighs, “you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.”
Your jaw goes slack and your mouth pops open, heart thundering in your chest. Bradley cackles beside you and Natasha snickers on your other side. The thought crosses your mind that if these people keep laughing so hard, they might explode.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Javy says to you before turning to look at Jake. “Now the two of you can fuck and relieve us all of this stifling sexual tension.”
Neither you nor Jake can muster a laugh. You simply stare at each other, thoughts racing as you wonder why Javy would do this. Is what he said true? Does Jake actually like you the way Bradley has always said? Is the tension between the two of you that obvious?
Eventually, the game rolls on, and neither you nor Jake get asked again. Truth or Dare somehow morphs into Would You Rather, and soon Bradley is standing beside you offering another round of drinks to the group. You stand up beside him and rush into the kitchen, dying for a moment away from Jake’s piercing gaze. It’s not that you don’t like him looking at you, you just wish you knew what it meant.
“You good?” Bradley asks as he steps into the kitchen after you.
You nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Still got the hat on,” he notes, pointing at your head.
You quickly take it off and plonk it on the kitchen counter before reaching up to the passthrough shutters and swinging them closed. No one seems to notice, and the small amount of privacy seems to help settle the butterfly disco currently happening in your stomach.
Bradley rummages through the fridge while you pour yourself a glass of water, sipping it slowly and watching him juggle as many bottles as he can between his two hands. He raises his brows at you before he leaves, a silent question, and you nod, assuring him that you’re fine. He disappears around the corner right before Jake steps into the kitchen, making your heart leap dramatically.
“Hey,” he says, seeming much more relaxed than you’re currently feeling.
“Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
You nod again, “Of course.”
“Coyote can be a little insensitive sometimes,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.
You shrug. “I’m tough. It was just a joke.”
He frowns. “Which part do you think was a joke?”
“The hat rule,” you reply, “right?”
“Oh,” he chuckles, “yeah, I mean, that is a known rule but I’m not going to-” he hesitates, “I mean, I would never- oh, my God, this isn’t coming out right.”
“It’s fine,” you say, dropping your gaze to your feet. “I know they were just having a laugh.”
“No, I don’t mean it like that either,” he adds frantically. He steps forward, leaving very little space between your bodies. “What I’m trying to say,” he says slowly, “is that I definitely would do that with you, but not if you didn’t want to.”
You look up, startled. “Would what?”
He chuckles awkwardly, the pink in his cheeks turning red. “Let you ride me, if you wanted.”
Looking up at his pretty green eyes is making your head spin, but you feel surprisingly stable. Something about his gaze is holding you steady, reassuring you the way a hug from your best friend does, and you quickly realise that this is the closest you’ve ever been able to stare into his eyes. They’re even more amazing up close.
“You’re very pretty,” you blurt out, internally cursing all that liquid courage.
He chuckles again, but its deep and breathy. “Thank you, but I’m nothing compared to you.”
You frown now. “You don’t think your pretty?”
“Well,” he shrugs, “I know I’m a little pretty.”
You roll your eyes playfully.
“But you are possibly the prettiest thing on this planet,” he adds, cupping your jaw in his hands.
The contact lights your skin on fire, and your heart is practically vibrating in your chest.
“Who’s the girl that you’re in love with?” you ask, once again unable to control that brain to mouth communication.
He chuckles again, his eyes darting away from your face and finding the hat on the bench. He reaches past you, his breath fanning across your neck as he picks the hat up off the counter and plonks it on your head.
“I’m in love with the girl wearing my old cowboy hat,” he says, hands holding either side of the brim as he adjusts the hat to sit perfectly.
You don’t even wait for him to finish fixing the hat before you surge up onto your toes, pressing your lips to his. He responds immediately, hands abandoning the hat to find your hips and hold your body tightly against his. You’re almost positive you can feel his heart beating where your chests are pressed together, and it’s almost as erratic as yours.
His lips move against yours gently, but there’s urgency in the way he holds your body, like you might disappear if he doesn’t hang on tight. Your own hands are gripping the hem of his shirt, fisting the material until you can feel your nails digging little half-moons into your palms. Maybe you feel the same, like if you don’t hold on, he’ll disappear, because you’re almost positive you’ve had this dream before.
