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My obsessions include but are not limited to: SLEEP TOKEN, All types of music, Top Gun Maverick, Marvel, Supernatural, music, coffee, dogs, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Sam Wilson, angsty fics, Steve Rogers, Michael B. Jordan, Rick Flag, Joel Kinnaman, fluffy fics, things that make me laugh, Bucky Barnes, Henry Cavill, Tommy Vext, smutty fics, funny men, and so much more.
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Summary: The decision has been made, and Jake is helpless to stop it.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, break-up. W/C: 900. Pairing: Jake x Reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).
Word of the day (May 16, 2026) - Mover
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch // image from fancaps.net
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Jake almost trips over the box labeled BOOKS in thick black marker sitting by the open front door of your shared apartment.
He stares at it from the hallway for a second too long, grocery bag hanging from his hand, duffel slung over his shoulder. Somewhere outside, a car alarm chirps into the afternoon heat, almost like a warning.
Deeper into the apartment, something scrapes across the hardwood. Another box slides into view, this one says KITCHEN.
Jake’s stomach drops clear through the floor. For a second, his brain tries to invent another explanation—spring cleaning, donations, you're reorganizing.
Then he sees the movers. Wearing shirts with the same logo as the van he passed outside. Big guys in matching black shirts carrying your dining chairs out like pallbearers.
One of them gives Jake an awkward nod on the way past.
“Careful with that one,” he hears you call from inside. “The leg’s loose.”
You sound calm, steady, maybe a little excited. Somehow that's worse. He reluctantly moves forward, dodging boxes, pulse hitching with each step like walking through the aftermath of a crash site.
Faded shapes dot the walls where pictures and decor once hung. The refrigerator's surface is bare. No longer cluttered with Polaroids and old notes suspended by kitschy magnets. Cabinet doors stand open, hollow like spent missile shells, void of the very thing that gave them purpose.
In the middle of it all, you're bent over a box, smiling, his old Naval Academy shirt hanging loose on your shoulders. Tape dispenser in your hand like a gun, shooting directly into his chest at the screech of sealing boxes.
“Hey.”
Hey. As if he’d just come from work to find you reading your favorite book, like there wasn’t a man currently carrying your life down three flights of stairs.
Jake drops his duffel to the floor and cautiously sets the groceries down on the counter—bread, beer, the coffee creamer you like—ordinary things.
“What’s all this?”
The question comes out rougher than intended. The way you delay a response, securing the tape with the heel of your hand, tightens his chest.
Still not looking at him, you move to seal another box, then finally reply, “You know what this is.”
Jake laughs once under his breath. Short. Disbelieving.
“No. I don’t.”
You lay the tape gun on top of the box and finally turn your attention to him. He wishes you hadn't. There’s something devastating in the fact that you don’t seem angry or upset. You look tired.
“I took the job, Jake. I signed a lease three weeks ago.”
Three weeks. How had he not known? Because, of course, he didn’t know. He’d been gone more than he’d been home. Training, deployments, he’d accepted a teaching job too.
“You could’ve said something.”
Your eyebrows lift slightly. “I did.”
He remembers now. Every “Not now, baby.” “I’m sorry, baby.” Every promise to talk later that dissolved into another deployment schedule or another night when Jake pretended he didn’t see the distance growing between you.
“You decided to do this while I was away?”
“You’re always away lately.”
“You knew I was coming back today.”
You shrug. No yelling or theatrics. It's worse than if there were screaming. “The last seven times, seven, you said were coming home, you called to say something else had come up. A day turns into a week, a week into a month.”
He looks around the apartment again, really looks this time. He doesn’t recognize the coffee table beside the armchair where you like to read or the lamp atop it. How long had that been there? How long had it been since he’d been home?
The empty bookshelf. The missing pictures. The absence of you is everywhere because he’d never lived here, not really.
A slow horror starts crawling across his skin. This isn’t impulsive. This isn’t a fight.
Another mover shuffles through the scene, carrying more boxes. He wants to yell at them to stop, for everyone just to stop and give him a damn minute, but he knows it's futile.
You’re already gone.
“So this is it? You’re not even gonna fight for us?”
You shake your head, looking up at the ceiling, and he knows you're fighting back tears. “That’s just it, I have been. I’ve been fighting so damn hard, but I can’t keep begging you to notice me, to put us first, just once.” Sighing, you angrily swipe at the falling tears. “I’m tired, Jake. I’m done.”
It's not the leaving, or the boxes, not even the tears, it's the exhausted sigh, because he’s never seen or heard that before.
Jake crosses the room before fully thinking. “You want me to notice you?” he says, voice sharp with panic. “Baby, I see you. I’m here.”
“No,” you whisper. “That’s the problem, you’re always halfway out the door even when you are here." Holding up your left hand, you look him square in the eye. "You put this on my finger, but you’re always too busy to take the next step. I’ve tried...” Your voice shakes. “I passed up two promotions to be here with you. I’ve put my life on hold for you, for us. I can’t anymore.”
Jake stares at your hand while the truth swirls in the air along with the dust motes.
He loves you. Everyone knows that. Hell, you know that. But love unattended starts to warp and rust, like an unkept engine. Until it finally breaks beyond repair.
Part 2 - I See You - Jake returns a box of your belongings.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Summary: Jake’s too focused on making the night perfect that he’s forgotten the most important part.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, fluff.
W/C: 1,713.
Pairing: Jake x reader.
Notes: sequel to The Right Choice
Word of the day (July 14, 2026) - Steak
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day - July 2026 // Main // Beyond Repair-verse
Jake is really trying. Trying to act normal. Trying to hide that he misses you already, even though you’re sitting across the table from him. Trying to pretend that his heart isn’t in his throat, which is probably a good thing because otherwise he might beg you to reconsider, and not leave.
He knows it's not about him. You aren’t leaving him. Still, it hurts. You made your decision. You’re going to Colorado. You contacted the company last Monday, and they were eager to get the ball rolling. They gave you two weeks to get things sorted, and so you’ll be gone on Friday. It’s Wednesday.
“How’s your steak?” you ask, focusing on cutting your own.
It’s probably delicious. It’s expensive enough that it should be served with a gold bar on top and have someone cut it for you, but all Jake can taste is the bitter bile of loss.
How is this supposed to work? How is he supposed to prove he deserves the second chance you gave him when you’re two states away?
Somehow, this feels worse than when he walked in on you packing up your life, because at least then he hadn’t seen it coming. This time, helpless to stop it, he watched it happen one cardboard box at a time. Hell, he helped you pack this time. He isn’t pretending to be the supportive boyfriend; he’s super excited for you, but not excited about you being gone.
“Jake,” you say, softly, looking up at him.
He’s taken too long to answer, and from the sympathetic look you give him, you know he’s stuck in his own head.
“Sorry.” He tries to smile, but it feels like a betrayal of himself. He isn’t happy, and there’s nothing to smile about. Not right now. “What was the question?”
Gently, you set your knife and fork on the plate, steak half-eaten, fries barely touched. “Can we get out of here?” You ask.
Confused, he frowns down at your plate. “Is something wrong with the food?”
“No,” you say quickly, “It’s fine. I’m grateful you took the time to make a reservation and spend some time with me. But…I’ve only got two days left to be with you, and I don’t want to be sitting in a fancy restaurant where I can barely reach you.” As a way of demonstration, you stretch your arm across the table, and Jake immediately gives you his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He’s getting it wrong. He’d wanted tonight to be special. Instead, he’s somehow turned it into a wake.
“I wanna be at the Hard Deck with our friends.” You start to babble, your words tumbling over each other. “I wanna drink a beer with Nat. I wanna listen to Bradshaw and you shoot barbs at each other. I wanna mock Reuben for burning his uniform with the iron, again. I wanna listen to Mickey and Bob debate if Star Wars or Star Trek is better. I wanna watch Javy pine over Nat and give him shit for being too scared to say anything. And I want us to sneak off to the beach to have a make-out session that goes way too far before we realize we’re in public. I wanna do it all before, before I...” You cut yourself off and avert your gaze.
“Before you can’t anymore.”
“It’s not forever,” you say.
He’s not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.
“I know.”
“I negotiated extra paid leave and working remotely, so if you get deployed, I can be closer when possible.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t the end.”
He doesn’t have a response because he’s not certain of that. Instead, he motions to a waiter and asks for the bill.
The restaurant buzzes around you, wine glasses clink. Someone at the next table laughs. A birthday is being celebrated in the corner, a sparkler fizzing above a slice of chocolate cake. The whole room keeps moving, but Jake is frozen.
“I’ve been treating this like,” he searches for the words. Sighing, “like we’re saying goodbye.”
“We’re not.”
“But it feels like I am.”
It’s your turn now, “I know. But you’re trying so hard not to waste the time we’ve got left that you’ve forgotten to enjoy it.”
Holding hands, you walk silently to Jake’s truck, neither of you quite sure what to say. He kisses you softly as he opens the passenger door. “Your chariot awaits.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” you smile, sliding into the seat. Jake rounds the front of the truck, and you watch him heave out a deep breath before he opens the door to climb in.
“So,” he says, pulling out his phone as he gets behind the wheel. “Music?”
“Do I get to pick?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dictators always think they’re right.”
“History supports me.”
“You’ve got questionable taste, Seresin.”
He clutches his chest dramatically. “I’ve never been so insulted.”
“Please, you’ve been insulted far worse.”
“True,” he chuckles, scrolling through his phone as he turns the key to start the engine.
“I see you skipped my playlist.”
“I saved us both.”
You shake your head as Fleetwood Mac begins to play, and Jake puts the truck into drive. “I’ll allow it because Fleetwood Mac are objectively excellent.”
He shoots you a sideways glance, putting his foot on the brake a little too hard as the truck rolls. “Objectively?”
“Yes. Fleetwood Mac is objectively excellent.”
“You're using ‘objectively’ wrong.”
“Objectively, I'm not. Queen is better.”
“Okay,” Jake nods, “You’ve got until we get to the Hard Deck to convince me.”
By the time the Hard Deck comes into view, you’re both loudly singing the last chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody together, completely off-key. Jake kills the engine, and the music fades, leaving the muffled sounds spilling out of the bar as background noise.
Jake stares at the familiar weathered building through the windshield. He gives himself to the count of ten before he gets out, holding back a grimace. Selfishly, he doesn’t want to share you with his friends. Not tonight.
You turn when he opens the door, but don't step down. Instead, you grasp the front of his shirt and pull him to you, parting your legs so he can stand between them. Instinctively, he slides his hands up your thighs to rest on your hips.
“You know I don’t care about fancy dinners, right?” Wrapping your arms around his neck, you add, “I don’t care where we eat. I don’t care if it’s steak or gas station sandwiches.” Your thumbs brush the ends of his hair. “I just want Wednesday.”
He laughs once. It’s barely more than an exhale. “I know. I’ve been trying so hard to make everything perfect,” he sighs, annoyed at himself for trying too hard.
“And you have,” you nod. “But you’ve forgotten you’re my favorite part.”
His breath catches. “Fuck. You always know how to undo me.”
Your smile is smug, biting your bottom lip to stifle it doesn’t work. “I know.”
“You’re getting cocky,” he shoots back.
“I’ve been spending time with you.”
“You should ask for a refund.”
“Jake, shut up and kiss me.”
So he does. Before he can think of another joke, another deflection, another attempt to be brave, he kisses you.
Slowly at first, tentative. Then you kiss him back. Everything he’s been trying so desperately to hold together comes apart in the space of a heartbeat.
The kiss is anything but careful. It’s hungry desperation. Days of pretending everything is fine. It’s a goodbye and an ‘I miss you’ and months of wondering if he’d ever get the chance to kiss you like this again. He’ll never not take the opportunity.
His hands slide from your hips to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s little space left between you.
It’s relief and longing. It’s hurt and desire. It’s painful and soothing. It’s every conversation you haven’t had because saying goodbye out loud somehow makes Friday arrive faster.
When you pull apart, he’s breathing just as hard as you are.
Your smug grin is back. “That,” you whisper, “is all I wanted tonight.”
Jake smiles, resting his forehead on yours and closing his eyes. “I can work with that.”
A knock on the driver's window makes you both jump. You spin around to see Javy with the biggest grin, pointing at his watch.
“You two planning on coming inside? Or should I tell everyone the make-out session started early?”
Jake groans. “Say the word,” he whispers, just for you, “and I’ll take you home to finish this properly.”
You laugh, pecking his lips. “Try to behave for one hour.”
“No promises.”
“I heard that,” Javy says, now on the other side of the open door.
Jake doesn’t take his eyes off you, holding your hand as you jump down out of the truck. “Mind your business, Machado.”
Javy snorts, throwing his arm over your shoulder. “The last time you told me to mind my business, Seresin, the three of us almost got banned from the Hard Deck because you two got ‘locked’ in the store cupboard.”
“The door was stuck,” You quickly defend. Neither of the men brings up the fact that you had no business being in there in the first place.
Jake catches up and takes your hand as you walk, arguing, “If you’d been a better lookout, Coyote. We wouldn’t have come close to getting caught.” Jake winks when you meet his eye.
Javy stops and turns to face you both, looking down at your joined hands. “I like this,” he smiles, “you two look like you again.”
That stops Jake short, and he has no snarky remark because Javy is right. The last few months have been filled with forced smiles, careful conversations, and pretending everything was okay.
Tonight, you’d fought about music, shared a steak you barely ate, and made out in his truck like two teenagers. Somewhere between the restaurant and the Hard Deck, Wednesday had stopped feeling like a countdown.
It had simply become another Wednesday. Jake squeezes your hand.
Friday is still on its way. The distance isn’t any smaller, but now he isn’t thinking about the miles that will be between you. He’s thinking about the hour ahead. For tonight, that’s enough.
