SYNOPSIS âââ After a car accident that costed you 3 years worth of memory, you find yourself trying to start a new beginning in a new city with "new" people. Only God knows why would the universe make you cross paths with the cute guy nextdoor.
đ đđ§đ«đ : neighbor AU, fluff, slight angst, smut (MDNI)
đđšđ§đđđ§đ : yearner!jake, swearing, loss of memory, mention of a car accident, unprotected sex, p in v, oral sex (f. receiving), jake is an ass grabber, praising, creampie, mutual orgasm, switch!jake, loss of virginity, jake and reader's first time, fingering, riding, domestic scenes
đ°đ : 25.5k
â# this is my goodbye gift !! Hope youâll all like it :)
You wouldn't have thought that the cardboard box in your arms would be heavier than it has any right to be, given it's mostly filled with towels and a lamp that probably won't survive the move. You shift it against your hip, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as Jungwon's voice crackles through the speaker.
"âand the landlord said the water pressure is good, but you should still check the boiler room, okay? Just in case. Mom keeps asking if you've eaten."
"I've eaten," you say, dumping the box onto the kitchen counter. The sound echoes in the empty space. "I ate a granola bar on the drive."
"That's not eating. You usually eat much more than that, Y/N."
You almost laugh. The corners of your mouth twitch, yet the energy to actually produce the sound feels too expensive. The new apartment is small, already making you hyperaware of your own breathing. White walls, beige carpet, a window that overlooks a fire escape and the back of a laundromat. It's nothing like your old place. And that's totally the point.
"There's a coffee shop down the street," you say instead, peering through the smudged glass of the window. "I saw it when I pulled in."
"Good, you should go there. Drink something with sugar and call me if you need anything."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
The line goes dead, and the silence in the apartment rushes back in to fill the space. You stand there for a minute, only breathing, letting your new life settle into your bones. New city with a new apartment, and no memories of the last three years to trip over on your way to the bathroom.
You grab your keys and head out. The neighborhood is weirdly quiet even in the afternoon, it feels like everyone is holding their breath. Old brick buildings line the street, their facades streaked with years of rain. A bodega on the corner, a laundromat, and there, wedged between a bookstore and a clothing shop, the coffee shop. It's decorated with mismatched chairs and a counter cluttered with jars of homemade pastries. You order a black coffee because you don't trust your brain to make decisions, and you take it to a table by the window. You're halfway through the cup, watching a pigeon peck at a discarded wrapper, when the sky opens up. The rain comes down in sheets, loud and violent, rattling against the glass like it's trying to get in. You watch it for a while, then check your phone. It's already 5 PM.
"Excuse me," you say, approaching the counter. The barista, a tired-looking woman with flour on her apron, looks up. "Do you have an umbrella I could borrow? I just moved in across the street, I'll bring it back."
She blinks at you before she disappears into the back, returning a moment later with a flimsy black umbrella. It looks like the one you buy at a bodega for five dollars and immediately regret. "Keep it," she says. "We have like twelve of these."
The rain hasn't let up by the time you step outside. You pop the umbrella open, holding it tight as the wind tries to wrestle it from your grip. The street is a river now, the buildings blurred through the curtain of water. You walk quickly, splashing through puddles, your sneakers already soaked.
The apartment building is a relief when it comes into view. You duck into the alcove of the entrance, shaking water from your hair, and fumble with the umbrella to close it. The mechanism catches on something, and you jerk it, frustrated, only to have it flip open in a violent snap. A spray of water arcs outward, catching the person passing behind you square in the chest.
You freeze.
He freezes.
For an agonizing long moment, neither of you dare to move. He's standing half in the rain, half out, his white t-shirt now clinging to his torso with a growing dark patch. His hair is damp at the ends, dark brown and curling slightly. His eyes ; wide and startled ; scan your face with intensity, making you want to quickly apologize, but the words get caught somewhere in your throat.
His expression falters for the briefest moment. The certainty in his eyes gives way to hesitation, his gaze tracing your features as though something refuses to add up. His head tilts slightly, thoughtful rather than confused. You brace yourself for annoyance. For the kind of clipped anger that would be entirely justified.
Rather than that, he blinks, and a smile touches the corner of his mouth. It's not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one, uncertain and clumsy. "Hi," he says. His voice is a little rough, maybe from the cold. "Sorry, I wasâdo I know you?"
You shake your head, clutching the umbrella tightly. "I don't think so. I just moved in. I'm sorry about your shirt."
He glances down at the wet patch before looking back up at you. "Don't worry about it. It's just water." He's still looking at you, though. Too fucking long. His gaze lingers, waiting for...something. Whatever it is never comes. With a shake of his head, he drags a hand through his wet hair before a tiny smile finds its way onto his face, warming the corners of his eyes. "I'm Jake. I live in 9C down the hall."
"Y/N," you say. "5C."
"Welcome to the building."
"Thanks."
The rain continues to fall, filling the space between you with noise. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and you realize you're both just standing there, awkward and dripping, with nothing else to say.
"Well," he says, "I should probably go change. Before I catch a cold."
"Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry again."
"Don't be."
He heads for the elevator, and you watch him go, his wet footprints staining the floor. He pauses with his hand on the button, and for only a second, you think he might turn back or might say something else. But then the door swings open, and he disappears inside.
You stand there for another minute, the broken umbrella dangling from your hand, the rain hammering against the awning above you. The feeling of his gaze on your face lingers, unsettled, like a half-remembered dream.
You close the apartment door behind you and lean against it. The key is still in your hand. The broken umbrella is still in the other. Your socks are soaked through because you forgot to wipe your feet.
None of that registers.
Because Jake ; apartment 9C, white t-shirt, gray hoodie, hole in his jeans ; had a face that shouldn't exist outside of Renaissance paintings and the occasional fever dream. Sharp jaw and messy hair that looked intentional even though it definitely wasn't. And his eyes, soft and curious, doing that slow scan of your features like he was reading something he couldn't put down.
You slide down the door until you're sitting on the floor.
This doesn't happen to you.
Noâcorrection. This has never happened to you. You've read about it, sure. Pages in secondhand paperbacks where the protagonist trips and falls into a stranger's arms and he just happens to have cheekbones that could cut diamonds. You've rolled your eyes at those scenes and called them unrealistic. You told yourself that real life doesn't come with lighting cues and slow motion. However, standing on those steps with rain dripping off his chin and an animal shelter's worth of grime on his wrist, he had no business being that striking. That disarming. That stupidly attractive.
Your brain caught on the way he'd looked at you. Not like he was checking you out but more like he was searching for something. A flicker of recognition that didn't meant nothing if you recoil on it. And after that the shrug, and the introduction so smooth it had to be accidental.
Jake.
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. Are you freaking kidding me ?
"You're being ridiculous." you tell the empty apartment.
Three hours later, you've unpacked exactly one box ; where it cointained your sheets and a single mug shaped like a cactus that Jungwon bought you as a joke three birthdays ago. The mug is now sitting on the kitchen counter, empty, staring at you judgmentally.
He keeps finding his way back into your thoughts. Not because you're trying to hold on to him, and surely not because you can't move on. It happens almost absentmindedly, the way your brain revisits familiar things when it's left alone. How his voice sounded slightly wrecked, like he'd been yelling or laughing or both. The smudge on his wrist ; potting soil, probably, if the canvas bag full of clinking jars was any indication. Pickles? Jam? The man had twelve jars of something and dirt on his hands and he lived four apartment next to yours.
You catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror and frown at yourself.
"Girl, you don't even know his last name." you say.
You go to bed early because there's nothing else to do. The new apartment sounds are unusual, there's more creaks and fewer sirens. At 2:17 AM, someone in the building starts playing the guitar badly. You fall asleep to a mangled rendition of "Wonderwall".
âââââââââ
The alarm drags you from sleep sharply. You bat at your phone until the noise stops, and lie there, blinking at the still unfamiliar ceiling, reacquainting yourself with the fact that this is your life now. Everything was going to be new now.
By the time you've wrestled yourself into something presentable, you're already running five minutes behind. You skip breakfast, grab your bag, and lock the door behind you.
The elderly home sits at the end of a tree-lined street, a squat brick building, you almost mistook it for a community center. The receptionist gives you a visitor's badge and points you toward the common room, where a handful of residents are scattered across armchairs, some dozing, some staring at a muted television, one engaged in a heated argument with a plant.
You're barely through the door when a woman appears at your elbow, small and bright-eyed, with a name tag that reads Hanni in cheerful block letters. "New hire?" she asks, already steering you toward a supply closet. "Thank god. I've been doing double shifts for three weeks. I'm Hanni. You're Y/N. I read your file. It said you have experience with dementia patients. That's good, because Jacob over thereâ" she jerks her chin toward a man in a cardigan who's now trying to feed his coffee to the plant, "âthinks he's a squirrel."
You blink. "A squirrel?"
"Don't ask. Just go with it. If he offers you acorns, take them."
The day unfolds. You help Mrs. Han find her glasses (they were on her head), you listen to Mr. Eom's stories about a bakery he ran forty years ago, and you learn the exact difference between the "good" applesauce and the "bad" applesauce. Hanni works beside you with effortless competence, cracking jokes under her breath and seamlessly redirecting residents who wander toward the exit. "You're pretty good at this," she says during a break, as you both stand at the nurses' station, scribbling notes. "Most new people get that deer-in-headlights look for at least a week. You just sort of absorbed it."
You shrug, not sure how to explain that this ; the slow pace, the gentle repetition, the small dignities of helping someone remember their own name ; it feels like the only thing you're certain about these days. "It's not that hard. They just want to be seen."
Hanni studies you for a moment, something curious flickering behind her eyes. Then she nods, and the moment passes.
Your shift ends, your feet ache and your brain feels pleasantly fuzzy, which doesn't leave room for anxiety. You change out of your scrubs, say goodbye to Hanni, and step out into the evening air.
The street is calm, the rain from yesterday reduced to a thin dampness on the pavement. You're walking toward your building, hands shoved in your jacket pockets, when you round the corner and nearly collide with someone coming the other way.
Fuck, it's him.
Jake.
He's wearing a different shirt ; navy this time, sleeves pushed up to his elbows ; and he's carrying a cardboard pack of beer tucked under one arm. His hair is dry, pulled up in a little ponytail at the back, and the sight of him in the golden light of early evening hits you like a delayed punch.
"Oh," you say. Why now?
He stops. For a heartbeat, something unsettles his expression, his eyes lingering on you a fraction too long. Then, it melts away, something softer taking place. "Hey. Y/N, right?"
"Oh, you remembered." The words come out flatter than you wanted them to be, yet your pulse is doing a ridiculous drum solo again.
"I remember a lot of things," he says, there's a strange weight to the phrase, like he's saying something else underneath it. He gestures with the beer. "You're heading back?"
"Yeah. I just finished my first day at the elderly home down the street."
"How was it?"
"Exhausting. Good, though. I think. One of the residents offered me a fake acorn, so I'm taking that as a sign of approval."
He laughs, low and surprised, you can see that he didn't expect to find it funny. "That's a pretty solid endorsement. I'd trust fake acorn guy over most people."
You fall into step together, and you notice how he adjusts his pace to match yours, shortening his stride just slightly. The street stretches ahead, lined with those old brick buildings, the sky above streaked with pale orange and lavender. You nod toward the beer. "Expecting company, or is that just for personal purpose?"
He glances down at the pack, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. "I'm having friends over tonight. A couple of guys from the shelterâI work at the animal shelter a few blocks over. We do this thing every other Thursday. It's mostly just eating takeout and arguing about which dog breed is objectively the best."
"Which one is?"
"Rescue," he says immediately. "All of them."
You snort. "I think so too."
"Right? This is why we're going to get along." He says it casually, the words land in your chest with an unexpected weight.
The building comes into view, its facade warm in the fading light. He holds the door open for you, and you step into the foyer, the familiar smell of old carpet and someone's cooking drifting through the hallway. At your door you fumble for your keys, and he lingers, shifting the beer from one arm to the other.
"Good first day," he says. "At the job, I mean."
"Thanks." You find the right key, fit it into the lock. "Have fun with your friends. Try not to let the argument escalate into a physical altercation."
"No promises. We're very passionate about this." He's already turning, already stepping back toward his door, when something makes you call out : "Jake."
He stops and looks back.
"Thanks for walking me," you say. "Even if you didn't have to."
A small shrug. "It's fine. I wanted to, anyway." And he's already gone, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, and you're left standing in your doorway, keys still in hand, watching the space where he was.
You unlock the door, step inside, and close it behind you. The apartment is mostly empty, since your laziness won over you to unpack the rest of your stuff. You press your back against the door and stare at the ceiling.
This, you think, is exactly the kind of thing I'd roll my eyes at in a book.
Regardless, you can't stop the smile that spreads across your face, slow and helpless and embarrassingly real.
You're sprawled across the couch, legs tangled in a throw blanket, the glow of the television painting your face in shifting blues and reds. Some reality show about people competing to bake things that look like other things. It's mindless and perfect, exactly the sort of programming that requires zero cognitive effort. Your oversized t-shirt hangs off one shoulder with Justin Bieber's face from his Purpose World Tour, faded and cracked from years of washing. Below that, nothing but a pair of plain cotton panties. Your hair is messy, and there's a half-empty mug of tea growing cold on the floor beside you. You're comfortable. Vulnerable, maybe, but in the privacy of your own space, and that's all that matters.
Your gaze wanders into the kitchen and lands on the trash bin that is overflowing with flattened boxes and crumpled packing paper, the remains of a move youâre still halfway through. It doesnât look like much, but you know itâll be the first thing to irritate you in the morning if itâs left untouched. You weigh the options. Get dressed and actually put on pants, find a bra, the whole tedious ritual, or justâŠgo. It's a quick trip. The trash chute is at the end of the hallway, maybe twenty steps from your door. The corridor has been empty all evening. And Jake has friends over. He's occupied. He's not going to be lurking around corners, waiting to ambush you with his inconveniently-timed presence.
Nobody will see you, you tell yourself. It's fine. You're fast as fuck.
You pad to the door, press your eye to the peephole. The hallway stretches, empty. Clear. You crack the door open, just wide enough to slip through, and you're out, barefoot, the cold floor sending a shiver up your legs. The trash bag is heavier than you expected ; you hoist it against your hip, jogging in that awkward, flat-footed way of someone who's both in a hurry and deeply aware of their own exposure. The chute is a metal hatch in the wall. You heave it open, shove the bag inside, hear it clatter down into the abyss. Mission accomplished.
You turn, already planning your retreat, andâ
He's standing three feet away. Oh fuck off.
Jake.
He's holding a bulging trash bag of his own, the clink of glass bottles audible as he adjusts his grip. His eyes travel from your face down to the faded Bieber shirt, then back up, and there's a beat of silence where neither of you move. Your brain short-circuits and your mouth opens. What comes out is a garbled mix of syllables that might have been intended as "hey" but emerges as something closer to "hehâuhâIâ"
He blinks. Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches. "Didn't mean to startle you," he says, and his voice is level, calm, almost like he's trying to soothe a startled animal.
"You didn'tâI mean, I was justâ" You gesture clumsily at your attire, then at the trash chute, then back at yourself, as if this chain of context will explain everything. "The trash was full. And I didn't think anyone would beâI mean, you said you had friendsâ"
"Friends," he confirms. "They left about ten minutes ago. I was just cleaning up."
"Of course you were. That makes sense." You're still standing there, bare-legged, the shirt barely grazing your thighs, and the hallway suddenly feels like a wind tunnel. You cross your arms over your chest, which does absolutely nothing to help the situation. Jake doesnât leer nor does he joke. He meets your eyes with that same searching look, softened now into quiet amusement. "You know," he says, "you have a habit of running into me in unexpected situations."
"This is your fault," you say, and the words come out sharp without real bite behind them. "You're supposed to be busy. That was the whole point."
"Sorry to inconvenience you by taking out my trash."
"You're not sorry, are you?"
"No," he admits, his half-smile edges into fuller one. "I'm not." He steps past you toward the chute, and you catch a whiff of a clean and comforting scent, the ordinary scent of someone who's recently showered. He drops his bag in, closes the hatch with a metallic thunk and turns back. "See you around, Bieber," he says, the warmth in the nickname makes your stomach flip.
He's walking back toward his apartment door, and you're standing once again, your face heating in an inexorable crawl. You wait until his footsteps fade before you scurry back to your door, slip inside, and press your back against the wood. The television is still playing, some contestant weeping over a collapsed trompe-l'oeil. You stare at the screen, unseeing.
Bieber.
You look down at the faded face on your shirt, at your bare legs, at the utter mess of your appearance, and you press the heels of your palms into your eyes like the day before. You're still standing with your back against the door, willing your face to return to a normal temperature, when the knock comes.
Three sharp raps.
Your entire body goes still. The television babbles on, oblivious, as you press your eye to the peephole. Jake. Of course. He's standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down at the floor, he's waiting for something. He's changed into a gray sweatshirt, hood down, hair slightly mussed. You don't open the door. You can't, not after what he just witnessed. Not with this shirt still on.
"What?" you call through the wood, and your voice comes out higher, strained.
"Y/N," His voice is muffled but clear. "I know you're in there."
"I'm not opening the door."
A pause. "I'm not asking you to."
"Why are you here then?"
He pauses again. You can hear him shift his weight. "I just wanted to sayâ" He stops, and you imagine him running a hand through his hair, figuring out how to phrase something. "The shirt. I really like it."
You press your forehead against the door. "You're lying."
"I'm not. I had that exact one in middle school and I wore it until the print started peeling off."
"That doesn't make it better."
"Maybe not." His voice carries a smile, you can hear it, the slight lift in the vowels. "I thought you should know, though. That's all."
You stay silent, unsure how to answer. The pause settles in, comfortable rather than tense, and you notice he isnât hurrying to fill it.
"Anyways," he says finally, "goodnight, Y/N."
You hear footsteps, receding. You wait until the sound fades completely before you let out a breath you were holding deeply. Your reflection stares back at you from the peephole's warped glass, only a blur of color, but you can feel the heat still lingering in your cheeks. You push off from the door, walk back to the couch, and collapse into the cushions. The reality show contestants are still crying about pastries. You look down at Justin Bieber's faded face. At the cracked screen print and the worn collar.
He had this exact one in middle school, what a coincidence.
You pull the hem of the shirt, stretch it, let it snap back. A small, involuntary sound escapes your throat. It might be a laugh or anything else. You grab your phone, open your messages, and type out a single line to Jungwon.
Y/N [11:52 PM]
I think I'm in trouble.
But you delete it, toss the phone aside, and stare at the ceiling until your heartbeat settles to normal again.
It takes a while.
âââââââââ
The morning came faster than you thought. You grab the umbrella on your way out ; the same flimsy black one that started this whole foolish chain of events ; and stop by the coffee shop before your shift. The barista barely glances up as you set it on the counter.
"Thanks," you say. "For letting me borrow it."
She waves a hand, already reaching for a pitcher of milk. "Keep it next time. We've got a whole graveyard of those things in the back."
You almost tell her there won't be a next time, yet the words feel like tempting fate, so you just nod and head out.
The elderly home is already rumbling when you arrive. Hanni greets you with a coffee cup thrust into your hands and a breathless update about Mr. Eom's missing dentures. You take a sip, let the caffeine do its work, and fall into the cadence of the morning.
By early afternoon, the sun is actually warm enough to justify a walk. You round up three residents ; Mrs. Han, who's having a good day and remembers your name, Mr. Chen, who doesn't say much but mumbles tunelessly under his breath and Jacob, who offered you the fake acorn. He's wearing a different cardigan today, mustard yellow, and he keeps patting his pockets like he's checking for something. The path behind the building winds through a small garden, past benches and bird feeders and a sad little fountain that hasn't worked in years. You walk slowly, matching their pace, letting Mrs. Han point out flowers she's identified incorrectly and pretending to take Jacob's commentary seriously.
It's peaceful, nearly meditative. A moment like this makes you wonder if this new life really is as bad as you thought.
Abruptly, a dog comes out of nowhere. A golden retriever ; young, gangly, all oversized paws and manic energy ; bounds across the grass with the focus of a missile. It's not aggressive and not even barking. It's excited, and its excitement is directed straight at Jacob, who is the slowest-moving, most startle-prone member of your little group. The dog lunges up before you can react, front paws slamming into Jacobâs chest. He rocks back, arms windmilling, then drops in a slow heap, feeling like itâs happening in two conflicting speeds at once.
"Jacob!" You're at his side in an instant, dropping to your knees, hands hovering unevenly. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"
Jacob blinks up at you, more confused than pained. His glasses are askew. "I dropped my acorn," he says.
"I'll find it. Justâstay still. Tell me if anything hurts."
A voice cuts through the chaos, alert and breathless. "Oh godâI'm so sorryâ"
You look up. Jake is sprinting toward you, the dog's leash trailing behind him like a forgotten flag. He's in work clothes ; a navy polo with the shelter's logo, dirt smudged on his forearm ; and his face is veiled with unguarded panic.
The dog, oblivious, is now trying to lick Jacob's ear.
"Leo, down!" Jake grabs the dog's collar, hauls him back with a firm yet gentle tug. "I am so, so sorry. He got looseâI was just bringing him out for a walk and he saw theâare you okay? Is he okay?"
You're already helping Jacob sit up, checking his wrists, his neck, the back of his head. No swelling or bleeding. He's still patting his pockets for the acorn.
"He's fine," you say, your voice flat. "He's just disoriented."
"Thank god." Jake exhales, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "I really amâI should have had a better grip on the leash. He's young, he's still learning, but that's not an excuseâ"
"You're right." You stand, brushing grass from your knees. "It's not."
The silence that follows is stiffling. Mrs. Han is watching with curious eyes, Mr. Chen has stopped mumbling, and Leo is now sitting at Jake's feet, tail excitedly wagging. You turn to Jake fully. "You work at a shelter. You know how unpredictable dogs can be. Especially around elderly people. One wrong jump, one fall, and it's a broken bone or a concussion. That could actually hurt someone."
Jake meets your gaze without a trace of defensiveness or excuses. He simply nods slowly, his jaw tightening in restraint. "You're right," he says. "I wasn't careful enough. I got distracted, and I let him pull ahead, and I should have anticipated that this could happen." He glances at Jacob, who is now patting Leo's head with a delighted smile. "I'm really glad he's okay. And I'm sorry you had to deal with that."
The words settle with an unexpected weight, disarming you. You were ready for deflection, for something casual and rehearsed. Regardless, he stays still, accepting it without trying to cushion the blow.
You let out a breath. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a shaky residue. "Be more careful," you say, and your voice is quieter now. "Please."
"I will." He holds your gaze for another beat, and crouches down to Jacob's level. "Hey, sir. That was my dog. He's really sorry. Are you okay?"
Jacob looks at him, then at Leo before his gaze goes back at his empty palm. "I lost my acorn," he says, there's a note of genuine distress in his voice. Jake doesn't miss a beat. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small smooth stone and presses it into Jacob's hand. "Here. I found this, it must've been yours."
Jacob stares at it. His face splits into a wide, gap-toothed smile. "Thank you," he says, and clutches it like treasure.
You watch it unfold, something uneasy tightening in your chest. Jake stands and meets your gaze again. A flash crosses his face ; rueful, or closer to hope. "I'll make sure he's more secured next time," Jake says, nodding toward Leo. "And if there's anything I can doâ"
"There isn't," you say, but the sharpness has gone from your voice. "But still...keep a closer eye on him."
"Always." He turns and walks back toward the path, Leo trotting obediently at his heel. You watch him go, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, how he glances back once before rounding the corner.
Mrs. Han sidles up to you. "He's cute," she states. "The boy. Not the dog."
You open your mouth, not a sound escaping your mouth. You try again.
"Mrs. Han," you say, "you're supposed to be on my side."
"I am on your side," she says, patting your arm. "That's why I'm telling you."
You help Jacob to his feet, find his acorn in the grass, and start the slow walk back to the building. Your thoughts drift elsewhere, replaying Jake crouching down to Jacobâs level, finding the stone without hesitation, saying 'I will' like he truly meant it.
You shake your head, focus on the path ahead.
After you end your shift, you walk back to your apartment. The sky has gone hazy, and you keep your hands in your pockets, replaying the afternoon in fragments. You unlock your door, kick off your shoes, and collapse onto the couch. The television is still on from last night. You turn it off, let the silence settle.
You decide to pull out your phone and call Jungwon. He picks up, but the background noise is a wall of bass and overlapping voices. You can hear a bunch of voice shouting "CHUG CHUG CHUG!!!" and loud cheers. You hear a door slam, the noise muffles.
"Y/N?" His voice is slightly breathless. "Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," you say, and you mean it. "I just wanted to check in. You sound busy, though."
"I'm at a mixer party with my house and sororities. It's loud so I stepped outside." He stops for a second. "Are you sure you're okay? You never call this late."
"Late? It's like seven."
"Yeah. You're usually asleep by now."
You fairly laugh. "I've been more awake lately. I had a long day."
"Tell me about it."
So you do. You tell him about everything. You don't want to mention Jake.
"You sound good," Jungwon says when you finish. " Really good. Not just saying you're good."
"I think I am," you say, the words surprise you with their honesty.
"That's all I needed to hear." There's a muffled shout from behind him, someone calling his name. "I should get back. But call me anytime, okay? Even if it's just to complain about old people and dogs."
"Old people and dogs. The two pillars of my existence now."
"Don't let the dogs jump on you," he mentions, you can hear the smile in his voice.
"I won't. Have fun at your party."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
The line goes dead. You hold the phone for a moment before setting it aside, letting the quiet wrap around you. You stand, stretch, and gather your clothes for a shower, a clean towel, a change of underwear, the softest pair of sweatpants you own. You pad toward the bathroom, already anticipating the hot water, the steam, and the small escape from your own head.
You're two steps from the bathroom door when the lights flicker.
Once. Twice. It dies.
The apartment plunges into absolute darkness. No sound from the refrigerator, no glow from the microwave clock, just black, thick and total. You stand there, motionless, one hand gripping your towel, the other reaching for the wall. You feel along the switch, flick it up and down. There's nothing.
You step to the window to peer out. The streetlights are on. The building across the way is lit, warm rectangles of gold in every window. The coffee shop's neon sign still glows. You check your phone to see your battery at 60%. You switch on the flashlight, sweep it across the room. So it's only your apartment. The refrigerator is dead. The outlets are dead. The overhead light, the bathroom ; all dead. You flip the circuit breaker in the tiny panel by the door. Shit. You try the main switch. Nothing.
You stand there in the beam of your phone, your reflection ghostly in the dark window glass, wearing that stupid Justin Bieber shirt and holding a bundle of clean clothes, and you realize you have no flashlight, no candles, and mostly, no backup plan.
The silence presses in. 9C. A certain neighbor who might have a working outlet and a willingness to share. A part of you notes, almost critically, that this would be the kind of contrived convenience youâd hate in a book.
You sigh, grab your keys, and head for the door.
The hour stretches like taffy. You've tried the circuit breaker three times, called the landlord four times, and texted him twice, giving you no results. The voicemail picks up on the first ring, a generic recording without a name. You sit next to your door and consider your options. There's a motel two blocks away. There's the coffee shop, but they close in fifteen minutes. It got to be a joke.
And there's the door at the end of the hallway.
You pace. You argue with yourself. You list all the reasons this is a terrible idea ; all the incidents that happened and degraded your confidence, the fact that you've known this man for approximately forty-eight hours and he's already seen you at your most unguarded multiple times. But the need for a shower wins. You smell like old people and grass, with the sublte tang of anxiety sweat. You can't go to work like this tomorrow and you can't sleep like this tonight. So you put on a pair of shorts ; the longest ones you own ; and a different shirt, and you walk toward his door with the weight of your own dignity dragging behind you.
His door is at the end of the hall. You knock before you can talk yourself out of it. The door swings open. Jake stands there in a faded gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly damp, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He's holding a half-eaten apple. His eyes land on you. Travel down to your shorts, back up to your face.
His mouth curves into a smile so wide, so unapologetically amused, that you feel it like a punch right in your guts.
"Bieber," he says. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Don't call me that." The words come out weak, deflated. "My power's out. The landlord won't answer and I absolutely need a shower."
He takes a bite of his apple. He chews slowly, considers you.
"Just the shower," you add, and you can hear how defensive you sound, how utterly transparent.
"I didn't say anything." He steps back, holds the door open. "Come in."
His apartment is small too, but lived-in. A couch with a blanket draped over the back. A stack of books on the coffee table. A guitar propped in the corner. The kitchen is visible from the living room, dishes drying on a rack, a pot of something that smells like garlic and tomatoes simmering on the stove. "Bathroom's down the hall, second door on the left," he says, pointing with the apple still in hands. "Towels are in the cabinet. Use whatever you need."
"Thanks." You pause at the threshold, suddenly aware of the absurdity of this. "I'll be quick."
"Take your time." That smile again, softer now. "I'll keep the apartment from burning down while you're in there."
You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling. Hot water, steady pressure, a luxurious flow that makes you forget every indignity that led you here. You stand under the spray as long as you can, letting it beat against your shoulders, your neck, the tension you've been carrying since yesterday. When you finally step out, wrapped in a towel, you catch your reflection in the mirror. Wet hair and pink cheeks. A stupid smile that you can't suppress.
Stop it. You wipe the steam from the mirror, and that's when you notice it. On the edge of the sink, next to a half-empty bottle of cologne, is a keychain. A small, plastic orange. Slightly faded, the paint worn at the edges.
Your breath catches. You have that exact same keychain. It's been on your keys for as long as you can remember. Well, as long as your memory goes back, which is not even a year. It's one of the few objects that survived the move, one of the small constants in the fog of your past.
You pick it up and turn it over. It's identical, even the little chip in the paint near the stem matches. You stare at it for a long moment. You dress quickly, step out into the hallway, and find Jake in the kitchen, stirring the pot on the stove. "Everything okay?" he asks without turning.
"Where did you get this?" You hold up the keychain.
He turns and sees it. For an instant, his expression falters into recognition before it smooths itself back into neutrality. "Oh, that." He sets down the spoon, wipes his hands on his sweatpants. "I found it, actually. A few years ago, on the street, I think. I kept it becauseâ" He pauses, and you notice the way his eyes shift, slightly, like he's rearranging words in his head. "It reminded me of something. I don't know. I just liked it."
The explanation comes out too smooth and too rehearsed. You're wondering if he's said it before, practiced it, polished it until it sounded natural. You're not even sure why, something about how he said it, but you don't have the energy to interrogate right now. "Funny," you say, pocketing your own keys, where your matching orange dangles. "I have the same one."
He looks at you. You feel like you're standing on the edge of a cliff, for a jump you're not ready for.
"That is funny," he says, and his voice is softer now, almost distant. "Small world."
You nod, not trusting your voice. The moment stretches, fragile, and you're the one who breaks it. "I should go. Thanks for the shower."
"Anytime." He walks you to the door, and the teasing smile has returned. "If the power's still out tomorrow, you know where to find me."
"Bold of you to assume I'll survive that long."
"I have faith in you."
You roll your eyes, yet you're smiling as you step into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind you. You stand there for a moment, your keychain warm in your palm, and wonder what exactly you've just walked into. It's probably nothing, you tell yourself.
Oh it's definitely something.
âââââââââ
A few days pass, you're unpacking one box at a time, learning where the light switches are without having to think about it, catching the same bus at the same time each morning until the driver starts to nod at you like an old acquaintance.
You see Jake in the hallways more often than coincidence should allow. Tuesday morning, you're leaving for work and he's coming back from a run, sweaty and out of breath, and he raises a hand in greeting without breaking stride. Fuck he's hot.
Wednesday evening, you're carrying a bag of groceries and he's hauling a bag of dog food toward the elevator, and you end up walking side by side without discussing it. Thursday, you don't see him at all, and you catch yourself checking the peephole before bed like a woman waiting for something she won't admit to wanting.
Friday arrives with gray skies and the particular exhaustion of a full week. You've just changed into sweatpants.
Three taps. You know who it is before you look. Jake is standing in the hallway wearing a knitted sweater and he's holding his keys in his hand. He looks different at night ; softer, somehow. The hard angles of his jaw blurred by the low light.
"I'm heading to the convenience store," he announces.
You lean against the doorframe. "It's eight o'clock."
"I'm aware. That's why I said convenience store and not, like, a sit-down restaurant." He jingles his keys. "You want to come?"
You hesitate for a second too long, and he catches it. His expression shifts into something hesitant. "For the accident," he adds. "Last week, with Jacob. I've been meaning toâŠI don't know. Make up for it, in a small way. This is the small way."
"You're making up for catastrophe with a trip to 7-Eleven?"
"Don't call it that. I'd rather call it a restitution." He pauses. "Also they have those frozen slushies that turn your tongue blue, and I don't want to drink one alone because that feels sad even by my standards."
You look down at your sweatpants. "Give me two minutes," you say.
"You look fine."
"I know I look fine. I want to look like I didn't just spend an hour lying on my floor thinking about nothing."
He blinks. "That'sâ"
"Two minutes." You close the door and change into jeans. You don't know why. It's just the convenience store after all. Although you put on real pants anyway, and you run your fingers through your hair, and when you open the door again, he's still standing there, checking his phone. "Cute," he says, not looking up.
"Shut up."
The walk is short ; five blocks, past the coffee shop with the broken umbrellas, past a laundromat, and past a house with a porch light that flickers like it's sending morse code. The air is cold enough to see your breath, and Jake walks on the street side of the sidewalk without making a thing out of it.
You two arrive at the convenience store, with the buzzing lights overhead. A bell dings when you walk in. The guy behind the counter is watching a small TV mounted in the corner, some sports game apparently.
You grab a basket and Jake grabs another. "This is a competition now," he says.
"It's always been a competition."
The snack aisle is narrow, forcing you to stand closer than necessary. You reach for a bag of chips. He reaches for the same bag. Your hands collide, and he lets you take it without a fight, which is suspicious. "You're being nice," you say.
"What do you mean? I'm always nice."
"No but, like, you're being strategically nice."
He grins. It's crooked and quick, making your chest tighten. "I just want you to let your guard down so I can steal the last bag of sour stripes."
"I don't even like sour stripes."
"Everyone likes sour stripes. That's like saying you don't like breathing."
You move down the aisle, scanning the shelves. Your fingers hover over a bag of shrimp crackers ; the spicy kind, bright red packaging, which Jungwon used to make fun of you for buying in bulk. You reach for them at the same time he does. "These," he says, pushing the bag toward you. "Get these."
"I was going to."
"They're your favorite, right?"
You stop. Your hand freezes over the bag. "I didn't tell you that."
He's already looking at the next shelf, picking up a pack of chocolate cookies, turning it over to read the nutrition facts. His expression doesn't change. His voice is casual, almost bored. "Everyone likes spicy shrimp crackers," he says. "It's not some niche preference. It's a classic. Like salt and vinegar. Or barbecue."
"That's notâ"
"I'm getting these," he interrupts, holding up the cookies. "You want a drink? They have that weird melon soda. Everyone says that it tastes like liquid gummy bear."
You stare at the back of his head in confusion. He's walking toward the drink cooler, shoulders relaxed, like the conversation is already over. You grab the shrimp crackers and follow him.
The park is two blocks from your building, a small wedge of grass with three benches and a set of swings that face a community garden. The swings are old, their chains rusty, seats scratched with names and dates, but they hold your weight when you sit. Jake takes the swing next to yours. The plastic bags dangle from his wrist, crinkling every time he moves. You've split everything down the middle ; your shrimp crackers, his chocolate cookies, two bottles of the melon soda, a shared bag of sour striped that he claimed were for everyone, still you've noticed he keeps eating.
The soda fizzes when you open it. The park is empty except for the two of you and a cat sitting on a bench across the grass, watching like it's waiting for something to happen. You swing a little, just enough to rock. The chains squeak.
"My brother," you say, because the silence feels good but you want to fill it anyway. "He's the reason I moved here. Not because he lives hereâhe doesn't. He lives like four hours away. He helped me find the apartment and with all the packing."
Jake doesn't say anything. He's unwrapping a chocolate cookie, breaking it in half.
"He's in college now," you continue. "Fraternity guy, and heâs so serious about it, which is funny because he's also the least intimidating person I've ever met. Once he cried because I didnât want to go with him at the dentist."
"Thatâs cute."
"He's sensitive." You shrug. "He'd kill me if he knew I was telling you this."
"I won't tell."
The cat on the bench yawns. The swings creak. You take a sip of your melon soda and watch the clouds move past the streetlights.
"Jungwon," Jake says.
You almost choke.
"What?"
"Your brother." He's looking at his hands, turning the cookie over and over. "His name. You said it. Jungwon."