He pulls back for air, keeping his forehead pressed against yours as his hands drop to the crease beneath your bum. In one swift movement, he lifts you onto the counter and stands between your open legs, the buckle of his belt pressing deliciously against the crotch of your jeans. You squeeze your knees around his hips and tilt your head back, letting his tongue slide past your lips. You sigh against his mouth, every ounce of tension from the past few hours leaching out of your body as his hands explore and squeeze your thighs.
“You have no idea”- he speaks breathily against your lips -“how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
You pull back, staring up at his puffy lips and lust-blown eyes. “Why did you wait, then?”
He chuckles and relaxes, the buckle of his belt no longer pressed against you. “Have you seen the way you and Rooster act?” he asks. “You’re practically inseparable, always having your little inside jokes, and you basically live together. How was I supposed to know you wanted me when all you do is look at him?”
You gnaw at your bottom lip, willing your foggy brain to sober up and try to picture things the way Jake would be seeing them. “I guess,” you say, resting your hands on his chest, “but I only look at him to avoid staring at you all the time.”
He tilts his head, a quizzical frown set between his brows. “Really?”
You nod. “And most of our inside jokes are about the fact that I’m hopelessly in love with you.”
His frown melts into a grin. “Hopelessly?”
“More or less.”
“More, I hope,” he murmurs as he leans forward again.
Your lips have barely touched when a bang startles you both. Jake holds you against his chest as you look over your shoulder to see the passthrough shutters blown wide open. Your friends are all gathered in the opening with stupid grins on their faces and laughter bubbling from their lips.
“I knew it!” Javy exclaims.
“That’s all it fucking took?” Bradley asks, his brows almost raised to his hairline.
“If I knew that, I would have put a cowboy hat on you ages ago,” Natasha says with an eye roll.
“Yeah, okay,” Jake says, his smile wide and cheeks bright red, “that’s enough from you lot.”
He reaches around you to grab the passthrough shutters and swing them closed, despite the shouts and protests of your friends. When his eyes find yours again, you feel like the only two people in the world. The noise from the living room fades away and the only thing you can feel is his warmth, his body.
“Where were we?” he murmurs, holding your face in his hands as he dips toward you again.
A sudden spike of panic slices through you, and you pull back with wide eyes. “Wait.”
His smile fades, worry creasing his brow. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re not just saying and doing all this because you’re drunk, right?”
The concern on his face dissolves just as quickly as it had appeared, replaced again by that dopey grin. “Baby, I’m not drunk. You are a bit drunk.”
You frown indignantly. “I am not drunk, I’m tipsy.”
“Okay, tipsy,” he chuckles. “Are you only kissing me because you’ve had a few drinks?”
You shake your head fervidly. “No. I’m kissing you now because sober me didn't have the balls to.”
He laughs again, a little harder. “Are you saying that you’re not going to kiss me again tomorrow?”
“Oh, I’m definitely not saying that,” you reply. The corner of your lips lift into a smirk as your eyes fall to his puffy pink lips. “You’ve opened the flood gates now. I’m going to have to put my lips on every inch of your body.”
When your eyes find his again, the pretty green of his irises is almost completely consumed by black, lust-blown pupils. “I’ll be right back,” he says, untangling his limbs from yours.
You hold on to the waistband of his jeans, not letting him move too far from you. “What are you doing?”
“Kicking everyone out so we can get to all the kissing and the licking,” he replies, as if it was obvious.
A soft giggle slips from your lips and you tug on his jeans, pulling him back into your arms. “As much as I love that idea, we should probably get back to celebrating Coyote’s birthday. We’ve got all day tomorrow to kiss and lick and suck and fuck.”
His jaw slackens and a soft groan rumbles from the back of his throat. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Not at all,” you reply with a cheeky grin. “Come on, let’s get back out there before they decide to come back in here.”
He sighs heavily as you slide off the counter, but before you can exit the kitchen, his hand wraps around your wrist. “We’re going to have to wait a minute,” he says, looking down at his pants.
You glance down to see a bulge in the dark blue denim at his crotch, the zipper almost straining against the pressure from the inside of his pants. You roll your lips to keep your giggles at bay, and to stop yourself from begging him to fuck you right here in the kitchen regardless of who can hear.