A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.
Summary: Jake’s too focused on making the night perfect that he’s forgotten the most important part.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, fluff.
W/C: 1,713.
Pairing: Jake x reader.
Notes: sequel to The Right Choice
Word of the day (July 14, 2026) - Steak
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day - July 2026 // Main // Beyond Repair-verse
Jake is really trying. Trying to act normal. Trying to hide that he misses you already, even though you’re sitting across the table from him. Trying to pretend that his heart isn’t in his throat, which is probably a good thing because otherwise he might beg you to reconsider, and not leave.
He knows it's not about him. You aren’t leaving him. Still, it hurts. You made your decision. You’re going to Colorado. You contacted the company last Monday, and they were eager to get the ball rolling. They gave you two weeks to get things sorted, and so you’ll be gone on Friday. It’s Wednesday.
“How’s your steak?” you ask, focusing on cutting your own.
It’s probably delicious. It’s expensive enough that it should be served with a gold bar on top and have someone cut it for you, but all Jake can taste is the bitter bile of loss.
How is this supposed to work? How is he supposed to prove he deserves the second chance you gave him when you’re two states away?
Somehow, this feels worse than when he walked in on you packing up your life, because at least then he hadn’t seen it coming. This time, helpless to stop it, he watched it happen one cardboard box at a time. Hell, he helped you pack this time. He isn’t pretending to be the supportive boyfriend; he’s super excited for you, but not excited about you being gone.
“Jake,” you say, softly, looking up at him.
He’s taken too long to answer, and from the sympathetic look you give him, you know he’s stuck in his own head.
“Sorry.” He tries to smile, but it feels like a betrayal of himself. He isn’t happy, and there’s nothing to smile about. Not right now. “What was the question?”
Gently, you set your knife and fork on the plate, steak half-eaten, fries barely touched. “Can we get out of here?” You ask.
Confused, he frowns down at your plate. “Is something wrong with the food?”
“No,” you say quickly, “It’s fine. I’m grateful you took the time to make a reservation and spend some time with me. But…I’ve only got two days left to be with you, and I don’t want to be sitting in a fancy restaurant where I can barely reach you.” As a way of demonstration, you stretch your arm across the table, and Jake immediately gives you his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He’s getting it wrong. He’d wanted tonight to be special. Instead, he’s somehow turned it into a wake.
“I wanna be at the Hard Deck with our friends.” You start to babble, your words tumbling over each other. “I wanna drink a beer with Nat. I wanna listen to Bradshaw and you shoot barbs at each other. I wanna mock Reuben for burning his uniform with the iron, again. I wanna listen to Mickey and Bob debate if Star Wars or Star Trek is better. I wanna watch Javy pine over Nat and give him shit for being too scared to say anything. And I want us to sneak off to the beach to have a make-out session that goes way too far before we realize we’re in public. I wanna do it all before, before I...” You cut yourself off and avert your gaze.
“Before you can’t anymore.”
“It’s not forever,” you say.
He’s not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.
“I know.”
“I negotiated extra paid leave and working remotely, so if you get deployed, I can be closer when possible.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t the end.”
He doesn’t have a response because he’s not certain of that. Instead, he motions to a waiter and asks for the bill.
The restaurant buzzes around you, wine glasses clink. Someone at the next table laughs. A birthday is being celebrated in the corner, a sparkler fizzing above a slice of chocolate cake. The whole room keeps moving, but Jake is frozen.
“I’ve been treating this like,” he searches for the words. Sighing, “like we’re saying goodbye.”
“We’re not.”
“But it feels like I am.”
It’s your turn now, “I know. But you’re trying so hard not to waste the time we’ve got left that you’ve forgotten to enjoy it.”
Holding hands, you walk silently to Jake’s truck, neither of you quite sure what to say. He kisses you softly as he opens the passenger door. “Your chariot awaits.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” you smile, sliding into the seat. Jake rounds the front of the truck, and you watch him heave out a deep breath before he opens the door to climb in.
“So,” he says, pulling out his phone as he gets behind the wheel. “Music?”
“Do I get to pick?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dictators always think they’re right.”
“History supports me.”
“You’ve got questionable taste, Seresin.”
He clutches his chest dramatically. “I’ve never been so insulted.”
“Please, you’ve been insulted far worse.”
“True,” he chuckles, scrolling through his phone as he turns the key to start the engine.
“I see you skipped my playlist.”
“I saved us both.”
You shake your head as Fleetwood Mac begins to play, and Jake puts the truck into drive. “I’ll allow it because Fleetwood Mac are objectively excellent.”
He shoots you a sideways glance, putting his foot on the brake a little too hard as the truck rolls. “Objectively?”
“Yes. Fleetwood Mac is objectively excellent.”
“You're using ‘objectively’ wrong.”
“Objectively, I'm not. Queen is better.”
“Okay,” Jake nods, “You’ve got until we get to the Hard Deck to convince me.”
By the time the Hard Deck comes into view, you’re both loudly singing the last chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody together, completely off-key. Jake kills the engine, and the music fades, leaving the muffled sounds spilling out of the bar as background noise.
Jake stares at the familiar weathered building through the windshield. He gives himself to the count of ten before he gets out, holding back a grimace. Selfishly, he doesn’t want to share you with his friends. Not tonight.
You turn when he opens the door, but don't step down. Instead, you grasp the front of his shirt and pull him to you, parting your legs so he can stand between them. Instinctively, he slides his hands up your thighs to rest on your hips.
“You know I don’t care about fancy dinners, right?” Wrapping your arms around his neck, you add, “I don’t care where we eat. I don’t care if it’s steak or gas station sandwiches.” Your thumbs brush the ends of his hair. “I just want Wednesday.”
He laughs once. It’s barely more than an exhale. “I know. I’ve been trying so hard to make everything perfect,” he sighs, annoyed at himself for trying too hard.
“And you have,” you nod. “But you’ve forgotten you’re my favorite part.”
His breath catches. “Fuck. You always know how to undo me.”
Your smile is smug, biting your bottom lip to stifle it doesn’t work. “I know.”
“You’re getting cocky,” he shoots back.
“I’ve been spending time with you.”
“You should ask for a refund.”
“Jake, shut up and kiss me.”
So he does. Before he can think of another joke, another deflection, another attempt to be brave, he kisses you.
Slowly at first, tentative. Then you kiss him back. Everything he’s been trying so desperately to hold together comes apart in the space of a heartbeat.
The kiss is anything but careful. It’s hungry desperation. Days of pretending everything is fine. It’s a goodbye and an ‘I miss you’ and months of wondering if he’d ever get the chance to kiss you like this again. He’ll never not take the opportunity.
His hands slide from your hips to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s little space left between you.
It’s relief and longing. It’s hurt and desire. It’s painful and soothing. It’s every conversation you haven’t had because saying goodbye out loud somehow makes Friday arrive faster.
When you pull apart, he’s breathing just as hard as you are.
Your smug grin is back. “That,” you whisper, “is all I wanted tonight.”
Jake smiles, resting his forehead on yours and closing his eyes. “I can work with that.”
A knock on the driver's window makes you both jump. You spin around to see Javy with the biggest grin, pointing at his watch.
“You two planning on coming inside? Or should I tell everyone the make-out session started early?”
Jake groans. “Say the word,” he whispers, just for you, “and I’ll take you home to finish this properly.”
You laugh, pecking his lips. “Try to behave for one hour.”
“No promises.”
“I heard that,” Javy says, now on the other side of the open door.
Jake doesn’t take his eyes off you, holding your hand as you jump down out of the truck. “Mind your business, Machado.”
Javy snorts, throwing his arm over your shoulder. “The last time you told me to mind my business, Seresin, the three of us almost got banned from the Hard Deck because you two got ‘locked’ in the store cupboard.”
“The door was stuck,” You quickly defend. Neither of the men brings up the fact that you had no business being in there in the first place.
Jake catches up and takes your hand as you walk, arguing, “If you’d been a better lookout, Coyote. We wouldn’t have come close to getting caught.” Jake winks when you meet his eye.
Javy stops and turns to face you both, looking down at your joined hands. “I like this,” he smiles, “you two look like you again.”
That stops Jake short, and he has no snarky remark because Javy is right. The last few months have been filled with forced smiles, careful conversations, and pretending everything was okay.
Tonight, you’d fought about music, shared a steak you barely ate, and made out in his truck like two teenagers. Somewhere between the restaurant and the Hard Deck, Wednesday had stopped feeling like a countdown.
It had simply become another Wednesday. Jake squeezes your hand.
Friday is still on its way. The distance isn’t any smaller, but now he isn’t thinking about the miles that will be between you. He’s thinking about the hour ahead. For tonight, that’s enough.
A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.
Summary: Jake’s too focused on making the night perfect that he’s forgotten the most important part.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, fluff.
W/C: 1,713.
Pairing: Jake x reader.
Notes: sequel to The Right Choice
Word of the day (July 14, 2026) - Steak
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day - July 2026 // Main // Beyond Repair-verse
Jake is really trying. Trying to act normal. Trying to hide that he misses you already, even though you’re sitting across the table from him. Trying to pretend that his heart isn’t in his throat, which is probably a good thing because otherwise he might beg you to reconsider, and not leave.
He knows it's not about him. You aren’t leaving him. Still, it hurts. You made your decision. You’re going to Colorado. You contacted the company last Monday, and they were eager to get the ball rolling. They gave you two weeks to get things sorted, and so you’ll be gone on Friday. It’s Wednesday.
“How’s your steak?” you ask, focusing on cutting your own.
It’s probably delicious. It’s expensive enough that it should be served with a gold bar on top and have someone cut it for you, but all Jake can taste is the bitter bile of loss.
How is this supposed to work? How is he supposed to prove he deserves the second chance you gave him when you’re two states away?
Somehow, this feels worse than when he walked in on you packing up your life, because at least then he hadn’t seen it coming. This time, helpless to stop it, he watched it happen one cardboard box at a time. Hell, he helped you pack this time. He isn’t pretending to be the supportive boyfriend; he’s super excited for you, but not excited about you being gone.
“Jake,” you say, softly, looking up at him.
He’s taken too long to answer, and from the sympathetic look you give him, you know he’s stuck in his own head.
“Sorry.” He tries to smile, but it feels like a betrayal of himself. He isn’t happy, and there’s nothing to smile about. Not right now. “What was the question?”
Gently, you set your knife and fork on the plate, steak half-eaten, fries barely touched. “Can we get out of here?” You ask.
Confused, he frowns down at your plate. “Is something wrong with the food?”
“No,” you say quickly, “It’s fine. I’m grateful you took the time to make a reservation and spend some time with me. But…I’ve only got two days left to be with you, and I don’t want to be sitting in a fancy restaurant where I can barely reach you.” As a way of demonstration, you stretch your arm across the table, and Jake immediately gives you his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He’s getting it wrong. He’d wanted tonight to be special. Instead, he’s somehow turned it into a wake.
“I wanna be at the Hard Deck with our friends.” You start to babble, your words tumbling over each other. “I wanna drink a beer with Nat. I wanna listen to Bradshaw and you shoot barbs at each other. I wanna mock Reuben for burning his uniform with the iron, again. I wanna listen to Mickey and Bob debate if Star Wars or Star Trek is better. I wanna watch Javy pine over Nat and give him shit for being too scared to say anything. And I want us to sneak off to the beach to have a make-out session that goes way too far before we realize we’re in public. I wanna do it all before, before I...” You cut yourself off and avert your gaze.
“Before you can’t anymore.”
“It’s not forever,” you say.
He’s not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.
“I know.”
“I negotiated extra paid leave and working remotely, so if you get deployed, I can be closer when possible.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t the end.”
He doesn’t have a response because he’s not certain of that. Instead, he motions to a waiter and asks for the bill.
The restaurant buzzes around you, wine glasses clink. Someone at the next table laughs. A birthday is being celebrated in the corner, a sparkler fizzing above a slice of chocolate cake. The whole room keeps moving, but Jake is frozen.
“I’ve been treating this like,” he searches for the words. Sighing, “like we’re saying goodbye.”
“We’re not.”
“But it feels like I am.”
It’s your turn now, “I know. But you’re trying so hard not to waste the time we’ve got left that you’ve forgotten to enjoy it.”
Holding hands, you walk silently to Jake’s truck, neither of you quite sure what to say. He kisses you softly as he opens the passenger door. “Your chariot awaits.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” you smile, sliding into the seat. Jake rounds the front of the truck, and you watch him heave out a deep breath before he opens the door to climb in.
“So,” he says, pulling out his phone as he gets behind the wheel. “Music?”
“Do I get to pick?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dictators always think they’re right.”
“History supports me.”
“You’ve got questionable taste, Seresin.”
He clutches his chest dramatically. “I’ve never been so insulted.”
“Please, you’ve been insulted far worse.”
“True,” he chuckles, scrolling through his phone as he turns the key to start the engine.
“I see you skipped my playlist.”
“I saved us both.”
You shake your head as Fleetwood Mac begins to play, and Jake puts the truck into drive. “I’ll allow it because Fleetwood Mac are objectively excellent.”
He shoots you a sideways glance, putting his foot on the brake a little too hard as the truck rolls. “Objectively?”
“Yes. Fleetwood Mac is objectively excellent.”
“You're using ‘objectively’ wrong.”
“Objectively, I'm not. Queen is better.”
“Okay,” Jake nods, “You’ve got until we get to the Hard Deck to convince me.”
By the time the Hard Deck comes into view, you’re both loudly singing the last chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody together, completely off-key. Jake kills the engine, and the music fades, leaving the muffled sounds spilling out of the bar as background noise.
Jake stares at the familiar weathered building through the windshield. He gives himself to the count of ten before he gets out, holding back a grimace. Selfishly, he doesn’t want to share you with his friends. Not tonight.