You frown. Your brain backtracks through the last thirty seconds, replaying your own words. You definitely didn't say his name. You've been careful about that by habit. Jungwon is precious to you. His name is something you keep close, like a photo in a wallet. "I didn't say his name," you say slowly.
His chewing stops. His throat moves as he swallows. The openness on his face is convincing enough to pass for genuine, if not for the faint impression that he's worn it many times before.
"You didn't?"
"No."
"Huh." He dusts cookie crumbs off his fingers. "Maybe I heard it wrong, or you mentioned it before and I remembered. I don't know."
"I've never mentioned his name."
The silence stretches. The cat on the bench stands up, circles once, lies back down. He sets the cookie down on the plastic bag between you. He wipes his hands on his jeans. For a moment, he looks like he's going to say something else that might explain the way he looked at you that first night on the steps, like he was trying to place you.
His shoulders drop. "He came by," he declares. "Before you moved in. Your brother, Jungwon." He says the name carefully, testing each syllable. "He was checking out the building and making sure the landlord wasn't sketchy. I ran into him in the hallway."
You stare at him.
"He asked me about the neighborhood," Jake continues. "Whether it was safe. Whether people were friendly, and all that stuff." A small smile, almost self-deprecating. "I think he was doing a background check on all the tenants."
"That sounds like him."
"Yeah." He picks up his soda to take a long drink. "He mentioned you, and that you were moving in. I remembered."
It fits, itâs plausible. Jungwon would absolutely do something like that ; interview strangers in hallways, gather informations, build a mental map of everyone who might cross your path. He's been doing it since you were kids, since before the accident, before you forgot a quarter your life.
Nonetheless, something about how Jake tells it feels off. The words are right and the timing is too. Yet, his hands are still, and his hands are never still on the daily basis. He's always tapping or fidgeting or running his fingers through his hair, and right now, sitting on this swing in the dark, he's perfectly motionless. You want to push further. There's something in the back of your mind, a nagging feeling that you couldnât put a finger on. You canât, the evening is too nice, and he's bought you snacks. You let it go.
"Small world," you say, echoing his words from the night when you took a shower at his place.
"Small world," he agrees.
âââââââââ
You walk into the elderly home with your hair still damp and the taste of the spicy shrimp crackers lingering at the back of your throat. Hanni's already at the nurses' station, flipping through a clipboard with focus, sheâs been here for hours. "You look less dead than yesterday," she says without looking up. "That's progress."
"I slept." You hang your jacket on the hook and grab your name tag. "Almost eight hours. Uninterrupted."
"Must be the neighborhood atmosphere." She finally glances at you, there's a knowing tilt to her mouth. "Or something else."
You ignore that last part. The morning unfolds like every other morning ; the slow parade of residents who need help finding their glasses or their dentures or their way back to their rooms. Mrs. Han asks you three times if you've met her son, and you say yes each time, and each time she looks satisfied and moves on. You're in the common room, helping Mr. Chen with a puzzle he's been working on for weeks, when your gaze drifts toward the window. The street outside is quiet, the morning light still pale and thin. And there, on the other side, is Jake. Can he not look hot for just one day?
He's walking three dogs at once ; a golden retriever, a wiry terrier, and a bulldog that seems to be leading the pack. The leashes cross and uncross as the dogs weave around each other, and Jake's holding them with the practiced looseness of someone who's done this a hundred times. He's wearing a worn denim jacket and a few strands of hair are falling on his face, and when he glances up and spots you through the glass, his whole face shifts. He lifts his free hand to give you a small wave, fingers wiggling. You wave back, your brain couldnât catch.
The bulldog tugs him forward and he's gone, swallowed by the next block. You turn back to the room. Hanni's standing beside you, arms crossed, watching the empty street with an ambiguous expression plastered on her face. "Thatâs him?" she asks.
"Yeah."
She hums in a considering sound. "He's fucking hot."
You snort, but it comes out wrong, sounding a bit too defensive. "Yeah. He knows it too, I think."
"He doesn't seem like the type who knows it." She shrugs, uncrossing her arms. "He's unaware of his own face."
You don't respond. You're already looking back at the window, though he's long gone. "His nose," you say, the words stumbling right out of your head. "That's the thing. I can'tâ" You stop yourself, shake your head. "It's nothing."
Hanni could only nod, she understands and hands you a stack of folded towels. "Focus on the towels," she says. "The nose can wait."
You take the towels and get back to work. The image of him across the street stays with you for the rest of the shift.
The sidewalk cracks under your feet as you walk, the sky a pale gray that threatens nothing in particular, hopefully not rain. You pull out your phone, scroll to Jungwon's contact, and press call. He picks up after some time, which means he's either not busy or he's avoiding something.
"Whatâs up?" he says. "You're calling at a normal time. That's kind of suspicious."
"I'm walking home from work and I thought I'd fill the silence."
"Fill away."
As you ramble on everything, you donât allow yourself to bring up Jake yet.
"Yeah." You kick a pebble off the curb. "It's weird, though. Sometimes I forget I'm supposed to be starting over. It just feels likeâI don't know. Like I've been here longer."
"You have been there longer. In a way." His voice drops, careful. "You lived there before. Remember?"
You stop walking. A car passes, its headlights cutting through the dusk. You do rememberâfragments, not really. The knowledge that you'd been in this city before the accident and the three-year gap in your memory. You'd chosen to come back because something about it felt familiar, even if you couldn't know why.
"Yeah," you say. "I keep forgetting that part."
Silence on his end. You start walking again. "There's this guy," you say carelessly, and you already regret it. "In my building. His name is Jake. We keep running into each other."
"What kind of running into?"
"Literally and figuratively. He nearly killed one of the old folk at my work. Long story." You suddenly pause. "He has this orange keychain. The same one I have. You know, the little fruit thing on my keys."
You can hear him breathing, he's seems like measuring his response. "That's weird," he says. "That's a weird coincidence."
"Yeah, I know." You wait for him to say more but he doesn't. "He also said he met you when you came to check out the apartment before I moved in. You talked in the hallway, isnât it?"
"I did talk to someone. I don't remember his name, though."
"Jake," you repeat. "You don't remember him?"
"Lot of people in that building. I was there for like an hour." He laughs but it sounds flat. "Why are you asking?"
You don't know why you're asking. The question hangs there, unanswered, as you round the corner and your building comes into view. "Pure curiosity," you say. "He's nice. We went to the convenience store last night."
"The convenience store at night. Like a date?"
"Not a date, it was an apology. His dog knocked over an old man at my work."
Jungwon is quiet for a beat before talking again. "Donât tell me that you like him."
"It's not like that."
"It's exactly like that. I can hear it in your voice."
You stop at the front door of your building, hand on the handle. Itâs cool under your palm. "I don't even know him. We've talked, like, four times."
"And you're already calling him by name. That's more than you do with most people."
You leave the question unanswered. The door opens, and the smell of aged carpet and lingering cooking oil greets you before anything else. "I'll talk to you later," you say.
"Okay. But Y/Nâ"
"What?"
"Be careful, okay? Justâ" He stops. "Just be careful with yourself. You're still figuring things out. I love you."
"I know. Love you too." You hang up and stand in the foyer, phone warm in your hand. The hallway stretches ahead, empty and quiet as usual. You climb the stairs slowly instead of taking the elevator, each step slow. What is happening? Something doesn't add up.
âââââââââ
The banging comes from somewhere down the hall. Sharp and insistent, the sound of a fist against wood or maybe a shoulder against a frame. You freeze mid-step, your keys still in the lock, heart lurching into your throat. The apartment building is usually calm at this hour with the muffled sound of someone's guitar upstairs or television, but nothing like this.
You press your eye to the peephole but the angle is wrong, the fish-eye view showing only the empty stretch of hallway directly outside your door. The banging continues, punctuated by a voice. Itâs raised, female, too muffled to make out words but carrying an obvious edge of distress.
The smart move would be staying inside, lock the door, call 911 and wait it out. The sound carries a note of despair that makes you pause. Your mind drifts to the building's elderly residents and the possibility that someone is in trouble. Before the thought has time to settle, you're unlocking the door and pulling it open.
You step into the hallway.
Jake is there, about twenty feet down, his back half-turned to you. A woman stands in front of him, her posture stiff, her hands gesturing in jagged movements. She's undeniably pretty ; dark hair pulled back, a denim jacket, boots that look expensive. Her face is flushed, and even from here you can see the tension in her jaw. "It's not fair," she's saying, her voice cracking. "You can't justâI've been trying for months, Jake. Months. And you justâ"
"Luna." Jake's voice is low, placating, his hands raised in that universal gesture of de-escalation. "I've told you. It's not like that. I'm notâ"
She scoffs, loud and bitter. "Not what? Not interested? You've made that fucking clear."
You're frozen in the doorway, unsure whether to retreat or announce your presence. The woman's head snaps toward you, her eyes widening for a split second before narrowing.
"Oh," she says, the word dripping with annoyance. Her eyes scan you for approximately 5 seconds. "Great. Sheâs back." She brushes past you without another word, her shoulder colliding with yours hard enough to make you stumble back a step. The elevator doors close behind her, and it's just you and Jake in the hallway now. He's still standing there, hands lowered now, his face a mingle of exhaustion and embarrassment. He runs a palm over his jaw, lets out a long breath.
She's back. What?
"That," he says, "was not how I wanted you to meet my coworker."
You blink at him. "Coworker?"
"Luna." He points loosely toward the elevator. "She works at the shelter with me. We've known each other since we were kids."
You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms. "She seemed upset."
"She's been upset for a while." He rubs the back of his neck. "She's had a thing for me. For years. And I keep telling her I don't feel that way, but she doesn'tâ" He exhales again. "She doesn't take it well."
You raise an eyebrow. "So she followed you home and banged on your door?"
"She showed up unannounced. I was trying to calm her down. She's not a bad person, she justâ" He hesitates, searching for the right words. "She's stubborn, and she doesn't like hearing no."
You study him. His shoulders are still tense, his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. He looks genuinely rattled, not like someone who's been caught in a lie. "Childhood friends," you repeat. "she's been flirting with you, and you felt bad for her."
"First, Iâm not flirting with her and Iâm not planning on it. I felt bad because I know she's lonely. She's been through some stuff. But I can'tâ" He looks at you, his expression transforming invisibly. "I can't give her what she wants. It wouldn't be fair to her. Or to anyone else."
"Iâve never seen you so flustered," you declare softly. He huffs a laugh, short and breathy. "Yeah, well. You bring out the best in me."
You push off from the doorframe. "She seems like she'll be fine."
"She'll be fine. She always is." He pauses. "Thanks for not assuming the worst."
"I assumed the worst," you admit. " A girlfriend and an angry breakup."
"Not a girlfriend," he says. "Not even close."
You nod, and the moment stretches between you, comfortable but charged. "Goodnight then, Jake."
"Sleep tight, Y/N."
You close the door behind you and lean against it, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hall.
Not a girlfriend. Is he lying?
You don't know why that detail settles in your mind the way it does. Youâd rather sleep it away.
âââââââââ
You're coming back from a late shift, leaving your feet sore and your brain half-fogged, when you round the corner to your floor and find the hallway occupied. Four of them, clustered around Jake's door like they're waiting for someone to let them in. You recognize Jake immediately ; he's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, laughing at something one of the others said. The other three are strangers, but they have that easy familiarity with each other, displaying years of friendship.
Jake spots you first. His face shifts, the laugh settling into a smile that's more reserved but no less warm. "Y/N," he says. "You're back late."
"There was a lot of work to do." You slow your pace, your keys already in hand. "I wasn't expecting to see a lot of people today."
One of the strangers ; tall with sharp features and a casual slouch ; he steps forward, extending a hand. "Jay. I've heard about you."
"Good things, I hope."
"Debatable." The one next to him grins, softer, with eyes that crinkle at the corners. "I'm Heeseung. This is Sunghoon, and that's Jenna, his girlfriend."
Jenna waves from where she's tucked under Sunghoon's arm. She has a face that immediately puts you at ease, round and open and curious.
"We were about to have a drink," Jake announces. "You want to join?"
You hesitate. The exhaustion is tugging at your limbs, but the alternative is your empty apartment and the leftover convenience store chips you've been picking at for days. "Sure," you say. "Why not."
His apartment is the same as before, but with four extra bodies it feels smaller, more alive. Jay immediately claims the couch, sprawling like he owns it. Heeseung perches on the armrest. Sunghoon and Jenna take the floor, backs against the coffee table, and Jake gestures for you to take the single chair by the window.
"Drinks are in the kitchen," he says. "Help yourself."
You grab something from the fridge ; a cheap beer, nothing fancy ; and settle into the chair. The conversation flows around you, natural and unforced, as they talk about work and mutual friends and an inside joke about the shelter.
After two or three drinks, someone suggests a game. "Chug or dare," Jay announces, the glint in his eye makes you immediately suspicious. "You know the rules. Pick chug, you finish your drink. Pick dare, you do whatever we come up with. But youâre forbidden to back down."
"Really?" you say. "This is how you treat your guests?"
"Guests are the most fun," Heeseung says. "You're fresh meat."
Jake shoots them a warning look, veiled with exasperation. "You don't have to play. They're idiots."
"Weâre not," Sunghoon protests. "Jake, itâs been years since we know each other. Donât be surprised."
You look around the room. The faces watching you are expectant, amused, a little bit reckless. The knot in your chest loosens. "Iâm in. I'm taking Jake down with me, though."
The first few rounds are tame. Heeseung chugs three times in a row and declares himself champion. Sunghoon dares Jay to do a handstand, which he fails spectacularly. Jenna picks dare and has to call her mom and tell her she loves her, which she does with zero hesitation and an extreme level of sincerity.
After that, the bottle lands on you. "Y/N," Jay says, rubbing his hands together. "Chug or dare?"
You weigh your options. Your drink is half-full. "Dare."
Jay leans forward, eyes glittering. "I dare you to tell us what you first thought when you saw Jake."
The room goes quiet. Jake's hand stops mid-reach for his bottle.
"That's not a dare," you say. "That's kind of embarrassing."
"It's the correct functionality of a dare." Heeseung is grinning now, too. "Answer the question."
You look at Jake. He's watching you with a curious expression.
"You want the honest answer?" you ask.
"Always."
"His nose." The words come out neutral. "I thought it was ridiculous how perfect it was. Itâs like someone sculpted it. It's annoying, honestly."
A beat of silence. Then Jay doubles over, slapping his knee. Heeseung lets out a wheeze of a laugh. Sunghoon is covering his mouth, eyes wide. Jenna just shakes her head, grinning. Jake's face has gone slightly pink. He looks down at his bottle, then back at you, and his face softens. "That's not what I expected," he says.
"I had to be unpredictable."
The game continues. Jenna gets dared to chug and does it with ease. Sunghoon gets asked if he'd rather fight a bodybuilder or five horses, and he spends five minutes arguing the logistics. Heeseung picks chug three times in a row and is visibly struggling to stay upright, his ears turning bright pink.
It's Jake's turn. "Chug," he says immediately.
"Whoa, not too fast." Jay says. "You're not getting out of it that easy. I'm changing the rules. You have to pick dare."
"Since when can you change the rules?"
"Since I'm the one asking." Jay grins. "Dare : show us the most embarrassing thing on your phone."
Jake's eyes narrow. "I'm not doing that."
"Then you have to answer a question instead," Sunghoon offers. "From anyone in the room. You pick who."
Jake considers this. His gaze scans the room, passing over Jay and Heeseung, settling on you for a moment before moving to Jenna. "Jenna. Ask me anything."
Jenna tilts her head, thinking. "Why did you move back to this city?" The question lands differently than the others. The light atmosphere falters slightly. Jake's jaw tightens, and for a second you see an unguarded expression crossing his features.
"Personal reasons," he says. "I needed to be back here."
"That's vague," Heeseung notes.
"It's still an answer." Jake picks up his bottle. "I'm drinking now." He finishes his drink in one long swallow, and everyone lets it go.
The bottle spins again, lands on you. Jay's turn to ask. "Chug or dare?"
You're feeling the warmth of the alcohol now, loose and careless. "Dare."
"I dare you to kiss Jake."
The room goes dead quiet. You hear someone inhale sharply ; maybe Jenna or yourself. Jake's head snaps toward Jay, disbelief and uncertainty show on his features.
"Jay," he mumbles, his voice has an edge to it. "That's notâ"
"Too late," Jay cuts him off. "She already picked. Rules are rules."
You look at Jake. He's sitting across from you, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his bottle dangling from his fingers. The light from the kitchen catches the lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. That stupid, perfect nose. Lord, why would you make me cross paths with a guy that I obviously canât have? Heâs going to be fucking weirded out since I havenât kiss a single soul in my entire life.
"I don't have to, right?" you say. "I can chug instead."
"You're not chugging." Jay's tone is firm. "That's not how the game works."
The silence lingers. Jake holds your gaze, his expression betraying him ; hesitation, or resolve masquerading as it. Whatever it is, it stays unspoken.
"Jake," you say, and your voice comes out steady. "What do you think?"
He studies you in silence for what feels like an eternity. Then he sets his bottle down with delicate care, rises, and slowly closes the distance between you. "Okay," he says lowly. "If you're okay with it."
You're not sure if you're okay with it. I mean, heâs hot for sure. You're lost right now, while his hand finds the back of your chair, he leans down, his breath is warm and smells faintly of beer. His lips brush your cheek. Soft, quick, almost unsure. It's not a kiss, not really ; it's the ghost of one, lingering just long enough to leave a hot mark. He straightens up and steps back. The room erupts into wolf-whistles and laughter.
"Cheater," Jay yells. "That's not a kiss."
"Mind you, those are my favorite kind." Jake says, and he's looking at you, not at Jay. You touch your cheek, where the warmth of his lips still lingers. Your face is burning, you're not sure if it's embarrassment or something else. "You're a coward," you say, your tone weak.
He smiles, slow and crooked. "Youâre going to thank me later."
The game dissolves after that, the energy beginning to loosen, more rambling. Jenna falls asleep against Sunghoon's shoulder. Heeseung starts recounting a story about one of his high school exes. Jake moves to the floor, leaning against the couch, and you find yourself beside him, your shoulders almost touching. Your head starts to pound.
The game continues. The bottle spins, lands on Jay, then Heeseung, then Jenna. People chug or dare with increasing abandon, the alcohol loosening tongues and lowering inhibitions. Sunghoon admits he once cried while arguing with Jenna. You're on your fourth bottle, maybe your fifth. The edges of the room have gone soft and blurry, and you're laughing at something Heeseung said that you're not entirely sure was a joke. Your face feels warm, your limbs loose, and when you lean back against the couch, your shoulder brushes Jake's once again.
The bottle spins again to land on you. Jay's turn, because it's always Jay. "Y/N. Chug or dare?"
"Dare." You're feeling bold, the alcohol humming in your veins. Jay's grin is wicked. "I dare you to spend ten minutes locked in Jake's bedroom. Just the two of you, with no phones."
The room erupts. Sunghoon lets out a low whistle and Heeseung chuckles while nearly passing out on the couch.
"You cheated earlier," Jay cuts him off. "Youâll have to make up for that."
You glance at Jake. His expression gives nothing away, even though the tightness in his jaw wasn't there a moment ago. He watches you closely, waiting for your reaction.
"Ten minutes?" you say. "That's it?"
"That's it."
You stand, and the room tilts slightly. You steady yourself against the arm of the couch. "Fine."
Jake stands too, as hesitant as before. He leads you down the short hallway to his bedroom, and you hear the hoots and catcalls from the living room as the door clicks shut behind you.
The room is small and neat. A bed with rumpled sheets, a dresser with a lamp, a window overlooking the street. And on the nightstand, next to a half-empty glass of water, a photo frame turned face-down.
Jake leans against the door, arms crossed. "You don't have to do this. We can just sit here and wait it out."
"Where's the fun in that?" You're already wandering around, peering at books on the shelf, a guitar propped in the corner. Your eyes keep drifting back to the photo frame. You walk toward it, curiosity tugging at you. "What's this?"
Jake's body goes still. Before you can reach for it, he's there, his hand catching your wrist, turning you toward him. "No, please donât," he says, and his voice is urgent.
"Why? Is it embarrassing?"
"Something like that."
You're close now, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, his pupils are dilated, thereâs a slight sheen on his lower lip. The alcohol has made you bold and afraid of nothing.
"I want to see," you say.
He leans in for his lips find yours. The kiss is warm, lingering, carrying a soft urgency that feels almost like a plea. Even though you thought you had no experience in kissing, doing it with him nearly felt natural, as much as muscle memory. The world seems to melt around you. Your thoughts dissolve, and the photo frame slips from your mind as completely as if it had never been there. You stumble backward, your calves hitting the edge of the bed, and you fall onto the mattress, pulling him with you. He catches himself on his hands, hovering over you, but your legs are tangled and the momentum shifts and suddenly you're in his lap, straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips.
His hands find your waist, then slide down, settling on your butt. He squeezes, and you gasp against his mouth. He kisses you again, deeper and slower, his tongue brushing your lower lip. You arch into him, your fingers threading through his hair, and he groans, low and rough.
The kiss breaks for a moment, both of you breathing hard. He's looking up at you, his eyes pleading, his lips parted. "Y/N," he murmurs, your name sounds different in his mouth, sounding like it means something more.
You finally get the hang of it and you kiss him again. His hands tighten on your ass, pulling you closer, and you feel the heat of him through both your clothes. The world outside this room fades into static.
Ten minutes pass. Even longer than that.
You feel him shift beneath you, his hips rolling upward in a slow motion, sending a jolt through your entire body. His hands are still firm on your backside, guiding you, and you follow the movement without thinking, your own hips tilting to meet his.
The kiss breaks just long enough for you to gasp, and he takes the opportunity to press his mouth to your jaw, your neck, and the sensitive spot just below your ear. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you feel the low vibration of a sound that might be his voice or yours, you can't really tell anymore.
He grinds up into you again, and you feel the full heat of him through the denim, the friction of it making your head spin. Your breath is coming in short, uneven bursts, and his is the same ; harsh and ragged against your skin. His hands slide up from your backside to your waist, then back down, pulling you closer, harder, like he's trying to fuse you to him. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly you're both lying back on the bed, him beneath you, your legs still straddling his hips, the kiss deepening into something messier. His fingers find the hem of your shirt and slip beneath, grazing the bare skin of your lower back, and you shiver.
Someone bangs at the door. Insistent knocks on the bedroom door. Heeseung's voice, muffled but audible. "Time's up! Ten minutes are over! You're not dead, are you?"
You both stop in your tracks. Your foreheads almost touching, your breath mingling in the small space between. He laughs from half-exasperation and half-relief. He drops his head back against the pillow, and you feel the tension in his shoulders subtly ease.
"Ignore him," he says while he's already loosening his grip on your waist, giving you space to pull back. You sit up, your thighs still bracketing his hips, and run a hand through your tangled hair. Your face is burning. Your lips feel swollen. You're acutely aware of every point of contact between you.
"We shouldâ" you start, yet you don't know how to finish the sentence.
"Yeah." He's watching you from beneath half-lidded eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face.
Heeseung bangs again. "I'm not leaving until you open the door! Jay's timing you!"
Jake groans without real frustration in it. He sits up slowly, his hands finding your waist and steadying you as you climb off his lap. You stand, smoothing down your shirt, and he gets to his feet, adjusting his jeans with casualness.
He opens the door.
Heeseung stands there, arms crossed, a triumphant grin on his face. "Took you long enough. What were you doing in there?"
Jake steps past him into the hallway. "Mind your own business."
You follow, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, you catch Jenna's teasing glance and Jay's eyebrows have shot up past his hairline. You already have to resist the urge to hide behind Jake's shoulder.
"Drink," Heeseung says, shoving a fresh bottle into your hand. "You've earned it."
You take it carelessly. You stand there, feeling the phantom weight of Jake's hands on your waist, the lingering heat of his mouth on your neck. How the fuck am I going to face him after that?
Or any day after.
âââââââââ
A week passes.
Seven days of routine, of work and sleep and the occasional text from Hanni about something absurd a resident did. You walk the same hallways, take the same elevator, pass the same doors. But you don't see Jake ; not in the corridor, not at the coffee shop and not on the street. It's like he's vanished into the walls of the building, existing only in the memory of that night ; the heat of his hands, the press of his mouth, and how your name rolled over his tongue in such a delicate way.
You tell yourself it doesn't matter, that it was just a game, just alcohol, just ten minutes in a locked room that somehow stretched into something you can't stop replaying. You tell yourself you're not looking for him when you walk past his door nor listening for his footsteps on the stairs.
You canât even lie to yourself.
Jungwon arrives on Friday afternoon, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a grin that takes up half his face. He hugs you in the doorway, squeezing too tight, and you let him because you've missed him more than you realized.
"Damn. Itâs smaller then I remember," he announces, dropping his bag on the floor. "Like, really small. How do you live here?"
"I manage."
"Barely, by the looks of it." He peers at the stack of boxes still in the corner, the ones you haven't touched since you moved in. "You haven't unpacked everything."
"I'm getting to it."
"Yeah, right."
The weekend unfolds. You take him to the park, to the coffee shop, to the elderly home to meet Hanni and Jacob and Mrs. Han. He charms everyone, that's what he does the best, and by the end of the first day he's already promised to visit again.
Sunday afternoon, you're walking back from the park, the sun warm on your shoulders. Jungwon is telling you about a girl in his sociology class, someone he's been dancing around for weeks, he met her that one mixer party, and you're listening with half your attention, the other half occupied by the streets and the weight of your keys in your pocket. You round the corner into your building's corridor.
No way.
Jake.
He's standing by his door, keys in hand, like he's just coming back from somewhere. He looks up as you approach, and for a moment, A subtle change passed over his face. His eyes lit with recognition, followed by a fleeting trace of relief that was quickly replaced by his usual impassive stance.
"Y/N," he says. "Hey."
"Hi."
Jungwon's gaze flickers between you, sharp and assessing. "You're Jake," he says, there's a weight to the words that makes you look at him. Jake's posture shifts, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah. And you're Jungwon."
"You remember me."
"I remember a lot of things." Jake's voice is calm, yet there's a tension in his jaw that wasn't there before. You look between them, suddenly aware that you're missing something. "You two already know each other. From before I moved in, right?"
"Briefly," Jungwon says, and the word is clipped. He turns to you, his expression softening. "Y/N, can you go inside? I want to talk to Jake for a minute."
"What? Why?"
"Iâ" He hesitates. "I'll explain later. Please."
You look at Jake. He's watching Jungwon with an expression you can't read, and when he meets your gaze, there's something almost apologetic in it.
"Please," Jungwon repeats.
You hesitate, the key in your hand feeling heavier than usual. Jungwon has never asked you for much, and the look on his face is earnest in a way you rarely see. "Fine," you say, and you don't miss the way both of them exhale just slightly. "You better tell me later."
You slip into your room and quietly shut the door behind you. Remaining still, you lean close until your ear rests against the wood, listening for the hushed conversation outside. Only faint murmurs reach you, too muffled to make out.
You stand in the middle of your apartment, staring at the closed door, your hand still resting on the handle. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant sound of traffic from the street. You count the seconds, then the minutes, your mind spinning through possibilities you can't figure out.
When the door finally opens, Jungwon steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click. He doesn't meet your eyes immediately, and his shoulders are set in an unusual way ; the tension he carries when something is bothering him but he doesn't want to talk about it.
"Everything okay?" you ask.
He runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. "Yeah, itâs fine. It wasâ" He stops, shakes his head. "He's a little weird. That's all."
"Weird how?"
"I don't know." He shrugs too quickly. "Itâs just the way he talks. He sounds like he knows more than he's saying. It's probably nothing."
You study him. His jaw is tight, and there's a crease between his brows that he's trying to smooth away. You've known him your whole life, or at least the parts you remember, and you can tell when he's holding something back. "Jungwon." You keep your voice level. "What did you talk about?"
He moves past you toward the kitchen, opens the fridge, and stares inside with focus. "I just wanted to get a read on him and make sure he's not some weirdo who's going to cause problems for you."
"And?"
"And he's not." He pulls out a bottle of water, twists off the cap to take a long drink. "He seems fine. Genuine, even. I justâ" He pauses and sets the bottle down. "I don't know. There's something about him that feels familiar, and I can't figure out what it is."
Your stomach tightens. "Familiar how?"
"I don't know." He says it again, more frustrated this time. "It's probably nothing. I'm probably just being overprotective."
The unease that's lingered since the moment you saw the keychain resurfaces with renewed force. Jake's searching gaze keeps replaying in your mind, refusing to be ignored. Questions crowd your thoughts, but one look at Jungwon's guarded expression tells you this isn't the time to press him. You know he'd only withdraw further.
"Okay," you say. "If you say it's nothing."
"It's nothing." He meets your eyes, something in his gaze that's almost pleading. "Drop it, okay? For now."
You nod, even though every instinct is telling you not to. He relaxes for a bit, and the moment passes. Something is happening. Something you don't understand. And you're starting to think that the answers might not be as simple as you hoped.
âââââââââ
As the door shuts behind Jungwon, the apartment returns to its usual calm. You stand quietly, replaying the fragments of a conversation you were never meant to hear. Whatever Jake said has stayed with him, but his expression is firmly closed off.
You wander into the living room, grab your phone and scroll through notifications. A news alert catches your eye ; an article about the sequel to that movie you've been waiting for, the one you've watched half a dozen times since you moved. Your stomach drops as you read the date. The premiere was last week. You missed it.
You're already moving toward the door before you fully decide to go. Your shorts are fine. The hoodie is fine. It's just a movie, and the theater is only a few blocks away. You don't bother changing or checking your reflection. You grab your keys and step into the hallway.
Jake is at the elevator, walking out as you're heading down. He stops when he sees you, his gaze traveling over your outfit, the urgency in your stride.
"Whoa," he says. "Where's the fire?"
"Movie." You're already past him, one hand on the buttons. "The sequel to that film I've been waiting for. I missed the premiere. I'm trying to catch a showing."
He watches you for a beat, then his hand lands lightly on your arm, stopping you. "Wait. Which movie?"
You tell him the title. His eyebrows lift.
"I like that one too," he says. "I actually have it. The original, I mean. On my laptop. I downloaded the sequel the day it came out."
You blink at him. "You downloaded it?"
"Yeah. I was going to watch it tonight, actually." He drops his hand and shoves it into his pocket. "If you want, you could watch it with me, at my place. Instead of running to the theater in shorts."
The simplicity of his offer makes it harder to dismiss. You think about the movie theater and everything that comes with it, but those thoughts are quickly overshadowed by the past week without him, the lingering uncertainty between you, and the rush of your heartbeat. "That's not weird?" you ask. "Watching a movie with your neighbor you haven't talked to in a week?"
He shrugs, a small smile playing at his mouth. "It's a good movie. And I promise I won't talk during the quiet parts."
You consider it. The hallway is dark, the evening light filtering through the window at the end. He's standing there, patient, and waiting for your answer.
"Okay," you say. "I donât want to share my snacks, though."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
You follow him to his door, your footsteps echoing in the hallway. His apartment is just as you remember it ; the guitar, the books, the soft warm lights. He gestures toward the couch while he grabs his laptop from the coffee table and plugs it to the TV. You settle into the cushions, pulling your knees up, the hoodie swallowing you. The screen lights up, the opening credits rolling. He sits at the other end of the couch, a respectful distance between you, and hits play.
You barely register the moment his arm comes to rest along the back of the couch. The small brush of his fingertips against your shoulder goes unnoticed too. It's only when his hand settles there, warm and reassuring, his thumb lazily drawing slow circles over your hoodie, that you become aware of just how close he is. The blanket is draped over both of you, a thin barrier against the cool air of the apartment. His other hand slips beneath it, finding your thigh, resting there with a casualness that feels anything but like it. You lean into him, your head drifting toward his shoulder, the conversation fading into comfortable silence.
The movie continues, although you can feel your eyes becoming heavy. The warmth of his hand on your thigh, the rhythm of his breathing, the low murmur of dialogue from the TV ; it all blends into a haze of contentment. Your eyelids droop, flutter, close.
"Y/N." His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. "You're falling asleep."
"Mmm." You don't open your eyes. "I know."
"Do you want to go back?"
The room stays quiet as his words linger. Beyond the door waits a dark hallway, an empty apartment, and a bed that has already gone cold. The image settles over you like a burden, leaving you with little desire to leave.
"I don't want to move," you murmur, the words slurred with sleep.
He's quiet for a moment before he decides to speak. "You could stay here if you want. I have an extra blanket, orâ" He pauses. "The bed's big enough."
You lift your head, blinking at him. His face is so close, his eyes soft in the low light of the screen. There's no expectation in his expression, no pressure. Itâs an offer.
"Okay," you say.
He stands, extends a hand, and pulls you gently to your feet. You both walk shortly to his bedroom. He pulls back the covers, and you slip in, the mattress dipping under your weight. He climbs in behind you, his arm finding your waist, pulling you close. His chest presses against your back, his legs tangling with yours, and you feel his breath warm against the curve of your neck.
"You smell so good," he murmurs, the words a low vibration against your skin.
You laugh, low and drowsy. "I haven't showered."
"Don't care." His nose brushes your hairline. "You always smell good."
His arm tightens around you, his hand splayed across your stomach. His lips press a soft, absent kiss to your shoulder, then another, barely there. "Your skin is so soft too," he confies, you can hear the smile in his voice. "I wanted to tell you that before. When you got out of the shower at my place, that first time. But I didn't want to be weird."
"You're being weird now," you mumble, but you're smiling too.
"Keep acting like you donât like it." He nuzzles into your neck. "I'm okay with it."
You feel his hand slide from your stomach to your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against the bone. His breath evens out, his body relaxing behind you, and you feel yourself sinking into the warmth of him.
"Jake," you say, barely audible.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for letting me stay."
He squeezes you gently, his lips pressing against your hair. "Anytime, Y/N."
Curled against his chest, you slowly surrender to sleep. His arm remains securely around you, its warmth grounding you until the last of your thoughts dissolve.
âââââââââ
The sunlight filters through the curtains, and you blink awake slowly, your mind still thick with sleep. The bed is warm, the sheets tangled around your legs, however, the space beside you is empty. You reach out, your hand finding only cool fabric.
You lie there for a moment, orienting yourself. Jake's room. Jake's bed. The events of the night before trickle back in fragments. You check your phone on the nightstand. Saturday, 9:47 AM. Two days off stretching ahead of you, unplanned and open. You pad out of the bedroom, still in the oversized hoodie you wore last night, your hair a mess and your eyes half-opened. The smell of coffee hits you brutally. Jake is standing at the kitchen counter, a mug in one hand, his phone in the other. He's in a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair still sleep-tousled, and he looks up when he hears your footsteps.
"Morning," he says, his voice so soft and reassuring. "I didn't want to wake you. You looked comfortable."
"You're still here," you say, your voice scratchy. "Don't you have work?"
He shakes his head. "Day off. I figured I'd take it easy."
You close the distance without giving yourself time to hesitate. Slipping your arms around his waist from behind, you rest your cheek between his shoulder blades. Warmth radiates through him, and you feel his entire body go still beneath your embrace. He stays still. His breath barely catches, and you feel the tension ripple through his shoulders. After that, his hand comes down to rest over yours, his thumb brushing across your knuckles.
"Y/N," he says, and his voice is rougher than before. "You're going to make me drop my coffee."
"Put it down, then."
He does as you say. You hear the mug clink against the counter, and then he's turning in your arms, his hands finding your waist, his face close to yours. A flush is creeping up his neck, pink and noticeable, the sight of it makes thousands of sparks flicker in your stomach.
"You're blushing." you observe.
"Iâm not," he says, his ears are red now, and he's not meeting your eyes. "I just wasn't expecting a hug. First thing in the morning. From someone whoâ" He stops, clears his throat. "Never mind."
"From someone who what?"
He finally looks at you, vulnerability filling his gaze completely. "From someone I really didn't want to wake up alone."
Words fail you, so you simply stay where you are. He pulls you into him, holding you with gentleness before resting his forehead against the top of your head. As he breathes in deeply, the strain he'd been carrying begins to slip away.
"Your hair smells like my shampoo," he mumbles into your hair.
"Your shampoo smells good."
"It's just generic stuff from the convenience store."
"Still smells good."
He laughs, soft and warm, and his arms tighten around you. "That sounded stupid, doesnât it?"
You smile and chuckle against his chest. "A little bit."
You only eat eggs, toasts and drink coffee, but it feels like more than that. You sit across from him at his small kitchen table, the soft light of the sun landing on his face, and the conversation flows easily between bites.
He tells you about the shelter and problems that he had when he took care of a dog for the first time, and you do the same.
"It's a good job," you say, stirring your coffee. "Exhausting, but good. They make me laugh sometimes."