As if on cue, Bradley’s voice resonates from the living room, “You two better not be fucking in there! My beer is getting low and I will be getting another one no matter how traumatising it might be!”
summary; The Daggers suspects Jake has a girlfriend when he starts taking homemade food to base every day.
word count; 3.7k
warnings; another secret girlfriend trope because i wasn't lying when i said i had a hundred concepts planned for this. FLUFF FEST
a/n; i just thought this was a funny concept!!! also i have to admit i thought about it after watching one of those tiktok videos of girls packing their boyfriends lunch hahaah
masterlist
It started with the lunchbox.
At first, no one said anything — it was Jake Seresin, after all, and he had a habit of doing things just for the attention. But when he showed up on base three days in a row with the same sage green Stanley lunchbox tucked casually under his arm — with a matching thermos, no less — it didn’t go unnoticed.
Especially not during lunch.
They always ate together. Spread out across one of the long tables in the hangar break room or under the shade of the awning if the weather allowed. Paper bags, energy drinks, and fast food wrappers littered the table like confetti most days. But not Jake’s spot. Not anymore.
His lunch was neat. Glass containers with perfectly portioned meals, color-coded and stacked. Shiny utensils instead of plastic. Napkins — actual cloth napkins. And he wiped his hands with them. His coffee came from the thermos now — not the break room sludge or the vending machine down the hall — and it smelled faintly of cinnamon and something warm and sweet none of them could place.
The rest of the Daggers tried to ignore it at first. They really did.
But when Jake pulled out a kale salad with pomegranate seeds and some suspiciously perfect grilled chicken on a Tuesday — after years of watching him inhale gas station taquitos and drink Red Bull like water — something snapped.
They began watching.
Not staring, per se — just... observing. Like scientists. Anthropologists. Phoenix was the first to spot the change in behavior: Jake no longer bought food on base. No quick donuts. No protein bars with expiration dates rubbed off. He came prepared. Bob noted the tiny container of homemade salad dressing and the lemon wedge tucked beside it. Fanboy spotted fresh herbs — fresh herbs — scattered over roasted vegetables one day. And Rooster, ever the skeptic, saw the glass container of couscous and nearly fell out of his chair.
Couscous.
That Thursday, they were all eating lunch together as usual. Burgers and fries, burrito bowls, leftover pizza — the usual chaos. Except for Jake, who opened his lunchbox to reveal grilled salmon, jasmine rice, and something that looked an awful lot like sautéed spinach with garlic.
Not a word was said at first. But the silence was loud.
Jake, as always, ate like it was nothing. Cool and composed. Not a hint of embarrassment. If anything, he looked proud of his meal. Maybe even smug.
The others exchanged glances over greasy paper bags and foil wrappers. Something was happening. Something had changed.
Jake wasn’t just eating better. He was glowing.
His hair looked shinier. His skin? Suspiciously clear. He wasn’t snapping at anyone. He wasn’t even being a smug jackass as often as he usually was. He still smirked — but it was softer. More amused than arrogant. And then there was the humming. Jake had been humming under his breath lately. Actual tunes.
The realization came slowly, then all at once:
Someone was making him lunch.
Not just anyone. Someone who cared.
The neat handwriting on the masking tape labels. The balanced meals. The lemon wedge. The cinnamon coffee. The fresh herbs. All from scratch.
That wasn’t meal prep. That was love.
And that’s when it hit them — they were dealing with a full-blown mystery girlfriend situation.
No one had seen her. No one had heard about her. But she existed. And she cooked. And she packed his lunch in a Stanley box like a 1950s housewife crossed with a nutritionist.
The Dagger Squad didn’t say anything that day. But they all knew one thing:
They were going to get to the bottom of it.
Even if it killed them.
The confrontation came on a Friday, and it was far from subtle.
They were all seated around the usual table outside the hangar — Phoenix, Rooster, Fanboy, Bob, Coyote, and Jake. The air smelled like jet fuel, sunblock, and desperation. Lunch had just begun, and once again, Jake pulled out his Stanley lunchbox with the same casual nonchalance of a man not being stalked by his coworkers.