You turn when he opens the door, but don't step down. Instead, you grasp the front of his shirt and pull him to you, parting your legs so he can stand between them. Instinctively, he slides his hands up your thighs to rest on your hips.
“You know I don’t care about fancy dinners, right?” Wrapping your arms around his neck, you add, “I don’t care where we eat. I don’t care if it’s steak or gas station sandwiches.” Your thumbs brush the ends of his hair. “I just want Wednesday.”
He laughs once. It’s barely more than an exhale. “I know. I’ve been trying so hard to make everything perfect,” he sighs, annoyed at himself for trying too hard.
“And you have,” you nod. “But you’ve forgotten you’re my favorite part.”
His breath catches. “Fuck. You always know how to undo me.”
Your smile is smug, biting your bottom lip to stifle it doesn’t work. “I know.”
“You’re getting cocky,” he shoots back.
“I’ve been spending time with you.”
“You should ask for a refund.”
“Jake, shut up and kiss me.”
So he does. Before he can think of another joke, another deflection, another attempt to be brave, he kisses you.
Slowly at first, tentative. Then you kiss him back. Everything he’s been trying so desperately to hold together comes apart in the space of a heartbeat.
The kiss is anything but careful. It’s hungry desperation. Days of pretending everything is fine. It’s a goodbye and an ‘I miss you’ and months of wondering if he’d ever get the chance to kiss you like this again. He’ll never not take the opportunity.
His hands slide from your hips to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s little space left between you.
It’s relief and longing. It’s hurt and desire. It’s painful and soothing. It’s every conversation you haven’t had because saying goodbye out loud somehow makes Friday arrive faster.
When you pull apart, he’s breathing just as hard as you are.
Your smug grin is back. “That,” you whisper, “is all I wanted tonight.”
Jake smiles, resting his forehead on yours and closing his eyes. “I can work with that.”
A knock on the driver's window makes you both jump. You spin around to see Javy with the biggest grin, pointing at his watch.
“You two planning on coming inside? Or should I tell everyone the make-out session started early?”
Jake groans. “Say the word,” he whispers, just for you, “and I’ll take you home to finish this properly.”
You laugh, pecking his lips. “Try to behave for one hour.”
“No promises.”
“I heard that,” Javy says, now on the other side of the open door.
Jake doesn’t take his eyes off you, holding your hand as you jump down out of the truck. “Mind your business, Machado.”
Javy snorts, throwing his arm over your shoulder. “The last time you told me to mind my business, Seresin, the three of us almost got banned from the Hard Deck because you two got ‘locked’ in the store cupboard.”
“The door was stuck,” You quickly defend. Neither of the men brings up the fact that you had no business being in there in the first place.
Jake catches up and takes your hand as you walk, arguing, “If you’d been a better lookout, Coyote. We wouldn’t have come close to getting caught.” Jake winks when you meet his eye.
Javy stops and turns to face you both, looking down at your joined hands. “I like this,” he smiles, “you two look like you again.”
That stops Jake short, and he has no snarky remark because Javy is right. The last few months have been filled with forced smiles, careful conversations, and pretending everything was okay.
Tonight, you’d fought about music, shared a steak you barely ate, and made out in his truck like two teenagers. Somewhere between the restaurant and the Hard Deck, Wednesday had stopped feeling like a countdown.
It had simply become another Wednesday. Jake squeezes your hand.
Friday is still on its way. The distance isn’t any smaller, but now he isn’t thinking about the miles that will be between you. He’s thinking about the hour ahead. For tonight, that’s enough.
A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.
Summary: Jake’s too focused on making the night perfect that he’s forgotten the most important part.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, fluff.
W/C: 1,713.
Pairing: Jake x reader.
Notes: sequel to The Right Choice
Word of the day (July 14, 2026) - Steak
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day - July 2026 // Main // Beyond Repair-verse
Jake is really trying. Trying to act normal. Trying to hide that he misses you already, even though you’re sitting across the table from him. Trying to pretend that his heart isn’t in his throat, which is probably a good thing because otherwise he might beg you to reconsider, and not leave.
He knows it's not about him. You aren’t leaving him. Still, it hurts. You made your decision. You’re going to Colorado. You contacted the company last Monday, and they were eager to get the ball rolling. They gave you two weeks to get things sorted, and so you’ll be gone on Friday. It’s Wednesday.
“How’s your steak?” you ask, focusing on cutting your own.
It’s probably delicious. It’s expensive enough that it should be served with a gold bar on top and have someone cut it for you, but all Jake can taste is the bitter bile of loss.
How is this supposed to work? How is he supposed to prove he deserves the second chance you gave him when you’re two states away?
Somehow, this feels worse than when he walked in on you packing up your life, because at least then he hadn’t seen it coming. This time, helpless to stop it, he watched it happen one cardboard box at a time. Hell, he helped you pack this time. He isn’t pretending to be the supportive boyfriend; he’s super excited for you, but not excited about you being gone.
“Jake,” you say, softly, looking up at him.
He’s taken too long to answer, and from the sympathetic look you give him, you know he’s stuck in his own head.
“Sorry.” He tries to smile, but it feels like a betrayal of himself. He isn’t happy, and there’s nothing to smile about. Not right now. “What was the question?”
Gently, you set your knife and fork on the plate, steak half-eaten, fries barely touched. “Can we get out of here?” You ask.
Confused, he frowns down at your plate. “Is something wrong with the food?”
“No,” you say quickly, “It’s fine. I’m grateful you took the time to make a reservation and spend some time with me. But…I’ve only got two days left to be with you, and I don’t want to be sitting in a fancy restaurant where I can barely reach you.” As a way of demonstration, you stretch your arm across the table, and Jake immediately gives you his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He’s getting it wrong. He’d wanted tonight to be special. Instead, he’s somehow turned it into a wake.
“I wanna be at the Hard Deck with our friends.” You start to babble, your words tumbling over each other. “I wanna drink a beer with Nat. I wanna listen to Bradshaw and you shoot barbs at each other. I wanna mock Reuben for burning his uniform with the iron, again. I wanna listen to Mickey and Bob debate if Star Wars or Star Trek is better. I wanna watch Javy pine over Nat and give him shit for being too scared to say anything. And I want us to sneak off to the beach to have a make-out session that goes way too far before we realize we’re in public. I wanna do it all before, before I...” You cut yourself off and avert your gaze.
“Before you can’t anymore.”
“It’s not forever,” you say.
He’s not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.
“I know.”
“I negotiated extra paid leave and working remotely, so if you get deployed, I can be closer when possible.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t the end.”
He doesn’t have a response because he’s not certain of that. Instead, he motions to a waiter and asks for the bill.
The restaurant buzzes around you, wine glasses clink. Someone at the next table laughs. A birthday is being celebrated in the corner, a sparkler fizzing above a slice of chocolate cake. The whole room keeps moving, but Jake is frozen.
“I’ve been treating this like,” he searches for the words. Sighing, “like we’re saying goodbye.”
“We’re not.”
“But it feels like I am.”
It’s your turn now, “I know. But you’re trying so hard not to waste the time we’ve got left that you’ve forgotten to enjoy it.”
Holding hands, you walk silently to Jake’s truck, neither of you quite sure what to say. He kisses you softly as he opens the passenger door. “Your chariot awaits.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” you smile, sliding into the seat. Jake rounds the front of the truck, and you watch him heave out a deep breath before he opens the door to climb in.
“So,” he says, pulling out his phone as he gets behind the wheel. “Music?”
“Do I get to pick?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dictators always think they’re right.”
“History supports me.”
“You’ve got questionable taste, Seresin.”
He clutches his chest dramatically. “I’ve never been so insulted.”
“Please, you’ve been insulted far worse.”
“True,” he chuckles, scrolling through his phone as he turns the key to start the engine.
“I see you skipped my playlist.”
“I saved us both.”
You shake your head as Fleetwood Mac begins to play, and Jake puts the truck into drive. “I’ll allow it because Fleetwood Mac are objectively excellent.”
He shoots you a sideways glance, putting his foot on the brake a little too hard as the truck rolls. “Objectively?”
“Yes. Fleetwood Mac is objectively excellent.”
“You're using ‘objectively’ wrong.”
“Objectively, I'm not. Queen is better.”
“Okay,” Jake nods, “You’ve got until we get to the Hard Deck to convince me.”
By the time the Hard Deck comes into view, you’re both loudly singing the last chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody together, completely off-key. Jake kills the engine, and the music fades, leaving the muffled sounds spilling out of the bar as background noise.
Jake stares at the familiar weathered building through the windshield. He gives himself to the count of ten before he gets out, holding back a grimace. Selfishly, he doesn’t want to share you with his friends. Not tonight.
You turn when he opens the door, but don't step down. Instead, you grasp the front of his shirt and pull him to you, parting your legs so he can stand between them. Instinctively, he slides his hands up your thighs to rest on your hips.
“You know I don’t care about fancy dinners, right?” Wrapping your arms around his neck, you add, “I don’t care where we eat. I don’t care if it’s steak or gas station sandwiches.” Your thumbs brush the ends of his hair. “I just want Wednesday.”
He laughs once. It’s barely more than an exhale. “I know. I’ve been trying so hard to make everything perfect,” he sighs, annoyed at himself for trying too hard.
“And you have,” you nod. “But you’ve forgotten you’re my favorite part.”
His breath catches. “Fuck. You always know how to undo me.”
Your smile is smug, biting your bottom lip to stifle it doesn’t work. “I know.”
“You’re getting cocky,” he shoots back.
“I’ve been spending time with you.”
“You should ask for a refund.”
“Jake, shut up and kiss me.”
So he does. Before he can think of another joke, another deflection, another attempt to be brave, he kisses you.
Slowly at first, tentative. Then you kiss him back. Everything he’s been trying so desperately to hold together comes apart in the space of a heartbeat.
The kiss is anything but careful. It’s hungry desperation. Days of pretending everything is fine. It’s a goodbye and an ‘I miss you’ and months of wondering if he’d ever get the chance to kiss you like this again. He’ll never not take the opportunity.
His hands slide from your hips to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s little space left between you.
It’s relief and longing. It’s hurt and desire. It’s painful and soothing. It’s every conversation you haven’t had because saying goodbye out loud somehow makes Friday arrive faster.
When you pull apart, he’s breathing just as hard as you are.
Your smug grin is back. “That,” you whisper, “is all I wanted tonight.”
Jake smiles, resting his forehead on yours and closing his eyes. “I can work with that.”
A knock on the driver's window makes you both jump. You spin around to see Javy with the biggest grin, pointing at his watch.
“You two planning on coming inside? Or should I tell everyone the make-out session started early?”
Jake groans. “Say the word,” he whispers, just for you, “and I’ll take you home to finish this properly.”
You laugh, pecking his lips. “Try to behave for one hour.”
“No promises.”
“I heard that,” Javy says, now on the other side of the open door.
Jake doesn’t take his eyes off you, holding your hand as you jump down out of the truck. “Mind your business, Machado.”
Javy snorts, throwing his arm over your shoulder. “The last time you told me to mind my business, Seresin, the three of us almost got banned from the Hard Deck because you two got ‘locked’ in the store cupboard.”
“The door was stuck,” You quickly defend. Neither of the men brings up the fact that you had no business being in there in the first place.
Jake catches up and takes your hand as you walk, arguing, “If you’d been a better lookout, Coyote. We wouldn’t have come close to getting caught.” Jake winks when you meet his eye.
Javy stops and turns to face you both, looking down at your joined hands. “I like this,” he smiles, “you two look like you again.”
That stops Jake short, and he has no snarky remark because Javy is right. The last few months have been filled with forced smiles, careful conversations, and pretending everything was okay.
Tonight, you’d fought about music, shared a steak you barely ate, and made out in his truck like two teenagers. Somewhere between the restaurant and the Hard Deck, Wednesday had stopped feeling like a countdown.
It had simply become another Wednesday. Jake squeezes your hand.
Friday is still on its way. The distance isn’t any smaller, but now he isn’t thinking about the miles that will be between you. He’s thinking about the hour ahead. For tonight, that’s enough.
A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.
More BASEBALL Miles!!! Getty Images coming through for us! He's so happy... our Philly boy. The haters on X are annoying. This boy bleeds for his Phillies and Eagles... and has NEVER wavered. LOVE HIM!!!
A collection of Drabbles, Ficlets, and One-shots, using the Wordle answer of the day.
Multiple fandoms. Warnings will be listed accordingly.
Fics written by @princessmisery666 + @deanwinchesterswitch -
A simple idea to help each of us with some creative motivation!
While we likely won’t write a piece every single day, we will be attempting as many as we can.
Catch up here -
May 2026 - 16 fics. 11,195 words
June 2026 - 13 fics. 18,473 words
July 1, 2026 - Demur
July 2, 2026 - Maven
July 3, 2026 - Baton
July 4, 2026 -Pizza
Reacher - TBC -
Reacher x Reader. W/C: TBC Warnings: TBC
July 5, 2026 -Swami
July 6, 2026 - Toddy
July 7, 2026 - Sling
July 8, 2026 - Demon
July 9, 2026 - Amend
July 10, 2026 - Canal
July 11, 2026 - Avian
July 12, 2026 - Clack
July 13, 2026 - Stout
July 14, 2026 - Steak
Top Gun Maverick - Another Wednesday - sequel to The Right Choice. Jake’s too focused on making the night perfect that he’s forgotten the most important part.
It started with a handful of houseplants scattered around your apartment. They’d all been gifts from well-meaning friends who apparently believed that the mere act of owning plants would somehow magically teach you how to keep them alive.
The poor things have been hanging on by a thread. Leaves are yellowing, stems drooping, and one particularly dramatic fern looks like it has already accepted death.