"They sound like characters."
"They are." You pause, watching him over the rim of your mug. "Can I ask you something personal?"
He looks up, a hint of wariness in his eyes, but he nods. "Sure."
"Why did you move back here? You said that night at the gameâpersonal reasons. But you didn't elaborate."
He's quiet for a moment, his fork hovering over his plate. "I had some things to figure out," he says slowly. "Things I couldn't figure out anywhere else."
"Like what?"
He meets your gaze, something you canât quite read passes across his face. "Like whether some things are worth coming back for."
The answer is vague and careful, yet there's a weight to it that makes you not want to know more about it. So you don't.
"Your turn," you say instead. "You can ask me anything."
He sets down his fork, considering. "What made you choose this city? Out of all the places you could have gone."
You look down at your coffee. The steam rises in slow spirals. "I used to live here. Before the accident." You say it matter-of-factly, you've learned to say it over the past year. "I don't remember it, but something about it felt right. Like I was supposed to come back."
"The accident," he repeats, and his voice is measured now. "You've mentioned it before. The memory loss."
"Yeah." You wrap your hands around the mug, let the warmth seep into your palms. "Three years. Just gone. I woke up in the hospital and suddenly I was 22, and I didn't remember being 21, 20 and even 19. My brother had to tell me who I was friends with, where I'd worked, what I'd done." You pause. "It's strange. Knowing there's a version of yourself out there that you'll never meet."
Jake is watching you intently, his breakfast forgotten. "That must have been hard," he says quietly.
"It was. Still is, sometimes. There are things I know I'm supposed to rememberâpeople, places, momentsâand I just can't access them. Itâs like a locked door I don't have the key to."
He's silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer than before. "Do you ever feel like you're close to remembering? Or that something triggers it?"
You consider the question. "Sometimes itâs little things. A smell, a song, or an object." You think of the keychain, the one that matches his. "But it never sticks. It's justâthere and itâs gone."
He nods slowly.
"Sorry," you say. "That got heavy."
"Don't apologize." He reaches across the table, his hand covering yours. "Thank you for telling me."
You look at his hand on yours, warm and soft. "Your turn," you say, trying to lighten the mood. "Ask me something else."
He thinks for a moment. "What's your favorite thing about this city? Now that you're back."
You smile, the tension easing. "The coffee shop on the corner. They have terrible pastries but really good lattes."
He laughs, and the sound fills the kitchen. "I'll have to try it sometime."
"Maybe I'll take you." The words come out before you can stop them, and you feel a flush creep up your neck.
He squeezes your hand. "I'd like that."
The morning stretches into a lazy afternoon. You've migrated to the couch, your phone in one hand, scrolling through nothing in particular. Jake is stretched out beside you, his head resting on your thigh like it belongs there, his own phone held above his face. The weight of him is warm and familiar now, and you've stopped overthinking how his hair brushes against your bare knee.
He's quiet, focused on whatever he's reading, his thumb occasionally swiping. You're half-watching a video on your own screen, the sound muted, when you feel his body shift. A pause. His thumb stops moving.
Then his free hand moves, quick and unexpected, his fingers finding the spot just above your knee. He digs in lightly, and you jolt, your phone nearly slipping from your grip.
"Jake!" Your voice comes out loud, a mix of surprise and laughter. "What are you doing?"
He grins, an unapologetic grin, and his fingers keep moving, dancing along the sensitive skin of your thigh. You try to twist away, but his head is still heavy on your lap, pinning you in place, and he's using his other hand to trap your leg.
"Stopâ" You're laughing, breathless, trying to grab his wrist. "I'm seriousâ"
"Are you?" His voice is teasing and low. His fingers find your ribs, and you arch, a helpless sound escaping you.
"You're the fucking worst." You manage to grab his hand, but he's stronger, and he uses the momentum to roll slightly, shifting so he can reach your side. The tickling intensifies, and you're squirming, your free hand batting at his shoulder.
"Say I'm the best," he says, his voice muffled against your stomach.
"Never."
He doubles down, and you dissolve into helpless laughter, your phone clattering onto the floor. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
"Okayâokayâyou're the best." The words come out in a wheeze. "You're the best, Jake. I surrender."
He stops, his hand stilling, still he doesn't move away. His face is close now, hovering over you, his eyes bright with amusement and softness beneath.
"That was easy," he says.
"Fuck you."
"You wouldn't," He settles back down, and you slap his arm for the comment. His head finding your lap again, his hand resting loosely on your knee. "Don't worry. I'll go easy on you next time."
You pick up your phone with your heart is still racing, and you can feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your shorts.
A random movie starts on the laptop screen, playing as background noise to fill the silence. You're sitting on the floor between Jake's legs, your back against the couch, your head tilted back slightly as his fingers work through your hair. He's been at it for a while now, separating strands, twisting them together, muttering under his breath when they slip apart.
"Like this?" he asks, his voice close to your ear.
"Tighter," you say. "You're not pulling enough."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't. Justâhere." You reach up, your hand finding his, guiding his fingers to the right section. "Hold that one. Now cross it over the middle. Yes, like that."
He follows your instructions with concentration and that makes you smile. His fingers are careful, delicate, and you feel the gentle tug as he works through a tangle.
"You've done this before, no?" you say.
"Never. I'm just naturally talented."
You snort. "We'll see about that."
Another minute passes. He's quiet, too focused, and you can feel the slight movement of his hands as he continues his work. You're both lost in the small intimacy of the moment.
"Okay," he says finally. "I think I got it."
You reach up, your fingers brushing against the braid he's made. It's lopsided, uneven, with strands sticking out at odd angles. You tug at it gently, and a section comes loose.
"It's bad," you say, and you can hear the laughter in your own voice.
He lets out a mock-offended sound. "I spent ten minutes on that."
"Ten minutes and this is what I get?"
"I'm a beginner. Tell me Iâm doing good. Please."
You turn your head to look up at him. He's pouting weakly, his bottom lip pushed out, his eyes looking down with exaggerated hurt.
"Okay," you relent. "You did great."
His expression shifts instantly, the pout melting into a pleased smile. "Really?"
"For a first try. It's not completely terrible."
"High praise." His hand finds your shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'll take it."
You settle back against the couch, your head still tilted to look at him. He's looking down at you, his gaze soft, unguarded, letting you see something he usually keeps hidden.
"These past few days," he says, his voice quieter now. "They've beenâI don't know. I've been comfortable. More than I have in a while."
"You're not going to get all sentimental on me, are you?"
He laughs, low and warm. "Maybe a little. Is that okay?"
You wait and watch him, the light catches his eyes, the slight curve of his mouth. The air between you feels heavier now. He leans forward, his face hovering above yours, and you feel a pull ; something that tugs at the edges of your memory. The feeling is fleeting, gone before you can grasp it, yet it leaves a warmth in its wake.
"Y/N," he says, your name sounds different on his lips.
Suddenly, his mouth is on yours, gentle and upside down, his lips soft against your own. You lean into him, your hand reaching up to cup his jaw, and the kiss deepens. His fingers thread through your hair, careful not to pull the messy braid loose, and you tilt your head further to meet him. The angle is awkward, the position of him behind you and you below making it clumsy, but you don't want to stop.
When he finally pulls back, his face above yours by an inch, his breath is uneven.
"Youâre so pretty that it hurts," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I could handle a little pain, though."
"You don't look bad yourself." You chuckle softly, close your eyes and let yourself feel it ; the warmth of him, the pace of his heart against your back, the small certainty that this is exactly where you're supposed to be.
Now, the movie has ended, the credits scrolling silently across the screen. Silence remains in the living room. You've shifted positions, no longer on the floor but curled together on the couch, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around you. His legs bracket yours, and your head rests in the crook of his neck, the warmth of him seeping through your t-shirt.
His lips find your temple first, light and sweet, a barely-there press of skin against skin. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your eye. Each kiss is soft, as he's memorizing the geography of your face. You feel the slight stubble on his jaw brush against you.
"Are you still going to kiss every inch of my face?" you murmur, your eyes closed.
"Every single one." He punctuates the words with another kiss, this one on the bridge of your nose. "I have a list. It's very thorough."
You laugh, tired and content, and his arms tighten around you. His lips trail down to your jaw, then your chin, then the spot just below your ear.
"Getting distracted?" you ask.
"Completely." Another kiss, this one on your neck. "This is your fault for being here."
"I didn't do anything."
"Youâre existing right now, so deal with the consequences."
You tilt your head back, giving him more access, and he takes the invitation, his mouth trailing along the curve of your throat. His kisses are still gentle, almost reverent, but they linger a little longer now.
His fingers find your hand, lace through yours, squeeze once. You feel the weight of his lips on your shoulder, your collarbone, the soft skin just above the neckline of your hoodie. Then back up, retracing the path, pausing at your cheek again.
"You're very thorough," you manage, your voice dreamy.
"I told you. I'm a man of my word."
He presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth, soft and sweet, and then settles his chin on the top of your head, his arms still wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
You donât want to move. The afternoon light has shifted, growing gold, and the room feels suspended in a bubble of warmth and intimacy.
"Jake," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For today. For all of it."
He presses his lips to your hair, a silent reply, and you feel his smile against the strands. The last kiss lingers, right against your hair, and then you tilt your head up, catching his mouth with yours. It's not the upside-down kiss from before, this one is direct and utterly intentional, your lips finding his with unexpected certainty. He responds immediately, his hand cupping your jaw, angling you toward him.
You feel his other hand slide from your shoulder down your side, settling on your hip. You shift, twisting in his arms, and before you know it, you're turning to face him properly. Your knees find the cushion on either side of his thighs, and you settle into his lap, straddling him, your chest pressed against his.
His hands find your waist immediately, gripping you through the fabric of your t-shirt, his fingers splaying across the curve of your hips. He pulls you closer, and you feel the strong warmth of him beneath you, his breath hitches slightly as you settle your weight against him.
"You're going to make it hard to stop." he murmurs against your lips while he's smiling.
"Thatâs too bad." you whisper back, you could feel the vibration of his laugh.
âââââââââ
Itâs been an hour. Youâre still straddling Jake, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips as your mouths move together in a heated, urgent kiss. His lips are warm and demanding, although thereâs a delicious clumsiness to the way he kisses you ; teeth grazing a little too eagerly, his tongue sliding against yours with more hunger than precision. Heâs so turned on he can barely focus, and it shows in every shaky breath and muffled sound.
His large hands slide down your back and grip your ass firmly now, fingers digging into the soft flesh with possessive strength. He squeezes and fondles you without restraint, kneading your cheeks as he pulls you harder against the growing bulge in his sweatpants. A low throaty moan echoes from his chest into your mouth, raw and needy, sending a rush of heat straight through you.
He breaks the kiss for half a second to gasp for air, forehead lightly pressed to yours, before diving back in even sloppier than before ; lips wet, tongue eager, hands still greedily massaging and spreading your ass as he rocks you against him. His grip is tight enough to leave marks, but the way he groans your name between kisses makes it impossible to care.
You pull back to catch your breath, your hands resting on his chest as you look down at him with flushed cheeks. His eyes are veiled with want, lips slightly swollen from the messy kiss, and his hands are still firmly anchored to your ass, unwilling to let go.
âSorry,â you whisper, voice a little shaky. âIf Iâm bad at thisâŠitâs my first time doing any of it, really.â
Jake blinks up at you, his breath still ragged. For a moment his grip on your ass loosens slightly, but then he squeezes again, almost reassuringly. A soft surprised chuckle escapes him before he leans in and presses a gentler kiss to the corner of your mouth.
âItâs okay,â he murmurs against your lips, his voice husky and sincere. âIâve never gotten past a kiss either. SoâŠweâre both figuring this out.â
He pulls you closer again, one hand sliding up your back while the other stays possessively on your ass, and kisses you slower now ; still clumsy with need, still moaning softly into your mouth, but now with a shared nervousness that somehow makes everything feel even hotter.
You smile softly against his lips at his confession, a warm flutter of relief mixing with the heat in your belly. Boldness comes through you, you slide one hand down his chest, slowly tracing the ridges of his abs through the thin fabric of his shirt. Your fingertips press lightly, exploring the firm muscle beneath, and Jakeâs entire body jolts under you.
He gasps sharply into your mouth, hips twitching upward as a shiver runs through him. Heâs incredibly sensitive there ; every slow drag of your fingers makes his muscles tense and twitch. Another involuntary moan slips out of him, breathier than before.
âS-sorry,â he blurts out by reflex, cheeks burning as he pulls back just an inch, eyes half-lidded and embarrassed. His hands tighten on your ass again, almost like heâs grounding himself. âIâm justâŠreally sensitive. Fuck, that feels good.â
He leans in quickly to kiss you again, clumsier now from the rush of sensation, his abs contracting under your exploring touch as he rocks you gently against him, clearly fighting the urge to apologize a second time.
You keep tracing his abs, feeling them flex and twitch under your fingertips, when his breathing grows even heavier. His hands squeeze your ass one last time before sliding up to your hips. He leans in close, lips brushing your ear as he whispers softly, voice rough with arousal.
âTake your panties off for meâŠplease?â
The words send a fresh wave of heat through you. You hesitate, suddenly shy, cheeks burning as you bite your lip and glance away. Jake notices immediately. A small affectionate smirk tugs at his lips despite how flustered he is.
âWhatâs wrong?â he teases gently, voice playful, his fingers tracing slow circles on your hips. âDonât get all shy on me nowâŠIâm dying here.â
You swallow hard, heart racing, but the way heâs looking at you ; equal parts desperate and sweet ; makes you brave. Instead of taking them off completely, you reach the hem of your shorts and throw them next to the couch, hook your fingers into the side of your panties, and push the damp fabric aside, exposing yourself to him.
âYou can touch me,â you whisper, voice barely audible.
Jakeâs eyes widen slightly. He nods slowly, one hand sliding from your hip down between your bodies. His middle finger gently traces along your slick folds, testing, before he slowly pushes it inside you ; careful, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time to make sure itâs okay. His breath catches at how warm and wet you feel around his finger, and he lets out a shaky moan, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
âFuckâŠis this alright?â he murmurs, voice trembling with restraint as he holds still, letting you adjust.
You let out a shaky breath, hips shifting slightly against his hand as his finger moves inside you.
âThat feels good,â you whisper, voice breathy and honest. âReally goodâŠâ
Jakeâs eyes light up with relief and hunger. Encouraged, he slowly pulls his middle finger back, then carefully pushes two fingers in this time ; his middle and ring finger ; stretching you more. Heâs clumsy about it, his movements a little uncoordinated from how turned on he is, but the gentle pressure feels incredible as he works them deeper.
He starts to pump them slowly, trying to find a rhythm, when suddenly his breath hitches.
âWaitââ he says quickly, almost like he remembered something.
Before you can respond, he curls his fingers upward, searching. The moment he hits that sensitive spot inside you, a loud, involuntary moan escapes your lips, loud and needy. Your thighs tremble around him as pleasure jolts through your body.
His face flushes deeper, a proud but clumsy grin breaking across his face even as he keeps awkwardly pumping and curling his fingers, trying to do it again. His free hand grips your ass tightly for balance, his own breathing ragged and uneven while he watches you react, completely lost in how you sound and feel.
Youâre still trembling from the sudden rush of pleasure when he slows his fingers, keeping them buried inside you. He looks up at you with those wide, needy eyes, his cheeks flushed and his breathing ragged.
âTell me Iâm doing goodâŠâ he whispers, voice deep and a little vulnerable as he searches your face. âPlease?â
You cup his face gently in both hands, thumbs brushing over his warm cheeks. Leaning down, you kiss him softly, tenderly, your lips lingering against his for a long moment. When you pull back just enough to speak, you gaze softens.
âYouâre being so good to me,â you murmur. âIt feels really good, JakeâŠkeep going.â
A relieved moan slips from him at your words. His eyes flutter half-closed, and he presses into your touch like heâs starving for the praise. His fingers start moving again ; still a little clumsy and eager ; pumping slowly in and out while curling every few strokes to hit that spot that make you squirm. His free hand squeezes your ass tighter, pulling you closer as he kisses you back, messy and grateful.
You keep kissing him, slow and sweet, when Jake suddenly pulls his fingers out of you with a wet sound that makes you both blush. He shifts underneath you, breathing hard, and hurriedly works open his jeans.
âI need to feel you more,â he mutters, voice thick with desperation.
He lifts his hips and shoves his pants and boxers down just enough to free himself. His cock springs out, hard and throbbing, already leaking at the tip. You barely get a look at it before he pulls you back down onto his lap, lining you up so your bare, soaked pussy presses directly against his length. You start moving again, grinding with your panties still pushed to the side. The hot, velvety shaft of his cock slides perfectly between your slick folds, the head bumping against your clit with every roll of your hips. Jake groans loudly, head falling back against the couch as his hands return to grip your ass, guiding you faster.
âFuckâŠyou feel so good,â he moans, clumsy and desperate. Heâs getting impossibly harder beneath you, his dick twitching and throbbing with every grind. His hips jerk up to meet yours, uncoordinated and eager, making wet sounds every time your slick heat drags along his entire length.
He looks completely wrecked already ; lips parted, eyes hazy with desire, fingers digging into your ass as he rocks you harder against him, chasing more of that delicious friction. You keep grinding against him, the slick sounds growing louder as both of you get messier. Your panties are completely soaked, the fabric clinging wetly to your folds, and his boxers ; now bunched around his thighs ; are dark with your arousal too.
Jake lets out a frustrated groan and lifts you just enough to shove his boxers the rest of the way down his legs, kicking them off. He reaches into his pocket, tears open a condom with shaky hands, and rolls it on quickly, his cock twitching hard as he does. You move to slide your panties down, but he catches your wrists gently, stopping you.
âWaitââ he breathes, voice hoarse. His eyes drop to where your soaked panties are still pushed to the side, the pretty fabric framing your glistening pussy. âDonât take them off. Theyâre too pretty on you like thisâŠlooks so fucking hot.â
He pulls you back down onto him, guiding the head of his cock to nudge against your entrance through the shifted fabric. His hands return to your ass, squeezing firmly as he looks up at you with doe, desperate eyes, clearly waiting for you to take the next step while his throbbing length presses impatiently against your heat.
You brace your hands on his shoulders and slowly sink down onto him, taking every inch of his cock inside your tight, soaked heat. The stretch is intense, making you gasp and pause halfway before you breathe through it and slide all the way down until your hips meet his. Jakeâs head falls back with a deep, broken moan, his fingers digging hard into your ass.
But after a few seconds, the latex feels uncomfortable and distant. You lift yourself off him, quickly peel the condom away, and sink back down onto his bare cock before he can protest. The raw heat of him makes you both moan.
His eyes fly open in panic. âWaitâfuckâbabyââ he stammers, hands gripping your waist tightly as his cock throbs hard inside you. His face is flushed with alarm even as pleasure clouds his expression.
You canât help but laugh softly at his wide-eyed reaction, the sound breathy and fond. âItâs okay,â you whisper, leaning down to kiss him.
You start moving ; not bouncing, but grinding slowly in deep circles with him fully buried inside you. The pressure against that sensitive spot makes you whimper, but it completely wrecks Jake. He moans loudly, the sound raw and uncontrolled, his whole body tensing beneath you.
Suddenly, his hands clamp around your waist and he lifts you straight up, pulling out of you with a wet pop. You blink in confusion, hovering above him as his cock twitches angrily in the open air, slick with your juices.
âI was about to cum,â he pants, voice strained and embarrassed. âYouâre too warm and tightâŠand Iâm really sensitive right now. Fuck, I almost didnât stop in time.â
He looks up at you, chest heaving, cheeks burning red as he tries to catch his breath, still holding you suspended above his lap.
You hover above him for a moment, still catching your breath, then bite your lip shyly and whisper, âItâs okayâŠif it happens and you cum inside me, I can take the morning after pill.â
Jake looks up at you, eyes glassy from the pleasure, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. He swallows hard, then nods, his hands gently squeezing your waist. âOkayâŠbut Iâll still try to be careful,â he murmurs. âI donât want to mess this up for you.â
You smile softly at his sweetness and slowly sink back down onto his bare cock, taking him all the way inside again with a soft gasp. Once heâs fully buried, you resume grinding on him in deep circles, your soaked pussy clenching around his thick length.
He groans loudly, his head tipping back for a second before he looks down to where your bodies are joined. His hands slide firmly onto your hips, fingers digging in as he starts guiding you harder against him. He pulls and pushes you in longer, more insistent grinds, forcing your clit to rub against the base of his cock with every roll.
Sloppy sounds fill the room as your soaked folds slide back and forth along his shaft. The harder he makes you grind, the louder the sounds get, your arousal coating him completely. Jakeâs moans turn ragged and desirous, his abs flexing under your hands while he stares at the way your pretty panties, still pushed aside, frame your pussy taking every inch of him.
You keep grinding on him, the wet sounds growing filthier with every roll of your hips, when Jake suddenly sits up straighter. One of his hands slides up your back, pulling you closer as his mouth finds your neck.
He starts licking and kissing the sensitive skin there, sucking gently at first, then harder, while his hips snap upward. He shifts from letting you grind to actively pounding into you, thrusting deep and fast from below. Each rough stroke makes you whimper, your fingers clutching his shoulders as pleasure spikes through you.
âIâm sorryââ he whispers hotly against your neck, voice strained and weak between open-mouthed kisses. His thrusts grow erratic, sloppy, and frantic. âFuck, Iâm so sorryâŠIâm gonna cum inside you.â
His grip on your hips tightens almost painfully as he buries himself as deep as he can, moaning loudly into your neck while his cock throbs hard inside your tight heat. His body trembles beneath you, clearly fighting it for only a second longer before he loses control.
You cry out as the intense rhythm pushes you over the edge right along with him. Your orgasm crashes through you hard, walls clenching and fluttering wildly around his cock as waves of pleasure rip through your body. At the same moment, Jake groans deeply into your neck and starts cumming, pulsing hot and thick inside you with every thrust.
Still trembling and moaning from your climax, you gasp out quickly, âFinger meâpleaseââ
You donât need to tell him twice. He lifts you off his cock with a wet sound, lays you back on the couch, and slides two fingers deep into your dripping pussy. He keeps them buried inside you, pumping slowly and softly, curling them gently against that sensitive spot while his thumb rests lightly on your clit.
âFuckâthatâs it,â he whispers soothingly against your ear, voice gentle even as heâs still catching his breath. âYouâre doing so good. Let it all out for me.â
His fingers move in slow strokes, drawing out every last pulse of your orgasm as he kisses your neck and jaw. âSo pretty when you cumâŠkeep squeezing around my fingers, baby. Iâve got you.â
He stays close, murmuring soft praises while his fingers continue their gentle rhythm inside your soaked heat, helping you ride through the aftershocks.
An hour later, youâre sprawled on the couch with your legs spread wide, one draped lazily over the armrest. Jake kneels between your thighs, his hands resting on your inner thighs to keep you open.
He starts with broad strokes of his tongue, licking up and down your slick pussy, tasting the mess you two made earlier. Then he dives in deeper, pressing his whole mouth against you and kissing your folds like heâs making out with them ; soft, wet, hungry kisses that make filthy sounds echo in the living room.
A deep moan escapes you as his tongue swirls around your clit.
Jake pulls back just enough to grin up at you, lips glistening. âHey, you gotta be quiet,â he teases in a joking tone, eyes sparkling with mischief. âI canât hear the TV show if youâre moaning like that. Rude.â
You try to focus on the screen, but the pleasure is making you sleepy and relaxed. Your eyelids start to flutter, growing heavier as you sink deeper into the couch.
Without warning, Jake tightens his grip on your thighs and thrusts his tongue straight into your pussy, fucking you with it in deep, firm strokes. Your eyes snap open with a sharp gasp, hips twitching against his face as the sudden intensity jolts you awake.
He pulls back for a second, smirking. âThere you go. Canât have you falling asleep on me already,â he murmurs playfully, before diving right back in, tongue thrusting into you again while his nose nudges your clit.
His hands hold you firmly in place as he eats you out with renewed energy, clearly determined to keep you wide awake and moaning.
You canât hold back anymore.
The steady thrust of Jakeâs tongue inside you, combined with the way his nose keeps rubbing against your swollen clit, pushes you straight over the edge. Your second orgasm hits hard and fast. Your thighs clamp around his head as you cry out, back arching off the couch while waves of pleasure crash through you.
While youâre still cumming, he quickly pulls his tongue out and replaces it with two fingers, sliding them deep into your clenching pussy. He curls them gently against that sensitive spot, pumping them slowly and steadily to draw out your orgasm even longer.
âThatâs itâŠcum on my fingers again, baby,â he murmurs against your thigh, voice low and husky as he watches you fall apart. âFuck, youâre squeezing so tight.â
He keeps fingering you through every pulse and shudder, soft and deep, never rushing. His thumb moves up to circle your clit lazily, prolonging the pleasure until your moans turn into breathy whimpers and your body finally starts to relax.
Even then, he doesnât pull his fingers out right away. He leaves them buried inside your warm, fluttering heat, gently stroking your walls while he kisses the inside of your thigh, looking up at you with a satisfied, slightly smug smile.
âââââââââ
Both of you cuddling in his bed, and sleep finally gets to you. You're both tangled in his sheets, limbs intertwined, the warmth of his body a grounding presence against your back. His arm is draped over your waist, his breath slow and even against your neck, and you can feel the occasional press of his lips against your shoulder ; delicate, absent, as he's kissing you even in his sleep.
You should be content and you are content. Nevertheless, there's a dull ache beginning to throb behind your eyes, a persistent pressure that makes you wince when you shift against the pillow.
"Jake," you murmur, your voice rough. "I have a headache."
He stirs behind you, his arm tightening around your waist. "Mmm?"
"A headache. Do you have any painkillers?"
He blinks, his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Bathroom cabinet on the top shelf. There's a bottle."
You start to untangle yourself, but his arm holds you for a moment longer, pulling you back against him. "Don't go," he mumbles, his nose brushing your ear.
"I'll be right back." You press a kiss to his knuckles, and he loosens his grip.
You pad out of the bedroom, the cool air of the apartment raising goosebumps on your bare skin. You grab the shirt he'd left on the floor ; his shirt, the one he'd worn earlier ; and pull it over your head. It falls to your thighs, soft and worn, and you feel a small thrill at the intimacy of it.
The bathroom is as small as you could remember the last time you took a shower, the light harsh when you flick it on. You find the painkillers easily, shake two into your palm, and turn to get water.
You pause.
The drawer next to the sink is slightly open, just a crack, and something inside catches your eye. You don't know why you reach for it. Curiosity, maybe. The same instinct that made you want to see the photo frame by his bed.
You pull it open.
The drawer is filled with photographs ; loose, some curled at the edges, same as snapshots you'd find in a shoebox under a bed. But these aren't random. You recognize the faces.
Your hands are shaking. You dig deeper, pulling out more photos. One with your parents. Your mother's arm around you, your father's hand on Jake's shoulder, and the four of you are smiling at the camera like a family.
Another with Jungwon. He's younger, his face rounder, and he's giving a thumbs-up while Jake ruffles his hair.
You drop the photos. They scatter across the floor, and you stumble back, your back hitting the bathroom wall.
This doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. You don't remember any of this. You've never seen these photos before in your life. But your face is there, your smile, your eyes. And Jake is there too, always beside you, he's always been part of the picture.
The memory loss. The three years.
You feel the world tilt beneath you, the edges of your vision going fuzzy. The photos on the floor stare up at you, silent and damning.
"Y/N?"
Jake's voice. He's at the doorway, his eyes still sleep-soft, and he's holding a glass of water. He takes one step into the bathroom, then stops. His gaze drops to the photos scattered around your feet.
The glass slips from his fingers. It shatters against the tile, water spreading in a river across the floor.
"Y/N," he says again, and his voice is different now, sounding afraid.
You look at him. At the face you've come to know over these past weeks. The face you've kissed, laughed with, let hold you. The face that has been hiding everything from you.
"You knew me?" you say, and your voice comes out flat, hollow. "You knew me before?"
He doesn't answer as the look on his face says it all.
"All this time," you continue, the words spilling out now, unstoppable. "You knew everything. You knew me. You knew me and you didn't say anything."
"I was going to tell you." His voice is low. "I was trying to find the right time. I didn't want to scare youâ"
"Scare me?" A broken laugh escapes you. "I've been living in a fog for a year. I've been trying to piece together who I am, and youâyou've been standing right there, holding all the pieces, and you didn't tell me."
The rain starts outside, a sudden downpour that hammers against the window. You don't remember putting on his clothes, but you're moving now, past him, through the apartment, toward the door. He calls your name without you turning back.
You barge into the hallway. The stairs are a blur beneath your feet. You burst out into the rain, and it hits you like a wall ; cold, merciless, soaking through the shirt, your hair and your skin.
You don't know where you're going, and you know you can't be near him, nor look at his face and see the truth you were too blind to notice.
The street is empty, the rain turning the pavement into a river. You walk, then run, your bare feet slapping against the wet ground, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind you, you hear a door slam. A voice calling your name, distant and helpless.
Your legs donât seem to want to stop. Your bare feet slap against the wet pavement, each step sending shocks through your legs, but you don't stop. You actually can't stop because if you do, you'll have to think, and thinking means facing what you just saw.
Your fingers fumble with your phone, slick with rain, and you manage to pull up Jungwon's contact. It rings once, twice, three times, and then the automated voice cuts in. Voicemail. Full. You try again and itâs the same result.
"Come on," you mutter, your voice cracking. "Come on, pick up. Pick upâ"
The phone slips from your grip, clattering onto the wet ground. You leave it behind and keep walking, your arms wrapped around yourself, the thin fabric of his shirt doing nothing to ward off the cold.
"Y/N."
His voice. Behind you. Closer than you expected.
You keep walking faster, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Y/N, pleaseâjust stopâ"
"I don't want to talk to you." Your voice is barely audible over the rain. "Go away."
"I can't do that." His footsteps are closer now. "I can't let you run out like this. It's not safe."
"You don't get to decide what's safe for me." You finally stop, spinning around to face him. He's there, a few meters away, soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving. He's stopped too, keeping his distance like you're a wild animal that might bolt.
"You don't get to decide anything," you continue, your voice rising. "You knew me. You knew me and you lied. Every single day, every single conversationâyou looked at me and you knew exactly who I was, and you let me stumble around like an idiot trying to figure it out."
"I didn't lieâ"
"Hiding the truth is lying." You're shaking now, from cold and anger. "You kept all of it from me. The photos, the memoriesâ" You gesture wildly. "Everything. You let me think we were strangers." Your voice cracks. "You let me fall for you like you were someone new."
"I had to." His voice is raw. "I had to keep it from you. It was the only wayâ"
"The only way for what?" You're yelling now, the rain muffling the sound but not the anger. "The only way to protect yourself? The only way to make sure you didn't have to deal with the mess of my broken brain?"
He flinches like you've struck him. "No. That's notâ"
"Then what? What the fuck is about?"
He's quiet for a long moment. The rain falls between you, heavy and cold, a curtain that separates you from him. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, barely above a whisper.
"Because I was scared."
You laugh, a hollow, broken sound. "Scared of what?"
"Of this." He gestures between the two of you. "Of you remembering and looking at me like you are right now. Like I'm a stranger. Like I'm someone who hurt you."
Your chest tightens. "GodâJake do you even care about me?"
"I fucking do." He takes a step closer, and then stops himself. "I loved you, Y/N. Before the accident. We wereâ" He runs a hand through his wet hair, his voice cracking. "We were together. For three freaking years. We lived together. We had a life."
You stare at him, the words hitting you like blows. "I don't remember."
"Iâm aware of that." He's crying now, his tears mistook for rain drops. You can't tell. "Iâm aware that you don't. And that'sâthat's the worst part. Because I've been standing here, watching you rebuild your life, and every time you looked at me like I was a stranger, it felt like losing you all over again."
"Why did you stay, then?" Your voice is barely a whisper. "Why didn't you just leave?"
"Because I made a promise." He meets your eyes. "A promise to your brother, to Jungwon. After the accident, when you couldn't remember anythingâhe came to me. He said that if I really loved you, I would stay away. That seeing me, remembering me, would confuse you. That it would hurt you more than it would help."
"So you justâwalked away?"
"I tried. I moved to another city. I told myself it was for the best. But I couldn't." He stops, his voice breaking. "I couldn't stay away. When I heard you were coming back here, I told myself I wouldn't interfere and that I'd keep my distance. But then I saw you with that stupid umbrella, andâ"
His words trail off, lost in the rain. You stand there, shivering, the weight of everything pressing down on you.
"I was scared," he continues, his voice still barely audible. "I was scared that if I told you, you'd run. That you'd look at me and feel nothing. That the person you were beforeâthe person I lovedâwas gone forever, and I couldn't bear that. So I kept it to myself. I told myself I was protecting you. But really, I was protecting myself."
The silence stretches between you.
"You should have told me," you finally say, and your voice is weak, drained of emotion. "You should have trusted me to handle it."
"I know." He looks down at the ground. "I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted to hurt you. I justâ" He stops, his shoulders shaking. "I just wanted to hold onto the part of you that was still mine. Even if you didn't know it."
Your chest is heaving again and you feel the tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. You're not sure when you started crying or maybe you've been crying this whole time.
"When?" Your voice cracks once again. "When did weâwhen did we first meet?"
He looks up, and you see the tears streaming down his face, indistinguishable from the rain. "Nineteen," he says, his voice raw and broken. "We were nineteen. You were wearing that oversized Bieber shirt, and you tripped over your own feet walking into that library, and Iâ" He pauses, a sob tearing from his throat. "I fell in love with you right there."
You feel the sob building in your chest, unstoppable and devastating. "Iâm sorry."
"Itâs okay." He's crying openly now, his shoulders shaking. "IâI needed you to know that you were loved. That you are loved. By me. Always."
Your legs give out. You don't realize it until you're sinking, your knees hitting the wet pavement, your hands bracing against the cold ground. The sobs are torn from you now, ugly and loud, your entire body shaking with the force of them.
Heâs already moving. His feet splash against the wet ground, closing the distance between you in seconds. He drops to his knees in front of you, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest. His body shields you from the rain, his hands cradling the back of your head, pressing your face into the warmth of his neck.
"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice broken and fragile. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N."
You feel his tears against your skin, his body shaking with the same sobs that are tearing through you. He holds you tighter, afraid you'll disappear, and you grip the wet fabric of his shirt, your fingers twisted in the material.
"I don't remember," you choke out. "I don't remember any of it."
"That's okay." His voice is a whisper, trembling. "That's okay. We canâwe can start over. We can make new memories. Whatever you need. I'll give you whatever you need."
You pull back just enough to look at him. His face is streaked with rain and tears, his eyes red-rimmed, his expression open and completely unguarded.
You let him hold you, his arms wrapped around you like a shield against the world, and you feel something shift in your chest. The rain continues to fall, but you barely notice it anymore.
All you feel is him.
âââââââââ
The next morning. You're sitting on the edge of the couch, your legs stretched out in front of you, the bruises on your knees a mottled purple from the fall the night before. The rain has stopped, but the world outside is still wet, the streets glistening under the gray sky.
Jake is kneeling in front of you, a small first-aid kit open on the floor beside him. His movements are gentle, careful, as he dabs at the scrapes with an antiseptic wipe. You flinch slightly at the sting, and he murmurs an apology, his fingers light against your skin.
"I could do it on my own." you say, your voice hoarse from crying.
"Let me do it for you. Please." He doesn't look up, his focus on the cut on your knee. "I should have done this last night, but you wereâ" He stops, swallowing. "You were upset. I didn't want to push."
You watch him as he works, the furrow of concentration between his brows, his lower lip catches between his teeth. His hands are steady despite everything, carefully smoothing the edges of a bandage over your skin.
"There," he says softly. "All done."
You're about to say something when the door slams open.
Jungwon stands in the doorway, his chest heaving and his eyes wild. He's still in his clothes from yesterday, his hair disheveled, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. He must have come straight from wherever he was, must have run the whole way. His gaze sweeps the room and takes in the two of you. Jake kneeling at your feet. The bandage on your knee. Your tear-streaked face. And mostly, the visible tension in the air.
He looks at Jake and at you while shifting his gaze between both of you.
"Fuck." he says, the word heavy, loaded with remorse.
Jake rises slowly to his feet. He stands there, his hands at his sides, his face blank.
"Jungwon," he starts, but Jungwon cuts him off.
"What the fuck, Jake." He steps into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. "I told youâI told you to stay away. I told you it would be better for her. And for everyone. And youâ" He stops, his jaw tight. "You couldn't keep your promise for even a year?"
"It wasn't like that." Jake's voice is steady yet a tremor is present beneath it. "I didn't plan this. It just happened."