Except he was.
Fanboy was the first to break.
“That’s it,” he said, slapping a napkin down like he was laying a court summons. “Who is she?”
Jake didn’t even glance up as he unscrewed his thermos. “Excuse me?”
Phoenix leaned in, pointing at his perfectly packed tupperware like it had personally offended her. “You used to eat vending machine peanuts for lunch, Seresin. Dry ones. With Coke Zero. Now you’re out here with your anti-inflammatory salmon and chia seed pudding.”
Coyote nodded solemnly. “You brought fruit yesterday, man. In a ceramic bowl. Who the hell owns ceramic bowls?”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “People who don’t eat like raccoons?”
Rooster squinted at the fork in Jake’s hand. “Is that... bamboo?”
“Reusable,” Jake said, chewing slowly. “It’s called being environmentally conscious.”
Bob looked genuinely impressed. “The presentation is really nice. There’s, like, a color theme every day.”
Jake shot him a warning glance. “Et tu, Floyd?”
Fanboy ignored him. “So? Who’s the domestic goddess making your lunches?”
Jake leaned back, slow and smug. “Y’all are acting like I can’t boil rice.”
Phoenix crossed her arms. “Jake, last year you set off the smoke alarm reheating soup.”
“One time,” he said. “One time.”
Rooster leaned forward, face dead serious. “Is your mom visiting or something? Be honest. She’s staying with you, right? That’s why you’ve been showing up with fucking lemon vinaigrette.”
Jake snorted. “My mother hasn’t flown in since Christmas, and if she were making my lunch, you’d all be dead from butter overload.”
Coyote grinned. “So it’s not your mom.”
Jake finally looked up, leveling them all with a cool glance. “Why are you people so obsessed with what I eat?”
“Because it’s suspicious!” Phoenix threw her hands up. “You have a thermos now. And that coffee smells like snickerdoodles. Your mood’s suspiciously stable. Your skin looks... hydrated.”
Rooster nodded. “I said that last week, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” Bob added. “And his hair’s been extra fluffy.”
Jake rubbed his temple. “Jesus Christ.”
Fanboy leaned forward like he was about to interrogate a suspect. “You’ve got a girl, don’t you?”
Jake’s jaw ticked. “Not that it’s any of your business—”
“He has a girl!” Rooster exploded, pointing dramatically. “He’s so in love, it’s disgusting!”
Phoenix gasped, shoving Jake’s shoulder. “Oh my God, you’re domestic now. Who is she? Does she do your laundry? Does she iron your flight suits? Is she a ghost?”
“She’s not a ghost,” Jake muttered.
“Wait,” Coyote said, eyes narrowing. “Have we met her?”
Jake took another bite of his grilled chicken like he had all the time in the world. “No.”
“Why not?!” the table chorused in complete offense.
Jake shrugged. “Because she’s smarter than all of you, and I wanted her to like me before she met the clowns I work with.”
Rooster clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “He’s ashamed of us.”
Jake sighed dramatically. “You’re like toddlers. Nosy, loud toddlers.”
“I bet she bakes,” Phoenix said. “She definitely bakes.”
“She pickles,” Bob whispered in awe.
“You’re in love,” Coyote said, grinning. “Look at him. Look at that dumb smirk.”
Jake wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and raised his brow. “If you’re done analyzing my lunch like a bunch of food critics on meth, I’d like to eat in peace.”
But none of them were done. Not even close.
Because Jake Seresin — call sign Hangman, cockiest bastard alive — had a girlfriend.
And she packed him snack-size containers.
This was war.
When Jake walked through the front door, the scent of garlic and lemon greeted him first. Then came the faint hum of jazz from the kitchen speaker, and the soft shuffle of slippered feet across tile.
He closed the door behind him, shrugging off his flight jacket, and tossed his keys into the ceramic bowl by the entryway — the one you made yourself at that pottery class you dragged him to two months ago. The bowl was hideous, all warped and crooked and smudged with a thumbprint in the glaze.
He wouldn’t trade it for the world.
“Incoming,” he called, his voice echoing down the hallway.