After an evening of looking up the types you have and their basic care instructions, he starts with a little extra water for the peace lily, a brighter spot by the window for the jade plant, and a shadier spot for the spider plant. When he notices they're improving, he dives deeper into research.
Within a few weeks, they are all thriving. The fern makes a miraculous recovery, the peace lily is flowering, and the pothos has begun to trail down the table leg. Sitting at your kitchen table, coffee mug in hand, Bucky stares at the lush foliage now decorating your apartment, feeling genuine surprise at his own success.
Then he smiles, and that is the beginning of the end. Because now he has a new hobby.
Which is how you find yourself standing in the gardening section of a hardware store with multiple packets of seeds, three large bags of soil, and a tiny watering can decorated with cartoon bees in the shopping cart.
“You don’t even know what half of those are,” you point out.
“I read the labels.”
“You read one label.”
“I read enough.”
He shrugs like it doesn't matter. You know him well enough now to know that he will be researching for hours when you're not around, and inwardly smile. It makes you happy that the brooding man from a few months ago in the apartment next to yours seems to be happier these days.
“You don't have room for this many pots.”
His mouth curves into a smile. That smile. The one that somehow still catches you off guard when it happens. Warm and charming and just cocky enough to be dangerous.
“No,” he agrees, “but if you’d be so kind as to loan me some of your balcony space, I’ll make you dinner with whatever grows.” The wink is the final blow. He somehow knows you won't refuse him.
“Deal,” you sigh and look away before you do or say something you shouldn’t.
Three weeks later, your balcony looks surprisingly good. There are colorful pots of all sizes scattered about, way more than the original batch that was purchased. Between your space and Bucky's, it looks like a mini botanical garden, filled with vegetables, herbs, and a few flowers for a splash of color. Everything is thriving.
It wasn't as big a jump as you thought it would be to go from house plants to cultivating actual food. Still, you half expected Bucky to lose interest at some point.
Instead, he’s become alarmingly invested. Not only does he bring home stacks of books from the library about urban gardening, but he's also joined online gardening communities. Every morning before breakfast, he diligently checks each plant.
“You need more sunlight.”
The comment drifts through your open balcony door one morning.
You pause halfway through making coffee and call out, “Are you giving advice to a plant?”
“No.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I was just talking to myself.”
You softly laugh at the total lie. It's hard to deny the contentment you feel knowing the hobby brings joy to Bucky, or that you revel in the serenity of sitting on your balcony in the evening, watching the sunset among the lush foliage and heavenly scent of the garden he's created.
It's beautiful and peaceful until the White-furred Assassin Disaster.
You return from the grocery store, arms full of shopping bags, and immediately notice two things. One: the balcony door you'd left closed is now open. Two: dirt everywhere. Not the normal type of dust tracked in from your daily routine, but clumps of dark soil litter your floor and furniture.
“Bucky?”
Silence.
Setting the bags down, you follow the trail outside and find the culprit. Alpine. The now tan-streaked menace is sitting proudly atop a turned-over pot that, up until recently, held flowers.
“Oh no.”
A muffled voice comes from Bucky's balcony. “Don’t laugh.”
Making your way over to where the two spaces nearly meet, you ignore his request and immediately start laughing. Bucky is kneeling, carefully placing an uprooted plant back into its home. He looks as if the empty bag of soil next to him was poured over his head—hair nearly matching the color of the dirt sprinkled in it, streaks of brown litter his jeans, and a tiny leaf is plastered to his cheek. His once white shirt is covered in tiny dark paw prints as if she’d been using him as a climbing frame.
“What happened?”
“I was re-potting the basil,” he sighs, “A butterfly caught her attention, and when she jumped, she landed in the bag of soil.”
“Mm-hhhmmm.” You press your lips together, trying your best to keep the laughter contained while he finishes his explanation.
“She panicked.”
“Reasonable.”
“When she launched herself directly at my face, I tripped, and we both fell. She climbed the railing and then hopped onto your balcony. I came over to get her, and then the butterfly returned,” he sighs heavily, “and honestly, I lost track after that.”
You lose the battle, but still try to maintain control, and end up snorting.
“It wasn’t funny,” he groans, but is fighting his own grin. He points at the tiny terror, “There were claws,” who blinks innocently.
Your shoulders shake.
“I may have screamed.”
You double over.
“She’s a criminal.”
“No jury in the world would convict her.”
“I’m wearing the evidence.”
With a final chuckle, you unnecessarily state, “You both need a bath.”
Alpine, clearly having understood, leaps from the pot and scurries into the apartment, trailing a new line of dirt.
“I want it stated for the record that she’s doing this on purpose.”
From somewhere inside, a crash sounds.
“I’ll take clean-up duty. You get bath duty.”
He stands, and dirt falls from his clothing like raindrops, pattering on the metal flooring.
With a resigned expression, he dramatically huffs, “Take care of my plants when I’m gone.”
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a Google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Summary: What flavor of Ice Cream to have is not the only choice that needs to be made.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, fluff.
W/C: 2,160
Pairing: Jake x reader
Notes: sequel to Dagger Mission
Word of the day (June 27, 2026) - Scoop
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main
Sleep refuses to come.
The blue glow of the alarm cuts through the darkness—2:18 a.m.
Rolling onto your back for what has to be the fifteenth time in ten minutes, the sheets twist around your legs, and the pillow is warm no matter how often you flip it over. The slight breeze from the open window does little to cool the room, and the strange quiet that only exists in the middle of the night presses against the walls.
If you concentrate, you can hear the ocean, but as soon as you start to drift off, your mind wanders to the second first date with Jake and then the intervention. The way Jake had actually looked nervous and answered with an earnest “Copy that” to Phoenix’s threat.
Laughing quietly, you twist to look at your phone on the nightstand and resist the urge to text him. That was just two nights ago. You’re supposed to be taking it slow.
He’s probably asleep anyway.
Another attempt to shut off your brain and drift into darkness fails miserably. “Screw it.” Kicking at the covers to untangle your legs, you reach for your phone.
You: You awake?
The screen begins to dim, and just as you're about to toss it onto the mattress, it lights up, illuminating your face.
Jake: I am.
Jake: Can’t sleep?
You: Can’t turn my brain off.
You: You?
Jake: I think I forgot how to sleep.
Speech bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear. Gone again. You hum, feeling the same uncertainty about what to say. Then finally...
Jake: Ice cream?
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.
You: Are you trying to solve insomnia with dairy?
Jake: It’s worth investigating.
Your laugh echoes around the room, making it feel empty. Neither of you should be awake at this time of the morning. You each have responsibilities tomorrow. Which is why ice cream sounds perfect.
You: See you in 20.
Jake’s alarm will be ringing in a little over four hours, his apartment still smells faintly of the pizza he’d forgotten to throw away after getting home from work, and every sensible part of his brain is telling him a late-night ice cream run isn’t going to fix the fact that he’s spent the last three nights sleeping in restless twenty-minute bursts.
He ignores those sensible thoughts.
Instead, he finds himself parked outside your apartment building, ten minutes early, which means he definitely broke at least three speed limits getting here. Leaning against the door, he crosses his ankles, trying for casual, though the way he stares at the building's door is anything but.
It’s ridiculous. He’s flown combat missions with his pulse steadier than this.
This is the part he wasn’t prepared for—the waiting. Getting you back isn’t about grand gestures like fancy dinners, long, albeit heartfelt speeches, or dramatic airport chases like in the movies. It’s waiting to see if you text first. It's giving you space so you’ll choose him tomorrow after choosing him today. Being offered a second chance is one thing, but living like he deserves it carries much higher stakes.
He misses you, misses the things he took for granted, the cute notes on the refrigerator when you left before him in the morning, the funny texts that flashed on his screen at the worst possible times, the late-night talks about nothing while eating cold pizza slices, the way you curled into him while watching horror movies, the flash of your smile over the edge of your book when he walked into the room.
The door opens, and he straightens, thoughts now solely in the present. His smile widens as he sees what you're wearing. Nothing fancy, sweats, sneakers, and a hoodie. His hoodie, which makes his pulse hitch a little.
Your expression softens into a smile when you spot him. Not the polite one you’ve perfected over the last few months or the brave one you’d worn while moving boxes out of the apartment. This one reaches your eyes.
It hits him then. He’d spent months wondering if he’d ever be the reason for that smile again. Now it’s walking toward him.
He pushes off the truck, forcing every ounce of nervous energy into something that resembles effortless confidence.
“I’ve been looking for that,” he nods toward the hoodie.
You smile, tucking your hands into the kangaroo pocket. “We established a long time ago that it now belongs to me.”
“Fair.” He huffs a laugh, opening the door for you.
“Is anywhere going to be open at this time?” you ask, moving to slide into the truck.
“I know a place,” he shrugs.
“Of course you do.”
The little ice cream shop sits tucked between a laundromat and a surf shop, its neon OPEN sign humming against the otherwise dark row of beachfront stores.
“You weren’t kidding,” you mutter.
“I rarely kid about dessert.”
“Only everything else.”
The bell above the door jingles as Jake holds it open for you. “Obviously.”
It’s clearly been a slow night because the young man behind the counter looks like he’s smoked one too many joints and has a line of chocolate sauce above his top lip.
“Evening,” he says as you approach.
Jake checks his watch. “Morning.”
“Whatever.”
You don’t even check the menu, and Jake is already shaking his head. “Don’t start, Seresin.”
“It tastes like toothpaste.”
“It’s fresh.”
“It’s dental hygiene.”
“I choose what I like,” you shrug. “You choose chaos, like a teenager who’s been left alone with a credit card.”
“Not today,” he winks, pulling a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. “It’s on Rooster.”
You roll your eyes, “Was it a dangerous or immature bet he lost?”
Jake shrugs. “Bit of both.”
“I’ll take a scoop of mint chocolate chip, please.” Tilting your head toward Jake, you sigh, “And I’m sure he’ll take whatever monstrosity you can pile into one tub.”
Jake stares you down while he orders. “I’ll have strawberry...”
You look surprised.
“With brownie pieces...”
“There it is.”
“...Hot fudge sauce...”
“It’ll be a melting mess.”
“...and Caramel....”
“Can’t forget the caramel.”
“And whipped cream.”
Five minutes later, he walks out carrying a heart-attack-inducing tower while you gently lick at your single scoop cone.
Walking side by side, you wander toward the beach without really deciding to. The waves roll lazily onto the sand, silver beneath the moonlight, and gulls begin to wake for dawn.
He’s forgotten how much he loves doing absolutely nothing with you. No plans, no destination, nowhere to be, just walking.
You finish your cone before he’s managed half of his, and sit on the driftwood someone took the time to carve into a bench. Jake watches intently as you drag your finger through the concoction he's holding, grimacing as you lick the digit clean.
“Oh geez, Jake, that’s disgustingly sweet.”
He smirks, “But delicious.”
Shaking your head, you rest your elbows on your knees, watching as the approaching blue hour blurs the horizon where the sky meets the sea.
For a while, neither of you says anything. The silence settles around you like an old favorite blanket, comfortable enough that neither of you feels obligated to fill it.
“Wanna know something embarrassing?” Jake eventually asks, expertly throwing his empty tub into a steel drum acting as a trash can.
“Always.”
“I almost texted four times before you texted me.”
You chuckle. “Why didn’t you?”
“Didn’t wanna seem clingy.”
“You sent me like fifty emojis today. “
“Fifty-nine. I counted.”
That earns him another laugh. God, he’s missed that laugh and being the reason for it. Quicker than he likes, the sound drifts off with the wind. The waves approach and recede, the breeze ruffles your hair, but you remain still.
“I miss talking to you,” Jake says.
You turn your head, resting your chin on your shoulder, and give him a small smile. “Me too.”
“No,” he smiles faintly. “I mean, really talking. The pointless conversations. All the ones I took for granted because I thought we’d have years to do it. I miss the arguments about music, the debates over whether cereal counts as dinner. Which, it absolutely does.”
You laugh, leaning back to put your palms flat and stretch your legs out. You look relaxed, which was his aim. “It absolutely doesn’t.”
He smiles. “Speaking of talking, you never did tell me why you were drinking whiskey on a Tuesday night.”
You avert your gaze to look at the ocean. “It’s a long story.”
“Well, my alarm, that is conveniently at home, isn’t due to go off for,” checking his watch, coaxes the return of your smile, “two and a half hours. So I have time.”
You sigh, shuffling closer to him, and instinctively, he lifts his arm to put around your shoulders. “Can we just enjoy this, be in the moment?”
He kisses the top of your head; it’s so natural it almost hurts. “We can.”
He knows what you're doing, though. The tiny crease between your eyebrows, the anxious way your thumb rubs at the sleeve of his hoodie, lets him know that instead of enjoying the quiet, you're hiding inside it.
He says your name softly, a question.
You take a deep breath. “I got offered another promotion, a division of my own.”
“Congratulations?” He frames it as a question because if it were something you were excited about, you’d have told him sooner.
You huff a humorless laugh. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t ask whether it pays more, has a fancy new title, or what other perks it might offer, because only one question really matters.
“Where?”
“Colorado.”
The word hangs. Far enough away to make spontaneous ice cream at two-thirty in the morning impossible. Far enough that weekend visits would be difficult, and military leave and unpredictable schedules suddenly matter. Far enough that it changes everything.
“I’m assuming the whiskey on a Tuesday and a midnight ice cream run mean you’re conflicted.”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t put my life on hold again.”
The surf almost drowns out your words. Jake closes his eyes for the briefest second against the pain, but still, he understands.
“I’d be lying if I said I want you to take it, but you have to do what’s right for you.”
“What if I don’t know what that is? What if I choose wrong? What if I mess it up?”