"It just happened?" Jungwon scoffs. "You see her in the hallway and suddenly all your promises mean nothing?"
"Jungwonâ" you start, both of them turn to look at you, and the weight of their gazes makes the words die in your throat. Jungwon's expression softens slightly. "Are you okay?" he asks, the question is directed at you, not Jake.
You don't know how to answer that. Are you okay? You're sitting in the apartment of a man you've known for weeks, who apparently knew you for three years before that, who you still can't remember, who you cried in the rain with, who bandaged your knees this morning because he cares about you. And you canât understand any of it.
"I don't know," you say honestly.
Jungwon runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. "I should have told you," he says with regret in his voice. "I should have told you about him. About everything. I thought I was protecting you, but Iâ" He pauses and shakes his head. "I made it worse."
"He knew," you say, voice flat. "He knew and he kept it from me. You both did."
Jake flinches and Jungwon looks away.
"I had to," Jake says quietly. "I had to see if you could remember on your own. If there was any part of you that stillâ" He swallows, the words caught in his throat. "I needed to know if you could love me without the memories."
Jungwon's head snaps toward him. "That's not why you did it."
"Isn't it?" Jake's voice is raw. "I wanted to believe that if I just gave you time, you'd remember, and I know that it sounds stupid. That you'd look at me and see all the years we had. But you didn't. You never did." He looks at you, his eyes glassy. "And I had to accept that the person I loved might never come back. But I still loved you anyway."
The silence in the room is suffocating. You look from Jake to Jungwon, the weight of their secrets pressing down on you, and you feel something crack inside your chest.
Jungwon is the one to break it. "I'm sorry," he says, the words are directed at both of you. "I was scared. I didn't want to lose you again, Y/N. And when I saw the two of you starting to know each other I panicked." He confesses, his composure cracking. "I just wanted to protect you and I failed. I failed both of you."
Jake stays silent, his eyes fixed on the floor.
You take a breath. The air is thick, but you force yourself to speak.
"I don't remember him," you say, looking at Jungwon. "I don't remember any of it. But Iâ" You stop, your voice catching. "I know I felt something. Even when I didn't know who he was. That has to count for something, doesn't it?"
Jungwon meets your eyes. Then he nods, slowly.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "It does."
âââââââââ
The afternoon has settled in, the earlier tension slowly unwinding like a knot being picked apart. Jungwon left an hour ago, his goodbye awkward but not hostile, a promise to call later that felt more like a question than a statement. You'd watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him, and then you'd turned to find Jake standing in the middle of the living room, his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes uncertain.
Neither of you had spoken for a while. Then you'd walked to the kitchen, pulled out a cutting board and some vegetables, and started preparing something that might become dinner. He'd followed, hovering at the edge of the counter, until you'd handed him a knife and told him to chop the onions.
Now you're standing at the stove, stirring a pan of vegetables, while Jake sits on a stool behind you. His fingers are in your hair again, separating strands, twisting them together with a concentration that's become familiar over the past few days. The braid is better than yesterday ; still not perfect, but recognizable.
"You're getting better at this," you say, your voice quiet.
"I've had practice." An incredible softness in his voice. "Also, you're very patient. That helps."
You stir the vegetables, watching them sizzle and soften. The silence is comfortable, however, there's something sitting between you, a question you've been turning over in your mind since last night.
"Jake," you start, and you feel him pause, his fingers stilling in your hair. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
You keep your eyes on the pan. "Last nightâwas that our first time?"
You feel him go still behind you. His hands are frozen in your hair, and for a moment, you think you've overstepped. You feel his breath, a soft exhale, and his hands resume their work.
"Yes," he says, and his voice is careful. "That was our first time."
The words hang in the air. You nod slowly, processing. "So we never had sexâŠbefore the accident?"
He shakes his head, even though you can't see him. "We were close, and we lived together. But we never did those kind of things." He pauses, his fingers continuing to work through your hair. "We were waiting. I don't know what we were waiting for. The right moment, maybe." His voice drops. "I never really thought about it. I just knew I wanted it to be right."
You set down the spoon, turning to face him. He's watching you, his hands hovering where your hair falls against your shoulders. His eyes are searching, cautious.
"Jake," you say. "How long did you go without doing it?" You stop, not sure how to phrase it. "Without being with anyone?"
He understands. His jaw tightens, and he looks down at his hands. "Itâs been a year. Since the accident." He meets your eyes again. "I couldn't. I tried toâŠtalk to girls, once. It didn't feel right. I mean, I didn't feel right. I couldn't even hold someone's hand without feeling like I was betraying you."
You feel your breath catch. "Even when you didn't know if I'd ever remember?"
"Especially then." His voice honest. "It didn't matter if you remembered me or not. I remembered you. I knew what we had, andâŠI couldn't replace that. I really didn't want to."
You look at him, this man who's been carrying this weight for three years, who stayed loyal to a ghost he didn't know would ever come back. You look at his hands shaking slightly, his eyes are glassy.
"I didn't know," you say.
"How could you?"
You reach out, your hand finding his. He looks down at your fingers intertwined, and you feel the dull trembling in his grip.
"Thank you," you say, your voice almost a whisper. "For waiting. Even when you didn't have to."
He looks at you with vulnerability in his gaze. "I never really had a choice. It was always you. It's always been you."
You pull him closer, your arms wrapping around him, your face pressing into his shoulder. He holds you back, his arms tight around your waist, and you feel the steady beat of his heart against your chest.
The vegetables are still burning. You're still wrapped in his arms, your face pressed into his shoulder, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt. His hand is cradling the back of your head, his fingers gently threading through the braid he'd just finished.
He pulls back to look at you. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face still carrying the traces of the tears you'd both shed.
"I love you," he says.
The words are simple, unadorned. Only three words, spoken as they've been sitting on his tongue for years, waiting for the right moment to be released. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your throat is tight, your chest aching with the pressure of everything you don't know how to say.
Noticing your silence, he leans in, his lips pressing against your forehead, lingering long enough for you to feel the slight shaking in his breath.
Then your cheek. The corner of your eye. The bridge of your nose. Each kiss is slow, like he's tracing the contours of your face with his mouth, memorizing every inch. His lips brush your temple, your jaw, the base of your neck.
"You don't have to say it back," he murmurs against your skin. "I just needed you to know."
You feel the tears pricking at your eyes again, yet they're not the same as before. "You've been carrying this for a year," you manage, your voice thick. "And you stillâ"
"Still love you." He presses another kiss to your cheek, then your other cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "Yes. I do. And I'll keep saying it until you're tired of hearing it."
"I won't get tired."
He pulls back, his eyes searching yours.
"Thatâs good for me." he says softly, the smile that tugs at his lips is small and tentative. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that have escaped down your cheeks. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, and you feel the warmth of him surrounding you.
"Jake," you whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Stay with me. While I try to remember. While I figure this out." You swallow. "Don't leave again."
He doesn't hesitate once. "I won't."
His lips find yours, soft and gentle, and when he pulls back, he presses one last kiss to the tip of your nose.
You were ready to rebuild your life, with everything youâve shared from now, with him.
SYNOPSIS âââ After a car accident that costed you 3 years worth of memory, you find yourself trying to start a new beginning in a new city with "new" people. Only God knows why would the universe make you cross paths with the cute guy nextdoor.
đ đđ§đ«đ : neighbor AU, fluff, slight angst, smut (MDNI)
đđšđ§đđđ§đ : yearner!jake, swearing, loss of memory, mention of a car accident, unprotected sex, p in v, oral sex (f. receiving), jake is an ass grabber, praising, creampie, mutual orgasm, switch!jake, loss of virginity, jake and reader's first time, fingering, riding, domestic scenes
đ°đ : 25.5k
â# this is my goodbye gift !! Hope youâll all like it :)
You wouldn't have thought that the cardboard box in your arms would be heavier than it has any right to be, given it's mostly filled with towels and a lamp that probably won't survive the move. You shift it against your hip, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as Jungwon's voice crackles through the speaker.
"âand the landlord said the water pressure is good, but you should still check the boiler room, okay? Just in case. Mom keeps asking if you've eaten."
"I've eaten," you say, dumping the box onto the kitchen counter. The sound echoes in the empty space. "I ate a granola bar on the drive."
"That's not eating. You usually eat much more than that, Y/N."
You almost laugh. The corners of your mouth twitch, yet the energy to actually produce the sound feels too expensive. The new apartment is small, already making you hyperaware of your own breathing. White walls, beige carpet, a window that overlooks a fire escape and the back of a laundromat. It's nothing like your old place. And that's totally the point.
"There's a coffee shop down the street," you say instead, peering through the smudged glass of the window. "I saw it when I pulled in."
"Good, you should go there. Drink something with sugar and call me if you need anything."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
The line goes dead, and the silence in the apartment rushes back in to fill the space. You stand there for a minute, only breathing, letting your new life settle into your bones. New city with a new apartment, and no memories of the last three years to trip over on your way to the bathroom.
You grab your keys and head out. The neighborhood is weirdly quiet even in the afternoon, it feels like everyone is holding their breath. Old brick buildings line the street, their facades streaked with years of rain. A bodega on the corner, a laundromat, and there, wedged between a bookstore and a clothing shop, the coffee shop. It's decorated with mismatched chairs and a counter cluttered with jars of homemade pastries. You order a black coffee because you don't trust your brain to make decisions, and you take it to a table by the window. You're halfway through the cup, watching a pigeon peck at a discarded wrapper, when the sky opens up. The rain comes down in sheets, loud and violent, rattling against the glass like it's trying to get in. You watch it for a while, then check your phone. It's already 5 PM.
"Excuse me," you say, approaching the counter. The barista, a tired-looking woman with flour on her apron, looks up. "Do you have an umbrella I could borrow? I just moved in across the street, I'll bring it back."
She blinks at you before she disappears into the back, returning a moment later with a flimsy black umbrella. It looks like the one you buy at a bodega for five dollars and immediately regret. "Keep it," she says. "We have like twelve of these."
The rain hasn't let up by the time you step outside. You pop the umbrella open, holding it tight as the wind tries to wrestle it from your grip. The street is a river now, the buildings blurred through the curtain of water. You walk quickly, splashing through puddles, your sneakers already soaked.
The apartment building is a relief when it comes into view. You duck into the alcove of the entrance, shaking water from your hair, and fumble with the umbrella to close it. The mechanism catches on something, and you jerk it, frustrated, only to have it flip open in a violent snap. A spray of water arcs outward, catching the person passing behind you square in the chest.
You freeze.
He freezes.
For an agonizing long moment, neither of you dare to move. He's standing half in the rain, half out, his white t-shirt now clinging to his torso with a growing dark patch. His hair is damp at the ends, dark brown and curling slightly. His eyes ; wide and startled ; scan your face with intensity, making you want to quickly apologize, but the words get caught somewhere in your throat.
His expression falters for the briefest moment. The certainty in his eyes gives way to hesitation, his gaze tracing your features as though something refuses to add up. His head tilts slightly, thoughtful rather than confused. You brace yourself for annoyance. For the kind of clipped anger that would be entirely justified.
Rather than that, he blinks, and a smile touches the corner of his mouth. It's not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one, uncertain and clumsy. "Hi," he says. His voice is a little rough, maybe from the cold. "Sorry, I wasâdo I know you?"
You shake your head, clutching the umbrella tightly. "I don't think so. I just moved in. I'm sorry about your shirt."
He glances down at the wet patch before looking back up at you. "Don't worry about it. It's just water." He's still looking at you, though. Too fucking long. His gaze lingers, waiting for...something. Whatever it is never comes. With a shake of his head, he drags a hand through his wet hair before a tiny smile finds its way onto his face, warming the corners of his eyes. "I'm Jake. I live in 9C down the hall."
"Y/N," you say. "5C."
"Welcome to the building."
"Thanks."
The rain continues to fall, filling the space between you with noise. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and you realize you're both just standing there, awkward and dripping, with nothing else to say.
"Well," he says, "I should probably go change. Before I catch a cold."
"Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry again."
"Don't be."
He heads for the elevator, and you watch him go, his wet footprints staining the floor. He pauses with his hand on the button, and for only a second, you think he might turn back or might say something else. But then the door swings open, and he disappears inside.
You stand there for another minute, the broken umbrella dangling from your hand, the rain hammering against the awning above you. The feeling of his gaze on your face lingers, unsettled, like a half-remembered dream.
You close the apartment door behind you and lean against it. The key is still in your hand. The broken umbrella is still in the other. Your socks are soaked through because you forgot to wipe your feet.
None of that registers.
Because Jake ; apartment 9C, white t-shirt, gray hoodie, hole in his jeans ; had a face that shouldn't exist outside of Renaissance paintings and the occasional fever dream. Sharp jaw and messy hair that looked intentional even though it definitely wasn't. And his eyes, soft and curious, doing that slow scan of your features like he was reading something he couldn't put down.
You slide down the door until you're sitting on the floor.
This doesn't happen to you.
Noâcorrection. This has never happened to you. You've read about it, sure. Pages in secondhand paperbacks where the protagonist trips and falls into a stranger's arms and he just happens to have cheekbones that could cut diamonds. You've rolled your eyes at those scenes and called them unrealistic. You told yourself that real life doesn't come with lighting cues and slow motion. However, standing on those steps with rain dripping off his chin and an animal shelter's worth of grime on his wrist, he had no business being that striking. That disarming. That stupidly attractive.
Your brain caught on the way he'd looked at you. Not like he was checking you out but more like he was searching for something. A flicker of recognition that didn't meant nothing if you recoil on it. And after that the shrug, and the introduction so smooth it had to be accidental.
Jake.
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. Are you freaking kidding me ?
"You're being ridiculous." you tell the empty apartment.
Three hours later, you've unpacked exactly one box ; where it cointained your sheets and a single mug shaped like a cactus that Jungwon bought you as a joke three birthdays ago. The mug is now sitting on the kitchen counter, empty, staring at you judgmentally.
He keeps finding his way back into your thoughts. Not because you're trying to hold on to him, and surely not because you can't move on. It happens almost absentmindedly, the way your brain revisits familiar things when it's left alone. How his voice sounded slightly wrecked, like he'd been yelling or laughing or both. The smudge on his wrist ; potting soil, probably, if the canvas bag full of clinking jars was any indication. Pickles? Jam? The man had twelve jars of something and dirt on his hands and he lived four apartment next to yours.
You catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror and frown at yourself.
"Girl, you don't even know his last name." you say.
You go to bed early because there's nothing else to do. The new apartment sounds are unusual, there's more creaks and fewer sirens. At 2:17 AM, someone in the building starts playing the guitar badly. You fall asleep to a mangled rendition of "Wonderwall".
âââââââââ
The alarm drags you from sleep sharply. You bat at your phone until the noise stops, and lie there, blinking at the still unfamiliar ceiling, reacquainting yourself with the fact that this is your life now. Everything was going to be new now.
By the time you've wrestled yourself into something presentable, you're already running five minutes behind. You skip breakfast, grab your bag, and lock the door behind you.
The elderly home sits at the end of a tree-lined street, a squat brick building, you almost mistook it for a community center. The receptionist gives you a visitor's badge and points you toward the common room, where a handful of residents are scattered across armchairs, some dozing, some staring at a muted television, one engaged in a heated argument with a plant.
You're barely through the door when a woman appears at your elbow, small and bright-eyed, with a name tag that reads Hanni in cheerful block letters. "New hire?" she asks, already steering you toward a supply closet. "Thank god. I've been doing double shifts for three weeks. I'm Hanni. You're Y/N. I read your file. It said you have experience with dementia patients. That's good, because Jacob over thereâ" she jerks her chin toward a man in a cardigan who's now trying to feed his coffee to the plant, "âthinks he's a squirrel."
You blink. "A squirrel?"
"Don't ask. Just go with it. If he offers you acorns, take them."
The day unfolds. You help Mrs. Han find her glasses (they were on her head), you listen to Mr. Eom's stories about a bakery he ran forty years ago, and you learn the exact difference between the "good" applesauce and the "bad" applesauce. Hanni works beside you with effortless competence, cracking jokes under her breath and seamlessly redirecting residents who wander toward the exit. "You're pretty good at this," she says during a break, as you both stand at the nurses' station, scribbling notes. "Most new people get that deer-in-headlights look for at least a week. You just sort of absorbed it."
You shrug, not sure how to explain that this ; the slow pace, the gentle repetition, the small dignities of helping someone remember their own name ; it feels like the only thing you're certain about these days. "It's not that hard. They just want to be seen."
Hanni studies you for a moment, something curious flickering behind her eyes. Then she nods, and the moment passes.
Your shift ends, your feet ache and your brain feels pleasantly fuzzy, which doesn't leave room for anxiety. You change out of your scrubs, say goodbye to Hanni, and step out into the evening air.
The street is calm, the rain from yesterday reduced to a thin dampness on the pavement. You're walking toward your building, hands shoved in your jacket pockets, when you round the corner and nearly collide with someone coming the other way.
Fuck, it's him.
Jake.
He's wearing a different shirt ; navy this time, sleeves pushed up to his elbows ; and he's carrying a cardboard pack of beer tucked under one arm. His hair is dry, pulled up in a little ponytail at the back, and the sight of him in the golden light of early evening hits you like a delayed punch.
"Oh," you say. Why now?
He stops. For a heartbeat, something unsettles his expression, his eyes lingering on you a fraction too long. Then, it melts away, something softer taking place. "Hey. Y/N, right?"
"Oh, you remembered." The words come out flatter than you wanted them to be, yet your pulse is doing a ridiculous drum solo again.
"I remember a lot of things," he says, there's a strange weight to the phrase, like he's saying something else underneath it. He gestures with the beer. "You're heading back?"
"Yeah. I just finished my first day at the elderly home down the street."
"How was it?"
"Exhausting. Good, though. I think. One of the residents offered me a fake acorn, so I'm taking that as a sign of approval."
He laughs, low and surprised, you can see that he didn't expect to find it funny. "That's a pretty solid endorsement. I'd trust fake acorn guy over most people."
You fall into step together, and you notice how he adjusts his pace to match yours, shortening his stride just slightly. The street stretches ahead, lined with those old brick buildings, the sky above streaked with pale orange and lavender. You nod toward the beer. "Expecting company, or is that just for personal purpose?"
He glances down at the pack, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. "I'm having friends over tonight. A couple of guys from the shelterâI work at the animal shelter a few blocks over. We do this thing every other Thursday. It's mostly just eating takeout and arguing about which dog breed is objectively the best."
"Which one is?"
"Rescue," he says immediately. "All of them."
You snort. "I think so too."
"Right? This is why we're going to get along." He says it casually, the words land in your chest with an unexpected weight.
The building comes into view, its facade warm in the fading light. He holds the door open for you, and you step into the foyer, the familiar smell of old carpet and someone's cooking drifting through the hallway. At your door you fumble for your keys, and he lingers, shifting the beer from one arm to the other.
"Good first day," he says. "At the job, I mean."
"Thanks." You find the right key, fit it into the lock. "Have fun with your friends. Try not to let the argument escalate into a physical altercation."
"No promises. We're very passionate about this." He's already turning, already stepping back toward his door, when something makes you call out : "Jake."
He stops and looks back.
"Thanks for walking me," you say. "Even if you didn't have to."
A small shrug. "It's fine. I wanted to, anyway." And he's already gone, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, and you're left standing in your doorway, keys still in hand, watching the space where he was.
You unlock the door, step inside, and close it behind you. The apartment is mostly empty, since your laziness won over you to unpack the rest of your stuff. You press your back against the door and stare at the ceiling.
This, you think, is exactly the kind of thing I'd roll my eyes at in a book.
Regardless, you can't stop the smile that spreads across your face, slow and helpless and embarrassingly real.
You're sprawled across the couch, legs tangled in a throw blanket, the glow of the television painting your face in shifting blues and reds. Some reality show about people competing to bake things that look like other things. It's mindless and perfect, exactly the sort of programming that requires zero cognitive effort. Your oversized t-shirt hangs off one shoulder with Justin Bieber's face from his Purpose World Tour, faded and cracked from years of washing. Below that, nothing but a pair of plain cotton panties. Your hair is messy, and there's a half-empty mug of tea growing cold on the floor beside you. You're comfortable. Vulnerable, maybe, but in the privacy of your own space, and that's all that matters.
Your gaze wanders into the kitchen and lands on the trash bin that is overflowing with flattened boxes and crumpled packing paper, the remains of a move youâre still halfway through. It doesnât look like much, but you know itâll be the first thing to irritate you in the morning if itâs left untouched. You weigh the options. Get dressed and actually put on pants, find a bra, the whole tedious ritual, or justâŠgo. It's a quick trip. The trash chute is at the end of the hallway, maybe twenty steps from your door. The corridor has been empty all evening. And Jake has friends over. He's occupied. He's not going to be lurking around corners, waiting to ambush you with his inconveniently-timed presence.
Nobody will see you, you tell yourself. It's fine. You're fast as fuck.
You pad to the door, press your eye to the peephole. The hallway stretches, empty. Clear. You crack the door open, just wide enough to slip through, and you're out, barefoot, the cold floor sending a shiver up your legs. The trash bag is heavier than you expected ; you hoist it against your hip, jogging in that awkward, flat-footed way of someone who's both in a hurry and deeply aware of their own exposure. The chute is a metal hatch in the wall. You heave it open, shove the bag inside, hear it clatter down into the abyss. Mission accomplished.
You turn, already planning your retreat, andâ
He's standing three feet away. Oh fuck off.
Jake.
He's holding a bulging trash bag of his own, the clink of glass bottles audible as he adjusts his grip. His eyes travel from your face down to the faded Bieber shirt, then back up, and there's a beat of silence where neither of you move. Your brain short-circuits and your mouth opens. What comes out is a garbled mix of syllables that might have been intended as "hey" but emerges as something closer to "hehâuhâIâ"
He blinks. Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches. "Didn't mean to startle you," he says, and his voice is level, calm, almost like he's trying to soothe a startled animal.
"You didn'tâI mean, I was justâ" You gesture clumsily at your attire, then at the trash chute, then back at yourself, as if this chain of context will explain everything. "The trash was full. And I didn't think anyone would beâI mean, you said you had friendsâ"
"Friends," he confirms. "They left about ten minutes ago. I was just cleaning up."
"Of course you were. That makes sense." You're still standing there, bare-legged, the shirt barely grazing your thighs, and the hallway suddenly feels like a wind tunnel. You cross your arms over your chest, which does absolutely nothing to help the situation. Jake doesnât leer nor does he joke. He meets your eyes with that same searching look, softened now into quiet amusement. "You know," he says, "you have a habit of running into me in unexpected situations."
"This is your fault," you say, and the words come out sharp without real bite behind them. "You're supposed to be busy. That was the whole point."
"Sorry to inconvenience you by taking out my trash."
"You're not sorry, are you?"
"No," he admits, his half-smile edges into fuller one. "I'm not." He steps past you toward the chute, and you catch a whiff of a clean and comforting scent, the ordinary scent of someone who's recently showered. He drops his bag in, closes the hatch with a metallic thunk and turns back. "See you around, Bieber," he says, the warmth in the nickname makes your stomach flip.
He's walking back toward his apartment door, and you're standing once again, your face heating in an inexorable crawl. You wait until his footsteps fade before you scurry back to your door, slip inside, and press your back against the wood. The television is still playing, some contestant weeping over a collapsed trompe-l'oeil. You stare at the screen, unseeing.
Bieber.
You look down at the faded face on your shirt, at your bare legs, at the utter mess of your appearance, and you press the heels of your palms into your eyes like the day before. You're still standing with your back against the door, willing your face to return to a normal temperature, when the knock comes.
Three sharp raps.
Your entire body goes still. The television babbles on, oblivious, as you press your eye to the peephole. Jake. Of course. He's standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down at the floor, he's waiting for something. He's changed into a gray sweatshirt, hood down, hair slightly mussed. You don't open the door. You can't, not after what he just witnessed. Not with this shirt still on.
"What?" you call through the wood, and your voice comes out higher, strained.
"Y/N," His voice is muffled but clear. "I know you're in there."
"I'm not opening the door."
A pause. "I'm not asking you to."
"Why are you here then?"
He pauses again. You can hear him shift his weight. "I just wanted to sayâ" He stops, and you imagine him running a hand through his hair, figuring out how to phrase something. "The shirt. I really like it."
You press your forehead against the door. "You're lying."
"I'm not. I had that exact one in middle school and I wore it until the print started peeling off."
"That doesn't make it better."
"Maybe not." His voice carries a smile, you can hear it, the slight lift in the vowels. "I thought you should know, though. That's all."
You stay silent, unsure how to answer. The pause settles in, comfortable rather than tense, and you notice he isnât hurrying to fill it.
"Anyways," he says finally, "goodnight, Y/N."
You hear footsteps, receding. You wait until the sound fades completely before you let out a breath you were holding deeply. Your reflection stares back at you from the peephole's warped glass, only a blur of color, but you can feel the heat still lingering in your cheeks. You push off from the door, walk back to the couch, and collapse into the cushions. The reality show contestants are still crying about pastries. You look down at Justin Bieber's faded face. At the cracked screen print and the worn collar.
He had this exact one in middle school, what a coincidence.
You pull the hem of the shirt, stretch it, let it snap back. A small, involuntary sound escapes your throat. It might be a laugh or anything else. You grab your phone, open your messages, and type out a single line to Jungwon.
Y/N [11:52 PM]
I think I'm in trouble.
But you delete it, toss the phone aside, and stare at the ceiling until your heartbeat settles to normal again.
It takes a while.
âââââââââ
The morning came faster than you thought. You grab the umbrella on your way out ; the same flimsy black one that started this whole foolish chain of events ; and stop by the coffee shop before your shift. The barista barely glances up as you set it on the counter.
"Thanks," you say. "For letting me borrow it."
She waves a hand, already reaching for a pitcher of milk. "Keep it next time. We've got a whole graveyard of those things in the back."
You almost tell her there won't be a next time, yet the words feel like tempting fate, so you just nod and head out.
The elderly home is already rumbling when you arrive. Hanni greets you with a coffee cup thrust into your hands and a breathless update about Mr. Eom's missing dentures. You take a sip, let the caffeine do its work, and fall into the cadence of the morning.
By early afternoon, the sun is actually warm enough to justify a walk. You round up three residents ; Mrs. Han, who's having a good day and remembers your name, Mr. Chen, who doesn't say much but mumbles tunelessly under his breath and Jacob, who offered you the fake acorn. He's wearing a different cardigan today, mustard yellow, and he keeps patting his pockets like he's checking for something. The path behind the building winds through a small garden, past benches and bird feeders and a sad little fountain that hasn't worked in years. You walk slowly, matching their pace, letting Mrs. Han point out flowers she's identified incorrectly and pretending to take Jacob's commentary seriously.
It's peaceful, nearly meditative. A moment like this makes you wonder if this new life really is as bad as you thought.
Abruptly, a dog comes out of nowhere. A golden retriever ; young, gangly, all oversized paws and manic energy ; bounds across the grass with the focus of a missile. It's not aggressive and not even barking. It's excited, and its excitement is directed straight at Jacob, who is the slowest-moving, most startle-prone member of your little group. The dog lunges up before you can react, front paws slamming into Jacobâs chest. He rocks back, arms windmilling, then drops in a slow heap, feeling like itâs happening in two conflicting speeds at once.
"Jacob!" You're at his side in an instant, dropping to your knees, hands hovering unevenly. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"
Jacob blinks up at you, more confused than pained. His glasses are askew. "I dropped my acorn," he says.
"I'll find it. Justâstay still. Tell me if anything hurts."
A voice cuts through the chaos, alert and breathless. "Oh godâI'm so sorryâ"
You look up. Jake is sprinting toward you, the dog's leash trailing behind him like a forgotten flag. He's in work clothes ; a navy polo with the shelter's logo, dirt smudged on his forearm ; and his face is veiled with unguarded panic.
The dog, oblivious, is now trying to lick Jacob's ear.
"Leo, down!" Jake grabs the dog's collar, hauls him back with a firm yet gentle tug. "I am so, so sorry. He got looseâI was just bringing him out for a walk and he saw theâare you okay? Is he okay?"
You're already helping Jacob sit up, checking his wrists, his neck, the back of his head. No swelling or bleeding. He's still patting his pockets for the acorn.
"He's fine," you say, your voice flat. "He's just disoriented."
"Thank god." Jake exhales, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "I really amâI should have had a better grip on the leash. He's young, he's still learning, but that's not an excuseâ"
"You're right." You stand, brushing grass from your knees. "It's not."
The silence that follows is stiffling. Mrs. Han is watching with curious eyes, Mr. Chen has stopped mumbling, and Leo is now sitting at Jake's feet, tail excitedly wagging. You turn to Jake fully. "You work at a shelter. You know how unpredictable dogs can be. Especially around elderly people. One wrong jump, one fall, and it's a broken bone or a concussion. That could actually hurt someone."
Jake meets your gaze without a trace of defensiveness or excuses. He simply nods slowly, his jaw tightening in restraint. "You're right," he says. "I wasn't careful enough. I got distracted, and I let him pull ahead, and I should have anticipated that this could happen." He glances at Jacob, who is now patting Leo's head with a delighted smile. "I'm really glad he's okay. And I'm sorry you had to deal with that."
The words settle with an unexpected weight, disarming you. You were ready for deflection, for something casual and rehearsed. Regardless, he stays still, accepting it without trying to cushion the blow.
You let out a breath. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a shaky residue. "Be more careful," you say, and your voice is quieter now. "Please."
"I will." He holds your gaze for another beat, and crouches down to Jacob's level. "Hey, sir. That was my dog. He's really sorry. Are you okay?"
Jacob looks at him, then at Leo before his gaze goes back at his empty palm. "I lost my acorn," he says, there's a note of genuine distress in his voice. Jake doesn't miss a beat. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small smooth stone and presses it into Jacob's hand. "Here. I found this, it must've been yours."
Jacob stares at it. His face splits into a wide, gap-toothed smile. "Thank you," he says, and clutches it like treasure.
You watch it unfold, something uneasy tightening in your chest. Jake stands and meets your gaze again. A flash crosses his face ; rueful, or closer to hope. "I'll make sure he's more secured next time," Jake says, nodding toward Leo. "And if there's anything I can doâ"
"There isn't," you say, but the sharpness has gone from your voice. "But still...keep a closer eye on him."
"Always." He turns and walks back toward the path, Leo trotting obediently at his heel. You watch him go, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, how he glances back once before rounding the corner.
Mrs. Han sidles up to you. "He's cute," she states. "The boy. Not the dog."
You open your mouth, not a sound escaping your mouth. You try again.
"Mrs. Han," you say, "you're supposed to be on my side."
"I am on your side," she says, patting your arm. "That's why I'm telling you."
You help Jacob to his feet, find his acorn in the grass, and start the slow walk back to the building. Your thoughts drift elsewhere, replaying Jake crouching down to Jacobâs level, finding the stone without hesitation, saying 'I will' like he truly meant it.
You shake your head, focus on the path ahead.
After you end your shift, you walk back to your apartment. The sky has gone hazy, and you keep your hands in your pockets, replaying the afternoon in fragments. You unlock your door, kick off your shoes, and collapse onto the couch. The television is still on from last night. You turn it off, let the silence settle.
You decide to pull out your phone and call Jungwon. He picks up, but the background noise is a wall of bass and overlapping voices. You can hear a bunch of voice shouting "CHUG CHUG CHUG!!!" and loud cheers. You hear a door slam, the noise muffles.
"Y/N?" His voice is slightly breathless. "Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," you say, and you mean it. "I just wanted to check in. You sound busy, though."
"I'm at a mixer party with my house and sororities. It's loud so I stepped outside." He stops for a second. "Are you sure you're okay? You never call this late."
"Late? It's like seven."
"Yeah. You're usually asleep by now."
You fairly laugh. "I've been more awake lately. I had a long day."
"Tell me about it."
So you do. You tell him about everything. You don't want to mention Jake.
"You sound good," Jungwon says when you finish. " Really good. Not just saying you're good."
"I think I am," you say, the words surprise you with their honesty.
"That's all I needed to hear." There's a muffled shout from behind him, someone calling his name. "I should get back. But call me anytime, okay? Even if it's just to complain about old people and dogs."
"Old people and dogs. The two pillars of my existence now."
"Don't let the dogs jump on you," he mentions, you can hear the smile in his voice.
"I won't. Have fun at your party."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
The line goes dead. You hold the phone for a moment before setting it aside, letting the quiet wrap around you. You stand, stretch, and gather your clothes for a shower, a clean towel, a change of underwear, the softest pair of sweatpants you own. You pad toward the bathroom, already anticipating the hot water, the steam, and the small escape from your own head.
You're two steps from the bathroom door when the lights flicker.
Once. Twice. It dies.
The apartment plunges into absolute darkness. No sound from the refrigerator, no glow from the microwave clock, just black, thick and total. You stand there, motionless, one hand gripping your towel, the other reaching for the wall. You feel along the switch, flick it up and down. There's nothing.
You step to the window to peer out. The streetlights are on. The building across the way is lit, warm rectangles of gold in every window. The coffee shop's neon sign still glows. You check your phone to see your battery at 60%. You switch on the flashlight, sweep it across the room. So it's only your apartment. The refrigerator is dead. The outlets are dead. The overhead light, the bathroom ; all dead. You flip the circuit breaker in the tiny panel by the door. Shit. You try the main switch. Nothing.
You stand there in the beam of your phone, your reflection ghostly in the dark window glass, wearing that stupid Justin Bieber shirt and holding a bundle of clean clothes, and you realize you have no flashlight, no candles, and mostly, no backup plan.
The silence presses in. 9C. A certain neighbor who might have a working outlet and a willingness to share. A part of you notes, almost critically, that this would be the kind of contrived convenience youâd hate in a book.
You sigh, grab your keys, and head for the door.
The hour stretches like taffy. You've tried the circuit breaker three times, called the landlord four times, and texted him twice, giving you no results. The voicemail picks up on the first ring, a generic recording without a name. You sit next to your door and consider your options. There's a motel two blocks away. There's the coffee shop, but they close in fifteen minutes. It got to be a joke.
And there's the door at the end of the hallway.
You pace. You argue with yourself. You list all the reasons this is a terrible idea ; all the incidents that happened and degraded your confidence, the fact that you've known this man for approximately forty-eight hours and he's already seen you at your most unguarded multiple times. But the need for a shower wins. You smell like old people and grass, with the sublte tang of anxiety sweat. You can't go to work like this tomorrow and you can't sleep like this tonight. So you put on a pair of shorts ; the longest ones you own ; and a different shirt, and you walk toward his door with the weight of your own dignity dragging behind you.
His door is at the end of the hall. You knock before you can talk yourself out of it. The door swings open. Jake stands there in a faded gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly damp, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He's holding a half-eaten apple. His eyes land on you. Travel down to your shorts, back up to your face.
His mouth curves into a smile so wide, so unapologetically amused, that you feel it like a punch right in your guts.
"Bieber," he says. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Don't call me that." The words come out weak, deflated. "My power's out. The landlord won't answer and I absolutely need a shower."
He takes a bite of his apple. He chews slowly, considers you.
"Just the shower," you add, and you can hear how defensive you sound, how utterly transparent.
"I didn't say anything." He steps back, holds the door open. "Come in."
His apartment is small too, but lived-in. A couch with a blanket draped over the back. A stack of books on the coffee table. A guitar propped in the corner. The kitchen is visible from the living room, dishes drying on a rack, a pot of something that smells like garlic and tomatoes simmering on the stove. "Bathroom's down the hall, second door on the left," he says, pointing with the apple still in hands. "Towels are in the cabinet. Use whatever you need."
"Thanks." You pause at the threshold, suddenly aware of the absurdity of this. "I'll be quick."
"Take your time." That smile again, softer now. "I'll keep the apartment from burning down while you're in there."
You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling. Hot water, steady pressure, a luxurious flow that makes you forget every indignity that led you here. You stand under the spray as long as you can, letting it beat against your shoulders, your neck, the tension you've been carrying since yesterday. When you finally step out, wrapped in a towel, you catch your reflection in the mirror. Wet hair and pink cheeks. A stupid smile that you can't suppress.
Stop it. You wipe the steam from the mirror, and that's when you notice it. On the edge of the sink, next to a half-empty bottle of cologne, is a keychain. A small, plastic orange. Slightly faded, the paint worn at the edges.
Your breath catches. You have that exact same keychain. It's been on your keys for as long as you can remember. Well, as long as your memory goes back, which is not even a year. It's one of the few objects that survived the move, one of the small constants in the fog of your past.
You pick it up and turn it over. It's identical, even the little chip in the paint near the stem matches. You stare at it for a long moment. You dress quickly, step out into the hallway, and find Jake in the kitchen, stirring the pot on the stove. "Everything okay?" he asks without turning.