“In here!” you answered gently, just barely loud enough to carry. It was a voice that never quite matched the chaos of the world he came from. Soft, warm, comforting — like fleece and firelight and freshly baked bread. Everything he didn’t know he needed until he had you.
Jake stepped into the kitchen, eyes landing on your small figure standing at the stove, stirring a pan of sautéed vegetables like it was the most important job in the universe. You wore an oversized sweatshirt that hung halfway to your knees and fuzzy socks with little peaches on them. Your hair was clipped up messily, a pencil tucked through it. Your cheeks were pink from the heat, your eyes bright as you turned to smile at him.
His day melted off his shoulders the second you looked at him like that.
“Hey, darlin’,” he said, walking up behind you and pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. “Dinner smells amazing. What is it?”
“Grilled salmon,” you said, reaching for the oven mitts. “Roasted sweet potato, asparagus, and quinoa with lemon zest. And I tried that raspberry vinaigrette you mentioned.”
Jake made a low sound in his throat, like a man witnessing divinity. “God, I love you.”
You giggled quietly. “You say that every time I feed you.”
“Yeah, well, it’s always true.”
He leaned over and snagged a slice of sweet potato from the baking tray. You batted his hand lightly with the spatula.
“No snacking,” you said, then softer, “You’ll ruin your appetite.”
Jake grinned, clearly unbothered. He slid onto one of the counter stools, still in his flight suit. “You would not believe the interrogation I was subjected to today.”
You turned off the burner and looked over, blinking. “Interrogation?”
“Oh yeah.” He pulled out his thermos, waved it for emphasis. “This. Your lunches. Apparently I’ve been exhibiting ‘suspiciously stable mood patterns,’” he added with exaggerated air quotes. “Rooster almost staged an intervention. Fanboy asked if my mother was visiting.”
Your eyes widened in concern. “Oh no, did I—did I cause a scene?”
Jake smirked, all teeth. “Babe, the scene was already there. You’re just the reason it’s gourmet now.”
You ducked your head, cheeks coloring. “They were really talking about my food?”
“Nonstop,” he said, voice softer now. “Bob noticed the color coordination. And I may have accidentally confirmed that yes, I’m off the market and eating like a real adult because of a certain little nutritionist I’m in love with.”
Your eyes flicked up to his, shy but glowing.
“Oh.”
Jake’s smile softened. He reached over the counter to brush a crumb from your chin. “Yeah. Oh.”
You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, nerves making your fingers twitch slightly. “Well... maybe they should just come over. For dinner. You know. If you want.”
Jake blinked. “Wait, you wanna meet them?”
You bit your lip, then nodded. “I mean... they’re important to you. And you’re important to me. I don’t want to be a secret.”
Jake stood, rounded the counter, and cupped your face with both hands, tilting your chin up gently. “You are not a secret. You’re my best-kept treasure. But if you want to meet the zoo I work with, I’ll happily unleash them on our home.”
You giggled nervously. “They’re not that bad, are they?”
Jake gave you a look. “One of them thought I was being poisoned because my skin started clearing up.”
You laughed out loud then, the sound like windchimes in spring. “Okay, maybe we’ll ease them in with dessert.”
“I’ll text them,” he said, already pulling out his phone. “Tomorrow night?”
You nodded, then hesitated. “Should I make the gluten-free pasta for Phoenix? I think you said she’s cutting back on wheat.”
Jake blinked. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’m thoughtful,” you corrected, nose wrinkling.
He kissed that exact wrinkle and pulled you close, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re perfect.”
And as he watched you pull out your little recipe notebook with color-coded tabs, already muttering about prep time and ingredients, Jake realized something:
His squad wasn’t ready for you.
But he was.
Jake had told them to arrive at 7:00 PM sharp.
Which, to be fair, was a bold assumption considering this group couldn’t even synchronize takeoff times most days — and yet, somehow, the entire Dagger Squad showed up early.
At 6:46 PM.
Jake opened the front door still wearing his "casual hosting" T-shirt — grey, a little snug on the arms — and a face full of horror as he looked past the group to his watch.
“You guys can’t read numbers?”
Phoenix blew past him like she owned the place, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of pastries in the other. “Relax, Hostess Seresin. We brought offerings.”