“I don’t know.” He keeps his voice carefully neutral because this isn’t his decision, no matter how desperately he wants the answer to be that you stay.
He stands up, paces two steps away, and then turns. You look up at him, tears pooling in your eyes, and he hates how conflicted you look.
“Let’s make it simple. Do you want the job?”
You hesitate for only a moment, and he knows it's because you don’t want to hurt him.
“Yes. It’s everything I’ve been working for.”
“And you’ve worked your ass off,” he agrees. “You not only deserve it; you’ve earned it.”
“That doesn’t make the decision any easier.”
He swallows hard, the ice cream churning in his stomach. He can feel you slipping away. “Wh-” his voice catches in his suddenly dry throat. “When do you have to give your answer?”
“Monday.”
He nods like it's okay, but it’s not. Four days isn’t enough time to say goodbye. He moves to kneel in the sand, taking your hands in his, because it seems like a waste not to touch you when he might not be able to soon.
“I love you,” he says quietly, as if he knows he shouldn’t say it. “Selfishly, I want you to stay.” A sad smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “But I understand that it’s something you need to do for you.” Bringing your hands to his lips, he kisses your knuckles. “This only works if you choose me because I’m the right choice, not because I’m the closest one. I don’t want you to wake up ten years from now wondering what would’ve happened if you’d taken it, and I sure as hell don’t want to be the guy you blame.”
“I hate it when you’re the emotionally mature one.”
“I know.”
“It’s deeply inconvenient.”
A tiny smile finally breaks through. “For the record, if you move to Colorado, I expect unlimited visitation rights.”
You laugh through tears.
“But also,” he strings out the last syllable, "and no pressure,” he smirks, “but Phoenix did threaten to kill me if I mess this up.”
This time, your laugh is deep, the emotion melting away some of the apprehension. “I’ll be sure to let her know she doesn’t need to move you up on her hit list.”
“Appreciated.”
Sitting curled into each other, you silently watch the mesmerizing tapestry of blues and golds as the first rays of sunlight hit the waves. Neither of you has found the answer, but somehow neither of you feels quite so alone looking for it.
A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.
It had been a long day at work, meetings that could have been emails, phone calls that should have been meetings, colleagues asking stupid questions, so the 3 pm text from Phoenix had been a welcome distraction.
Phoenix: Drinks tonight? 🍸🍹
You: Absolutely, but I need🥃
Phoenix: Hard Deck @ 7.
The location wasn’t a surprise, but you're still standing outside the bar, staring at the door long after the cab has driven away.
The date with Jake had been a success. Maybe a little too successful. It’s been three days, communication has kept up, but there’s still an underlying tension, and there’s been no talk of a second date. You'd like to go on another one, and you're fairly certain he does too, but the fear of rushing into things is apparently holding both of you back.
The Dagger Squad may not know specifics, but they know something has been off.
A wave of noise hits as you pull the wooden door open—music, laughter, pool balls cracking together. It’s familiar and comforting, yet for the first time since meeting the team, you feel like an imposter.
That is, until you see Phoenix and Bob waving you over to their table.
“Heeeey,” Phoenix says, standing up to give you a one-armed hug, while Bob waits his turn.
The greeting is enough to ease whatever doubts you had about coming. This isn’t about you and Jake. It's about being with your friends.
Phoenix slides a glass in front of you as you settle in the seat next to her. “One whiskey on the rocks.”
You smile. “Oh my god, you are an angel.”
Your lips are still around the rim when your phone vibrates—apologizing as you pull it from your pocket and unlock the screen.
Jake: 🥃. Bad day?
You don’t need to search the room. You know exactly where he is. Leaning against the pool table, cue in hand, talking to Coyote, or pretending to because as soon as your eyes meet, he smiles, bright and wide.
Idiot.
Coyote turns to see what he’s smiling at, and you lift your glass in greeting to them both.
Within a second of locking your phone and setting it down, it buzzes again.
Jake: Rude.
You haven't quite finished your first drink when Rooster whistles for attention. “What're you all drinking?” he calls when you look at him. “Make it expensive, it’s on Jake.”
Phoenix and Bob exchange a look but say nothing. Instead, they hold up their bottles to show their order, and you do the same with your glass.
Another message pops up.
Jake: 👀
You don’t look over.
Jake: 👀👀
You hug Rooster as he joins you at the table.
Jake: 👀👀👀. Two whiskeys? Who do I need to kill?
You roll your eyes, typing a reply.
You: Stop. I’m fine. I’m switching to beer.
You rejoin the conversation and focus on the story Rooster is telling. Jake goes back to playing pool, a new contender to beat. Then two minutes later, your phone lights up again.
Jake: Rooster isn’t that funny.
You bite your lip to keep from laughing at the message, but can’t fight the smile, a mistake because now Jake knows he’s got you.
Jake: 😍 I’ve missed that smile.
You: Focus on your bet, Seresin.
You chance a glance his way, and of course, he notices and gives you a cheeky wink.
“Why are you smiling at your phone like that?” Phoenix asks.
“Nothing.”
No one believes you.
Jake: 😉
You ignore it.
Then more follow.
Jake:😍
Jake:🥺
Jake:😭
Jake:💔
Jake:⚰️
Jake:🪦R.I.P Hangman. Died waiting for his girlfriend to text him back.
You snicker, unable to control it.
“Oh my god,” Phoenix says, “what is going on?”
“What?”
Her eyes narrow. “You’ve been giddy for like the last hour.”
“That’s suspicious?”
“Recently,” Rooster says, “Yes.”
The trio follows your line of sight as you sneak another look at Jake, who makes the mistake of looking away too quickly.
“There, that!” Bob says. “That right there.”
“That look,” Rooster joins in.
“There’s no look, I’m just looking at Jake.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t been looking at Jake lately,” Phoenix says, softly. “We all thought...”
Another message buzzes through.
Jake: 🚨. Are they onto us?
You: Seeing as the stealth pilot seems to have lost his poker face, YES!
You see him read the message, shoulders shaking with laughter.
Jake: Not sorry. 🤷♂️
Jake: You’re cute when you’re plotting my murder. ☠️
You roll your eyes and shake your head, watching as Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote surround him, like hunters cornering prey. Jake actually steps backward until his back hits the high top.
Three sets of expectant, concerned eyes stare back at you as you bring your attention back to your tablemates. Realization hits, it’s an equal split, three on one. It makes sense now why no one suggested combining the groups and why they’ve been weirdly nostalgic, reminiscing about group vacations, game nights, and beach days.
“Wait, is this an intervention?”
Phoenix shakes her head no as Bob and Rooster simultaneously say, “Yes.”
“Subtle guys, real subtle,” Phoenix admonishes.
Jake: The kids are upset.
“We knew something was up, and we just wanted to help,” Phoenix says.
“And if that means murdering Jake for whatever he did, we’re in,” Rooster adds.
You chuckle. “No murder necessary.” Then sigh, “Really, it’s nothing.”
“It’s something,” Phoenix says, “you're not wearing your engagement ring. You haven’t been wearing it.”
“It’s be...” you start.
“Being polished,” Bob interrupts.
“Or is it being resized, as Jake claims?” Rooster adds.
Busted. You should have gotten your stories straight.
You’ve been doing your best to avoid this conversation and know they won't drop it until they have a believable answer. You could try to lie, but you don't want to. These are your friends now, too.
“Hangman has been working like he wants Employee Of The Month. You bailed on a Beach Day, which you haven’t done since we met you. You left Rooster on read about Game Night.”
You give Rooster an apologetic smile and take a deep breath. “We broke up.”
“How long?” Phoenix asks, gently.
“Couple months.”
Three identical expressions of horror appear.
“Months?” Rooster exclaims.
“I moved out.”
“You moved out?!”
“Bradshaw,” Phoenix grits.
“I’m sorry,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender, “I’m processing.”
Across the room, it looks like Jake is having a similar conversation. Fanboy is shaking his head, Payback has the I’m-not-mad-I’m-just-disappointed expression, and Coyote looks relieved he’s no longer the gatekeeper of the secret.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because I didn’t want to put anyone in an awkward position,” you sigh. “I was the one who made the decision to change things. It was on me.”
“Bullshit,” Bob scolds.
All heads snap to look at him.
“Sorry,” he shrugs, but doesn’t look sorry. He shuffles forward in his seat and holds your eyes. “You’re family, both of you. When something happens to family, we should know.”
“He’s right.” Phoenix nods. “You shouldn’t have had to go through any of it alone.”
“I didn’t,” you say, wistfully looking over at Jake. “He was actually there for me.”
Jake is still getting an earful, fingers pointing, a smack to his shoulder as he’s texting.
Jake: How bad is it?
You: Phoenix-level intervention. I bet there were snacks.
You see him laugh, and Coyote, having seen Jake’s phone, looks over and nods once to confirm there were, in fact, snacks.
A new tone sounds, a group message.
Hangman> Daggers: There’s a traitor in your midst. Coyote knew.
Everyone reads the message.
Coyote > Daggers: 🐀
Hangman > Daggers: Can I approach, or am I still under investigation?
Phoenix > Daggers: Negative.
Rooster > Daggers: The pattern is full.
You > Daggers: Nerds.
Fanboy > Daggers: I feel attacked.
“You don’t have to keep us separated,” you laugh.
“Yeah,” Rooster says, cracking his knuckles as he stands up. “Let’s go get him.”
Payback > Daggers: Movement detected.
Coyote > Daggers: 🐀
Hangman > Daggers: Stop doing that.
Bob > Daggers: Rendezvous point - pool tables.
You weave through the crowd, the others following like an aggressive Conga line.
Jake watches the approach with a smile until he realizes Phoenix, Rooster, and Bob peel off in different directions.
At the opposite end of the table, you hear him nervously ask, “Why do they all look mad?”
“Because you’re in trouble,” Coyote answers.
“Helpful.”
“You deserve it.”
“Also helpful.”
You walk directly to him and kiss him softly, tucking yourself into his side, and he slips his arm around your waist, the other still holding the pool cue.
“Hey,” he whispers, only for you.
Then you feel the warmth of bodies, and break your focus to see the circle has closed. Fanboy. Payback. Coyote. Phoenix. Bob. Rooster. You're surrounded. No exits.
Phoenix punches the arm still holding the pool cue, hard enough that he drops it. Coyote catches it before it hits the floor.
“OW!” Jake yelps, “What was that for?”
“You made her move out!”
“She left me!”
“You didn’t tell us.” Rooster accuses.
“I told Coyote.”
“Hey,” Coyote objects, “You swore me to secrecy.”
“Now, who's the rat?” Jake jests.
“Still you,” Rooster says.
“Without question,” Payback agrees.
“Guys,” Phoenix scolds, “we’re getting a little off track here.”
There’s no winning this argument because there are six people who care about both of you, who have, evidently, been building a case, and now they’re presenting evidence. They aren’t angry or taking sides. They don’t need the reasons why. They’re offended they weren’t trusted with the heartbreak.
“Look,” Jake says, “I’m sorry I only told Coyote. It wasn’t about shutting you guys out. I wasn’t ready to accept it.”
“Wait, I’m confused,” Fanboy says, pointing to where Jake’s arm is around your waist and you're turned into his side, “You don’t look like you're broken up.”
“We were. We are,” Jake corrects, squeezing your hip as an apology. “We’re working it out. Slowly.”
“Together,” you add.
“Damn it,” Fanboy grumbles. “There goes half my theories.”
“Half?” Bob asks.
“You had an unhealthy amount,” Rooster agrees.
Fanboy puffs his chest. “Most of them were excellent.”
“One of them involved witness protection,” Payback says.
“With Jake’s ability to piss people off, it was a solid working theory!” Fanboy defends.
“That’s fair,” You agree.
The group erupts into laughter.
Phoenix waits for it to die down before fixing Jake with a stern look. “Just so we’re clear,” she says, way too calmly. “If you mess up again, you won’t need witness protection. It will look like an accident and they’ll never find the body.”
The laughter evaporates.
Jake swallows hard. “Copy that.”
Part 7 - The Right Choice - What flavor of Ice Cream to have is not the only choice that needs to be made.
A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.
It had been a long day at work, meetings that could have been emails, phone calls that should have been meetings, colleagues asking stupid questions, so the 3 pm text from Phoenix had been a welcome distraction.
Phoenix: Drinks tonight? 🍸🍹
You: Absolutely, but I need🥃
Phoenix: Hard Deck @ 7.
The location wasn’t a surprise, but you're still standing outside the bar, staring at the door long after the cab has driven away.
The date with Jake had been a success. Maybe a little too successful. It’s been three days, communication has kept up, but there’s still an underlying tension, and there’s been no talk of a second date. You'd like to go on another one, and you're fairly certain he does too, but the fear of rushing into things is apparently holding both of you back.
The Dagger Squad may not know specifics, but they know something has been off.
A wave of noise hits as you pull the wooden door open—music, laughter, pool balls cracking together. It’s familiar and comforting, yet for the first time since meeting the team, you feel like an imposter.
That is, until you see Phoenix and Bob waving you over to their table.
“Heeeey,” Phoenix says, standing up to give you a one-armed hug, while Bob waits his turn.
The greeting is enough to ease whatever doubts you had about coming. This isn’t about you and Jake. It's about being with your friends.
Phoenix slides a glass in front of you as you settle in the seat next to her. “One whiskey on the rocks.”
You smile. “Oh my god, you are an angel.”
Your lips are still around the rim when your phone vibrates—apologizing as you pull it from your pocket and unlock the screen.
Jake: 🥃. Bad day?
You don’t need to search the room. You know exactly where he is. Leaning against the pool table, cue in hand, talking to Coyote, or pretending to because as soon as your eyes meet, he smiles, bright and wide.
Idiot.
Coyote turns to see what he’s smiling at, and you lift your glass in greeting to them both.