"Where did you get this?" You hold up the keychain.
He turns and sees it. For an instant, his expression falters into recognition before it smooths itself back into neutrality. "Oh, that." He sets down the spoon, wipes his hands on his sweatpants. "I found it, actually. A few years ago, on the street, I think. I kept it becauseâ" He pauses, and you notice the way his eyes shift, slightly, like he's rearranging words in his head. "It reminded me of something. I don't know. I just liked it."
The explanation comes out too smooth and too rehearsed. You're wondering if he's said it before, practiced it, polished it until it sounded natural. You're not even sure why, something about how he said it, but you don't have the energy to interrogate right now. "Funny," you say, pocketing your own keys, where your matching orange dangles. "I have the same one."
He looks at you. You feel like you're standing on the edge of a cliff, for a jump you're not ready for.
"That is funny," he says, and his voice is softer now, almost distant. "Small world."
You nod, not trusting your voice. The moment stretches, fragile, and you're the one who breaks it. "I should go. Thanks for the shower."
"Anytime." He walks you to the door, and the teasing smile has returned. "If the power's still out tomorrow, you know where to find me."
"Bold of you to assume I'll survive that long."
"I have faith in you."
You roll your eyes, yet you're smiling as you step into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind you. You stand there for a moment, your keychain warm in your palm, and wonder what exactly you've just walked into. It's probably nothing, you tell yourself.
Oh it's definitely something.
âââââââââ
A few days pass, you're unpacking one box at a time, learning where the light switches are without having to think about it, catching the same bus at the same time each morning until the driver starts to nod at you like an old acquaintance.
You see Jake in the hallways more often than coincidence should allow. Tuesday morning, you're leaving for work and he's coming back from a run, sweaty and out of breath, and he raises a hand in greeting without breaking stride. Fuck he's hot.
Wednesday evening, you're carrying a bag of groceries and he's hauling a bag of dog food toward the elevator, and you end up walking side by side without discussing it. Thursday, you don't see him at all, and you catch yourself checking the peephole before bed like a woman waiting for something she won't admit to wanting.
Friday arrives with gray skies and the particular exhaustion of a full week. You've just changed into sweatpants.
Three taps. You know who it is before you look. Jake is standing in the hallway wearing a knitted sweater and he's holding his keys in his hand. He looks different at night ; softer, somehow. The hard angles of his jaw blurred by the low light.
"I'm heading to the convenience store," he announces.
You lean against the doorframe. "It's eight o'clock."
"I'm aware. That's why I said convenience store and not, like, a sit-down restaurant." He jingles his keys. "You want to come?"
You hesitate for a second too long, and he catches it. His expression shifts into something hesitant. "For the accident," he adds. "Last week, with Jacob. I've been meaning toâŠI don't know. Make up for it, in a small way. This is the small way."
"You're making up for catastrophe with a trip to 7-Eleven?"
"Don't call it that. I'd rather call it a restitution." He pauses. "Also they have those frozen slushies that turn your tongue blue, and I don't want to drink one alone because that feels sad even by my standards."
You look down at your sweatpants. "Give me two minutes," you say.
"You look fine."
"I know I look fine. I want to look like I didn't just spend an hour lying on my floor thinking about nothing."
He blinks. "That'sâ"
"Two minutes." You close the door and change into jeans. You don't know why. It's just the convenience store after all. Although you put on real pants anyway, and you run your fingers through your hair, and when you open the door again, he's still standing there, checking his phone. "Cute," he says, not looking up.
"Shut up."
The walk is short ; five blocks, past the coffee shop with the broken umbrellas, past a laundromat, and past a house with a porch light that flickers like it's sending morse code. The air is cold enough to see your breath, and Jake walks on the street side of the sidewalk without making a thing out of it.
You two arrive at the convenience store, with the buzzing lights overhead. A bell dings when you walk in. The guy behind the counter is watching a small TV mounted in the corner, some sports game apparently.
You grab a basket and Jake grabs another. "This is a competition now," he says.
"It's always been a competition."
The snack aisle is narrow, forcing you to stand closer than necessary. You reach for a bag of chips. He reaches for the same bag. Your hands collide, and he lets you take it without a fight, which is suspicious. "You're being nice," you say.
"What do you mean? I'm always nice."
"No but, like, you're being strategically nice."
He grins. It's crooked and quick, making your chest tighten. "I just want you to let your guard down so I can steal the last bag of sour stripes."
"I don't even like sour stripes."
"Everyone likes sour stripes. That's like saying you don't like breathing."
You move down the aisle, scanning the shelves. Your fingers hover over a bag of shrimp crackers ; the spicy kind, bright red packaging, which Jungwon used to make fun of you for buying in bulk. You reach for them at the same time he does. "These," he says, pushing the bag toward you. "Get these."
"I was going to."
"They're your favorite, right?"
You stop. Your hand freezes over the bag. "I didn't tell you that."
He's already looking at the next shelf, picking up a pack of chocolate cookies, turning it over to read the nutrition facts. His expression doesn't change. His voice is casual, almost bored. "Everyone likes spicy shrimp crackers," he says. "It's not some niche preference. It's a classic. Like salt and vinegar. Or barbecue."
"That's notâ"
"I'm getting these," he interrupts, holding up the cookies. "You want a drink? They have that weird melon soda. Everyone says that it tastes like liquid gummy bear."
You stare at the back of his head in confusion. He's walking toward the drink cooler, shoulders relaxed, like the conversation is already over. You grab the shrimp crackers and follow him.
The park is two blocks from your building, a small wedge of grass with three benches and a set of swings that face a community garden. The swings are old, their chains rusty, seats scratched with names and dates, but they hold your weight when you sit. Jake takes the swing next to yours. The plastic bags dangle from his wrist, crinkling every time he moves. You've split everything down the middle ; your shrimp crackers, his chocolate cookies, two bottles of the melon soda, a shared bag of sour striped that he claimed were for everyone, still you've noticed he keeps eating.
The soda fizzes when you open it. The park is empty except for the two of you and a cat sitting on a bench across the grass, watching like it's waiting for something to happen. You swing a little, just enough to rock. The chains squeak.
"My brother," you say, because the silence feels good but you want to fill it anyway. "He's the reason I moved here. Not because he lives hereâhe doesn't. He lives like four hours away. He helped me find the apartment and with all the packing."
Jake doesn't say anything. He's unwrapping a chocolate cookie, breaking it in half.
"He's in college now," you continue. "Fraternity guy, and heâs so serious about it, which is funny because he's also the least intimidating person I've ever met. Once he cried because I didnât want to go with him at the dentist."
"Thatâs cute."
"He's sensitive." You shrug. "He'd kill me if he knew I was telling you this."
"I won't tell."
The cat on the bench yawns. The swings creak. You take a sip of your melon soda and watch the clouds move past the streetlights.
"Jungwon," Jake says.
You almost choke.
"What?"
"Your brother." He's looking at his hands, turning the cookie over and over. "His name. You said it. Jungwon."
You frown. Your brain backtracks through the last thirty seconds, replaying your own words. You definitely didn't say his name. You've been careful about that by habit. Jungwon is precious to you. His name is something you keep close, like a photo in a wallet. "I didn't say his name," you say slowly.
His chewing stops. His throat moves as he swallows. The openness on his face is convincing enough to pass for genuine, if not for the faint impression that he's worn it many times before.
"You didn't?"
"No."
"Huh." He dusts cookie crumbs off his fingers. "Maybe I heard it wrong, or you mentioned it before and I remembered. I don't know."
"I've never mentioned his name."
The silence stretches. The cat on the bench stands up, circles once, lies back down. He sets the cookie down on the plastic bag between you. He wipes his hands on his jeans. For a moment, he looks like he's going to say something else that might explain the way he looked at you that first night on the steps, like he was trying to place you.
His shoulders drop. "He came by," he declares. "Before you moved in. Your brother, Jungwon." He says the name carefully, testing each syllable. "He was checking out the building and making sure the landlord wasn't sketchy. I ran into him in the hallway."
You stare at him.
"He asked me about the neighborhood," Jake continues. "Whether it was safe. Whether people were friendly, and all that stuff." A small smile, almost self-deprecating. "I think he was doing a background check on all the tenants."
"That sounds like him."
"Yeah." He picks up his soda to take a long drink. "He mentioned you, and that you were moving in. I remembered."
It fits, itâs plausible. Jungwon would absolutely do something like that ; interview strangers in hallways, gather informations, build a mental map of everyone who might cross your path. He's been doing it since you were kids, since before the accident, before you forgot a quarter your life.
Nonetheless, something about how Jake tells it feels off. The words are right and the timing is too. Yet, his hands are still, and his hands are never still on the daily basis. He's always tapping or fidgeting or running his fingers through his hair, and right now, sitting on this swing in the dark, he's perfectly motionless. You want to push further. There's something in the back of your mind, a nagging feeling that you couldnât put a finger on. You canât, the evening is too nice, and he's bought you snacks. You let it go.
"Small world," you say, echoing his words from the night when you took a shower at his place.
"Small world," he agrees.
âââââââââ
You walk into the elderly home with your hair still damp and the taste of the spicy shrimp crackers lingering at the back of your throat. Hanni's already at the nurses' station, flipping through a clipboard with focus, sheâs been here for hours. "You look less dead than yesterday," she says without looking up. "That's progress."
"I slept." You hang your jacket on the hook and grab your name tag. "Almost eight hours. Uninterrupted."
"Must be the neighborhood atmosphere." She finally glances at you, there's a knowing tilt to her mouth. "Or something else."
You ignore that last part. The morning unfolds like every other morning ; the slow parade of residents who need help finding their glasses or their dentures or their way back to their rooms. Mrs. Han asks you three times if you've met her son, and you say yes each time, and each time she looks satisfied and moves on. You're in the common room, helping Mr. Chen with a puzzle he's been working on for weeks, when your gaze drifts toward the window. The street outside is quiet, the morning light still pale and thin. And there, on the other side, is Jake. Can he not look hot for just one day?
He's walking three dogs at once ; a golden retriever, a wiry terrier, and a bulldog that seems to be leading the pack. The leashes cross and uncross as the dogs weave around each other, and Jake's holding them with the practiced looseness of someone who's done this a hundred times. He's wearing a worn denim jacket and a few strands of hair are falling on his face, and when he glances up and spots you through the glass, his whole face shifts. He lifts his free hand to give you a small wave, fingers wiggling. You wave back, your brain couldnât catch.
The bulldog tugs him forward and he's gone, swallowed by the next block. You turn back to the room. Hanni's standing beside you, arms crossed, watching the empty street with an ambiguous expression plastered on her face. "Thatâs him?" she asks.
"Yeah."
She hums in a considering sound. "He's fucking hot."
You snort, but it comes out wrong, sounding a bit too defensive. "Yeah. He knows it too, I think."
"He doesn't seem like the type who knows it." She shrugs, uncrossing her arms. "He's unaware of his own face."
You don't respond. You're already looking back at the window, though he's long gone. "His nose," you say, the words stumbling right out of your head. "That's the thing. I can'tâ" You stop yourself, shake your head. "It's nothing."
Hanni could only nod, she understands and hands you a stack of folded towels. "Focus on the towels," she says. "The nose can wait."
You take the towels and get back to work. The image of him across the street stays with you for the rest of the shift.
The sidewalk cracks under your feet as you walk, the sky a pale gray that threatens nothing in particular, hopefully not rain. You pull out your phone, scroll to Jungwon's contact, and press call. He picks up after some time, which means he's either not busy or he's avoiding something.
"Whatâs up?" he says. "You're calling at a normal time. That's kind of suspicious."
"I'm walking home from work and I thought I'd fill the silence."
"Fill away."
As you ramble on everything, you donât allow yourself to bring up Jake yet.
"Yeah." You kick a pebble off the curb. "It's weird, though. Sometimes I forget I'm supposed to be starting over. It just feels likeâI don't know. Like I've been here longer."
"You have been there longer. In a way." His voice drops, careful. "You lived there before. Remember?"
You stop walking. A car passes, its headlights cutting through the dusk. You do rememberâfragments, not really. The knowledge that you'd been in this city before the accident and the three-year gap in your memory. You'd chosen to come back because something about it felt familiar, even if you couldn't know why.
"Yeah," you say. "I keep forgetting that part."
Silence on his end. You start walking again. "There's this guy," you say carelessly, and you already regret it. "In my building. His name is Jake. We keep running into each other."
"What kind of running into?"
"Literally and figuratively. He nearly killed one of the old folk at my work. Long story." You suddenly pause. "He has this orange keychain. The same one I have. You know, the little fruit thing on my keys."
You can hear him breathing, he's seems like measuring his response. "That's weird," he says. "That's a weird coincidence."
"Yeah, I know." You wait for him to say more but he doesn't. "He also said he met you when you came to check out the apartment before I moved in. You talked in the hallway, isnât it?"
"I did talk to someone. I don't remember his name, though."
"Jake," you repeat. "You don't remember him?"
"Lot of people in that building. I was there for like an hour." He laughs but it sounds flat. "Why are you asking?"
You don't know why you're asking. The question hangs there, unanswered, as you round the corner and your building comes into view. "Pure curiosity," you say. "He's nice. We went to the convenience store last night."
"The convenience store at night. Like a date?"
"Not a date, it was an apology. His dog knocked over an old man at my work."
Jungwon is quiet for a beat before talking again. "Donât tell me that you like him."
"It's not like that."
"It's exactly like that. I can hear it in your voice."
You stop at the front door of your building, hand on the handle. Itâs cool under your palm. "I don't even know him. We've talked, like, four times."
"And you're already calling him by name. That's more than you do with most people."
You leave the question unanswered. The door opens, and the smell of aged carpet and lingering cooking oil greets you before anything else. "I'll talk to you later," you say.
"Okay. But Y/Nâ"
"What?"
"Be careful, okay? Justâ" He stops. "Just be careful with yourself. You're still figuring things out. I love you."
"I know. Love you too." You hang up and stand in the foyer, phone warm in your hand. The hallway stretches ahead, empty and quiet as usual. You climb the stairs slowly instead of taking the elevator, each step slow. What is happening? Something doesn't add up.
âââââââââ
The banging comes from somewhere down the hall. Sharp and insistent, the sound of a fist against wood or maybe a shoulder against a frame. You freeze mid-step, your keys still in the lock, heart lurching into your throat. The apartment building is usually calm at this hour with the muffled sound of someone's guitar upstairs or television, but nothing like this.
You press your eye to the peephole but the angle is wrong, the fish-eye view showing only the empty stretch of hallway directly outside your door. The banging continues, punctuated by a voice. Itâs raised, female, too muffled to make out words but carrying an obvious edge of distress.
The smart move would be staying inside, lock the door, call 911 and wait it out. The sound carries a note of despair that makes you pause. Your mind drifts to the building's elderly residents and the possibility that someone is in trouble. Before the thought has time to settle, you're unlocking the door and pulling it open.
You step into the hallway.
Jake is there, about twenty feet down, his back half-turned to you. A woman stands in front of him, her posture stiff, her hands gesturing in jagged movements. She's undeniably pretty ; dark hair pulled back, a denim jacket, boots that look expensive. Her face is flushed, and even from here you can see the tension in her jaw. "It's not fair," she's saying, her voice cracking. "You can't justâI've been trying for months, Jake. Months. And you justâ"
"Luna." Jake's voice is low, placating, his hands raised in that universal gesture of de-escalation. "I've told you. It's not like that. I'm notâ"
She scoffs, loud and bitter. "Not what? Not interested? You've made that fucking clear."
You're frozen in the doorway, unsure whether to retreat or announce your presence. The woman's head snaps toward you, her eyes widening for a split second before narrowing.
"Oh," she says, the word dripping with annoyance. Her eyes scan you for approximately 5 seconds. "Great. Sheâs back." She brushes past you without another word, her shoulder colliding with yours hard enough to make you stumble back a step. The elevator doors close behind her, and it's just you and Jake in the hallway now. He's still standing there, hands lowered now, his face a mingle of exhaustion and embarrassment. He runs a palm over his jaw, lets out a long breath.
She's back. What?
"That," he says, "was not how I wanted you to meet my coworker."
You blink at him. "Coworker?"
"Luna." He points loosely toward the elevator. "She works at the shelter with me. We've known each other since we were kids."
You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms. "She seemed upset."
"She's been upset for a while." He rubs the back of his neck. "She's had a thing for me. For years. And I keep telling her I don't feel that way, but she doesn'tâ" He exhales again. "She doesn't take it well."
You raise an eyebrow. "So she followed you home and banged on your door?"
"She showed up unannounced. I was trying to calm her down. She's not a bad person, she justâ" He hesitates, searching for the right words. "She's stubborn, and she doesn't like hearing no."
You study him. His shoulders are still tense, his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. He looks genuinely rattled, not like someone who's been caught in a lie. "Childhood friends," you repeat. "she's been flirting with you, and you felt bad for her."
"First, Iâm not flirting with her and Iâm not planning on it. I felt bad because I know she's lonely. She's been through some stuff. But I can'tâ" He looks at you, his expression transforming invisibly. "I can't give her what she wants. It wouldn't be fair to her. Or to anyone else."
"Iâve never seen you so flustered," you declare softly. He huffs a laugh, short and breathy. "Yeah, well. You bring out the best in me."
You push off from the doorframe. "She seems like she'll be fine."
"She'll be fine. She always is." He pauses. "Thanks for not assuming the worst."
"I assumed the worst," you admit. " A girlfriend and an angry breakup."
"Not a girlfriend," he says. "Not even close."
You nod, and the moment stretches between you, comfortable but charged. "Goodnight then, Jake."
"Sleep tight, Y/N."
You close the door behind you and lean against it, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hall.
Not a girlfriend. Is he lying?
You don't know why that detail settles in your mind the way it does. Youâd rather sleep it away.
âââââââââ
You're coming back from a late shift, leaving your feet sore and your brain half-fogged, when you round the corner to your floor and find the hallway occupied. Four of them, clustered around Jake's door like they're waiting for someone to let them in. You recognize Jake immediately ; he's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, laughing at something one of the others said. The other three are strangers, but they have that easy familiarity with each other, displaying years of friendship.
Jake spots you first. His face shifts, the laugh settling into a smile that's more reserved but no less warm. "Y/N," he says. "You're back late."
"There was a lot of work to do." You slow your pace, your keys already in hand. "I wasn't expecting to see a lot of people today."
One of the strangers ; tall with sharp features and a casual slouch ; he steps forward, extending a hand. "Jay. I've heard about you."
"Good things, I hope."
"Debatable." The one next to him grins, softer, with eyes that crinkle at the corners. "I'm Heeseung. This is Sunghoon, and that's Jenna, his girlfriend."
Jenna waves from where she's tucked under Sunghoon's arm. She has a face that immediately puts you at ease, round and open and curious.
"We were about to have a drink," Jake announces. "You want to join?"
You hesitate. The exhaustion is tugging at your limbs, but the alternative is your empty apartment and the leftover convenience store chips you've been picking at for days. "Sure," you say. "Why not."
His apartment is the same as before, but with four extra bodies it feels smaller, more alive. Jay immediately claims the couch, sprawling like he owns it. Heeseung perches on the armrest. Sunghoon and Jenna take the floor, backs against the coffee table, and Jake gestures for you to take the single chair by the window.
"Drinks are in the kitchen," he says. "Help yourself."
You grab something from the fridge ; a cheap beer, nothing fancy ; and settle into the chair. The conversation flows around you, natural and unforced, as they talk about work and mutual friends and an inside joke about the shelter.
After two or three drinks, someone suggests a game. "Chug or dare," Jay announces, the glint in his eye makes you immediately suspicious. "You know the rules. Pick chug, you finish your drink. Pick dare, you do whatever we come up with. But youâre forbidden to back down."
"Really?" you say. "This is how you treat your guests?"
"Guests are the most fun," Heeseung says. "You're fresh meat."
Jake shoots them a warning look, veiled with exasperation. "You don't have to play. They're idiots."
"Weâre not," Sunghoon protests. "Jake, itâs been years since we know each other. Donât be surprised."
You look around the room. The faces watching you are expectant, amused, a little bit reckless. The knot in your chest loosens. "Iâm in. I'm taking Jake down with me, though."
The first few rounds are tame. Heeseung chugs three times in a row and declares himself champion. Sunghoon dares Jay to do a handstand, which he fails spectacularly. Jenna picks dare and has to call her mom and tell her she loves her, which she does with zero hesitation and an extreme level of sincerity.
After that, the bottle lands on you. "Y/N," Jay says, rubbing his hands together. "Chug or dare?"
You weigh your options. Your drink is half-full. "Dare."
Jay leans forward, eyes glittering. "I dare you to tell us what you first thought when you saw Jake."
The room goes quiet. Jake's hand stops mid-reach for his bottle.
"That's not a dare," you say. "That's kind of embarrassing."
"It's the correct functionality of a dare." Heeseung is grinning now, too. "Answer the question."
You look at Jake. He's watching you with a curious expression.
"You want the honest answer?" you ask.
"Always."
"His nose." The words come out neutral. "I thought it was ridiculous how perfect it was. Itâs like someone sculpted it. It's annoying, honestly."
A beat of silence. Then Jay doubles over, slapping his knee. Heeseung lets out a wheeze of a laugh. Sunghoon is covering his mouth, eyes wide. Jenna just shakes her head, grinning. Jake's face has gone slightly pink. He looks down at his bottle, then back at you, and his face softens. "That's not what I expected," he says.
"I had to be unpredictable."
The game continues. Jenna gets dared to chug and does it with ease. Sunghoon gets asked if he'd rather fight a bodybuilder or five horses, and he spends five minutes arguing the logistics. Heeseung picks chug three times in a row and is visibly struggling to stay upright, his ears turning bright pink.
It's Jake's turn. "Chug," he says immediately.
"Whoa, not too fast." Jay says. "You're not getting out of it that easy. I'm changing the rules. You have to pick dare."
"Since when can you change the rules?"
"Since I'm the one asking." Jay grins. "Dare : show us the most embarrassing thing on your phone."
Jake's eyes narrow. "I'm not doing that."
"Then you have to answer a question instead," Sunghoon offers. "From anyone in the room. You pick who."
Jake considers this. His gaze scans the room, passing over Jay and Heeseung, settling on you for a moment before moving to Jenna. "Jenna. Ask me anything."
Jenna tilts her head, thinking. "Why did you move back to this city?" The question lands differently than the others. The light atmosphere falters slightly. Jake's jaw tightens, and for a second you see an unguarded expression crossing his features.
"Personal reasons," he says. "I needed to be back here."
"That's vague," Heeseung notes.
"It's still an answer." Jake picks up his bottle. "I'm drinking now." He finishes his drink in one long swallow, and everyone lets it go.
The bottle spins again, lands on you. Jay's turn to ask. "Chug or dare?"
You're feeling the warmth of the alcohol now, loose and careless. "Dare."
"I dare you to kiss Jake."
The room goes dead quiet. You hear someone inhale sharply ; maybe Jenna or yourself. Jake's head snaps toward Jay, disbelief and uncertainty show on his features.
"Jay," he mumbles, his voice has an edge to it. "That's notâ"
"Too late," Jay cuts him off. "She already picked. Rules are rules."
You look at Jake. He's sitting across from you, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his bottle dangling from his fingers. The light from the kitchen catches the lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. That stupid, perfect nose. Lord, why would you make me cross paths with a guy that I obviously canât have? Heâs going to be fucking weirded out since I havenât kiss a single soul in my entire life.
"I don't have to, right?" you say. "I can chug instead."
"You're not chugging." Jay's tone is firm. "That's not how the game works."
The silence lingers. Jake holds your gaze, his expression betraying him ; hesitation, or resolve masquerading as it. Whatever it is, it stays unspoken.
"Jake," you say, and your voice comes out steady. "What do you think?"
He studies you in silence for what feels like an eternity. Then he sets his bottle down with delicate care, rises, and slowly closes the distance between you. "Okay," he says lowly. "If you're okay with it."
You're not sure if you're okay with it. I mean, heâs hot for sure. You're lost right now, while his hand finds the back of your chair, he leans down, his breath is warm and smells faintly of beer. His lips brush your cheek. Soft, quick, almost unsure. It's not a kiss, not really ; it's the ghost of one, lingering just long enough to leave a hot mark. He straightens up and steps back. The room erupts into wolf-whistles and laughter.
"Cheater," Jay yells. "That's not a kiss."
"Mind you, those are my favorite kind." Jake says, and he's looking at you, not at Jay. You touch your cheek, where the warmth of his lips still lingers. Your face is burning, you're not sure if it's embarrassment or something else. "You're a coward," you say, your tone weak.
He smiles, slow and crooked. "Youâre going to thank me later."
The game dissolves after that, the energy beginning to loosen, more rambling. Jenna falls asleep against Sunghoon's shoulder. Heeseung starts recounting a story about one of his high school exes. Jake moves to the floor, leaning against the couch, and you find yourself beside him, your shoulders almost touching. Your head starts to pound.
The game continues. The bottle spins, lands on Jay, then Heeseung, then Jenna. People chug or dare with increasing abandon, the alcohol loosening tongues and lowering inhibitions. Sunghoon admits he once cried while arguing with Jenna. You're on your fourth bottle, maybe your fifth. The edges of the room have gone soft and blurry, and you're laughing at something Heeseung said that you're not entirely sure was a joke. Your face feels warm, your limbs loose, and when you lean back against the couch, your shoulder brushes Jake's once again.
The bottle spins again to land on you. Jay's turn, because it's always Jay. "Y/N. Chug or dare?"
"Dare." You're feeling bold, the alcohol humming in your veins. Jay's grin is wicked. "I dare you to spend ten minutes locked in Jake's bedroom. Just the two of you, with no phones."
The room erupts. Sunghoon lets out a low whistle and Heeseung chuckles while nearly passing out on the couch.
"You cheated earlier," Jay cuts him off. "Youâll have to make up for that."
You glance at Jake. His expression gives nothing away, even though the tightness in his jaw wasn't there a moment ago. He watches you closely, waiting for your reaction.
"Ten minutes?" you say. "That's it?"
"That's it."
You stand, and the room tilts slightly. You steady yourself against the arm of the couch. "Fine."
Jake stands too, as hesitant as before. He leads you down the short hallway to his bedroom, and you hear the hoots and catcalls from the living room as the door clicks shut behind you.
The room is small and neat. A bed with rumpled sheets, a dresser with a lamp, a window overlooking the street. And on the nightstand, next to a half-empty glass of water, a photo frame turned face-down.
Jake leans against the door, arms crossed. "You don't have to do this. We can just sit here and wait it out."
"Where's the fun in that?" You're already wandering around, peering at books on the shelf, a guitar propped in the corner. Your eyes keep drifting back to the photo frame. You walk toward it, curiosity tugging at you. "What's this?"
Jake's body goes still. Before you can reach for it, he's there, his hand catching your wrist, turning you toward him. "No, please donât," he says, and his voice is urgent.
"Why? Is it embarrassing?"
"Something like that."
You're close now, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, his pupils are dilated, thereâs a slight sheen on his lower lip. The alcohol has made you bold and afraid of nothing.
"I want to see," you say.
He leans in for his lips find yours. The kiss is warm, lingering, carrying a soft urgency that feels almost like a plea. Even though you thought you had no experience in kissing, doing it with him nearly felt natural, as much as muscle memory. The world seems to melt around you. Your thoughts dissolve, and the photo frame slips from your mind as completely as if it had never been there. You stumble backward, your calves hitting the edge of the bed, and you fall onto the mattress, pulling him with you. He catches himself on his hands, hovering over you, but your legs are tangled and the momentum shifts and suddenly you're in his lap, straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips.
His hands find your waist, then slide down, settling on your butt. He squeezes, and you gasp against his mouth. He kisses you again, deeper and slower, his tongue brushing your lower lip. You arch into him, your fingers threading through his hair, and he groans, low and rough.
The kiss breaks for a moment, both of you breathing hard. He's looking up at you, his eyes pleading, his lips parted. "Y/N," he murmurs, your name sounds different in his mouth, sounding like it means something more.
You finally get the hang of it and you kiss him again. His hands tighten on your ass, pulling you closer, and you feel the heat of him through both your clothes. The world outside this room fades into static.
Ten minutes pass. Even longer than that.
You feel him shift beneath you, his hips rolling upward in a slow motion, sending a jolt through your entire body. His hands are still firm on your backside, guiding you, and you follow the movement without thinking, your own hips tilting to meet his.
The kiss breaks just long enough for you to gasp, and he takes the opportunity to press his mouth to your jaw, your neck, and the sensitive spot just below your ear. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you feel the low vibration of a sound that might be his voice or yours, you can't really tell anymore.
He grinds up into you again, and you feel the full heat of him through the denim, the friction of it making your head spin. Your breath is coming in short, uneven bursts, and his is the same ; harsh and ragged against your skin. His hands slide up from your backside to your waist, then back down, pulling you closer, harder, like he's trying to fuse you to him. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly you're both lying back on the bed, him beneath you, your legs still straddling his hips, the kiss deepening into something messier. His fingers find the hem of your shirt and slip beneath, grazing the bare skin of your lower back, and you shiver.
Someone bangs at the door. Insistent knocks on the bedroom door. Heeseung's voice, muffled but audible. "Time's up! Ten minutes are over! You're not dead, are you?"
You both stop in your tracks. Your foreheads almost touching, your breath mingling in the small space between. He laughs from half-exasperation and half-relief. He drops his head back against the pillow, and you feel the tension in his shoulders subtly ease.
"Ignore him," he says while he's already loosening his grip on your waist, giving you space to pull back. You sit up, your thighs still bracketing his hips, and run a hand through your tangled hair. Your face is burning. Your lips feel swollen. You're acutely aware of every point of contact between you.
"We shouldâ" you start, yet you don't know how to finish the sentence.
"Yeah." He's watching you from beneath half-lidded eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face.
Heeseung bangs again. "I'm not leaving until you open the door! Jay's timing you!"
Jake groans without real frustration in it. He sits up slowly, his hands finding your waist and steadying you as you climb off his lap. You stand, smoothing down your shirt, and he gets to his feet, adjusting his jeans with casualness.
He opens the door.
Heeseung stands there, arms crossed, a triumphant grin on his face. "Took you long enough. What were you doing in there?"
Jake steps past him into the hallway. "Mind your own business."
You follow, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, you catch Jenna's teasing glance and Jay's eyebrows have shot up past his hairline. You already have to resist the urge to hide behind Jake's shoulder.
"Drink," Heeseung says, shoving a fresh bottle into your hand. "You've earned it."
You take it carelessly. You stand there, feeling the phantom weight of Jake's hands on your waist, the lingering heat of his mouth on your neck. How the fuck am I going to face him after that?
Or any day after.
âââââââââ
A week passes.
Seven days of routine, of work and sleep and the occasional text from Hanni about something absurd a resident did. You walk the same hallways, take the same elevator, pass the same doors. But you don't see Jake ; not in the corridor, not at the coffee shop and not on the street. It's like he's vanished into the walls of the building, existing only in the memory of that night ; the heat of his hands, the press of his mouth, and how your name rolled over his tongue in such a delicate way.
You tell yourself it doesn't matter, that it was just a game, just alcohol, just ten minutes in a locked room that somehow stretched into something you can't stop replaying. You tell yourself you're not looking for him when you walk past his door nor listening for his footsteps on the stairs.
You canât even lie to yourself.
Jungwon arrives on Friday afternoon, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a grin that takes up half his face. He hugs you in the doorway, squeezing too tight, and you let him because you've missed him more than you realized.
"Damn. Itâs smaller then I remember," he announces, dropping his bag on the floor. "Like, really small. How do you live here?"
"I manage."
"Barely, by the looks of it." He peers at the stack of boxes still in the corner, the ones you haven't touched since you moved in. "You haven't unpacked everything."
"I'm getting to it."
"Yeah, right."
The weekend unfolds. You take him to the park, to the coffee shop, to the elderly home to meet Hanni and Jacob and Mrs. Han. He charms everyone, that's what he does the best, and by the end of the first day he's already promised to visit again.
Sunday afternoon, you're walking back from the park, the sun warm on your shoulders. Jungwon is telling you about a girl in his sociology class, someone he's been dancing around for weeks, he met her that one mixer party, and you're listening with half your attention, the other half occupied by the streets and the weight of your keys in your pocket. You round the corner into your building's corridor.
No way.
Jake.
He's standing by his door, keys in hand, like he's just coming back from somewhere. He looks up as you approach, and for a moment, A subtle change passed over his face. His eyes lit with recognition, followed by a fleeting trace of relief that was quickly replaced by his usual impassive stance.
"Y/N," he says. "Hey."
"Hi."
Jungwon's gaze flickers between you, sharp and assessing. "You're Jake," he says, there's a weight to the words that makes you look at him. Jake's posture shifts, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah. And you're Jungwon."
"You remember me."
"I remember a lot of things." Jake's voice is calm, yet there's a tension in his jaw that wasn't there before. You look between them, suddenly aware that you're missing something. "You two already know each other. From before I moved in, right?"
"Briefly," Jungwon says, and the word is clipped. He turns to you, his expression softening. "Y/N, can you go inside? I want to talk to Jake for a minute."
"What? Why?"
"Iâ" He hesitates. "I'll explain later. Please."
You look at Jake. He's watching Jungwon with an expression you can't read, and when he meets your gaze, there's something almost apologetic in it.
"Please," Jungwon repeats.
You hesitate, the key in your hand feeling heavier than usual. Jungwon has never asked you for much, and the look on his face is earnest in a way you rarely see. "Fine," you say, and you don't miss the way both of them exhale just slightly. "You better tell me later."
You slip into your room and quietly shut the door behind you. Remaining still, you lean close until your ear rests against the wood, listening for the hushed conversation outside. Only faint murmurs reach you, too muffled to make out.
You stand in the middle of your apartment, staring at the closed door, your hand still resting on the handle. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant sound of traffic from the street. You count the seconds, then the minutes, your mind spinning through possibilities you can't figure out.
When the door finally opens, Jungwon steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click. He doesn't meet your eyes immediately, and his shoulders are set in an unusual way ; the tension he carries when something is bothering him but he doesn't want to talk about it.
"Everything okay?" you ask.
He runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. "Yeah, itâs fine. It wasâ" He stops, shakes his head. "He's a little weird. That's all."
"Weird how?"
"I don't know." He shrugs too quickly. "Itâs just the way he talks. He sounds like he knows more than he's saying. It's probably nothing."
You study him. His jaw is tight, and there's a crease between his brows that he's trying to smooth away. You've known him your whole life, or at least the parts you remember, and you can tell when he's holding something back. "Jungwon." You keep your voice level. "What did you talk about?"
He moves past you toward the kitchen, opens the fridge, and stares inside with focus. "I just wanted to get a read on him and make sure he's not some weirdo who's going to cause problems for you."
"And?"
"And he's not." He pulls out a bottle of water, twists off the cap to take a long drink. "He seems fine. Genuine, even. I justâ" He pauses and sets the bottle down. "I don't know. There's something about him that feels familiar, and I can't figure out what it is."
Your stomach tightens. "Familiar how?"
"I don't know." He says it again, more frustrated this time. "It's probably nothing. I'm probably just being overprotective."
The unease that's lingered since the moment you saw the keychain resurfaces with renewed force. Jake's searching gaze keeps replaying in your mind, refusing to be ignored. Questions crowd your thoughts, but one look at Jungwon's guarded expression tells you this isn't the time to press him. You know he'd only withdraw further.
"Okay," you say. "If you say it's nothing."
"It's nothing." He meets your eyes, something in his gaze that's almost pleading. "Drop it, okay? For now."
You nod, even though every instinct is telling you not to. He relaxes for a bit, and the moment passes. Something is happening. Something you don't understand. And you're starting to think that the answers might not be as simple as you hoped.
âââââââââ
As the door shuts behind Jungwon, the apartment returns to its usual calm. You stand quietly, replaying the fragments of a conversation you were never meant to hear. Whatever Jake said has stayed with him, but his expression is firmly closed off.
You wander into the living room, grab your phone and scroll through notifications. A news alert catches your eye ; an article about the sequel to that movie you've been waiting for, the one you've watched half a dozen times since you moved. Your stomach drops as you read the date. The premiere was last week. You missed it.
You're already moving toward the door before you fully decide to go. Your shorts are fine. The hoodie is fine. It's just a movie, and the theater is only a few blocks away. You don't bother changing or checking your reflection. You grab your keys and step into the hallway.
Jake is at the elevator, walking out as you're heading down. He stops when he sees you, his gaze traveling over your outfit, the urgency in your stride.