Javy followed right behind her, grinning. “We were hungry.”
“Some of us were excited to meet the mystery woman,” Bob added gently, clutching his own six-pack of sparkling water like it was a housewarming gift.
Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t have just waited in the driveway like normal people?”
“Normal people don’t talk about you bringing Tupperware and homemade lemon water for two weeks straight,” Rooster said, stepping inside and looking around the open-plan living room and kitchen. “This is like… a holy pilgrimage.”
“Make yourselves at home,” Jake muttered dryly, closing the door as Payback and Fanboy filtered in, already bickering about who called shotgun on the ride over.
“Wow,” Phoenix said, setting her wine on the counter and surveying the kitchen. “This place is nice. Did you clean just for us?”
“No, he lives like this now,” Fanboy replied, eyeing the perfectly folded throw on the couch. “Ever since he started bringing soup in a thermos. It’s freaky.”
Jake opened his mouth to snap back, but was immediately distracted by the sound of a cabinet opening and the soft pad of your footsteps.
“Jake, can you—oh.” You stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, your eyes landing on the cluster of aviators now standing in the middle of your living room like excited kids on a school field trip.
You were wearing a soft blue sweater, an apron still tied around your waist, your hands lightly dusted in flour. Your hair was clipped back, your expression shy but warm, and for a second, nobody said anything.
Then:
“Oh my God, you’re real,” Rooster said, like he couldn’t help himself.
“You made the lemon lavender loaf?!” Bob added, awe in his voice.
You blinked, cheeks warming. “Um… yes?”
“Hi,” Jake said quickly, stepping forward to loop an arm around your waist. “Everyone—this is my girlfriend.”
The room erupted in a chorus of greetings.
You gave a tiny, polite wave and a nervous smile. “Hi. Welcome. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” Javy said, practically vibrating with joy.
You stepped aside, motioning toward the dining room. “Dinner’s almost ready. Please, sit, make yourselves comfortable. There are drinks on the sideboard, and appetizers if you’re hungry now.”
“Oh my God, there are appetizers,” Rooster whispered reverently.
The dining table was a vision: long and wooden with soft linen runners, candles, and mismatched vintage plates. On the sideboard sat homemade lemonade, cucumber water, fresh juice, and two pitchers of iced tea — one sweet, one unsweetened. Next to that, a tray of cheese-stuffed mini bell peppers, tiny crostinis with whipped feta and honey, and skewered watermelon cubes with mint and balsamic glaze.
You stood back, hands twisted in your apron, as the Daggers descended.
“This is witchcraft,” Phoenix murmured around a crostini.
“What’s in this?” Fanboy asked, mouth full.
“Ricotta, lemon zest, and love,” Jake said flatly, earning a soft elbow from you.
Bob carefully poured himself some cucumber water, looking like he was about to cry from joy.
“Okay,” Payback said after his second skewer, “so let’s talk about how you’re real. Jake Seresin told us nothing except that you packed his lunch and made ‘homemade marinara from scratch.’”
You flushed. “Well, I’m a nutritionist, so… food is kind of my thing.”
“Oh my God, he wasn’t lying,” Rooster said dramatically.
Jake smirked. “Told you.”
Dinner proper was a feast.
You brought everything out in waves, starting with fresh-baked dinner rolls still warm from the oven, followed by a creamy butternut squash soup served in delicate ceramic bowls you’d thrifted with Jake one weekend.
“This is…?” Natasha asked, spoon midair.
“Roasted butternut squash, a little coconut milk, ginger, and nutmeg.”
“I’m ascending,” Fanboy said seriously.
Jake leaned toward Bob, who had already finished half his bowl. “You should see brunch.”
Next came the main course: a honey-glazed salmon, lemon herb roasted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted rainbow carrots, a spinach salad with strawberries and candied pecans, and a quinoa pilaf with grilled veggies.
“Oh my God, this is what Jake eats every day?” Fanboy asked, already scooping seconds. “We thought he joined a cult.”
“I made a peanut butter and jelly today,” Payback said. “A peanut butter and jelly.”
“Meanwhile, I’ve been eating gas station sushi,” Rooster mumbled.
Jake just leaned back in his chair, arm resting on the back of yours, smug as hell. “Yeah, well. You know. She likes me.”