Within a second of locking your phone and setting it down, it buzzes again.
Jake: Rude.
You haven't quite finished your first drink when Rooster whistles for attention. “What're you all drinking?” he calls when you look at him. “Make it expensive, it’s on Jake.”
Phoenix and Bob exchange a look but say nothing. Instead, they hold up their bottles to show their order, and you do the same with your glass.
Another message pops up.
Jake: 👀
You don’t look over.
Jake: 👀👀
You hug Rooster as he joins you at the table.
Jake: 👀👀👀. Two whiskeys? Who do I need to kill?
You roll your eyes, typing a reply.
You: Stop. I’m fine. I’m switching to beer.
You rejoin the conversation and focus on the story Rooster is telling. Jake goes back to playing pool, a new contender to beat. Then two minutes later, your phone lights up again.
Jake: Rooster isn’t that funny.
You bite your lip to keep from laughing at the message, but can’t fight the smile, a mistake because now Jake knows he’s got you.
Jake: 😍 I’ve missed that smile.
You: Focus on your bet, Seresin.
You chance a glance his way, and of course, he notices and gives you a cheeky wink.
“Why are you smiling at your phone like that?” Phoenix asks.
“Nothing.”
No one believes you.
Jake: 😉
You ignore it.
Then more follow.
Jake:😍
Jake:🥺
Jake:😭
Jake:💔
Jake:⚰️
Jake:🪦R.I.P Hangman. Died waiting for his girlfriend to text him back.
You snicker, unable to control it.
“Oh my god,” Phoenix says, “what is going on?”
“What?”
Her eyes narrow. “You’ve been giddy for like the last hour.”
“That’s suspicious?”
“Recently,” Rooster says, “Yes.”
The trio follows your line of sight as you sneak another look at Jake, who makes the mistake of looking away too quickly.
“There, that!” Bob says. “That right there.”
“That look,” Rooster joins in.
“There’s no look, I’m just looking at Jake.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t been looking at Jake lately,” Phoenix says, softly. “We all thought...”
Another message buzzes through.
Jake: 🚨. Are they onto us?
You: Seeing as the stealth pilot seems to have lost his poker face, YES!
You see him read the message, shoulders shaking with laughter.
Jake: Not sorry. 🤷♂️
Jake: You’re cute when you’re plotting my murder. ☠️
You roll your eyes and shake your head, watching as Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote surround him, like hunters cornering prey. Jake actually steps backward until his back hits the high top.
Three sets of expectant, concerned eyes stare back at you as you bring your attention back to your tablemates. Realization hits, it’s an equal split, three on one. It makes sense now why no one suggested combining the groups and why they’ve been weirdly nostalgic, reminiscing about group vacations, game nights, and beach days.
“Wait, is this an intervention?”
Phoenix shakes her head no as Bob and Rooster simultaneously say, “Yes.”
“Subtle guys, real subtle,” Phoenix admonishes.
Jake: The kids are upset.
“We knew something was up, and we just wanted to help,” Phoenix says.
“And if that means murdering Jake for whatever he did, we’re in,” Rooster adds.
You chuckle. “No murder necessary.” Then sigh, “Really, it’s nothing.”
“It’s something,” Phoenix says, “you're not wearing your engagement ring. You haven’t been wearing it.”
“It’s be...” you start.
“Being polished,” Bob interrupts.
“Or is it being resized, as Jake claims?” Rooster adds.
Busted. You should have gotten your stories straight.
You’ve been doing your best to avoid this conversation and know they won't drop it until they have a believable answer. You could try to lie, but you don't want to. These are your friends now, too.
“Hangman has been working like he wants Employee Of The Month. You bailed on a Beach Day, which you haven’t done since we met you. You left Rooster on read about Game Night.”
You give Rooster an apologetic smile and take a deep breath. “We broke up.”
“How long?” Phoenix asks, gently.
“Couple months.”
Three identical expressions of horror appear.
“Months?” Rooster exclaims.
“I moved out.”
“You moved out?!”
“Bradshaw,” Phoenix grits.
“I’m sorry,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender, “I’m processing.”
Across the room, it looks like Jake is having a similar conversation. Fanboy is shaking his head, Payback has the I’m-not-mad-I’m-just-disappointed expression, and Coyote looks relieved he’s no longer the gatekeeper of the secret.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because I didn’t want to put anyone in an awkward position,” you sigh. “I was the one who made the decision to change things. It was on me.”
“Bullshit,” Bob scolds.
All heads snap to look at him.
“Sorry,” he shrugs, but doesn’t look sorry. He shuffles forward in his seat and holds your eyes. “You’re family, both of you. When something happens to family, we should know.”
“He’s right.” Phoenix nods. “You shouldn’t have had to go through any of it alone.”
“I didn’t,” you say, wistfully looking over at Jake. “He was actually there for me.”
Jake is still getting an earful, fingers pointing, a smack to his shoulder as he’s texting.
Jake: How bad is it?
You: Phoenix-level intervention. I bet there were snacks.
You see him laugh, and Coyote, having seen Jake’s phone, looks over and nods once to confirm there were, in fact, snacks.
A new tone sounds, a group message.
Hangman> Daggers: There’s a traitor in your midst. Coyote knew.
Everyone reads the message.
Coyote > Daggers: 🐀
Hangman > Daggers: Can I approach, or am I still under investigation?
Phoenix > Daggers: Negative.
Rooster > Daggers: The pattern is full.
You > Daggers: Nerds.
Fanboy > Daggers: I feel attacked.
“You don’t have to keep us separated,” you laugh.
“Yeah,” Rooster says, cracking his knuckles as he stands up. “Let’s go get him.”
Payback > Daggers: Movement detected.
Coyote > Daggers: 🐀
Hangman > Daggers: Stop doing that.
Bob > Daggers: Rendezvous point - pool tables.
You weave through the crowd, the others following like an aggressive Conga line.
Jake watches the approach with a smile until he realizes Phoenix, Rooster, and Bob peel off in different directions.
At the opposite end of the table, you hear him nervously ask, “Why do they all look mad?”
“Because you’re in trouble,” Coyote answers.
“Helpful.”
“You deserve it.”
“Also helpful.”
You walk directly to him and kiss him softly, tucking yourself into his side, and he slips his arm around your waist, the other still holding the pool cue.
“Hey,” he whispers, only for you.
Then you feel the warmth of bodies, and break your focus to see the circle has closed. Fanboy. Payback. Coyote. Phoenix. Bob. Rooster. You're surrounded. No exits.
Phoenix punches the arm still holding the pool cue, hard enough that he drops it. Coyote catches it before it hits the floor.
“OW!” Jake yelps, “What was that for?”
“You made her move out!”
“She left me!”
“You didn’t tell us.” Rooster accuses.
“I told Coyote.”
“Hey,” Coyote objects, “You swore me to secrecy.”
“Now, who's the rat?” Jake jests.
“Still you,” Rooster says.
“Without question,” Payback agrees.
“Guys,” Phoenix scolds, “we’re getting a little off track here.”
There’s no winning this argument because there are six people who care about both of you, who have, evidently, been building a case, and now they’re presenting evidence. They aren’t angry or taking sides. They don’t need the reasons why. They’re offended they weren’t trusted with the heartbreak.
“Look,” Jake says, “I’m sorry I only told Coyote. It wasn’t about shutting you guys out. I wasn’t ready to accept it.”
“Wait, I’m confused,” Fanboy says, pointing to where Jake’s arm is around your waist and you're turned into his side, “You don’t look like you're broken up.”
“We were. We are,” Jake corrects, squeezing your hip as an apology. “We’re working it out. Slowly.”
“Together,” you add.
“Damn it,” Fanboy grumbles. “There goes half my theories.”
“Half?” Bob asks.
“You had an unhealthy amount,” Rooster agrees.
Fanboy puffs his chest. “Most of them were excellent.”
“One of them involved witness protection,” Payback says.
“With Jake’s ability to piss people off, it was a solid working theory!” Fanboy defends.
“That’s fair,” You agree.
The group erupts into laughter.
Phoenix waits for it to die down before fixing Jake with a stern look. “Just so we’re clear,” she says, way too calmly. “If you mess up again, you won’t need witness protection. It will look like an accident and they’ll never find the body.”
The laughter evaporates.
Jake swallows hard. “Copy that.”
Part 7 - The Right Choice - What flavor of Ice Cream to have is not the only choice that needs to be made.
A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.
Summary: What flavor of Ice Cream to have is not the only choice that needs to be made.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, fluff.
W/C: 2,160
Pairing: Jake x reader
Notes: sequel to Dagger Mission
Word of the day (June 27, 2026) - Scoop
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main
Sleep refuses to come.
The blue glow of the alarm cuts through the darkness—2:18 a.m.
Rolling onto your back for what has to be the fifteenth time in ten minutes, the sheets twist around your legs, and the pillow is warm no matter how often you flip it over. The slight breeze from the open window does little to cool the room, and the strange quiet that only exists in the middle of the night presses against the walls.
If you concentrate, you can hear the ocean, but as soon as you start to drift off, your mind wanders to the second first date with Jake and then the intervention. The way Jake had actually looked nervous and answered with an earnest “Copy that” to Phoenix’s threat.
Laughing quietly, you twist to look at your phone on the nightstand and resist the urge to text him. That was just two nights ago. You’re supposed to be taking it slow.
He’s probably asleep anyway.
Another attempt to shut off your brain and drift into darkness fails miserably. “Screw it.” Kicking at the covers to untangle your legs, you reach for your phone.
You: You awake?
The screen begins to dim, and just as you're about to toss it onto the mattress, it lights up, illuminating your face.
Jake: I am.
Jake: Can’t sleep?
You: Can’t turn my brain off.
You: You?
Jake: I think I forgot how to sleep.
Speech bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear. Gone again. You hum, feeling the same uncertainty about what to say. Then finally...
Jake: Ice cream?
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.
You: Are you trying to solve insomnia with dairy?
Jake: It’s worth investigating.
Your laugh echoes around the room, making it feel empty. Neither of you should be awake at this time of the morning. You each have responsibilities tomorrow. Which is why ice cream sounds perfect.
You: See you in 20.
Jake’s alarm will be ringing in a little over four hours, his apartment still smells faintly of the pizza he’d forgotten to throw away after getting home from work, and every sensible part of his brain is telling him a late-night ice cream run isn’t going to fix the fact that he’s spent the last three nights sleeping in restless twenty-minute bursts.
He ignores those sensible thoughts.
Instead, he finds himself parked outside your apartment building, ten minutes early, which means he definitely broke at least three speed limits getting here. Leaning against the door, he crosses his ankles, trying for casual, though the way he stares at the building's door is anything but.
It’s ridiculous. He’s flown combat missions with his pulse steadier than this.
This is the part he wasn’t prepared for—the waiting. Getting you back isn’t about grand gestures like fancy dinners, long, albeit heartfelt speeches, or dramatic airport chases like in the movies. It’s waiting to see if you text first. It's giving you space so you’ll choose him tomorrow after choosing him today. Being offered a second chance is one thing, but living like he deserves it carries much higher stakes.
He misses you, misses the things he took for granted, the cute notes on the refrigerator when you left before him in the morning, the funny texts that flashed on his screen at the worst possible times, the late-night talks about nothing while eating cold pizza slices, the way you curled into him while watching horror movies, the flash of your smile over the edge of your book when he walked into the room.
The door opens, and he straightens, thoughts now solely in the present. His smile widens as he sees what you're wearing. Nothing fancy, sweats, sneakers, and a hoodie. His hoodie, which makes his pulse hitch a little.
Your expression softens into a smile when you spot him. Not the polite one you’ve perfected over the last few months or the brave one you’d worn while moving boxes out of the apartment. This one reaches your eyes.
It hits him then. He’d spent months wondering if he’d ever be the reason for that smile again. Now it’s walking toward him.
He pushes off the truck, forcing every ounce of nervous energy into something that resembles effortless confidence.
“I’ve been looking for that,” he nods toward the hoodie.
You smile, tucking your hands into the kangaroo pocket. “We established a long time ago that it now belongs to me.”
“Fair.” He huffs a laugh, opening the door for you.
“Is anywhere going to be open at this time?” you ask, moving to slide into the truck.
“I know a place,” he shrugs.
“Of course you do.”
The little ice cream shop sits tucked between a laundromat and a surf shop, its neon OPEN sign humming against the otherwise dark row of beachfront stores.
“You weren’t kidding,” you mutter.
“I rarely kid about dessert.”
“Only everything else.”
The bell above the door jingles as Jake holds it open for you. “Obviously.”
It’s clearly been a slow night because the young man behind the counter looks like he’s smoked one too many joints and has a line of chocolate sauce above his top lip.
“Evening,” he says as you approach.
Jake checks his watch. “Morning.”
“Whatever.”
You don’t even check the menu, and Jake is already shaking his head. “Don’t start, Seresin.”
“It tastes like toothpaste.”
“It’s fresh.”
“It’s dental hygiene.”
“I choose what I like,” you shrug. “You choose chaos, like a teenager who’s been left alone with a credit card.”
“Not today,” he winks, pulling a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. “It’s on Rooster.”
You roll your eyes, “Was it a dangerous or immature bet he lost?”
Jake shrugs. “Bit of both.”
“I’ll take a scoop of mint chocolate chip, please.” Tilting your head toward Jake, you sigh, “And I’m sure he’ll take whatever monstrosity you can pile into one tub.”
Jake stares you down while he orders. “I’ll have strawberry...”
You look surprised.
“With brownie pieces...”
“There it is.”
“...Hot fudge sauce...”
“It’ll be a melting mess.”
“...and Caramel....”
“Can’t forget the caramel.”
“And whipped cream.”