"Whoa," he says. "Where's the fire?"
"Movie." You're already past him, one hand on the buttons. "The sequel to that film I've been waiting for. I missed the premiere. I'm trying to catch a showing."
He watches you for a beat, then his hand lands lightly on your arm, stopping you. "Wait. Which movie?"
You tell him the title. His eyebrows lift.
"I like that one too," he says. "I actually have it. The original, I mean. On my laptop. I downloaded the sequel the day it came out."
You blink at him. "You downloaded it?"
"Yeah. I was going to watch it tonight, actually." He drops his hand and shoves it into his pocket. "If you want, you could watch it with me, at my place. Instead of running to the theater in shorts."
The simplicity of his offer makes it harder to dismiss. You think about the movie theater and everything that comes with it, but those thoughts are quickly overshadowed by the past week without him, the lingering uncertainty between you, and the rush of your heartbeat. "That's not weird?" you ask. "Watching a movie with your neighbor you haven't talked to in a week?"
He shrugs, a small smile playing at his mouth. "It's a good movie. And I promise I won't talk during the quiet parts."
You consider it. The hallway is dark, the evening light filtering through the window at the end. He's standing there, patient, and waiting for your answer.
"Okay," you say. "I donât want to share my snacks, though."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
You follow him to his door, your footsteps echoing in the hallway. His apartment is just as you remember it ; the guitar, the books, the soft warm lights. He gestures toward the couch while he grabs his laptop from the coffee table and plugs it to the TV. You settle into the cushions, pulling your knees up, the hoodie swallowing you. The screen lights up, the opening credits rolling. He sits at the other end of the couch, a respectful distance between you, and hits play.
You barely register the moment his arm comes to rest along the back of the couch. The small brush of his fingertips against your shoulder goes unnoticed too. It's only when his hand settles there, warm and reassuring, his thumb lazily drawing slow circles over your hoodie, that you become aware of just how close he is. The blanket is draped over both of you, a thin barrier against the cool air of the apartment. His other hand slips beneath it, finding your thigh, resting there with a casualness that feels anything but like it. You lean into him, your head drifting toward his shoulder, the conversation fading into comfortable silence.
The movie continues, although you can feel your eyes becoming heavy. The warmth of his hand on your thigh, the rhythm of his breathing, the low murmur of dialogue from the TV ; it all blends into a haze of contentment. Your eyelids droop, flutter, close.
"Y/N." His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. "You're falling asleep."
"Mmm." You don't open your eyes. "I know."
"Do you want to go back?"
The room stays quiet as his words linger. Beyond the door waits a dark hallway, an empty apartment, and a bed that has already gone cold. The image settles over you like a burden, leaving you with little desire to leave.
"I don't want to move," you murmur, the words slurred with sleep.
He's quiet for a moment before he decides to speak. "You could stay here if you want. I have an extra blanket, orâ" He pauses. "The bed's big enough."
You lift your head, blinking at him. His face is so close, his eyes soft in the low light of the screen. There's no expectation in his expression, no pressure. Itâs an offer.
"Okay," you say.
He stands, extends a hand, and pulls you gently to your feet. You both walk shortly to his bedroom. He pulls back the covers, and you slip in, the mattress dipping under your weight. He climbs in behind you, his arm finding your waist, pulling you close. His chest presses against your back, his legs tangling with yours, and you feel his breath warm against the curve of your neck.
"You smell so good," he murmurs, the words a low vibration against your skin.
You laugh, low and drowsy. "I haven't showered."
"Don't care." His nose brushes your hairline. "You always smell good."
His arm tightens around you, his hand splayed across your stomach. His lips press a soft, absent kiss to your shoulder, then another, barely there. "Your skin is so soft too," he confies, you can hear the smile in his voice. "I wanted to tell you that before. When you got out of the shower at my place, that first time. But I didn't want to be weird."
"You're being weird now," you mumble, but you're smiling too.
"Keep acting like you donât like it." He nuzzles into your neck. "I'm okay with it."
You feel his hand slide from your stomach to your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against the bone. His breath evens out, his body relaxing behind you, and you feel yourself sinking into the warmth of him.
"Jake," you say, barely audible.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for letting me stay."
He squeezes you gently, his lips pressing against your hair. "Anytime, Y/N."
Curled against his chest, you slowly surrender to sleep. His arm remains securely around you, its warmth grounding you until the last of your thoughts dissolve.
âââââââââ
The sunlight filters through the curtains, and you blink awake slowly, your mind still thick with sleep. The bed is warm, the sheets tangled around your legs, however, the space beside you is empty. You reach out, your hand finding only cool fabric.
You lie there for a moment, orienting yourself. Jake's room. Jake's bed. The events of the night before trickle back in fragments. You check your phone on the nightstand. Saturday, 9:47 AM. Two days off stretching ahead of you, unplanned and open. You pad out of the bedroom, still in the oversized hoodie you wore last night, your hair a mess and your eyes half-opened. The smell of coffee hits you brutally. Jake is standing at the kitchen counter, a mug in one hand, his phone in the other. He's in a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair still sleep-tousled, and he looks up when he hears your footsteps.
"Morning," he says, his voice so soft and reassuring. "I didn't want to wake you. You looked comfortable."
"You're still here," you say, your voice scratchy. "Don't you have work?"
He shakes his head. "Day off. I figured I'd take it easy."
You close the distance without giving yourself time to hesitate. Slipping your arms around his waist from behind, you rest your cheek between his shoulder blades. Warmth radiates through him, and you feel his entire body go still beneath your embrace. He stays still. His breath barely catches, and you feel the tension ripple through his shoulders. After that, his hand comes down to rest over yours, his thumb brushing across your knuckles.
"Y/N," he says, and his voice is rougher than before. "You're going to make me drop my coffee."
"Put it down, then."
He does as you say. You hear the mug clink against the counter, and then he's turning in your arms, his hands finding your waist, his face close to yours. A flush is creeping up his neck, pink and noticeable, the sight of it makes thousands of sparks flicker in your stomach.
"You're blushing." you observe.
"Iâm not," he says, his ears are red now, and he's not meeting your eyes. "I just wasn't expecting a hug. First thing in the morning. From someone whoâ" He stops, clears his throat. "Never mind."
"From someone who what?"
He finally looks at you, vulnerability filling his gaze completely. "From someone I really didn't want to wake up alone."
Words fail you, so you simply stay where you are. He pulls you into him, holding you with gentleness before resting his forehead against the top of your head. As he breathes in deeply, the strain he'd been carrying begins to slip away.
"Your hair smells like my shampoo," he mumbles into your hair.
"Your shampoo smells good."
"It's just generic stuff from the convenience store."
"Still smells good."
He laughs, soft and warm, and his arms tighten around you. "That sounded stupid, doesnât it?"
You smile and chuckle against his chest. "A little bit."
You only eat eggs, toasts and drink coffee, but it feels like more than that. You sit across from him at his small kitchen table, the soft light of the sun landing on his face, and the conversation flows easily between bites.
He tells you about the shelter and problems that he had when he took care of a dog for the first time, and you do the same.
"It's a good job," you say, stirring your coffee. "Exhausting, but good. They make me laugh sometimes."
"They sound like characters."
"They are." You pause, watching him over the rim of your mug. "Can I ask you something personal?"
He looks up, a hint of wariness in his eyes, but he nods. "Sure."
"Why did you move back here? You said that night at the gameâpersonal reasons. But you didn't elaborate."
He's quiet for a moment, his fork hovering over his plate. "I had some things to figure out," he says slowly. "Things I couldn't figure out anywhere else."
"Like what?"
He meets your gaze, something you canât quite read passes across his face. "Like whether some things are worth coming back for."
The answer is vague and careful, yet there's a weight to it that makes you not want to know more about it. So you don't.
"Your turn," you say instead. "You can ask me anything."
He sets down his fork, considering. "What made you choose this city? Out of all the places you could have gone."
You look down at your coffee. The steam rises in slow spirals. "I used to live here. Before the accident." You say it matter-of-factly, you've learned to say it over the past year. "I don't remember it, but something about it felt right. Like I was supposed to come back."
"The accident," he repeats, and his voice is measured now. "You've mentioned it before. The memory loss."
"Yeah." You wrap your hands around the mug, let the warmth seep into your palms. "Three years. Just gone. I woke up in the hospital and suddenly I was 22, and I didn't remember being 21, 20 and even 19. My brother had to tell me who I was friends with, where I'd worked, what I'd done." You pause. "It's strange. Knowing there's a version of yourself out there that you'll never meet."
Jake is watching you intently, his breakfast forgotten. "That must have been hard," he says quietly.
"It was. Still is, sometimes. There are things I know I'm supposed to rememberâpeople, places, momentsâand I just can't access them. Itâs like a locked door I don't have the key to."
He's silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer than before. "Do you ever feel like you're close to remembering? Or that something triggers it?"
You consider the question. "Sometimes itâs little things. A smell, a song, or an object." You think of the keychain, the one that matches his. "But it never sticks. It's justâthere and itâs gone."
He nods slowly.
"Sorry," you say. "That got heavy."
"Don't apologize." He reaches across the table, his hand covering yours. "Thank you for telling me."
You look at his hand on yours, warm and soft. "Your turn," you say, trying to lighten the mood. "Ask me something else."
He thinks for a moment. "What's your favorite thing about this city? Now that you're back."
You smile, the tension easing. "The coffee shop on the corner. They have terrible pastries but really good lattes."
He laughs, and the sound fills the kitchen. "I'll have to try it sometime."
"Maybe I'll take you." The words come out before you can stop them, and you feel a flush creep up your neck.
He squeezes your hand. "I'd like that."
The morning stretches into a lazy afternoon. You've migrated to the couch, your phone in one hand, scrolling through nothing in particular. Jake is stretched out beside you, his head resting on your thigh like it belongs there, his own phone held above his face. The weight of him is warm and familiar now, and you've stopped overthinking how his hair brushes against your bare knee.
He's quiet, focused on whatever he's reading, his thumb occasionally swiping. You're half-watching a video on your own screen, the sound muted, when you feel his body shift. A pause. His thumb stops moving.
Then his free hand moves, quick and unexpected, his fingers finding the spot just above your knee. He digs in lightly, and you jolt, your phone nearly slipping from your grip.
"Jake!" Your voice comes out loud, a mix of surprise and laughter. "What are you doing?"
He grins, an unapologetic grin, and his fingers keep moving, dancing along the sensitive skin of your thigh. You try to twist away, but his head is still heavy on your lap, pinning you in place, and he's using his other hand to trap your leg.
"Stopâ" You're laughing, breathless, trying to grab his wrist. "I'm seriousâ"
"Are you?" His voice is teasing and low. His fingers find your ribs, and you arch, a helpless sound escaping you.
"You're the fucking worst." You manage to grab his hand, but he's stronger, and he uses the momentum to roll slightly, shifting so he can reach your side. The tickling intensifies, and you're squirming, your free hand batting at his shoulder.
"Say I'm the best," he says, his voice muffled against your stomach.
"Never."
He doubles down, and you dissolve into helpless laughter, your phone clattering onto the floor. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
"Okayâokayâyou're the best." The words come out in a wheeze. "You're the best, Jake. I surrender."
He stops, his hand stilling, still he doesn't move away. His face is close now, hovering over you, his eyes bright with amusement and softness beneath.
"That was easy," he says.
"Fuck you."
"You wouldn't," He settles back down, and you slap his arm for the comment. His head finding your lap again, his hand resting loosely on your knee. "Don't worry. I'll go easy on you next time."
You pick up your phone with your heart is still racing, and you can feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your shorts.
A random movie starts on the laptop screen, playing as background noise to fill the silence. You're sitting on the floor between Jake's legs, your back against the couch, your head tilted back slightly as his fingers work through your hair. He's been at it for a while now, separating strands, twisting them together, muttering under his breath when they slip apart.
"Like this?" he asks, his voice close to your ear.
"Tighter," you say. "You're not pulling enough."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't. Justâhere." You reach up, your hand finding his, guiding his fingers to the right section. "Hold that one. Now cross it over the middle. Yes, like that."
He follows your instructions with concentration and that makes you smile. His fingers are careful, delicate, and you feel the gentle tug as he works through a tangle.
"You've done this before, no?" you say.
"Never. I'm just naturally talented."
You snort. "We'll see about that."
Another minute passes. He's quiet, too focused, and you can feel the slight movement of his hands as he continues his work. You're both lost in the small intimacy of the moment.
"Okay," he says finally. "I think I got it."
You reach up, your fingers brushing against the braid he's made. It's lopsided, uneven, with strands sticking out at odd angles. You tug at it gently, and a section comes loose.
"It's bad," you say, and you can hear the laughter in your own voice.
He lets out a mock-offended sound. "I spent ten minutes on that."
"Ten minutes and this is what I get?"
"I'm a beginner. Tell me Iâm doing good. Please."
You turn your head to look up at him. He's pouting weakly, his bottom lip pushed out, his eyes looking down with exaggerated hurt.
"Okay," you relent. "You did great."
His expression shifts instantly, the pout melting into a pleased smile. "Really?"
"For a first try. It's not completely terrible."
"High praise." His hand finds your shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'll take it."
You settle back against the couch, your head still tilted to look at him. He's looking down at you, his gaze soft, unguarded, letting you see something he usually keeps hidden.
"These past few days," he says, his voice quieter now. "They've beenâI don't know. I've been comfortable. More than I have in a while."
"You're not going to get all sentimental on me, are you?"
He laughs, low and warm. "Maybe a little. Is that okay?"
You wait and watch him, the light catches his eyes, the slight curve of his mouth. The air between you feels heavier now. He leans forward, his face hovering above yours, and you feel a pull ; something that tugs at the edges of your memory. The feeling is fleeting, gone before you can grasp it, yet it leaves a warmth in its wake.
"Y/N," he says, your name sounds different on his lips.
Suddenly, his mouth is on yours, gentle and upside down, his lips soft against your own. You lean into him, your hand reaching up to cup his jaw, and the kiss deepens. His fingers thread through your hair, careful not to pull the messy braid loose, and you tilt your head further to meet him. The angle is awkward, the position of him behind you and you below making it clumsy, but you don't want to stop.
When he finally pulls back, his face above yours by an inch, his breath is uneven.
"Youâre so pretty that it hurts," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I could handle a little pain, though."
"You don't look bad yourself." You chuckle softly, close your eyes and let yourself feel it ; the warmth of him, the pace of his heart against your back, the small certainty that this is exactly where you're supposed to be.
Now, the movie has ended, the credits scrolling silently across the screen. Silence remains in the living room. You've shifted positions, no longer on the floor but curled together on the couch, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around you. His legs bracket yours, and your head rests in the crook of his neck, the warmth of him seeping through your t-shirt.
His lips find your temple first, light and sweet, a barely-there press of skin against skin. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your eye. Each kiss is soft, as he's memorizing the geography of your face. You feel the slight stubble on his jaw brush against you.
"Are you still going to kiss every inch of my face?" you murmur, your eyes closed.
"Every single one." He punctuates the words with another kiss, this one on the bridge of your nose. "I have a list. It's very thorough."
You laugh, tired and content, and his arms tighten around you. His lips trail down to your jaw, then your chin, then the spot just below your ear.
"Getting distracted?" you ask.
"Completely." Another kiss, this one on your neck. "This is your fault for being here."
"I didn't do anything."
"Youâre existing right now, so deal with the consequences."
You tilt your head back, giving him more access, and he takes the invitation, his mouth trailing along the curve of your throat. His kisses are still gentle, almost reverent, but they linger a little longer now.
His fingers find your hand, lace through yours, squeeze once. You feel the weight of his lips on your shoulder, your collarbone, the soft skin just above the neckline of your hoodie. Then back up, retracing the path, pausing at your cheek again.
"You're very thorough," you manage, your voice dreamy.
"I told you. I'm a man of my word."
He presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth, soft and sweet, and then settles his chin on the top of your head, his arms still wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
You donât want to move. The afternoon light has shifted, growing gold, and the room feels suspended in a bubble of warmth and intimacy.
"Jake," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For today. For all of it."
He presses his lips to your hair, a silent reply, and you feel his smile against the strands. The last kiss lingers, right against your hair, and then you tilt your head up, catching his mouth with yours. It's not the upside-down kiss from before, this one is direct and utterly intentional, your lips finding his with unexpected certainty. He responds immediately, his hand cupping your jaw, angling you toward him.
You feel his other hand slide from your shoulder down your side, settling on your hip. You shift, twisting in his arms, and before you know it, you're turning to face him properly. Your knees find the cushion on either side of his thighs, and you settle into his lap, straddling him, your chest pressed against his.
His hands find your waist immediately, gripping you through the fabric of your t-shirt, his fingers splaying across the curve of your hips. He pulls you closer, and you feel the strong warmth of him beneath you, his breath hitches slightly as you settle your weight against him.
"You're going to make it hard to stop." he murmurs against your lips while he's smiling.
"Thatâs too bad." you whisper back, you could feel the vibration of his laugh.
âââââââââ
Itâs been an hour. Youâre still straddling Jake, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips as your mouths move together in a heated, urgent kiss. His lips are warm and demanding, although thereâs a delicious clumsiness to the way he kisses you ; teeth grazing a little too eagerly, his tongue sliding against yours with more hunger than precision. Heâs so turned on he can barely focus, and it shows in every shaky breath and muffled sound.
His large hands slide down your back and grip your ass firmly now, fingers digging into the soft flesh with possessive strength. He squeezes and fondles you without restraint, kneading your cheeks as he pulls you harder against the growing bulge in his sweatpants. A low throaty moan echoes from his chest into your mouth, raw and needy, sending a rush of heat straight through you.
He breaks the kiss for half a second to gasp for air, forehead lightly pressed to yours, before diving back in even sloppier than before ; lips wet, tongue eager, hands still greedily massaging and spreading your ass as he rocks you against him. His grip is tight enough to leave marks, but the way he groans your name between kisses makes it impossible to care.
You pull back to catch your breath, your hands resting on his chest as you look down at him with flushed cheeks. His eyes are veiled with want, lips slightly swollen from the messy kiss, and his hands are still firmly anchored to your ass, unwilling to let go.
âSorry,â you whisper, voice a little shaky. âIf Iâm bad at thisâŠitâs my first time doing any of it, really.â
Jake blinks up at you, his breath still ragged. For a moment his grip on your ass loosens slightly, but then he squeezes again, almost reassuringly. A soft surprised chuckle escapes him before he leans in and presses a gentler kiss to the corner of your mouth.
âItâs okay,â he murmurs against your lips, his voice husky and sincere. âIâve never gotten past a kiss either. SoâŠweâre both figuring this out.â
He pulls you closer again, one hand sliding up your back while the other stays possessively on your ass, and kisses you slower now ; still clumsy with need, still moaning softly into your mouth, but now with a shared nervousness that somehow makes everything feel even hotter.
You smile softly against his lips at his confession, a warm flutter of relief mixing with the heat in your belly. Boldness comes through you, you slide one hand down his chest, slowly tracing the ridges of his abs through the thin fabric of his shirt. Your fingertips press lightly, exploring the firm muscle beneath, and Jakeâs entire body jolts under you.
He gasps sharply into your mouth, hips twitching upward as a shiver runs through him. Heâs incredibly sensitive there ; every slow drag of your fingers makes his muscles tense and twitch. Another involuntary moan slips out of him, breathier than before.
âS-sorry,â he blurts out by reflex, cheeks burning as he pulls back just an inch, eyes half-lidded and embarrassed. His hands tighten on your ass again, almost like heâs grounding himself. âIâm justâŠreally sensitive. Fuck, that feels good.â
He leans in quickly to kiss you again, clumsier now from the rush of sensation, his abs contracting under your exploring touch as he rocks you gently against him, clearly fighting the urge to apologize a second time.
You keep tracing his abs, feeling them flex and twitch under your fingertips, when his breathing grows even heavier. His hands squeeze your ass one last time before sliding up to your hips. He leans in close, lips brushing your ear as he whispers softly, voice rough with arousal.
âTake your panties off for meâŠplease?â
The words send a fresh wave of heat through you. You hesitate, suddenly shy, cheeks burning as you bite your lip and glance away. Jake notices immediately. A small affectionate smirk tugs at his lips despite how flustered he is.
âWhatâs wrong?â he teases gently, voice playful, his fingers tracing slow circles on your hips. âDonât get all shy on me nowâŠIâm dying here.â
You swallow hard, heart racing, but the way heâs looking at you ; equal parts desperate and sweet ; makes you brave. Instead of taking them off completely, you reach the hem of your shorts and throw them next to the couch, hook your fingers into the side of your panties, and push the damp fabric aside, exposing yourself to him.
âYou can touch me,â you whisper, voice barely audible.
Jakeâs eyes widen slightly. He nods slowly, one hand sliding from your hip down between your bodies. His middle finger gently traces along your slick folds, testing, before he slowly pushes it inside you ; careful, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time to make sure itâs okay. His breath catches at how warm and wet you feel around his finger, and he lets out a shaky moan, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
âFuckâŠis this alright?â he murmurs, voice trembling with restraint as he holds still, letting you adjust.
You let out a shaky breath, hips shifting slightly against his hand as his finger moves inside you.
âThat feels good,â you whisper, voice breathy and honest. âReally goodâŠâ
Jakeâs eyes light up with relief and hunger. Encouraged, he slowly pulls his middle finger back, then carefully pushes two fingers in this time ; his middle and ring finger ; stretching you more. Heâs clumsy about it, his movements a little uncoordinated from how turned on he is, but the gentle pressure feels incredible as he works them deeper.
He starts to pump them slowly, trying to find a rhythm, when suddenly his breath hitches.
âWaitââ he says quickly, almost like he remembered something.
Before you can respond, he curls his fingers upward, searching. The moment he hits that sensitive spot inside you, a loud, involuntary moan escapes your lips, loud and needy. Your thighs tremble around him as pleasure jolts through your body.
His face flushes deeper, a proud but clumsy grin breaking across his face even as he keeps awkwardly pumping and curling his fingers, trying to do it again. His free hand grips your ass tightly for balance, his own breathing ragged and uneven while he watches you react, completely lost in how you sound and feel.
Youâre still trembling from the sudden rush of pleasure when he slows his fingers, keeping them buried inside you. He looks up at you with those wide, needy eyes, his cheeks flushed and his breathing ragged.
âTell me Iâm doing goodâŠâ he whispers, voice deep and a little vulnerable as he searches your face. âPlease?â
You cup his face gently in both hands, thumbs brushing over his warm cheeks. Leaning down, you kiss him softly, tenderly, your lips lingering against his for a long moment. When you pull back just enough to speak, you gaze softens.
âYouâre being so good to me,â you murmur. âIt feels really good, JakeâŠkeep going.â
A relieved moan slips from him at your words. His eyes flutter half-closed, and he presses into your touch like heâs starving for the praise. His fingers start moving again ; still a little clumsy and eager ; pumping slowly in and out while curling every few strokes to hit that spot that make you squirm. His free hand squeezes your ass tighter, pulling you closer as he kisses you back, messy and grateful.
You keep kissing him, slow and sweet, when Jake suddenly pulls his fingers out of you with a wet sound that makes you both blush. He shifts underneath you, breathing hard, and hurriedly works open his jeans.
âI need to feel you more,â he mutters, voice thick with desperation.
He lifts his hips and shoves his pants and boxers down just enough to free himself. His cock springs out, hard and throbbing, already leaking at the tip. You barely get a look at it before he pulls you back down onto his lap, lining you up so your bare, soaked pussy presses directly against his length. You start moving again, grinding with your panties still pushed to the side. The hot, velvety shaft of his cock slides perfectly between your slick folds, the head bumping against your clit with every roll of your hips. Jake groans loudly, head falling back against the couch as his hands return to grip your ass, guiding you faster.
âFuckâŠyou feel so good,â he moans, clumsy and desperate. Heâs getting impossibly harder beneath you, his dick twitching and throbbing with every grind. His hips jerk up to meet yours, uncoordinated and eager, making wet sounds every time your slick heat drags along his entire length.
He looks completely wrecked already ; lips parted, eyes hazy with desire, fingers digging into your ass as he rocks you harder against him, chasing more of that delicious friction. You keep grinding against him, the slick sounds growing louder as both of you get messier. Your panties are completely soaked, the fabric clinging wetly to your folds, and his boxers ; now bunched around his thighs ; are dark with your arousal too.
Jake lets out a frustrated groan and lifts you just enough to shove his boxers the rest of the way down his legs, kicking them off. He reaches into his pocket, tears open a condom with shaky hands, and rolls it on quickly, his cock twitching hard as he does. You move to slide your panties down, but he catches your wrists gently, stopping you.
âWaitââ he breathes, voice hoarse. His eyes drop to where your soaked panties are still pushed to the side, the pretty fabric framing your glistening pussy. âDonât take them off. Theyâre too pretty on you like thisâŠlooks so fucking hot.â
He pulls you back down onto him, guiding the head of his cock to nudge against your entrance through the shifted fabric. His hands return to your ass, squeezing firmly as he looks up at you with doe, desperate eyes, clearly waiting for you to take the next step while his throbbing length presses impatiently against your heat.
You brace your hands on his shoulders and slowly sink down onto him, taking every inch of his cock inside your tight, soaked heat. The stretch is intense, making you gasp and pause halfway before you breathe through it and slide all the way down until your hips meet his. Jakeâs head falls back with a deep, broken moan, his fingers digging hard into your ass.
But after a few seconds, the latex feels uncomfortable and distant. You lift yourself off him, quickly peel the condom away, and sink back down onto his bare cock before he can protest. The raw heat of him makes you both moan.
His eyes fly open in panic. âWaitâfuckâbabyââ he stammers, hands gripping your waist tightly as his cock throbs hard inside you. His face is flushed with alarm even as pleasure clouds his expression.
You canât help but laugh softly at his wide-eyed reaction, the sound breathy and fond. âItâs okay,â you whisper, leaning down to kiss him.
You start moving ; not bouncing, but grinding slowly in deep circles with him fully buried inside you. The pressure against that sensitive spot makes you whimper, but it completely wrecks Jake. He moans loudly, the sound raw and uncontrolled, his whole body tensing beneath you.
Suddenly, his hands clamp around your waist and he lifts you straight up, pulling out of you with a wet pop. You blink in confusion, hovering above him as his cock twitches angrily in the open air, slick with your juices.
âI was about to cum,â he pants, voice strained and embarrassed. âYouâre too warm and tightâŠand Iâm really sensitive right now. Fuck, I almost didnât stop in time.â
He looks up at you, chest heaving, cheeks burning red as he tries to catch his breath, still holding you suspended above his lap.
You hover above him for a moment, still catching your breath, then bite your lip shyly and whisper, âItâs okayâŠif it happens and you cum inside me, I can take the morning after pill.â
Jake looks up at you, eyes glassy from the pleasure, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. He swallows hard, then nods, his hands gently squeezing your waist. âOkayâŠbut Iâll still try to be careful,â he murmurs. âI donât want to mess this up for you.â
You smile softly at his sweetness and slowly sink back down onto his bare cock, taking him all the way inside again with a soft gasp. Once heâs fully buried, you resume grinding on him in deep circles, your soaked pussy clenching around his thick length.
He groans loudly, his head tipping back for a second before he looks down to where your bodies are joined. His hands slide firmly onto your hips, fingers digging in as he starts guiding you harder against him. He pulls and pushes you in longer, more insistent grinds, forcing your clit to rub against the base of his cock with every roll.
Sloppy sounds fill the room as your soaked folds slide back and forth along his shaft. The harder he makes you grind, the louder the sounds get, your arousal coating him completely. Jakeâs moans turn ragged and desirous, his abs flexing under your hands while he stares at the way your pretty panties, still pushed aside, frame your pussy taking every inch of him.
You keep grinding on him, the wet sounds growing filthier with every roll of your hips, when Jake suddenly sits up straighter. One of his hands slides up your back, pulling you closer as his mouth finds your neck.
He starts licking and kissing the sensitive skin there, sucking gently at first, then harder, while his hips snap upward. He shifts from letting you grind to actively pounding into you, thrusting deep and fast from below. Each rough stroke makes you whimper, your fingers clutching his shoulders as pleasure spikes through you.
âIâm sorryââ he whispers hotly against your neck, voice strained and weak between open-mouthed kisses. His thrusts grow erratic, sloppy, and frantic. âFuck, Iâm so sorryâŠIâm gonna cum inside you.â
His grip on your hips tightens almost painfully as he buries himself as deep as he can, moaning loudly into your neck while his cock throbs hard inside your tight heat. His body trembles beneath you, clearly fighting it for only a second longer before he loses control.
You cry out as the intense rhythm pushes you over the edge right along with him. Your orgasm crashes through you hard, walls clenching and fluttering wildly around his cock as waves of pleasure rip through your body. At the same moment, Jake groans deeply into your neck and starts cumming, pulsing hot and thick inside you with every thrust.
Still trembling and moaning from your climax, you gasp out quickly, âFinger meâpleaseââ
You donât need to tell him twice. He lifts you off his cock with a wet sound, lays you back on the couch, and slides two fingers deep into your dripping pussy. He keeps them buried inside you, pumping slowly and softly, curling them gently against that sensitive spot while his thumb rests lightly on your clit.
âFuckâthatâs it,â he whispers soothingly against your ear, voice gentle even as heâs still catching his breath. âYouâre doing so good. Let it all out for me.â
His fingers move in slow strokes, drawing out every last pulse of your orgasm as he kisses your neck and jaw. âSo pretty when you cumâŠkeep squeezing around my fingers, baby. Iâve got you.â
He stays close, murmuring soft praises while his fingers continue their gentle rhythm inside your soaked heat, helping you ride through the aftershocks.
An hour later, youâre sprawled on the couch with your legs spread wide, one draped lazily over the armrest. Jake kneels between your thighs, his hands resting on your inner thighs to keep you open.
He starts with broad strokes of his tongue, licking up and down your slick pussy, tasting the mess you two made earlier. Then he dives in deeper, pressing his whole mouth against you and kissing your folds like heâs making out with them ; soft, wet, hungry kisses that make filthy sounds echo in the living room.
A deep moan escapes you as his tongue swirls around your clit.
Jake pulls back just enough to grin up at you, lips glistening. âHey, you gotta be quiet,â he teases in a joking tone, eyes sparkling with mischief. âI canât hear the TV show if youâre moaning like that. Rude.â
You try to focus on the screen, but the pleasure is making you sleepy and relaxed. Your eyelids start to flutter, growing heavier as you sink deeper into the couch.
Without warning, Jake tightens his grip on your thighs and thrusts his tongue straight into your pussy, fucking you with it in deep, firm strokes. Your eyes snap open with a sharp gasp, hips twitching against his face as the sudden intensity jolts you awake.
He pulls back for a second, smirking. âThere you go. Canât have you falling asleep on me already,â he murmurs playfully, before diving right back in, tongue thrusting into you again while his nose nudges your clit.
His hands hold you firmly in place as he eats you out with renewed energy, clearly determined to keep you wide awake and moaning.
You canât hold back anymore.
The steady thrust of Jakeâs tongue inside you, combined with the way his nose keeps rubbing against your swollen clit, pushes you straight over the edge. Your second orgasm hits hard and fast. Your thighs clamp around his head as you cry out, back arching off the couch while waves of pleasure crash through you.
While youâre still cumming, he quickly pulls his tongue out and replaces it with two fingers, sliding them deep into your clenching pussy. He curls them gently against that sensitive spot, pumping them slowly and steadily to draw out your orgasm even longer.
âThatâs itâŠcum on my fingers again, baby,â he murmurs against your thigh, voice low and husky as he watches you fall apart. âFuck, youâre squeezing so tight.â
He keeps fingering you through every pulse and shudder, soft and deep, never rushing. His thumb moves up to circle your clit lazily, prolonging the pleasure until your moans turn into breathy whimpers and your body finally starts to relax.
Even then, he doesnât pull his fingers out right away. He leaves them buried inside your warm, fluttering heat, gently stroking your walls while he kisses the inside of your thigh, looking up at you with a satisfied, slightly smug smile.
âââââââââ
Both of you cuddling in his bed, and sleep finally gets to you. You're both tangled in his sheets, limbs intertwined, the warmth of his body a grounding presence against your back. His arm is draped over your waist, his breath slow and even against your neck, and you can feel the occasional press of his lips against your shoulder ; delicate, absent, as he's kissing you even in his sleep.
You should be content and you are content. Nevertheless, there's a dull ache beginning to throb behind your eyes, a persistent pressure that makes you wince when you shift against the pillow.
"Jake," you murmur, your voice rough. "I have a headache."
He stirs behind you, his arm tightening around your waist. "Mmm?"
"A headache. Do you have any painkillers?"
He blinks, his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Bathroom cabinet on the top shelf. There's a bottle."
You start to untangle yourself, but his arm holds you for a moment longer, pulling you back against him. "Don't go," he mumbles, his nose brushing your ear.
"I'll be right back." You press a kiss to his knuckles, and he loosens his grip.
You pad out of the bedroom, the cool air of the apartment raising goosebumps on your bare skin. You grab the shirt he'd left on the floor ; his shirt, the one he'd worn earlier ; and pull it over your head. It falls to your thighs, soft and worn, and you feel a small thrill at the intimacy of it.
The bathroom is as small as you could remember the last time you took a shower, the light harsh when you flick it on. You find the painkillers easily, shake two into your palm, and turn to get water.
You pause.
The drawer next to the sink is slightly open, just a crack, and something inside catches your eye. You don't know why you reach for it. Curiosity, maybe. The same instinct that made you want to see the photo frame by his bed.
You pull it open.
The drawer is filled with photographs ; loose, some curled at the edges, same as snapshots you'd find in a shoebox under a bed. But these aren't random. You recognize the faces.
Your hands are shaking. You dig deeper, pulling out more photos. One with your parents. Your mother's arm around you, your father's hand on Jake's shoulder, and the four of you are smiling at the camera like a family.
Another with Jungwon. He's younger, his face rounder, and he's giving a thumbs-up while Jake ruffles his hair.
You drop the photos. They scatter across the floor, and you stumble back, your back hitting the bathroom wall.
This doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. You don't remember any of this. You've never seen these photos before in your life. But your face is there, your smile, your eyes. And Jake is there too, always beside you, he's always been part of the picture.
The memory loss. The three years.
You feel the world tilt beneath you, the edges of your vision going fuzzy. The photos on the floor stare up at you, silent and damning.
"Y/N?"
Jake's voice. He's at the doorway, his eyes still sleep-soft, and he's holding a glass of water. He takes one step into the bathroom, then stops. His gaze drops to the photos scattered around your feet.
The glass slips from his fingers. It shatters against the tile, water spreading in a river across the floor.
"Y/N," he says again, and his voice is different now, sounding afraid.
You look at him. At the face you've come to know over these past weeks. The face you've kissed, laughed with, let hold you. The face that has been hiding everything from you.
"You knew me?" you say, and your voice comes out flat, hollow. "You knew me before?"
He doesn't answer as the look on his face says it all.
"All this time," you continue, the words spilling out now, unstoppable. "You knew everything. You knew me. You knew me and you didn't say anything."
"I was going to tell you." His voice is low. "I was trying to find the right time. I didn't want to scare youâ"
"Scare me?" A broken laugh escapes you. "I've been living in a fog for a year. I've been trying to piece together who I am, and youâyou've been standing right there, holding all the pieces, and you didn't tell me."
The rain starts outside, a sudden downpour that hammers against the window. You don't remember putting on his clothes, but you're moving now, past him, through the apartment, toward the door. He calls your name without you turning back.
You barge into the hallway. The stairs are a blur beneath your feet. You burst out into the rain, and it hits you like a wall ; cold, merciless, soaking through the shirt, your hair and your skin.
You don't know where you're going, and you know you can't be near him, nor look at his face and see the truth you were too blind to notice.
The street is empty, the rain turning the pavement into a river. You walk, then run, your bare feet slapping against the wet ground, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind you, you hear a door slam. A voice calling your name, distant and helpless.
Your legs donât seem to want to stop. Your bare feet slap against the wet pavement, each step sending shocks through your legs, but you don't stop. You actually can't stop because if you do, you'll have to think, and thinking means facing what you just saw.
Your fingers fumble with your phone, slick with rain, and you manage to pull up Jungwon's contact. It rings once, twice, three times, and then the automated voice cuts in. Voicemail. Full. You try again and itâs the same result.
"Come on," you mutter, your voice cracking. "Come on, pick up. Pick upâ"
The phone slips from your grip, clattering onto the wet ground. You leave it behind and keep walking, your arms wrapped around yourself, the thin fabric of his shirt doing nothing to ward off the cold.
"Y/N."
His voice. Behind you. Closer than you expected.