Natasha snorted. “You’re just lucky she doesn’t realize she can do better.”
You gave a soft laugh, tucking your face into Jake’s shoulder. “I think I’m right where I want to be.”
Jake pressed a kiss to your temple.
Around the table, groans of fake gagging.
Then came dessert.
Which, of course, you also made from scratch.
Mini lava cakes. Fresh whipped cream. Vanilla bean custard. A tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries. And, because Jake had casually mentioned it in passing last week, a tiny banana cream pie — just for him.
There was silence as everyone took the first bite of lava cake.
Then, from Bob: “Do you… do you give cooking lessons?”
Jake snorted. “Bob, don’t fall in love with my girlfriend.”
“Too late.”
Eventually, the night wound down. Everyone was stuffed, glowing, and a little in awe. Jake sat back with his arm around you, and the rest of the Daggers sprawled like satisfied house cats in every available seat.
Phoenix raised her glass of lemonade. “To the chef. And to the woman who somehow managed to civilize Hangman.”
You smiled bashfully as everyone echoed the toast.
As they filtered out with hugs and leftovers and more compliments than you knew what to do with, Fanboy paused at the door and turned back to Jake.
“Hey man,” he said, nodding at you. “You’re punching so far above your weight.”
Jake just grinned, watching you finish wiping down the table, a dreamy look in his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
The house was finally quiet.
The last of the dishes were drying in the rack, the dining room table wiped clean, and the candles had long since flickered out. Outside, the crickets hummed a steady rhythm beneath the open kitchen window, and inside, the only light came from the under-cabinet glow washing everything in soft, honeyed warmth.
You leaned against the counter, still in your apron, still a little flustered from all the compliments. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your voice was hoarse from answering so many questions, but Jake? Jake looked at you like he could stay in this moment forever.
“Did you have fun?” you asked, brushing your fingers along the edge of the countertop, not quite meeting his gaze.
Jake didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped in front of you, gently untied your apron and set it aside on the counter. Then he leaned in, cupping your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing softly beneath your eye where the day’s effort still lingered.
“You are… incredible,” he said quietly.
You rolled your eyes, trying not to melt. “They were just hungry.”
“They were obsessed with you,” he corrected. “And for the record, so am I.”
You laughed, just a little. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m lucky,” he said, kissing your cheek. “That’s what I am.”
You hummed, looping your arms around his waist as he tugged you closer. The tips of your noses brushed. Your smile curled slow and sleepy as his lips found yours — slow, soft, a kiss made of everything unspoken. Thank you. I love you. Please don’t ever leave.
Jake pulled away just far enough to whisper, “You know I’d marry you for those lava cakes alone, right?”
You smacked his chest. “Go to bed, Hangman.”
He grinned. “I’m serious. That pie sealed it.”
You leaned up to kiss him one more time, quick and warm. “Brush your teeth first.”
“Bossy,” he said, but he was already walking away, barefoot and happy.
The next morning, at Naval Base North Island, the squad was gathered around the usual lunch table — same routine, same noisy chatter — when Jake strolled up like he didn’t have a care in the world, coffee thermos in one hand, and a pastel-colored bakery box in the other.
“Morning, sunshine,” Rooster called. “You recover from that feast?”
Jake smirked and plopped the box on the table. “Barely. But she sent me with these.”
Natasha blinked. “Wait… what’s that?”
Jake popped the lid. Inside: delicate rows of homemade pastries. Mini scones with lemon glaze. Tiny berry tarts. Swirls of buttery palmiers and flaky raspberry pinwheels. Each one placed with the care of someone who loved to feed the people her person loved.
“She made these?” Bob asked, already leaning in like he was in a dream.
“Packed them herself,” Jake said, lifting out a tiny wax-paper note that read, “For the squad. Don’t let Jake eat them all. Love, Me.”
“Oh my God, she likes us,” Fanboy gasped.
“She likes me more,” Jake said smugly, popping a tart into his mouth.
Natasha was already holding a scone delicately between her fingers. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“You didn’t tell us she bakes,” Payback said through a mouthful.
Jake wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back in his seat like he’d just conquered the world.