Five minutes later, he walks out carrying a heart-attack-inducing tower while you gently lick at your single scoop cone.
Walking side by side, you wander toward the beach without really deciding to. The waves roll lazily onto the sand, silver beneath the moonlight, and gulls begin to wake for dawn.
He’s forgotten how much he loves doing absolutely nothing with you. No plans, no destination, nowhere to be, just walking.
You finish your cone before he’s managed half of his, and sit on the driftwood someone took the time to carve into a bench. Jake watches intently as you drag your finger through the concoction he's holding, grimacing as you lick the digit clean.
“Oh geez, Jake, that’s disgustingly sweet.”
He smirks, “But delicious.”
Shaking your head, you rest your elbows on your knees, watching as the approaching blue hour blurs the horizon where the sky meets the sea.
For a while, neither of you says anything. The silence settles around you like an old favorite blanket, comfortable enough that neither of you feels obligated to fill it.
“Wanna know something embarrassing?” Jake eventually asks, expertly throwing his empty tub into a steel drum acting as a trash can.
“Always.”
“I almost texted four times before you texted me.”
You chuckle. “Why didn’t you?”
“Didn’t wanna seem clingy.”
“You sent me like fifty emojis today. “
“Fifty-nine. I counted.”
That earns him another laugh. God, he’s missed that laugh and being the reason for it. Quicker than he likes, the sound drifts off with the wind. The waves approach and recede, the breeze ruffles your hair, but you remain still.
“I miss talking to you,” Jake says.
You turn your head, resting your chin on your shoulder, and give him a small smile. “Me too.”
“No,” he smiles faintly. “I mean, really talking. The pointless conversations. All the ones I took for granted because I thought we’d have years to do it. I miss the arguments about music, the debates over whether cereal counts as dinner. Which, it absolutely does.”
You laugh, leaning back to put your palms flat and stretch your legs out. You look relaxed, which was his aim. “It absolutely doesn’t.”
He smiles. “Speaking of talking, you never did tell me why you were drinking whiskey on a Tuesday night.”
You avert your gaze to look at the ocean. “It’s a long story.”
“Well, my alarm, that is conveniently at home, isn’t due to go off for,” checking his watch, coaxes the return of your smile, “two and a half hours. So I have time.”
You sigh, shuffling closer to him, and instinctively, he lifts his arm to put around your shoulders. “Can we just enjoy this, be in the moment?”
He kisses the top of your head; it’s so natural it almost hurts. “We can.”
He knows what you're doing, though. The tiny crease between your eyebrows, the anxious way your thumb rubs at the sleeve of his hoodie, lets him know that instead of enjoying the quiet, you're hiding inside it.
He says your name softly, a question.
You take a deep breath. “I got offered another promotion, a division of my own.”
“Congratulations?” He frames it as a question because if it were something you were excited about, you’d have told him sooner.
You huff a humorless laugh. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t ask whether it pays more, has a fancy new title, or what other perks it might offer, because only one question really matters.
“Where?”
“Colorado.”
The word hangs. Far enough away to make spontaneous ice cream at two-thirty in the morning impossible. Far enough that weekend visits would be difficult, and military leave and unpredictable schedules suddenly matter. Far enough that it changes everything.
“I’m assuming the whiskey on a Tuesday and a midnight ice cream run mean you’re conflicted.”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t put my life on hold again.”
The surf almost drowns out your words. Jake closes his eyes for the briefest second against the pain, but still, he understands.
“I’d be lying if I said I want you to take it, but you have to do what’s right for you.”
“What if I don’t know what that is? What if I choose wrong? What if I mess it up?”
“I don’t know.” He keeps his voice carefully neutral because this isn’t his decision, no matter how desperately he wants the answer to be that you stay.
He stands up, paces two steps away, and then turns. You look up at him, tears pooling in your eyes, and he hates how conflicted you look.
“Let’s make it simple. Do you want the job?”
You hesitate for only a moment, and he knows it's because you don’t want to hurt him.
“Yes. It’s everything I’ve been working for.”
“And you’ve worked your ass off,” he agrees. “You not only deserve it; you’ve earned it.”
“That doesn’t make the decision any easier.”
He swallows hard, the ice cream churning in his stomach. He can feel you slipping away. “Wh-” his voice catches in his suddenly dry throat. “When do you have to give your answer?”
“Monday.”
He nods like it's okay, but it’s not. Four days isn’t enough time to say goodbye. He moves to kneel in the sand, taking your hands in his, because it seems like a waste not to touch you when he might not be able to soon.
“I love you,” he says quietly, as if he knows he shouldn’t say it. “Selfishly, I want you to stay.” A sad smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “But I understand that it’s something you need to do for you.” Bringing your hands to his lips, he kisses your knuckles. “This only works if you choose me because I’m the right choice, not because I’m the closest one. I don’t want you to wake up ten years from now wondering what would’ve happened if you’d taken it, and I sure as hell don’t want to be the guy you blame.”
“I hate it when you’re the emotionally mature one.”
“I know.”
“It’s deeply inconvenient.”
A tiny smile finally breaks through. “For the record, if you move to Colorado, I expect unlimited visitation rights.”
You laugh through tears.
“But also,” he strings out the last syllable, "and no pressure,” he smirks, “but Phoenix did threaten to kill me if I mess this up.”
This time, your laugh is deep, the emotion melting away some of the apprehension. “I’ll be sure to let her know she doesn’t need to move you up on her hit list.”
“Appreciated.”
Sitting curled into each other, you silently watch the mesmerizing tapestry of blues and golds as the first rays of sunlight hit the waves. Neither of you has found the answer, but somehow neither of you feels quite so alone looking for it.
A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.
Summary: What flavor of Ice Cream to have is not the only choice that needs to be made.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, fluff.
W/C: 2,160
Pairing: Jake x reader
Notes: sequel to Dagger Mission
Word of the day (June 27, 2026) - Scoop
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main
Sleep refuses to come.
The blue glow of the alarm cuts through the darkness—2:18 a.m.
Rolling onto your back for what has to be the fifteenth time in ten minutes, the sheets twist around your legs, and the pillow is warm no matter how often you flip it over. The slight breeze from the open window does little to cool the room, and the strange quiet that only exists in the middle of the night presses against the walls.
If you concentrate, you can hear the ocean, but as soon as you start to drift off, your mind wanders to the second first date with Jake and then the intervention. The way Jake had actually looked nervous and answered with an earnest “Copy that” to Phoenix’s threat.
Laughing quietly, you twist to look at your phone on the nightstand and resist the urge to text him. That was just two nights ago. You’re supposed to be taking it slow.
He’s probably asleep anyway.
Another attempt to shut off your brain and drift into darkness fails miserably. “Screw it.” Kicking at the covers to untangle your legs, you reach for your phone.
You: You awake?
The screen begins to dim, and just as you're about to toss it onto the mattress, it lights up, illuminating your face.
Jake: I am.
Jake: Can’t sleep?
You: Can’t turn my brain off.
You: You?
Jake: I think I forgot how to sleep.
Speech bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear. Gone again. You hum, feeling the same uncertainty about what to say. Then finally...
Jake: Ice cream?
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.
You: Are you trying to solve insomnia with dairy?
Jake: It’s worth investigating.
Your laugh echoes around the room, making it feel empty. Neither of you should be awake at this time of the morning. You each have responsibilities tomorrow. Which is why ice cream sounds perfect.
You: See you in 20.
Jake’s alarm will be ringing in a little over four hours, his apartment still smells faintly of the pizza he’d forgotten to throw away after getting home from work, and every sensible part of his brain is telling him a late-night ice cream run isn’t going to fix the fact that he’s spent the last three nights sleeping in restless twenty-minute bursts.
He ignores those sensible thoughts.
Instead, he finds himself parked outside your apartment building, ten minutes early, which means he definitely broke at least three speed limits getting here. Leaning against the door, he crosses his ankles, trying for casual, though the way he stares at the building's door is anything but.
It’s ridiculous. He’s flown combat missions with his pulse steadier than this.
This is the part he wasn’t prepared for—the waiting. Getting you back isn’t about grand gestures like fancy dinners, long, albeit heartfelt speeches, or dramatic airport chases like in the movies. It’s waiting to see if you text first. It's giving you space so you’ll choose him tomorrow after choosing him today. Being offered a second chance is one thing, but living like he deserves it carries much higher stakes.
He misses you, misses the things he took for granted, the cute notes on the refrigerator when you left before him in the morning, the funny texts that flashed on his screen at the worst possible times, the late-night talks about nothing while eating cold pizza slices, the way you curled into him while watching horror movies, the flash of your smile over the edge of your book when he walked into the room.
The door opens, and he straightens, thoughts now solely in the present. His smile widens as he sees what you're wearing. Nothing fancy, sweats, sneakers, and a hoodie. His hoodie, which makes his pulse hitch a little.
Your expression softens into a smile when you spot him. Not the polite one you’ve perfected over the last few months or the brave one you’d worn while moving boxes out of the apartment. This one reaches your eyes.
It hits him then. He’d spent months wondering if he’d ever be the reason for that smile again. Now it’s walking toward him.
He pushes off the truck, forcing every ounce of nervous energy into something that resembles effortless confidence.
“I’ve been looking for that,” he nods toward the hoodie.
You smile, tucking your hands into the kangaroo pocket. “We established a long time ago that it now belongs to me.”
“Fair.” He huffs a laugh, opening the door for you.
“Is anywhere going to be open at this time?” you ask, moving to slide into the truck.
“I know a place,” he shrugs.
“Of course you do.”
The little ice cream shop sits tucked between a laundromat and a surf shop, its neon OPEN sign humming against the otherwise dark row of beachfront stores.
“You weren’t kidding,” you mutter.
“I rarely kid about dessert.”
“Only everything else.”
The bell above the door jingles as Jake holds it open for you. “Obviously.”
It’s clearly been a slow night because the young man behind the counter looks like he’s smoked one too many joints and has a line of chocolate sauce above his top lip.
“Evening,” he says as you approach.
Jake checks his watch. “Morning.”
“Whatever.”
You don’t even check the menu, and Jake is already shaking his head. “Don’t start, Seresin.”
“It tastes like toothpaste.”
“It’s fresh.”
“It’s dental hygiene.”
“I choose what I like,” you shrug. “You choose chaos, like a teenager who’s been left alone with a credit card.”
“Not today,” he winks, pulling a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. “It’s on Rooster.”
You roll your eyes, “Was it a dangerous or immature bet he lost?”
Jake shrugs. “Bit of both.”
“I’ll take a scoop of mint chocolate chip, please.” Tilting your head toward Jake, you sigh, “And I’m sure he’ll take whatever monstrosity you can pile into one tub.”
Jake stares you down while he orders. “I’ll have strawberry...”
You look surprised.
“With brownie pieces...”
“There it is.”
“...Hot fudge sauce...”
“It’ll be a melting mess.”
“...and Caramel....”
“Can’t forget the caramel.”
“And whipped cream.”
Five minutes later, he walks out carrying a heart-attack-inducing tower while you gently lick at your single scoop cone.
Walking side by side, you wander toward the beach without really deciding to. The waves roll lazily onto the sand, silver beneath the moonlight, and gulls begin to wake for dawn.
He’s forgotten how much he loves doing absolutely nothing with you. No plans, no destination, nowhere to be, just walking.
You finish your cone before he’s managed half of his, and sit on the driftwood someone took the time to carve into a bench. Jake watches intently as you drag your finger through the concoction he's holding, grimacing as you lick the digit clean.
“Oh geez, Jake, that’s disgustingly sweet.”
He smirks, “But delicious.”
Shaking your head, you rest your elbows on your knees, watching as the approaching blue hour blurs the horizon where the sky meets the sea.
For a while, neither of you says anything. The silence settles around you like an old favorite blanket, comfortable enough that neither of you feels obligated to fill it.
“Wanna know something embarrassing?” Jake eventually asks, expertly throwing his empty tub into a steel drum acting as a trash can.
“Always.”
“I almost texted four times before you texted me.”
You chuckle. “Why didn’t you?”
“Didn’t wanna seem clingy.”
“You sent me like fifty emojis today. “
“Fifty-nine. I counted.”
That earns him another laugh. God, he’s missed that laugh and being the reason for it. Quicker than he likes, the sound drifts off with the wind. The waves approach and recede, the breeze ruffles your hair, but you remain still.
“I miss talking to you,” Jake says.
You turn your head, resting your chin on your shoulder, and give him a small smile. “Me too.”
“No,” he smiles faintly. “I mean, really talking. The pointless conversations. All the ones I took for granted because I thought we’d have years to do it. I miss the arguments about music, the debates over whether cereal counts as dinner. Which, it absolutely does.”
You laugh, leaning back to put your palms flat and stretch your legs out. You look relaxed, which was his aim. “It absolutely doesn’t.”
He smiles. “Speaking of talking, you never did tell me why you were drinking whiskey on a Tuesday night.”
You avert your gaze to look at the ocean. “It’s a long story.”
“Well, my alarm, that is conveniently at home, isn’t due to go off for,” checking his watch, coaxes the return of your smile, “two and a half hours. So I have time.”
You sigh, shuffling closer to him, and instinctively, he lifts his arm to put around your shoulders. “Can we just enjoy this, be in the moment?”
He kisses the top of your head; it’s so natural it almost hurts. “We can.”
He knows what you're doing, though. The tiny crease between your eyebrows, the anxious way your thumb rubs at the sleeve of his hoodie, lets him know that instead of enjoying the quiet, you're hiding inside it.
He says your name softly, a question.
You take a deep breath. “I got offered another promotion, a division of my own.”
“Congratulations?” He frames it as a question because if it were something you were excited about, you’d have told him sooner.
You huff a humorless laugh. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t ask whether it pays more, has a fancy new title, or what other perks it might offer, because only one question really matters.