You keep walking faster, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Y/N, pleaseâjust stopâ"
"I don't want to talk to you." Your voice is barely audible over the rain. "Go away."
"I can't do that." His footsteps are closer now. "I can't let you run out like this. It's not safe."
"You don't get to decide what's safe for me." You finally stop, spinning around to face him. He's there, a few meters away, soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving. He's stopped too, keeping his distance like you're a wild animal that might bolt.
"You don't get to decide anything," you continue, your voice rising. "You knew me. You knew me and you lied. Every single day, every single conversationâyou looked at me and you knew exactly who I was, and you let me stumble around like an idiot trying to figure it out."
"I didn't lieâ"
"Hiding the truth is lying." You're shaking now, from cold and anger. "You kept all of it from me. The photos, the memoriesâ" You gesture wildly. "Everything. You let me think we were strangers." Your voice cracks. "You let me fall for you like you were someone new."
"I had to." His voice is raw. "I had to keep it from you. It was the only wayâ"
"The only way for what?" You're yelling now, the rain muffling the sound but not the anger. "The only way to protect yourself? The only way to make sure you didn't have to deal with the mess of my broken brain?"
He flinches like you've struck him. "No. That's notâ"
"Then what? What the fuck is about?"
He's quiet for a long moment. The rain falls between you, heavy and cold, a curtain that separates you from him. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, barely above a whisper.
"Because I was scared."
You laugh, a hollow, broken sound. "Scared of what?"
"Of this." He gestures between the two of you. "Of you remembering and looking at me like you are right now. Like I'm a stranger. Like I'm someone who hurt you."
Your chest tightens. "GodâJake do you even care about me?"
"I fucking do." He takes a step closer, and then stops himself. "I loved you, Y/N. Before the accident. We wereâ" He runs a hand through his wet hair, his voice cracking. "We were together. For three freaking years. We lived together. We had a life."
You stare at him, the words hitting you like blows. "I don't remember."
"Iâm aware of that." He's crying now, his tears mistook for rain drops. You can't tell. "Iâm aware that you don't. And that'sâthat's the worst part. Because I've been standing here, watching you rebuild your life, and every time you looked at me like I was a stranger, it felt like losing you all over again."
"Why did you stay, then?" Your voice is barely a whisper. "Why didn't you just leave?"
"Because I made a promise." He meets your eyes. "A promise to your brother, to Jungwon. After the accident, when you couldn't remember anythingâhe came to me. He said that if I really loved you, I would stay away. That seeing me, remembering me, would confuse you. That it would hurt you more than it would help."
"So you justâwalked away?"
"I tried. I moved to another city. I told myself it was for the best. But I couldn't." He stops, his voice breaking. "I couldn't stay away. When I heard you were coming back here, I told myself I wouldn't interfere and that I'd keep my distance. But then I saw you with that stupid umbrella, andâ"
His words trail off, lost in the rain. You stand there, shivering, the weight of everything pressing down on you.
"I was scared," he continues, his voice still barely audible. "I was scared that if I told you, you'd run. That you'd look at me and feel nothing. That the person you were beforeâthe person I lovedâwas gone forever, and I couldn't bear that. So I kept it to myself. I told myself I was protecting you. But really, I was protecting myself."
The silence stretches between you.
"You should have told me," you finally say, and your voice is weak, drained of emotion. "You should have trusted me to handle it."
"I know." He looks down at the ground. "I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted to hurt you. I justâ" He stops, his shoulders shaking. "I just wanted to hold onto the part of you that was still mine. Even if you didn't know it."
Your chest is heaving again and you feel the tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. You're not sure when you started crying or maybe you've been crying this whole time.
"When?" Your voice cracks once again. "When did weâwhen did we first meet?"
He looks up, and you see the tears streaming down his face, indistinguishable from the rain. "Nineteen," he says, his voice raw and broken. "We were nineteen. You were wearing that oversized Bieber shirt, and you tripped over your own feet walking into that library, and Iâ" He pauses, a sob tearing from his throat. "I fell in love with you right there."
You feel the sob building in your chest, unstoppable and devastating. "Iâm sorry."
"Itâs okay." He's crying openly now, his shoulders shaking. "IâI needed you to know that you were loved. That you are loved. By me. Always."
Your legs give out. You don't realize it until you're sinking, your knees hitting the wet pavement, your hands bracing against the cold ground. The sobs are torn from you now, ugly and loud, your entire body shaking with the force of them.
Heâs already moving. His feet splash against the wet ground, closing the distance between you in seconds. He drops to his knees in front of you, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest. His body shields you from the rain, his hands cradling the back of your head, pressing your face into the warmth of his neck.
"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice broken and fragile. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N."
You feel his tears against your skin, his body shaking with the same sobs that are tearing through you. He holds you tighter, afraid you'll disappear, and you grip the wet fabric of his shirt, your fingers twisted in the material.
"I don't remember," you choke out. "I don't remember any of it."
"That's okay." His voice is a whisper, trembling. "That's okay. We canâwe can start over. We can make new memories. Whatever you need. I'll give you whatever you need."
You pull back just enough to look at him. His face is streaked with rain and tears, his eyes red-rimmed, his expression open and completely unguarded.
You let him hold you, his arms wrapped around you like a shield against the world, and you feel something shift in your chest. The rain continues to fall, but you barely notice it anymore.
All you feel is him.
âââââââââ
The next morning. You're sitting on the edge of the couch, your legs stretched out in front of you, the bruises on your knees a mottled purple from the fall the night before. The rain has stopped, but the world outside is still wet, the streets glistening under the gray sky.
Jake is kneeling in front of you, a small first-aid kit open on the floor beside him. His movements are gentle, careful, as he dabs at the scrapes with an antiseptic wipe. You flinch slightly at the sting, and he murmurs an apology, his fingers light against your skin.
"I could do it on my own." you say, your voice hoarse from crying.
"Let me do it for you. Please." He doesn't look up, his focus on the cut on your knee. "I should have done this last night, but you wereâ" He stops, swallowing. "You were upset. I didn't want to push."
You watch him as he works, the furrow of concentration between his brows, his lower lip catches between his teeth. His hands are steady despite everything, carefully smoothing the edges of a bandage over your skin.
"There," he says softly. "All done."
You're about to say something when the door slams open.
Jungwon stands in the doorway, his chest heaving and his eyes wild. He's still in his clothes from yesterday, his hair disheveled, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. He must have come straight from wherever he was, must have run the whole way. His gaze sweeps the room and takes in the two of you. Jake kneeling at your feet. The bandage on your knee. Your tear-streaked face. And mostly, the visible tension in the air.
He looks at Jake and at you while shifting his gaze between both of you.
"Fuck." he says, the word heavy, loaded with remorse.
Jake rises slowly to his feet. He stands there, his hands at his sides, his face blank.
"Jungwon," he starts, but Jungwon cuts him off.
"What the fuck, Jake." He steps into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. "I told youâI told you to stay away. I told you it would be better for her. And for everyone. And youâ" He stops, his jaw tight. "You couldn't keep your promise for even a year?"
"It wasn't like that." Jake's voice is steady yet a tremor is present beneath it. "I didn't plan this. It just happened."
"It just happened?" Jungwon scoffs. "You see her in the hallway and suddenly all your promises mean nothing?"
"Jungwonâ" you start, both of them turn to look at you, and the weight of their gazes makes the words die in your throat. Jungwon's expression softens slightly. "Are you okay?" he asks, the question is directed at you, not Jake.
You don't know how to answer that. Are you okay? You're sitting in the apartment of a man you've known for weeks, who apparently knew you for three years before that, who you still can't remember, who you cried in the rain with, who bandaged your knees this morning because he cares about you. And you canât understand any of it.
"I don't know," you say honestly.
Jungwon runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. "I should have told you," he says with regret in his voice. "I should have told you about him. About everything. I thought I was protecting you, but Iâ" He pauses and shakes his head. "I made it worse."
"He knew," you say, voice flat. "He knew and he kept it from me. You both did."
Jake flinches and Jungwon looks away.
"I had to," Jake says quietly. "I had to see if you could remember on your own. If there was any part of you that stillâ" He swallows, the words caught in his throat. "I needed to know if you could love me without the memories."
Jungwon's head snaps toward him. "That's not why you did it."
"Isn't it?" Jake's voice is raw. "I wanted to believe that if I just gave you time, you'd remember, and I know that it sounds stupid. That you'd look at me and see all the years we had. But you didn't. You never did." He looks at you, his eyes glassy. "And I had to accept that the person I loved might never come back. But I still loved you anyway."
The silence in the room is suffocating. You look from Jake to Jungwon, the weight of their secrets pressing down on you, and you feel something crack inside your chest.
Jungwon is the one to break it. "I'm sorry," he says, the words are directed at both of you. "I was scared. I didn't want to lose you again, Y/N. And when I saw the two of you starting to know each other I panicked." He confesses, his composure cracking. "I just wanted to protect you and I failed. I failed both of you."
Jake stays silent, his eyes fixed on the floor.
You take a breath. The air is thick, but you force yourself to speak.
"I don't remember him," you say, looking at Jungwon. "I don't remember any of it. But Iâ" You stop, your voice catching. "I know I felt something. Even when I didn't know who he was. That has to count for something, doesn't it?"
Jungwon meets your eyes. Then he nods, slowly.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "It does."
âââââââââ
The afternoon has settled in, the earlier tension slowly unwinding like a knot being picked apart. Jungwon left an hour ago, his goodbye awkward but not hostile, a promise to call later that felt more like a question than a statement. You'd watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him, and then you'd turned to find Jake standing in the middle of the living room, his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes uncertain.
Neither of you had spoken for a while. Then you'd walked to the kitchen, pulled out a cutting board and some vegetables, and started preparing something that might become dinner. He'd followed, hovering at the edge of the counter, until you'd handed him a knife and told him to chop the onions.
Now you're standing at the stove, stirring a pan of vegetables, while Jake sits on a stool behind you. His fingers are in your hair again, separating strands, twisting them together with a concentration that's become familiar over the past few days. The braid is better than yesterday ; still not perfect, but recognizable.
"You're getting better at this," you say, your voice quiet.
"I've had practice." An incredible softness in his voice. "Also, you're very patient. That helps."
You stir the vegetables, watching them sizzle and soften. The silence is comfortable, however, there's something sitting between you, a question you've been turning over in your mind since last night.
"Jake," you start, and you feel him pause, his fingers stilling in your hair. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
You keep your eyes on the pan. "Last nightâwas that our first time?"
You feel him go still behind you. His hands are frozen in your hair, and for a moment, you think you've overstepped. You feel his breath, a soft exhale, and his hands resume their work.
"Yes," he says, and his voice is careful. "That was our first time."
The words hang in the air. You nod slowly, processing. "So we never had sexâŠbefore the accident?"
He shakes his head, even though you can't see him. "We were close, and we lived together. But we never did those kind of things." He pauses, his fingers continuing to work through your hair. "We were waiting. I don't know what we were waiting for. The right moment, maybe." His voice drops. "I never really thought about it. I just knew I wanted it to be right."
You set down the spoon, turning to face him. He's watching you, his hands hovering where your hair falls against your shoulders. His eyes are searching, cautious.
"Jake," you say. "How long did you go without doing it?" You stop, not sure how to phrase it. "Without being with anyone?"
He understands. His jaw tightens, and he looks down at his hands. "Itâs been a year. Since the accident." He meets your eyes again. "I couldn't. I tried toâŠtalk to girls, once. It didn't feel right. I mean, I didn't feel right. I couldn't even hold someone's hand without feeling like I was betraying you."
You feel your breath catch. "Even when you didn't know if I'd ever remember?"
"Especially then." His voice honest. "It didn't matter if you remembered me or not. I remembered you. I knew what we had, andâŠI couldn't replace that. I really didn't want to."
You look at him, this man who's been carrying this weight for three years, who stayed loyal to a ghost he didn't know would ever come back. You look at his hands shaking slightly, his eyes are glassy.
"I didn't know," you say.
"How could you?"
You reach out, your hand finding his. He looks down at your fingers intertwined, and you feel the dull trembling in his grip.
"Thank you," you say, your voice almost a whisper. "For waiting. Even when you didn't have to."
He looks at you with vulnerability in his gaze. "I never really had a choice. It was always you. It's always been you."
You pull him closer, your arms wrapping around him, your face pressing into his shoulder. He holds you back, his arms tight around your waist, and you feel the steady beat of his heart against your chest.
The vegetables are still burning. You're still wrapped in his arms, your face pressed into his shoulder, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt. His hand is cradling the back of your head, his fingers gently threading through the braid he'd just finished.
He pulls back to look at you. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face still carrying the traces of the tears you'd both shed.
"I love you," he says.
The words are simple, unadorned. Only three words, spoken as they've been sitting on his tongue for years, waiting for the right moment to be released. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your throat is tight, your chest aching with the pressure of everything you don't know how to say.
Noticing your silence, he leans in, his lips pressing against your forehead, lingering long enough for you to feel the slight shaking in his breath.
Then your cheek. The corner of your eye. The bridge of your nose. Each kiss is slow, like he's tracing the contours of your face with his mouth, memorizing every inch. His lips brush your temple, your jaw, the base of your neck.
"You don't have to say it back," he murmurs against your skin. "I just needed you to know."
You feel the tears pricking at your eyes again, yet they're not the same as before. "You've been carrying this for a year," you manage, your voice thick. "And you stillâ"
"Still love you." He presses another kiss to your cheek, then your other cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "Yes. I do. And I'll keep saying it until you're tired of hearing it."
"I won't get tired."
He pulls back, his eyes searching yours.
"Thatâs good for me." he says softly, the smile that tugs at his lips is small and tentative. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that have escaped down your cheeks. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, and you feel the warmth of him surrounding you.
"Jake," you whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Stay with me. While I try to remember. While I figure this out." You swallow. "Don't leave again."
He doesn't hesitate once. "I won't."
His lips find yours, soft and gentle, and when he pulls back, he presses one last kiss to the tip of your nose.
You were ready to rebuild your life, with everything youâve shared from now, with him.
"i have a big heart that's why i have so many s/os âșïž" "oh i just have a lot of love to give <3" IM A WHORE THERE I SAID IT IM A WHORE IM A WHORE IM A WHORE
-ËËâ genre: neighbors to lovers · single dad au · fluff · angst · smut · found family · slow burn
-ËËâ summary: You have lived in apartment 3B for two years. You know your neighbors the way you know background characters â familiar, unremarkable, just part of the scenery. Which is why itâs strange that youâve never properly noticed the man in 3A. Until 6:58 on a Tuesday morning when someone knocks on your door and you open it to find not him, but her. Small. Round-cheeked. Duck pajamas. Absolutely certain of herself. You fall for his daughter first. Jake is just the complication that comes after. But god, what a complication.
-ËËâ word count: 21.1k
-ËËâ content warnings: explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, praise kink, soft dom/sub undertones, strong language, single parent theme, child abandonment (mother leaving), brief parental guilt, an absent parent reappearing, emotional manipulation attempt, jealousy, mention of custody, legal procedure, alcohol, crying, found family theme, a toddler who will ruin your life in the best way
-ËËâ song: You Are The Best Thing by Ray LaMontage
-ËËâ authors note: i started this fic because i wanted to write a soft single dad jake but the mia took over everything, she was supposed to be a supporting character but how can i make someone that cute not a main. she picked reader first and she always knew and i think thatâs the whole story. jake deserved softness. reader deserved to be chosen. mia deserved a mama who showed up. everyone got what they deserved. if youâre reading this â thank you. comments, reblogs, feedback and likes keep me writing and i am so serious about that. enjoyđ
-ËËâ my masterlist
You have lived in Apartment 3B of Wattle Grove Building for two years. You know Mrs. Kim in 1A leaves her recycling out on the wrong day every single week without fail. You know the guy in 2C plays guitar badly but enthusiastically every Sunday morning. You know the building super Danny will fix anything you need as long as you leave a coffee outside your door first.
You know your neighbors the way you know background characters in a movie youâve seen too many times. Familiar. Unremarkable. Just part of the scenery.
Which is why itâs strange that youâve never properly noticed the man in 3A. Youâve seen him, obviously. In passing. At the mailboxes. Once in the car park when you were both leaving at the same time and did that awkward thing where you both reached for the door simultaneously and then laughed and said sorry at the same time. Heâs tall. Dark hair. Has a nice face in the vague way that you register nice faces without really looking at them.
He moved in about eight months ago. Keeps to himself. Quiet. Youâve never heard a peep through the wall you share, which you appreciate deeply after two years of listening to the previous tenantâs aggressive taste in late night television. You know his name is Jake because itâs on the mailbox.
Thatâs it. Thatâs the extent of your knowledge of the man in 3A. Until 6:58 on a Tuesday morning when someone knocks on your door.
ââ ââ â ââ ââ â
You are not a morning person. You are, in fact, the opposite of a morning person. You are someone who sets four alarms and ignores three of them and considers getting out of bed before eight a personal attack. Your first class doesnât start until ten. You were planning to sleep until at least eight thirty, mainline coffee until nine, and leave with approximately four minutes to spare.
So when someone knocks on your door at 6:58 AM you lie there for a full thirty seconds convincing yourself you imagined it. Then it happens again. Small. Rhythmic. Insistent. knock knock knock
You groan into your pillow. Drag yourself upright. Pull on the hoodie hanging off your desk chair and shuffle to the door, hair catastrophic, eyes barely open, prepared to be deeply unpleasant to whoever is on the other side.
You open the door. There is no one there. You blink. Look left. Look right. The hallway is empty and quiet andâ âHi.â
You look down. There is a child sitting on the floor outside your door. She is approximately three years old, round-cheeked and bright-eyed, wearing a yellow pajama set covered in tiny ducks. Her dark hair is escaping from two lopsided pigtails. She has a serious expression on her face like she has somewhere important to be and is merely pausing here briefly.
She is, without any competition, the most adorable thing you have ever seen in your entire life. You stare at her. She stares back. âHi,â she says again, very patient, like sheâs giving you time to catch up.
âHi,â you manage. âUm. Who are you?â
She considers this question with great seriousness. âMia.â
âOkay. Hi Mia.â You look up and down the empty hallway again. âWhere did you come from?â She points at the door directly across from yours. 3A. âAre youââ You crouch down to her level. âDid you come out of your apartment by yourself?â
âMr. Bunny is lost,â she explains, as if this answers everything. And apparently, in her world, it does. She stands up, remarkably steady on her feet for someone so small, and peers past you into your apartment with undisguised curiosity. âIs he in there?â
âIs whoâ Mr. Bunny? I donât think so, sweetheart. I havenât seen anyââ
âCan I look?â
âIâ wellââ Sheâs already walking past you into your apartment.
You stand in your doorway, blinking slowly, watching a three year old you have never met toddle into your living room and start investigating with the focused energy of a tiny detective. She checks under the coffee table. Behind the couch cushions. She picks up one of your throw pillows, examines it, puts it back. âHeâs not here,â she announces, sounding genuinely disappointed.
âIâm sorry.â Youâre fully awake now, adrenaline doing what four alarms couldnât. âMia, does your dad know where you are?â
She looks at you. Blinks. And then, for the first time, something flickers across her face that isnât complete confidence. Something small and uncertain. âDaddyâs sleeping,â she says quietly.
Oh no. Oh no.
âOkay,â you say, very carefully, going into full calm adult mode even though internally you are having a minor crisis. âOkay, thatâs okay. Letâs go wake daddy up, yeah?â
You take her hand â she gives it to you immediately, tiny fingers wrapping around yours with complete trust, and something in your chest does something weird and unexpected â and you walk her across the hall to 3A.
You knock. Nothing. You knock louder. A crash. Muffled swearing. Footsteps. The door flies open.
Jake Sim, your neighbor from 3A, looks absolutely terrible. Heâs in gray sweatpants and no shirt, hair destroyed, eyes wild with the specific panic of a parent who has woken up to find their child missing. Thereâs a pillow crease down his left cheek. He looks like a man who has just experienced the worst thirty seconds of his life.
He looks down at Mia standing beside you, her hand still in yours, looking up at him with the expression of someone who has done absolutely nothing wrong. The relief that crosses his face is so profound itâs almost painful to witness. âMia.â His voice comes out wrecked. He drops to his knees right there in the doorway, gathering her up, holding her against his chest. She pats his back tolerantly. âMia, Iâ you canâtâ how did youââ
âI was looking for Mr. Bunny,â she explains into his shoulder, very reasonable.
âYou canât leave the apartment by yourself, baby, Iâve told youââ
âBut Mr. Bunnyââ
âI donât care about Mr. Bunny right nowââ
âDaddy.â She pulls back to look at him, deeply offended. âMr. Bunny cares.â
You press your lips together very hard to keep from smiling. Jake looks up at you over Miaâs head, and he looks so mortified you almost feel sorry for him. Almost. It would be easier to feel sorry for him if he didnât look â even rumpled and panicked and creased from sleep â really quite unfairly attractive. You file that observation away to examine later, when a child is not present.
âIâm so sorry,â he says. âIâm so, so sorry, sheâs never done this before, I donât know how she got the door openââ
âShe knocked,â you tell him. âVery politely.â
He closes his eyes briefly. âOh god.â
âI used my reaching stool,â Mia informs him helpfully. âFor the handle.â
âWeâre getting rid of the reaching stool,â Jake tells her.
âNo.â
âYes.â
âDaddy, noââ
âMia.â He pulls back to look at her properly, and his voice goes soft but serious. âYou scared me. Really scared me, okay? You cannot leave without waking me up first. Ever. Do you understand?â
She looks at him. Her lip wobbles, just slightly. âI just wanted Mr. Bunny.â
âI know, baby.â He pulls her back in, pressing a kiss to her hair. âI know. But you have to wake me up. Promise me.â
âPromise,â she mumbles into his neck.
He holds her for another moment, and you feel like youâre witnessing something private. Something that belongs to them. You take a small step back. âIâll let youââ
âWait.â Jake stands, Mia on his hip, and looks at you with an expression thatâs somehow equal parts exhausted and sincere. âI really am sorry. And thank you. Genuinely, thank you forâ I donât even want to think about what would have happened if sheâd gone downstairs instead of just across the hall.â
âShe was perfectly safe,â you say. âShe was very focused on her investigation.â
âMr. Bunny is lost,â Mia reminds both of you gravely.
âWeâll find him,â Jake tells her. Then to you: âIâm Jake, by the way. Since apparently weâve been neighbors for eight months and Iâve never actually introduced myself, which isââ
âTerrible,â you supply.
âYeah.â He winces. âYeah, it really is. Iâm sorry about that too.â
âY/N,â you tell him. â3B.â
âI know. Iâve seen your name on the mailbox.â He shifts Mia on his hip. She has turned to look at you with renewed interest, the Mr. Bunny crisis temporarily suspended. âI kept meaning to knock and introduce myself properly but then time justââ
âIt does that,â you agree.
He smiles. Itâs a tired smile, still coming down from the panic, but itâs genuine. It does something to his face that you also file away for later. Mia is still staring at you. âYou have pretty hair,â she announces.
âMiaââ Jake starts.
âThank you,â you tell her seriously. âYours is very pretty too.â
She reaches up and touches one of her lopsided pigtails, considering. âDaddy did it,â she says, with the tone of someone being very diplomatic about a disappointing situation.
You look at Jake. He looks back at you. The pigtails are genuinely quite bad. âIâm working on it,â he says.
âWe couldââ You stop yourself. You donât even know this man. Youâve spoken to him for approximately four minutes. âNever mind.â
âNo, what?â
âI was just going to say I could show you. If you wanted. Itâs notâ itâs easy once you know the trick.â You gesture vaguely. âBut you probably have things toââ
âI would love that,â Jake says immediately. âGenuinely. Every morning is a disaster. She came home from daycare last week and her teacher had written a note that said âwe love Miaâs creative hairstylesâ and Iâm pretty sure that was a polite way of sayingââ
âDaddy canât do hair,â Mia explains to you, very straightforward.
âI cannot do hair,â Jake confirms.
You laugh. Actually laugh, fully awake now, standing in the hallway at seven in the morning in your old hoodie with your own hair catastrophic, and it surprises you a little. How easy it is. How natural. âCome over tomorrow morning,â you find yourself saying. âBefore daycare. Iâll show you a couple of things.â
Jake looks at you like youâve offered him something much more significant than a hair tutorial. âYou donât have toââ
âI know.â You crouch down to Miaâs level. âI hope you find Mr. Bunny.â
She studies you with those serious dark eyes. Then she reaches out and puts her small hand on your cheek, very gentle, the way toddlers sometimes do when theyâre deciding something important about you. âYouâre nice,â she declares.
âSo are you,â you tell her. She nods, satisfied, like this has confirmed something she already suspected.
Then she tucks her face back into Jakeâs neck, done with the interaction, and Jake gives you a helpless sort of smile over her head. âThank you,â he says again. âReally.â
âAnytime.â You stand up and take a step back toward your own door. âAnd Jake?â
âYeah?â
âMaybe put a chain lock on. Up high. Before tonight.â
He looks at the door. Looks at Mia. Looks back at you with the expression of a man who has just realized how many things there are to think about when youâre doing this alone. âYeah,â he says quietly. âYeah, good call.â
You donât go back to sleep. You make coffee and sit on your couch and think about the way Mia put her hand on your cheek like she was taking your measure. The way she gave you her hand without hesitating, tiny fingers trusting yours completely.
The way Jake held her when he found her safe. Like she was the most important thing in the world, which she obviously was, which was obvious in every single line of his body.
You think about his apartment, which you caught a glimpse of through the open door. The small pair of shoes by the entrance. The sticker on the light switch at toddler height. The general chaos of someone who is managing, but only just. You think about the note from the daycare teacher and the terrible pigtails and the way he said Iâm working on it without a single drop of self pity.
You finish your coffee. Make another one. You have a feeling that next door is going to become a lot more complicated than background noise and a name on a mailbox.
Youâre not sure yet if thatâs a good thing. But when you close your eyes you can still feel the ghost of small fingers wrapped around yours and you thinkâ yeah. Yeah, youâre probably already in trouble.
Mr. Bunny turns up two days later. He is in the freezer. Neither Jake nor Mia can explain how he got there.
You laugh about it for five minutes straight when Jake texts you, and then you look at your phone and realize youâve been texting your neighbor for two days like itâs completely normal and youâve known him for years. You put your phone down. Pick it up again. Type back: at least heâs preserved.
Jake sends back a string of crying laughing emojis and then: Mia wants me to tell you that Mr. Bunny says thank you for looking for him
You smile so hard your face hurts. You are, you realize, completely and utterly done for. And you havenât even properly met him yet.
The hair tutorial happens on Wednesday morning. You hear them before you see them â Miaâs voice carrying clearly through the wall at seven fifteen, a stream of cheerful commentary about something, Jakeâs lower voice responding, the particular domestic chaos of someone trying to get a toddler ready for daycare on a schedule. Then a knock at your door.
You open it to find Jake holding Mia like a football under one arm, a hairbrush in his free hand, and the expression of a man who has already lost this morningâs battle comprehensively.
Mia is upside down and completely unbothered. âHi,â she says, from her inverted position.
âHi,â you say. You step back and open the door wider. âCome in.â
They troop inside, Jake setting Mia down on her feet in your living room where she immediately begins a thorough reinvestigation of the space, picking up where she left off two days ago. She examines your bookshelf. Touches the small succulent on your windowsill very gently with one finger. âPlant,â she observes.
âHis name is Gerald,â you tell her.
She looks at you. Looks at Gerald. Looks back at you with the gravity of someone receiving important information. âHi Gerald,â she says politely. Jake makes a sound that might be him trying not to laugh.
âOkay.â You take the hairbrush from him. âSit her up on the couch and Iâll show you.â
What follows is twenty minutes that you will think about for the rest of the week for reasons you canât entirely explain.
Mia sits between your knees on the couch, remarkably patient once sheâs settled, holding Gerald the succulent in her lap because she asked and you said yes and Jake gave you a look that suggested he has learned to pick his battles. You work through her hair slowly, showing Jake each step â how to section it, how to hold the hair so it doesnât pull, how to make the pigtails sit even.
He watches with the focused attention of someone who is genuinely trying to learn this. Not just nodding along but asking questions, asking you to slow down, watching your hands. At one point he leans in close to see what youâre doing and youâre very aware of how near he is and the fact that he smells like clean laundry and something warm underneath.
You focus on Miaâs hair. âThe trick,â you tell him, âis that you do both sides before you tie either one off. Otherwise the first one pulls when you do the second.â
âThatâs what Iâve been doing wrong,â he says. He sounds genuinely relieved, like youâve solved something thatâs been bothering him for months. Which, apparently, you have. âI couldnât work out why they always went lopsided.â
âThey were very lopsided,â Mia agrees pleasantly.
âThanks, Mia.â
âYouâre welcome, Daddy.â
You finish, tying off the second pigtail with the elastic, and smooth a hand over her hair. Perfect and even and neat. She reaches up and touches them carefully. âPretty?â she asks.
âVery pretty,â you confirm.
She twists to look up at you, satisfied. Then she holds Gerald out. âYou can have him back.â
âThank you for taking care of him.â
âHe was scared,â she explains seriously. âHe doesnât know me yet.â She places him very carefully back on the windowsill, patting the pot once. âItâs okay Gerald. Iâm nice.â
Jake is watching his daughter with this expression â quiet and soft and a little undone at the edges â and when he catches you looking at him he clears his throat and looks away. Picks up the hairbrush from the cushion beside him. âRight,â he says. âWe should get going. Daycare at eight.â
âNooooo,â Mia says, without any real conviction. Sheâs already moving toward the door with the pragmatic acceptance of someone who knows the schedule.
âThank you,â Jake says to you. He means it. You can tell he means it in that way where the words are bigger than they sound. âSeriously. This wasââ
âItâs just pigtails.â
âItâs not justââ He stops. Starts again. âShe talks about you. Since Tuesday. Youâre the pretty lady from across the hall.â
Your face warms. âThatâs very generous of her.â
âSheâs got good taste.â He says it simply, matter of fact, and then looks slightly like he didnât mean to say it quite like that. âI meanâ sheâs a good judge of character. Generally.â
âY/N,â Mia calls from the doorway where she is putting her shoes on the wrong feet with great confidence.
âYeah?â
She looks up at you. âWill you be here tomorrow?â
Something squeezes in your chest. âYeah, Iâll be here.â
She nods, satisfied, like this is settled. Like you have made a commitment and she is holding you to it. Then she holds her foot up at Jake. âDaddy. Shoes.â
Jake crouches down to fix them, and you lean against your doorframe and watch, and you think about what Liv said to you once about knowing when something is going to change your life. How you can feel it sometimes. The specific weight of a moment thatâs about to matter.
You feel it now, watching Jake tie his daughterâs shoes in your doorway at seven forty in the morning while she holds your door handle for balance and hums something tuneless to herself. You feel it, and you file it away with everything else, and you tell yourself itâs too early for any of this and you need coffee.
You leave cookies outside 3A that afternoon. You donât examine why. You made a batch because you were stress baking about an assignment and you made too many and they were just sitting there and Jake mentioned once â in the mailbox, months ago, one of those nothing conversations youâd forgotten until now â that Mia liked anything with chocolate.
You leave them outside the door in a container with a post it note that says for Mia (and you, if you want) and then you go back inside and finish your assignment and donât think about it.
At nine fifteen that night your phone buzzes: jake 3a: she ate four before I could stop her and is now absolutely feral and wonât sleep. Iâm blaming you
You grin at your phone. you: thatâs fair
jake 3a: they were really good though like genuinely really good. Did you make them from scratch?
you: yes
jake 3a: of course you did
jake 3a: Iâm sorry, I donât know what that means, that came out weird. I just mean they were better than anything I could make. Iâm a terrible baker.
you: how terrible?
jake 3a: I made Mia a birthday cake in August and it came out flat and she cried
you: oh no
jake 3a: not because of the cake. She thought it was funny. She cried laughing. It was actually one of the best moments of my life which probably tells you everything about my standards right now
Youâre smiling at your phone like an idiot. you: Iâll make the cake next time. You send it before youâve fully decided to, and then stare at it. Itâs October. Youâve just committed to being in this manâs life until at least next August.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. jake 3a: you really donât have to
you: I want to. she told Gerald not to be scared because she was nice. I feel like she deserves a good birthday cake.
jake 3a: yeah she really does
ââ ââ â ââ ââ â
The drawing appears under your door on Thursday morning. You almost step on it when you come out of your bedroom, a folded piece of paper on your doormat. You pick it up and unfold it and find a crayon drawing â several figures of varying heights and proportions, all labeled in Jakeâs handwriting because Mia clearly directed and he transcribed.
Mia. Daddy. Gerald. Mr Bunny. And then, on the end, slightly larger than the others, with yellow crayon hair: Y/N. Sheâs drawn you into her family portrait.
You stand in your kitchen holding a crayon drawing with yellow-haired you standing next to a rectangle that is apparently Gerald and you feel something crack open in your chest so softly and so completely that you have to sit down.
You take a photo of it. You put the original on your fridge. You text Jake a photo of it on the fridge and he doesnât respond for ten minutes and when he does it just says: jake 3a: she worked on it for an hour last night
jake 3a: kept starting over because she wanted to get your hair right
You stare at that message for a long time. you: tell her I love it
jake 3a: sheâs going to lose her mind. also she asked if you want to come to the park with us Saturday
Three dots. Then: jake 3a: I want that too, for what itâs worth. If youâre free.
You look at the drawing on your fridge. Yellow-haired you, standing in a row with Mia and Daddy and Gerald and Mr. Bunny like youâve always been there. you: Iâm free Saturday
Saturday at the park is easy in a way that surprises you. Youâd half expected it to be awkward â the three of you, still essentially strangers, trying to fill silence in an open space. But Mia eliminates the possibility of silence entirely. She has opinions about the swings (good), the slide (excellent, requires multiple repetitions), and the ducks by the small pond at the parkâs edge (deeply suspicious, do not approach).
âTheyâre just ducks,â Jake tells her.
âTheyâre watching,â she says.
âTheyâre not watching.â
âDaddy.â She gives him a very patient look. âThey are watching.â
Jake looks at you. You shrug. âThey do look pretty focused,â you offer.
He points at you. âDonât encourage her.â
Mia takes your hand and pulls you toward the swings, away from the ducks and away from Jakeâs protests, and you go because sheâs three and determined and her hand is in yours and youâve decided thatâs reason enough for basically anything at this point.
You push her on the swings while Jake sits on the bench nearby, and you watch him watching the two of you. He has his elbows on his knees and his face is open in a way youâre starting to learn is rare for him â in a crowd or with strangers he goes carefully neutral, pleasant but contained. But here, watching Mia go higher and higher and shriek with delight, he looks unguarded. Younger, somehow. Like something in him relaxes when itâs just the three of you. âHigher!â Mia demands.
âYouâre already very high,â you tell her.
âHigher.â
âAbsolutely not.â
âPlease.â
âNice try.â
She cackles. Pure delighted toddler sound, head thrown back. And you find yourself laughing too, pushing her at this very reasonable height, and when you look over at Jake heâs smiling at you with an expression you donât quite have a name for yet. You look away first.
After the swings, Mia finds a stick, which becomes the most important object in the world for the next twenty minutes. She examines rocks. She makes Jake carry her on his shoulders. She falls asleep on the walk home with her cheek on his head and one fist clutching his jacket, completely unconscious, utterly trusting.
Jake walks carefully, holding her legs, talking to you in a low voice so he doesnât wake her. âShe doesnât do this with many people,â he says.
âFall asleep?â
âTrust people.â He adjusts his grip on her. âSheâs friendly, obviously, sheâll talk to anyone. But she doesnâtâ she doesnât hold hands with people she doesnât know. She doesnât draw people.â He pauses. âShe drew you in four days.â
You donât know what to say to that. So you say, âsheâs special.â
âYeah.â His voice is quiet. âShe really is.â
You walk in silence for a moment, the easy kind. âHow long has it been?â you ask. âJust the two of you.â
He doesnât tense the way you half expect him to. Just exhales, slow and steady. âSince she was four months old. Her mom left.â He says it flat, without bitterness, which somehow makes it worse. Like heâs had a long time to practice saying it that way. âJustâ left. Packed a bag while I was at work. By the time I got home it was just us.â
âJakeââ
âItâs fine now.â He glances at you sideways. âIt wasnât, for a long time. But itâs fine now. Itâs good, actually. Itâs really good.â He looks up at Miaâs sleeping face. âSheâs the best thing thatâs ever happened to me. I didnât know it was possible to love someone this much.â
You look at him. At the way he holds her. At the careful tenderness of it. âShe knows,â you say softly. He looks at you. âThat sheâs loved like that. You can tell.â You hold his gaze. âShe knows.â
Something moves through his expression. Quick and unguarded and gone before you can name it. âThanks,â he says quietly.