“Where?”
“Colorado.”
The word hangs. Far enough away to make spontaneous ice cream at two-thirty in the morning impossible. Far enough that weekend visits would be difficult, and military leave and unpredictable schedules suddenly matter. Far enough that it changes everything.
“I’m assuming the whiskey on a Tuesday and a midnight ice cream run mean you’re conflicted.”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t put my life on hold again.”
The surf almost drowns out your words. Jake closes his eyes for the briefest second against the pain, but still, he understands.
“I’d be lying if I said I want you to take it, but you have to do what’s right for you.”
“What if I don’t know what that is? What if I choose wrong? What if I mess it up?”
“I don’t know.” He keeps his voice carefully neutral because this isn’t his decision, no matter how desperately he wants the answer to be that you stay.
He stands up, paces two steps away, and then turns. You look up at him, tears pooling in your eyes, and he hates how conflicted you look.
“Let’s make it simple. Do you want the job?”
You hesitate for only a moment, and he knows it's because you don’t want to hurt him.
“Yes. It’s everything I’ve been working for.”
“And you’ve worked your ass off,” he agrees. “You not only deserve it; you’ve earned it.”
“That doesn’t make the decision any easier.”
He swallows hard, the ice cream churning in his stomach. He can feel you slipping away. “Wh-” his voice catches in his suddenly dry throat. “When do you have to give your answer?”
“Monday.”
He nods like it's okay, but it’s not. Four days isn’t enough time to say goodbye. He moves to kneel in the sand, taking your hands in his, because it seems like a waste not to touch you when he might not be able to soon.
“I love you,” he says quietly, as if he knows he shouldn’t say it. “Selfishly, I want you to stay.” A sad smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “But I understand that it’s something you need to do for you.” Bringing your hands to his lips, he kisses your knuckles. “This only works if you choose me because I’m the right choice, not because I’m the closest one. I don’t want you to wake up ten years from now wondering what would’ve happened if you’d taken it, and I sure as hell don’t want to be the guy you blame.”
“I hate it when you’re the emotionally mature one.”
“I know.”
“It’s deeply inconvenient.”
A tiny smile finally breaks through. “For the record, if you move to Colorado, I expect unlimited visitation rights.”
You laugh through tears.
“But also,” he strings out the last syllable, "and no pressure,” he smirks, “but Phoenix did threaten to kill me if I mess this up.”
This time, your laugh is deep, the emotion melting away some of the apprehension. “I’ll be sure to let her know she doesn’t need to move you up on her hit list.”
“Appreciated.”
Sitting curled into each other, you silently watch the mesmerizing tapestry of blues and golds as the first rays of sunlight hit the waves. Neither of you has found the answer, but somehow neither of you feels quite so alone looking for it.
A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.
Summary: What flavor of Ice Cream to have is not the only choice that needs to be made.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, fluff.
W/C: 2,160
Pairing: Jake x reader
Notes: sequel to Dagger Mission
Word of the day (June 27, 2026) - Scoop
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main
Sleep refuses to come.
The blue glow of the alarm cuts through the darkness—2:18 a.m.
Rolling onto your back for what has to be the fifteenth time in ten minutes, the sheets twist around your legs, and the pillow is warm no matter how often you flip it over. The slight breeze from the open window does little to cool the room, and the strange quiet that only exists in the middle of the night presses against the walls.
If you concentrate, you can hear the ocean, but as soon as you start to drift off, your mind wanders to the second first date with Jake and then the intervention. The way Jake had actually looked nervous and answered with an earnest “Copy that” to Phoenix’s threat.
Laughing quietly, you twist to look at your phone on the nightstand and resist the urge to text him. That was just two nights ago. You’re supposed to be taking it slow.
He’s probably asleep anyway.
Another attempt to shut off your brain and drift into darkness fails miserably. “Screw it.” Kicking at the covers to untangle your legs, you reach for your phone.
You: You awake?
The screen begins to dim, and just as you're about to toss it onto the mattress, it lights up, illuminating your face.
Jake: I am.
Jake: Can’t sleep?
You: Can’t turn my brain off.
You: You?
Jake: I think I forgot how to sleep.
Speech bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear. Gone again. You hum, feeling the same uncertainty about what to say. Then finally...
Jake: Ice cream?
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.
You: Are you trying to solve insomnia with dairy?
Jake: It’s worth investigating.
Your laugh echoes around the room, making it feel empty. Neither of you should be awake at this time of the morning. You each have responsibilities tomorrow. Which is why ice cream sounds perfect.
You: See you in 20.
Jake’s alarm will be ringing in a little over four hours, his apartment still smells faintly of the pizza he’d forgotten to throw away after getting home from work, and every sensible part of his brain is telling him a late-night ice cream run isn’t going to fix the fact that he’s spent the last three nights sleeping in restless twenty-minute bursts.
He ignores those sensible thoughts.
Instead, he finds himself parked outside your apartment building, ten minutes early, which means he definitely broke at least three speed limits getting here. Leaning against the door, he crosses his ankles, trying for casual, though the way he stares at the building's door is anything but.
It’s ridiculous. He’s flown combat missions with his pulse steadier than this.
This is the part he wasn’t prepared for—the waiting. Getting you back isn’t about grand gestures like fancy dinners, long, albeit heartfelt speeches, or dramatic airport chases like in the movies. It’s waiting to see if you text first. It's giving you space so you’ll choose him tomorrow after choosing him today. Being offered a second chance is one thing, but living like he deserves it carries much higher stakes.
He misses you, misses the things he took for granted, the cute notes on the refrigerator when you left before him in the morning, the funny texts that flashed on his screen at the worst possible times, the late-night talks about nothing while eating cold pizza slices, the way you curled into him while watching horror movies, the flash of your smile over the edge of your book when he walked into the room.
The door opens, and he straightens, thoughts now solely in the present. His smile widens as he sees what you're wearing. Nothing fancy, sweats, sneakers, and a hoodie. His hoodie, which makes his pulse hitch a little.
Your expression softens into a smile when you spot him. Not the polite one you’ve perfected over the last few months or the brave one you’d worn while moving boxes out of the apartment. This one reaches your eyes.
It hits him then. He’d spent months wondering if he’d ever be the reason for that smile again. Now it’s walking toward him.
He pushes off the truck, forcing every ounce of nervous energy into something that resembles effortless confidence.
“I’ve been looking for that,” he nods toward the hoodie.
You smile, tucking your hands into the kangaroo pocket. “We established a long time ago that it now belongs to me.”
“Fair.” He huffs a laugh, opening the door for you.
“Is anywhere going to be open at this time?” you ask, moving to slide into the truck.
“I know a place,” he shrugs.
“Of course you do.”
The little ice cream shop sits tucked between a laundromat and a surf shop, its neon OPEN sign humming against the otherwise dark row of beachfront stores.
“You weren’t kidding,” you mutter.
“I rarely kid about dessert.”
“Only everything else.”
The bell above the door jingles as Jake holds it open for you. “Obviously.”
It’s clearly been a slow night because the young man behind the counter looks like he’s smoked one too many joints and has a line of chocolate sauce above his top lip.
“Evening,” he says as you approach.
Jake checks his watch. “Morning.”
“Whatever.”
You don’t even check the menu, and Jake is already shaking his head. “Don’t start, Seresin.”
“It tastes like toothpaste.”
“It’s fresh.”
“It’s dental hygiene.”
“I choose what I like,” you shrug. “You choose chaos, like a teenager who’s been left alone with a credit card.”
“Not today,” he winks, pulling a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. “It’s on Rooster.”
You roll your eyes, “Was it a dangerous or immature bet he lost?”
Jake shrugs. “Bit of both.”
“I’ll take a scoop of mint chocolate chip, please.” Tilting your head toward Jake, you sigh, “And I’m sure he’ll take whatever monstrosity you can pile into one tub.”
Jake stares you down while he orders. “I’ll have strawberry...”
You look surprised.
“With brownie pieces...”
“There it is.”
“...Hot fudge sauce...”
“It’ll be a melting mess.”
“...and Caramel....”
“Can’t forget the caramel.”
“And whipped cream.”
Five minutes later, he walks out carrying a heart-attack-inducing tower while you gently lick at your single scoop cone.
Walking side by side, you wander toward the beach without really deciding to. The waves roll lazily onto the sand, silver beneath the moonlight, and gulls begin to wake for dawn.
He’s forgotten how much he loves doing absolutely nothing with you. No plans, no destination, nowhere to be, just walking.
You finish your cone before he’s managed half of his, and sit on the driftwood someone took the time to carve into a bench. Jake watches intently as you drag your finger through the concoction he's holding, grimacing as you lick the digit clean.
“Oh geez, Jake, that’s disgustingly sweet.”
He smirks, “But delicious.”
Shaking your head, you rest your elbows on your knees, watching as the approaching blue hour blurs the horizon where the sky meets the sea.
For a while, neither of you says anything. The silence settles around you like an old favorite blanket, comfortable enough that neither of you feels obligated to fill it.
“Wanna know something embarrassing?” Jake eventually asks, expertly throwing his empty tub into a steel drum acting as a trash can.
“Always.”
“I almost texted four times before you texted me.”
You chuckle. “Why didn’t you?”
“Didn’t wanna seem clingy.”
“You sent me like fifty emojis today. “
“Fifty-nine. I counted.”
That earns him another laugh. God, he’s missed that laugh and being the reason for it. Quicker than he likes, the sound drifts off with the wind. The waves approach and recede, the breeze ruffles your hair, but you remain still.
“I miss talking to you,” Jake says.
You turn your head, resting your chin on your shoulder, and give him a small smile. “Me too.”
“No,” he smiles faintly. “I mean, really talking. The pointless conversations. All the ones I took for granted because I thought we’d have years to do it. I miss the arguments about music, the debates over whether cereal counts as dinner. Which, it absolutely does.”
You laugh, leaning back to put your palms flat and stretch your legs out. You look relaxed, which was his aim. “It absolutely doesn’t.”
He smiles. “Speaking of talking, you never did tell me why you were drinking whiskey on a Tuesday night.”
You avert your gaze to look at the ocean. “It’s a long story.”
“Well, my alarm, that is conveniently at home, isn’t due to go off for,” checking his watch, coaxes the return of your smile, “two and a half hours. So I have time.”
You sigh, shuffling closer to him, and instinctively, he lifts his arm to put around your shoulders. “Can we just enjoy this, be in the moment?”
He kisses the top of your head; it’s so natural it almost hurts. “We can.”
He knows what you're doing, though. The tiny crease between your eyebrows, the anxious way your thumb rubs at the sleeve of his hoodie, lets him know that instead of enjoying the quiet, you're hiding inside it.
He says your name softly, a question.
You take a deep breath. “I got offered another promotion, a division of my own.”
“Congratulations?” He frames it as a question because if it were something you were excited about, you’d have told him sooner.
You huff a humorless laugh. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t ask whether it pays more, has a fancy new title, or what other perks it might offer, because only one question really matters.
“Where?”
“Colorado.”
The word hangs. Far enough away to make spontaneous ice cream at two-thirty in the morning impossible. Far enough that weekend visits would be difficult, and military leave and unpredictable schedules suddenly matter. Far enough that it changes everything.
“I’m assuming the whiskey on a Tuesday and a midnight ice cream run mean you’re conflicted.”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t put my life on hold again.”
The surf almost drowns out your words. Jake closes his eyes for the briefest second against the pain, but still, he understands.
“I’d be lying if I said I want you to take it, but you have to do what’s right for you.”
“What if I don’t know what that is? What if I choose wrong? What if I mess it up?”
“I don’t know.” He keeps his voice carefully neutral because this isn’t his decision, no matter how desperately he wants the answer to be that you stay.
He stands up, paces two steps away, and then turns. You look up at him, tears pooling in your eyes, and he hates how conflicted you look.
“Let’s make it simple. Do you want the job?”
You hesitate for only a moment, and he knows it's because you don’t want to hurt him.
“Yes. It’s everything I’ve been working for.”
“And you’ve worked your ass off,” he agrees. “You not only deserve it; you’ve earned it.”
“That doesn’t make the decision any easier.”
He swallows hard, the ice cream churning in his stomach. He can feel you slipping away. “Wh-” his voice catches in his suddenly dry throat. “When do you have to give your answer?”
“Monday.”
He nods like it's okay, but it’s not. Four days isn’t enough time to say goodbye. He moves to kneel in the sand, taking your hands in his, because it seems like a waste not to touch you when he might not be able to soon.
“I love you,” he says quietly, as if he knows he shouldn’t say it. “Selfishly, I want you to stay.” A sad smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “But I understand that it’s something you need to do for you.” Bringing your hands to his lips, he kisses your knuckles. “This only works if you choose me because I’m the right choice, not because I’m the closest one. I don’t want you to wake up ten years from now wondering what would’ve happened if you’d taken it, and I sure as hell don’t want to be the guy you blame.”
“I hate it when you’re the emotionally mature one.”
“I know.”
“It’s deeply inconvenient.”
A tiny smile finally breaks through. “For the record, if you move to Colorado, I expect unlimited visitation rights.”
You laugh through tears.
“But also,” he strings out the last syllable, "and no pressure,” he smirks, “but Phoenix did threaten to kill me if I mess this up.”
This time, your laugh is deep, the emotion melting away some of the apprehension. “I’ll be sure to let her know she doesn’t need to move you up on her hit list.”
“Appreciated.”
Sitting curled into each other, you silently watch the mesmerizing tapestry of blues and golds as the first rays of sunlight hit the waves. Neither of you has found the answer, but somehow neither of you feels quite so alone looking for it.
Part 8 - Another Wednesday - Jake’s too focused on making the night perfect that he’s forgotten the most important part.
A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.
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