You walk the rest of the way home in comfortable silence, Mia asleep above you, the afternoon sun going golden through the trees lining the street. It is, you think, a very good Saturday.
ââ ââ â ââ ââ â
It becomes a routine without either of you deciding it should. Wednesday mornings, Jake knocks with the hairbrush. You do Miaâs hair while she holds Gerald and narrates her thoughts about the day ahead. Jake makes coffee in your kitchen like he knows where everything is, which after three weeks he does.
Saturdays are the park, or the farmers market two streets over, or just the three of you on one of your balconies eating whatever Jake has cooked because it turns out that while he cannot bake to save his life he is an genuinely excellent cook and he seems to enjoy having someone to cook for.
Evenings sometimes, when Miaâs in bed and Jake knocks quietly and you sit on his couch and watch something and talk about nothing in particular until one of you falls asleep.
It is domestic and soft and easy. It is also, you are increasingly aware, becoming something that would hurt to lose.
Mia calls you her Y/N now. Not just Y/N. Her Y/N, possessive and certain, the way she says her daddy and her Mr. Bunny and her Gerald. You are hers in her taxonomy of the world and the certainty of it does something to your chest every single time.
She tells the woman at the bakery you buy her the jam scroll she likes every Saturday. She tells a child at the park. She tells Mrs. Kim from 1A who coos and looks between you and Jake with an expression that makes Jake find something fascinating to look at on the middle distance.
Youâre folding laundry in your apartment on a Thursday evening, three weeks in, when Jake knocks. You open the door. Heâs holding two containers of leftover pasta, still warm. He holds one out. âMade too much,â he says.
You take it. Step back to let him in. This is how it goes now. âMia asleep?â you ask.
âOut cold. She had daycare and then apparently spent an hour reorganizing her stuffed animals by color.â He sits on your couch. âIt took everything she had.â
You sit beside him, open the pasta. Itâs good â itâs always good. âDid the reorganization meet her standards?â
âShe made me come and approve it before bed.â He pauses. âMr. Bunny is in the orange section even though heâs gray.â
âHe has warm undertones,â you say seriously.
Jake looks at you. Starts laughing. Not the polite laugh of someone being friendly but the real one, the one that takes over his whole face, and youâve been cataloguing that laugh for weeks now, the way it comes out surprised sometimes like he forgot he was allowed to do it.
Youâre laughing too, both of you over toddler stuffed animal color theory at eight PM with pasta containers in your laps, and when the laughter settles it leaves something warm and quiet in its place.
Jake is looking at you. Not the quick sideways glances youâve been trading for weeks. Really looking, steady and open, and you feel it the way you feel a change in weather. The pressure of it. The way the air shifts. âY/N,â he says.
âYeah?â
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks down at his pasta container, turning it in his hands. âNothing. Never mind. Itâs nothing.â
âItâs not nothing.â
He looks at you again and this time he doesnât look away. âI really like spending time with you.â
You hold his gaze. âI really like spending time with you too.â
âI havenâtââ He exhales. âI havenât wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. Maybe ever. And I donât know what to do with that.â
The honesty of it lands softly. No performance, no deflection. Just him, telling you the truth. âI donât either,â you say. âBut I donât think I want to stop.â
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he leans in, slow and deliberate, giving you every opportunity to pull back. You donât pull back.
His mouth finds yours, gentle at first, questioning, and then you lean into it and it stops being a question. Itâs warm and unhurried and it tastes like the pasta and something underneath that is just him, and when you finally break apart youâre both quiet, foreheads almost touching.
âOkay,â he says softly.
âOkay,â you agree.
He pulls back just slightly. His expression is open and a little nervous and more serious than the moment requires, or maybe exactly as serious as it requires. âI need to say something,â he says.
âOkay.â
âIf weââ He pauses, choosing his words. âWhatever this is. Whatever it becomes. Mia comes first. Always. Thatâs non negotiable for me. I need you to know that going in.â
You look at him. At the set of his jaw, the quiet certainty in his eyes. A man who has built his whole life around a three year old with lopsided pigtails and a stuffed rabbit and absolute confidence in the people she decides are hers. âJake,â you say.
âYeah.â
âI know.â You hold his gaze. âI love her. Sheâsâ she put her hand on my face the first morning and I was gone. I was completely gone.â You shake your head a little. âI think I fell for her before I even fell for you.â
Something moves across his face. Deep and quiet and undone.âYeah?â he says, and his voice is rough at the edges.
âYeah.â He kisses you again. Softer this time. Like something has been settled, like the last lock has clicked open. His hand comes up to cup your jaw and you lean into it and outside the window the city is doing whatever cities do at eight oâclock on a Thursday and in here it is warm and quiet and it feels, very specifically, like the beginning of something.
ââ ââ â ââ ââ â
The first time Mia is at the babysitterâs overnight, itâs an accident.
Not the overnight part â thatâs planned. Sandy, Miaâs regular babysitter three streets over, has been asking for weeks if she can have Mia for a sleepover because her own grandchildren are visiting and Mia and the youngest, a boy named Theo, have formed the specific intense friendship that only exists between toddlers who have decided they are best friends after forty five minutes together at a playground.
Jake agrees because Mia asks with her whole body, bouncing on her toes, and because Sandy has been his lifeline for two and a half years and he trusts her completely. Whatâs accidental is what happens after.
He drops Mia off at four on a Friday afternoon. Youâre not there â you have a late class â but when you get home at six thirty and knock on 3A because itâs become reflex, Jake opens the door and the apartment is quiet in a way it never is.
Youâve been in this apartment dozens of times now. You know its sounds. The particular creak of the second floorboard in the hall. The way the kitchen tap needs an extra turn to stop dripping. The constant ambient noise of Mia â her commentary, her singing, her negotiations with various stuffed animals about bedtime.
The silence is enormous. âWeird, right?â Jake says, reading your face.
âReally weird.â You step inside. âHow long has she been gone?â
âTwo hours.â He closes the door. âIâve cleaned the whole apartment and reorganized the pantry and I donât know what to do with myself.â
You look at the pantry, which is indeed immaculate. You look at Jake, who is in dark jeans and a simple white t-shirt and looks simultaneously very attractive and genuinely a little lost. âHave you eaten?â you ask.
âNo.â
âCook me something.â
Something in him settles. He moves into the kitchen, and you sit on the counter the way youâve started doing, and he makes pasta â different from the other night, something with lemon and herbs â and you open the wine you brought from your apartment and it is easy, it is so easy, the way everything with him has become easy without you noticing it happening.
âI know. I asked her what a paleontologist was and she said âa person who finds old bonesâ and I have no idea where she learned that word.â
âThatâsâ thatâs genuinely impressive.â
âShe then said she also wants to be a cat.â He takes a sip of wine. âSo. Range.â Youâre laughing, and heâs laughing, and the kitchen is warm and the wine is good and at some point the laughter fades and youâre just looking at each other in the quiet.
Itâs been two weeks since the kiss on your couch. Two weeks of nothing changing and everything changing â the same routine, the same easy rhythm, but with this new current running underneath it. His hand finding yours sometimes. The way he says goodbye now, at the door, that takes longer than it used to. The awareness of him that hums in your chest constantly, warm and insistent.
You havenât had a night without Mia before. Youâre both aware of it. âY/N,â he says.
âYeah.â
âCan Iââ He stops. Starts again. His jaw works slightly, that tell youâve learned. âIâve been thinking about this. About us. And I want toâ I want to do this properly. Take you on an actual date, not justââ He gestures at the table, the apartment, the comfortable domesticity of it. âNot just this. You deserveââ
âJake.â You set down your glass. âI like this.â
âI know, butââ
âI mean I really like this.â You hold his gaze. âI donât need a restaurant. I donât needâ I just want you. This. Whatever this is.â He looks at you for a long moment.
Then he pushes back from the table and crosses to you and kisses you like heâs been thinking about it all evening, one hand cupping your jaw, the other finding your waist. You slide off the counter and into him and he makes a low sound against your mouth that does something devastating to your concentration. âStay tonight,â he says against your lips.
âYeah,â you breathe. âOkay.â
You end up on his bed.
It happens slowly, the way things happen when thereâs no rush, when the whole night stretches ahead and neither of you is going anywhere. He takes his time, unhurried and thorough, like he wants to learn you. Like youâre something worth learning.
He lays you back against his pillows and looks at you for a moment, just looks, and something about being seen like that â careful and wanting and completely focused â makes heat pool low in your stomach before heâs even touched you. âHi,â he says softly.
âHi,â you say back.
He leans down and kisses you again, and itâs different from the doorway kisses and the couch kisses. Deeper. More deliberate. His hand slides up your side, pushing your shirt up, warm palm against your skin, and you shiver.âCold?â he murmurs.
âOpposite.â He smiles against your mouth. Keeps moving, finding the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms and let him pull it off. He sits back to look at you, and his expression is so openly appreciative, so uncomplicated in its wanting, that you feel heat rise to your face.
âDonât,â he says quietly.
âDonât what?â
âLook away.â His thumb traces your collarbone. âI want to look at you.â You keep his gaze. He keeps his.
He gets rid of his own shirt and you run your hands up his chest, his stomach, the way youâve been wanting to sinceâ longer than youâll admit. Heâs warm and solid and he watches your face as you touch him like your expression is telling him something important.
âWhat?â you ask.
âNothing.â He catches your hands, pins them gently above your head, leans down to press his mouth to your jaw. Your neck. The soft skin below your ear. âJust thinking about how long Iâve been wanting this.â
âHow long?â
He mouths at your pulse point and you gasp, arching up. âLonger than I should admit,â he murmurs. âProbably since the morning with Mia. You opened the door half asleep with terrible hair and you crouched down and talked to her like she was a real person and I thoughtââ He lifts his head to look at you. âI thought I was in serious trouble.â
âYour daughter was upside down under your arm,â you manage.
âI know. Terrible timing.â He releases your wrists, hands moving to the button of your jeans. âIs this okay?â
âYes. God, yes.â
He undresses you slowly, pressing his mouth to each new piece of skin like punctuation. The inside of your wrist. Your hip. The soft skin of your inner thigh that makes you grip the sheets and breathe out his name. He looks up at you from there, chin resting on your thigh, expression somewhere between fond and wrecked. âJakeââ
âIâve got you,â he says quietly. âOkay? Iâve got you.â And then his mouth is on you and your head falls back and you stop being able to think in complete sentences.
He takes his time the way he does everything â with complete attention, reading every sound you make, every shift of your hips, adjusting until he finds exactly what makes you come apart. He slides one finger inside you and then two, curling them just right while his tongue works your clit in slow, devastating circles, and you fist your hand in his hair and try to remember how to breathe.
âJakeâ fuckâ Iâmââ
He doesnât speed up. Doesnât change what heâs doing. Just keeps that perfect steady rhythm like he has all the time in the world, like getting you there is the only thing on his agenda, and you come with your thighs clamped around his head and his name on your lips and it crashes through you in waves that donât seem to stop.
He works you through every second of it, only easing off when you tug at his hair, oversensitive and shaking.
He moves up your body, pressing a kiss to your stomach, your sternum, your mouth. You can taste yourself on him and somehow that makes heat flare through you all over again. âHi,â he says again, soft and amused.
âYou,â you manage, âare very good at that.â
âYeah?â He looks pleased.
âDonât get smug about it.â
âIâm not smug.â He is a little smug. You find you donât mind. âYou okay?â
âMore than okay.â You reach up, pull him down to kiss him properly, deep and unhurried. âYour turn.â
You get his jeans off, and his boxers, and you wrap your hand around him and he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking slightly.âSorryââ
âDonât apologize,â you tell him. You stroke him slowly, learning the weight of him, and he drops his forehead to yours and just breathes. âTell me what you like.â
âThat,â he says roughly. âExactly that. Justââ He covers your hand with his, adjusts the pressure slightly. âYeah. Like that.â
You watch his face â the way his jaw goes tight, the way his eyes flutter. Heâs trying to stay composed and not quite managing it and you find that incredibly satisfying. âY/N.â His voice has gone rough. âI wantâ can Iââ
âYes,â you say. âPlease.â
He reaches into his nightstand drawer. You take the condom from him and roll it on yourself, slowly, which makes him close his eyes and exhale hard through his nose.âYouâre going to kill me,â he says.
âYouâll be fine.â
He settles between your thighs and you feel him there, pressing in, and you both go still for a moment. He pushes forward, slow and careful, watching your face, and the stretch of him makes you exhale hard, fingers pressing into his shoulders. He stops halfway, checking. âGood?â he asks.
âSo good.â You shift your hips, urging him on. âDonât stop.â
He doesnât stop. He seats himself fully and you both breathe through it, foreheads together, and then he starts to move and everything else falls away.
He fucks you slowly at first, deep and thorough, finding the angle that makes you gasp and then staying with it. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and you make a sound that youâd be embarrassed about in any other context.âThere?â he asks.
âThere,â you confirm breathlessly.
He keeps going. Steady and focused and impossibly good, hitting that spot inside you on every stroke while his thumb works you in tight circles, and you can already feel it building again, embarrassingly fast. âJakeâ fuckâ alreadyââ
âLet go,â he says against your temple. âI want to feel you.â
You come clenching around him, and he groans deep in his chest, the rhythm stuttering, and you feel him follow you over with your name on his lips, buried deep, shaking.
Afterward you lie tangled together in the quiet. He traces absent patterns on your arm. You listen to his heartbeat slow. âHey,â he says eventually.
âHey.â
âThat wasââ
âYeah.â You tilt your head up. âIt really was.â He presses a kiss to your hair. You feel him smile against it.
Outside, the city is doing its Friday night thing, indifferent and ongoing. In here the lamp is warm and the sheets are soft and Jakeâs heartbeat is steady under your cheek and you think about the drawing on your fridge and the hand on your cheek and Mr. Bunny in the freezer and all the ordinary extraordinary things that have built this without you quite realizing. âStay,â he says.
âIâm already here.â
âI meanââ He tightens his arm around you. âStay. Not just tonight.â
Youâre quiet for a moment. âYouâre going to have to define that.â
âI know.â His thumb moves slow on your arm. âIâm working up to it.â
âOkay.â You settle back against him. âIâm not going anywhere.â
Mia comes home at eleven the next morning. Youâre still there.
Youâre in Jakeâs kitchen making coffee, wearing his hoodie and your underwear, when the front door opens and Sandyâs voice floats through â âhere we are, my love, home sweet homeâ â and small feet thunder down the hall.
Mia appears in the kitchen doorway. She takes in the scene. You, in her daddyâs hoodie. The two coffee cups. The general evidence of your presence. Her face does something complicated and then completely simple. âMy Y/N,â she says, delighted, and launches herself at your legs.
You crouch down and catch her, and she wraps around you like a koala, warm and sleep-soft and smelling like Sandyâs house, and you hold her and look up at Jake in the doorway and heâs looking at the two of you with that expression again. The one thatâs bigger than his face can hold.
âHi baby,â you say into Miaâs hair. âHow was Theoâs?â
âWe found a worm,â she says. âHis name is Dave.â
âDid you bring Dave home?â
âSandy said no.â A pause. âI think that was wrong.â
âDave is probably very happy in Sandyâs garden.â
She considers this. âOkay.â Then, muffled against your shoulder: âAre you staying for breakfast?â
You look at Jake. He holds your gaze, steady and warm. âYeah,â you say. âIâm staying for breakfast.â
Mia pulls back, satisfied. âDaddy makes good eggs.â
âI know he does.â
âYou can sit next to me.â
âI would love that.â
She takes your hand and tows you toward the table with the authority of someone who has decided how this morning is going to go, and Jake moves to the stove, and outside the kitchen window the Saturday morning is doing its soft unhurried thing, and thisâ this is everything.
ââ ââ â ââ ââ â
The weeks that follow are the best of your life. You donât say that out loud. It feels too large, too exposed. But itâs true in the quiet way that the truest things are â not dramatic, not announced, just sitting solidly in your chest every time youâre aware of it.
The three of you fall into a rhythm so natural itâs almost hard to remember the before. Jake knocks on your door with the hairbrush and leaves with coffee. You come to theirs for dinner more nights than not. Mia insists on showing you everything â every drawing, every discovery, every development in the ongoing organization of her stuffed animal collection.
The farmers market becomes yours. Every Saturday, the three of you. Mia on Jakeâs shoulders, small hands wrapped in his hair, pointing imperiously at things she wants to examine. You buy her a sunflower from the flower stall in week two and she carries it home with both hands like itâs precious, and after that it becomes the thing â every week, a sunflower for Mia, who has decided they are her favorite and cannot be argued with on this point.
Jake watches you with her constantly. You catch him doing it â that soft unguarded look â and he doesnât stop when you catch him, just holds your gaze until you look away first, which you always do because the directness of it does something to your chest that you havenât found words for yet.
Mia tells her daycare teacher about you. You know this because Jake texts you a screenshot of a drawing she brought home â the same configuration as before, Mia Daddy Gerald Mr Bunny Y/N, but this time you and Jake are holding hands.
jake 3a: her teacher asked who the people were, she said âthatâs my daddy and my Y/N theyâre in loveâ
You stare at the message. you: sheâs three
jake 3a: three and apparently very perceptive
you: what did you tell the teacher
jake 3a: I said she wasnât wrong
You put your phone face down on the desk and press both hands over your face and sit there for a full minute. Then you pick it up. you: jake
jake 3a: yeah?
you: are you in love with me
A pause. Longer than usual. Your heart does something complicated in the silence. jake 3a: Iâve been trying to find the right moment to say it properly not over text but yes, very much yes. I have been for a while
jake 3a: is that okay?
You read it three times. you: yes, itâs very okay. also I love you too
jake 3a: yeah?
you: yeah
jake 3a: okay, good. Iâm going to say it properly tonight with Mia asleep so she doesnât narrate it
you: she would absolutely narrate it
jake 3a: she would make it about herself somehow
you: she would bring Mr Bunny as a witness
jake 3a: heâd be very moved
Youâre smiling so hard your face hurts, alone in your apartment at two in the afternoon, and you think about the morning you opened your door and found a small person sitting on your doormat in duck pajamas looking for her rabbit.
You think about tiny fingers in yours on the way back across the hall. You think about youâre nice delivered with complete certainty by someone who had known you for four minutes.
That night, after Mia is asleep, Jake says it properly. Standing in the kitchen, cup of tea going cold on the counter, both of you knowing itâs coming and neither of you in any rush because thereâs no need to rush anymore.
âI love you,â he says. Simple and direct. âI love you and I love that she loves you and I donât want to do any of this without you.â
âI love you too,â you say. âBoth of you. The wholeâ all of it. Everything.â
He kisses you there in the kitchen and it tastes like coming home, which is a thing you didnât know kitchens could taste like until now.
Later, in his bed, you press your face into his shoulder and listen to the particular quiet of the apartment at night â the creak of the building, the distant city, the soft sound of Mia breathing through the baby monitor on the nightstand. âHey,â Jake says quietly. âYou know what Mia asked me today?â
âWhat?â
âShe asked if you were going to live with us.â
Your heart turns over. âWhat did you tell her?â
âI said I hoped so.â He tilts his head to look down at you. âIs that okay?â
âYeah,â you say softly. âThatâs okay.â He pulls you closer. You close your eyes. Outside, a siren somewhere. The building settling. Miaâs breathing through the monitor, slow and even and completely safe.
In here, you think. Everything is in here. You never see it coming. Thatâs the thing about a knock at the door when youâre happy. You donât brace for it. You donât clock the risk. Youâre justâ there. In the warm. Thinking about nothing that isnât good.
ââ ââ â ââ ââ â
Itâs a Sunday. Mia is at Sandyâs. Not overnight this time â just the afternoon, a regular arrangement while Jake works on a deadline.
Except Jake finished his deadline by noon and texted you and you came over and the afternoon became the best kind of afternoon, the kind that starts with coffee and talking and turns into something else entirely when Mia isnât home, when thereâs nowhere to be and no particular reason to leave the bedroom.
Youâre in his bed. Late afternoon light coming gold through the curtains. His hand on your back tracing lazy patterns on your spine. Youâre boneless and warm and half thinking about nothing and half thinking about whether Mia will want to show you the worm situation at Sandyâs when Jake picks her up.
âSandy said she asked to bring Dave home three more times,â Jake says, like heâs reading your mind.
âPersistent.â
âShe gets it from somewhere.â His hand moves up to the back of your neck, squeezing gently. âYou hungry?â âNot yet.â
âOkay.â He presses a kiss to your shoulder. âWeâve got a couple of hours before I pick her up.â You hum. He pulls you closer. The afternoon light shifts.
Then someone knocks at the door. Jakeâs hand stills on your back. âExpecting anyone?â you ask.
âNo.â He frowns slightly. âSandy would call.â He sits up, reaching for his t-shirt. âProbably Danny about the tap.â
You stretch out across the warm space heâs left, drowsy and content, listening to his footsteps down the hall. The sound of the door opening. Silence.
Not the brief silence of oh hi Danny itâs fine. A longer silence. A loaded one.
Then a voice you donât recognize â a womanâs voice, careful and slightly uncertain â saying his name. âJake.â
You go very still.
Jake says nothing for a long moment. When he speaks his voice is completely flat in a way youâve never heard from him before. Like all the warmth has been removed surgically. âWhat are you doing here?â
âI justâ I wanted toââ The womanâs voice. âCan I come in?â
âNo. How did you find me?â
âYour mum. She didnâtâ she thought I knew the address, I think. I donât think she realizedââ
âWhy are you here.â Not a question. A demand.
A pause. âI want to see her,â the woman says. âI want to see Mia.â
The name lands in the apartment like something dropped. You sit up slowly, pulling the sheet around yourself, and the drowsy warmth of the afternoon has gone completely. In its place something cold and alert.
âYou need to leave,â Jake says.
âI know I donât have the right toââ
âYou left,â Jake says, and his voice is still flat, but underneath the flatness there is something enormous being held very carefully in check. âShe was four months old and you left. Youâve been gone for three years. You donât get to knock on my door and say you want to see her like itâs a reasonable thing to say.â
âI know.â The womanâs voice cracks slightly. âI know that. I justâ Jake, please, I just wantââ
âTo see her? Or to see me?â Silence. âYeah,â Jake says quietly. âThatâs what I thought.â
You get up. Quietly. You find your clothes in the soft afternoon mess of the room, pull them on, and you stand in the hallway outside his bedroom door and you look at the front door.
Sheâs standing in the doorway. Tall, dark-haired, pretty in a way that might have been beautiful before whatever sheâs been carrying got into her face. Sheâs looking at Jake with an expression that mixes guilt and want in proportions you donât have to be a genius to read.
She sees you. Her eyes move over you â your rumpled clothes, Jakeâs apartment behind you, the obvious geography of the afternoon â and something hardens in her expression that you recognize. The specific hardening of someone who wanted to find a door open and has found it closed.
Jake turns. He sees you in the hallway. Something moves through his face â protective, apologetic, something else underneath that you donât have time to read. âY/N,â he says. âHi.â You keep your voice steady. âIâllâ I can go.â
âYou donât have toââ
âItâs okay.â You look at him clearly, trying to say with your eyes what you canât say in front of her: Iâm fine. Iâm not going far. Handle this. âIâll be across the hall.â
He holds your gaze. His jaw is set, his eyes tight at the corners, but he gives you the smallest nod.
You pick up your keys from the bowl by the door â yours, in the bowl by Jakeâs door, which happened so gradually you canât remember it beginning â and you step past the woman in the doorway without looking at her.
You go into 3B. You close the door. You sit on your couch and you listen to the muffled sound of voices through the wall, and you hold yourself very carefully together, and you wait.
You sit on your couch for forty minutes. You know because you watch the clock. Not obsessively â youâre not counting seconds â but every time your eyes drift to it another chunk of time has passed and the voices through the wall have not stopped.
You make tea you donât drink. You open your laptop and close it again. You pick up your phone three times and put it down without texting anyone because what would you even say.
My boyfriendâs ex showed up. The one who left when their daughter was four months old. Sheâs been there forty minutes and Iâm sitting in my apartment trying not to think about the way she looked at him.
You put your phone face down on the cushion beside you.
The thing is â and you know this, you do â you trust Jake. Thatâs not the part thatâs making your chest tight. Youâve watched him for months now. You know who he is. You know the way he holds his daughter and the way he laughs and the way he looks at you when he thinks youâre not watching. You know he means what he says.
The part thatâs making your chest tight is her face when she saw you. Not guilt. Not embarrassment at the intrusion. Something proprietary. Something that said what are you doing in my space even though she is the one who left. Even though she forfeited any claim to this apartment and this life and this man the day she packed a bag while her four month old daughter slept.
Youâre familiar with that expression. Youâve worn it yourself, briefly, watching other women talk to Jake at the market or at the park. You know what it means. She wants him back. Mia is the reason she knocked. But she wants Jake back.
Youâre still sitting with that when your phone buzzes. jake 3a: sheâs gone, can you come back?
Youâre across the hall before youâve fully decided to move. He opens the door before you knock. He looks terrible. Not falling apart â Jake doesnât fall apart, youâve figured that out, he goes very still and very controlled when things get bad, which is almost worse â but there are lines around his eyes that werenât there this morning and his jaw is set in that way that means heâs been holding something in for a while.
He steps back to let you in. Closes the door. You turn to face him and he looks at you for a moment like heâs checking that youâre real, that youâre still here, that the afternoon hasnât completely dismantled itself. âYou okay?â you ask.
âI should be asking you that.â
âIâm fine. I was across the hall.â You hold his gaze. âAre you okay?â
He exhales. Long and slow. Runs a hand through his hair. âShe wants to see Mia. She says sheâs been in therapy. That sheâs beenâ working through things. That she made a mistake and she knows that and she just wantsââ He stops. His jaw works. âShe was here for forty minutes and Miaâs name came up maybe three times.â
Your stomach tightens. âWhat did the rest of it cover?â He looks at you with an expression that answers the question without words. âJakeââ
âI told her no,â he says. âTo all of it. I told herâ Mia doesnât know her. Sheâs three years old, she has no memory of her, and showing up out of nowhere and announcing herself as her mother would beâ Iâm not doing that to her. Iâm not letting someone walk in and blow up her world because theyâve decided theyâre ready now.â
âThatâs right,â you say quietly.
âIs it?â He looks genuinely uncertain, and that more than anything tells you how rattled he is. Jake is not an uncertain man. Heâs careful, heâs considered, but when heâs decided something he holds it steady. Watching him doubt himself is unfamiliar and uncomfortable. âBecause part of me thinksâ sheâs her mother. Biologically. Does Mia have a right to know her? At some point? And am Iââ
âJake.â You cross to him. Put your hand on his chest, flat over his heart, and look up at him. âYou are the most present, devoted, thoughtful parent I have ever seen. You have been both of them for three years. Whatever you decide about this, it comes from that. Not from fear, not from jealousy. From knowing your daughter.â He looks down at you. His hand comes up to cover yours. âSheâs not here because of Mia,â you say gently. âYou know that.â
âYeah.â His voice is rough. âYeah, I know that.â
âSo you handle the Mia question in your own time, with proper advice, on your terms. Not because she showed up at your door on a Sunday afternoon.â
Heâs quiet for a moment. Then: âWhen did you get soââ
âWise?â
âI was going to say steady.â
âSame thing.â You press your palm flatter against his chest. âYouâre okay. Miaâs okay. This is justâ a thing that happened on a Sunday. It doesnât have to be more than that right now.â
He looks at you for a long moment. Something in his face shifts â the held-in thing loosening slightly, the lines around his eyes easing. âI really love you,â he says quietly.
âI know.â You reach up, press your hand briefly to his jaw. âI love you too. Go get your daughter.â
He comes back with Mia at five thirty. Youâre in his kitchen making dinner â youâd found pasta and vegetables and half a block of good parmesan and it seemed like the right thing to do, to be here, to have something warm happening when they got home.
Mia comes through the door at full speed, as always, and finds you at the stove and absolutely loses her mind with delight. âMy Y/N is here!â
âHi, my Mia.â She barrels into your legs and you crouch down and catch her, and over her head you watch Jake close the front door and lean against it for just a second, eyes closed. Like heâs taking a breath. Like heâs counting the things still here and finding them all present.
Then he opens his eyes and sees you watching him and something in his face goes soft. âDave update,â Mia says urgently against your neck.
âTell me everything.â
âSandy said he moved.â Her voice is full of significance. âShe doesnât know where he went.â
âDave is living his life.â
âThatâs what Sandy said.â She pulls back to look at you. âI think he went to find his family.â
âThatâs a very hopeful interpretation.â
âWorms have families,â she tells you solemnly. âProbably.â
âDefinitely,â you agree.
Jake has moved into the kitchen. He comes up behind you â Mia still in your arms â and presses a kiss to the side of your head. Quick and quiet. Gratitude and love in a single gesture. âSmells good,â he says.
âTwenty minutes.â
âCan I help?â
âYou can set the table.â
âI want to help,â Mia announces.
âYou can put the napkins out,â you tell her, and she accepts this responsibility with great seriousness, and Jake sets her down and gets the napkins and she carries them to the table one at a time with both hands like theyâre fragile, and Jake catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths thank you and you shake your head slightly because thereâs nothing to thank you for.
Youâre exactly where you want to be.
Later, after dinner, after Miaâs bath, after two bedtime stories and one negotiation about the structural integrity of a fort she wants to construct in the living room (tomorrow, baby, itâs bedtime), after small arms around your neck and a kiss pressed very seriously to your cheek and night my Y/N into the darkâ
You and Jake sit on his couch in the quiet. He has his legs stretched out on the coffee table. Youâre tucked into his side, his arm around you. The lamp is the only light. The apartment has the particular peace of a small child asleep in the next room. âSheâs going to come back,â Jake says quietly.
âProbably.â
âIâm going to talk to a lawyer. Get clear on where things stand legally before she does.â His thumb moves on your arm. âShe signed over custody voluntarily. I donât think she has grounds for anything. But I want to know for certain.â
âThatâs smart.â
âI donât want Mia to know about this until I do. I donât want her picking up on anything.â
âShe wonât hear it from me.â
He turns his head to press a kiss to your hair. âI know.â You sit in the quiet for a moment. âShe looked at you,â he says. âThe way she looked at you when she saw you there.â His arm tightens slightly. âI need you to know that whatever she came here wanting, it was never going toâ she left, Y/N. She made her choice. Thereâs nothing there.â
âI know that too.â
âI justââ He exhales. âI donât want you to have any doubt. About this. About us.â
You lift your head to look at him. His face in the lamplight, tired and earnest and completely, simply honest. âI donât,â you tell him. âNot even a little.â
He holds your gaze. âGood,â he says quietly. He kisses you softly, and you let yourself melt into it, and outside the window the night is doing its ordinary thing, indifferent and ongoing.
When you break apart you settle back against his shoulder. âStay,â he says.
âObviously,â you say. He pulls you closer.
In the next room, Mia sleeps, completely safe, completely loved, completely unaware that someone knocked on the door today and was turned away.
Sheâll know, eventually. Jake will tell her, carefully, at the right time, in the right way. Thatâs the kind of father he is. But tonight she just sleeps. And you and Jake stay on the couch until you both drift off, warm and quiet and whole.
The lawyerâs name is Ms. Park and she is very thorough.
Jake comes back from the meeting on a Wednesday looking lighter than he has all week. He finds you in his kitchen â where you are most afternoons now, itâs become accepted fact â and he leans in the doorway and says:
âShe has no legal standing. She relinquished custody voluntarily and completely. If she wants any kind of access she would have to apply through the courts and demonstrate sustained rehabilitation and it would be a long process with no guarantee.â
You set down the mug youâre washing. âOkay.â
âShe came here once and I turned her away and she hasnât come back.â He exhales. âI donât think sheâs going to pursue it. I think she came here for me and when that didnât workââ
âShe has no reason to stay.â You cross the kitchen to him. Put your hands on his chest. âHow do you feel?â
He thinks about it genuinely, the way he does. âRelieved,â he says. âAndâ sad, a little. That itâs this way. That Mia doesnât haveââ He stops.
âShe has you,â you say. âShe has Sandy and Mrs. Kim and the daycare teachers who love her and Theo the worm friend andââ You meet his eyes. âShe has me. For as long as youâll both have me.â
Something moves through his face. âForever, then,â he says simply.
Your heart turns over. âYeah,â you say softly. âForever works.â
He kisses you there in the kitchen and it tastes like relief and sunlight and something settled and permanent. From the doorway comes a small voice. âAre you kissing again?â
You break apart to find Mia standing in the hallway in her socks, Mr. Bunny under her arm, regarding you both with the patient exhaustion of someone who has seen this many times and has opinions. âSorry,â Jake says, not sounding sorry at all.
âItâs fine,â Mia says, generous. âYou can kiss. But after can we do the fort?â
âWe can do the fort,â you confirm. She nods, satisfied. Turns and toddles back down the hall.
Jake looks at you. You look at Jake.âThe fort,â he says. You nod in agreement and follow him and your daughter down the hall.
ââ ââ â ââ ââ â
Three months later, Mia stops calling you my Y/N. She starts calling you mama.
It happens on a Tuesday. Not a special Tuesday. Not a significant one. Just an ordinary Tuesday in February where the sky is doing that flat grey thing it does in late summer when the heat hasnât broken yet and everything feels slightly sticky and slow.
Youâre doing her hair. The Wednesday morning routine has migrated â itâs every morning now, most mornings, because somewhere between October and February the question of which apartment are you sleeping in stopped being a real question. Youâre here. You live here, functionally, in every way that matters except the technical one. Your toothbrush is here. A drawer is yours. Gerald the succulent has been relocated to the kitchen windowsill where he gets better light and Mia waters him every second day with great ceremony.
Jake is in the kitchen. Coffee is happening. Mia is between your knees on the couch, holding Mr. Bunny, and youâre doing two neat braids because she has decided braids are her preference this week and youâve been practicing. âTighter,â she instructs.
âIf I go tighter itâll pull.â
âI want tight braids.â
âYou want braids that feel comfortable and also look good.â
She considers this negotiation. âOkay,â she concedes.
You keep going. She hums something to herself, swinging her feet, and you work through the second braid, and itâs quiet in the good way, the way that only exists when everyone in a space is completely comfortable. âMama,â Mia says.
âHmm?â You tie off the braid.
âCan I wear the yellow dress today?â
Youâre reaching for the second hair tie when it lands.
Mama.
She said it like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural word in the world. Like sheâs been saying it her whole life, which â you realize, with your heart doing something enormous and unsteady in your chest â maybe in her head she has been.
âYeah,â you manage, and your voice comes out almost normal. âYeah, baby, we can find the yellow dress.â
She scrambles off the couch and heads to her room, completely unbothered, Mr. Bunny trailing from one hand. You sit there. In the kitchen, the coffee maker finishes its cycle.
Jake appears in the doorway with two mugs, takes one look at your face, and stops. âWhat happened? Are you okay? Whatââ
âShe called me mama,â you say.
The mugs go onto the coffee table. Jake sits beside you and looks at you with an expression that is doing the same enormous unsteady thing yours probably is. âJust now?â
âJust now.â Your voice is not quite steady. âShe asked if she could wear the yellow dress and she called me mama and then she justâ walked off. Like it was nothing.â
âY/Nââ
âIâm not upset.â You turn to him, urgent, needing him to understand. âIâm notâ Iâm not upset, Jake, I justââ You press a hand to your chest. âI donât know what to do with this.â
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he takes your face in both hands, careful and deliberate, and presses his forehead to yours. âI do,â he says quietly.
âYeah?â
âYeah.â He pulls back just enough to look at you. âYou say yes. Thatâs what you do. You justâ say yes.â
From down the hall: âFound it!â A pause. âMama, can you do the buttons?â
You close your eyes. âOkay,â you breathe. Yeah.â You open your eyes. Look at him. âYeah. Okay.â
He kisses you, quick and soft, and then you get up and go down the hall to do the buttons on a yellow dress, and Jake stands in the living room doorway watching and the expression on his face is the most complete thing youâve ever seen on a human being.
That night, after Mia is asleep, Jake asks you to move in. Not impulsively. Not as a reaction to the morning. You can tell heâs been thinking about it for a while â thereâs a particular quality to his stillness when heâs been working up to something, and youâve learned it the way youâve learned all of him, gradually and permanently.
Youâre on the couch. Late. The lamp on, the city quiet outside. His hand in yours. âMove in,â he says. You look at him. âProperly,â he says. âNot the drawer and the toothbrush. All of it. Gerald and everything.â
âGeraldâs already here.â
âI know.â The corner of his mouth moves. âConsider it a trial run.â
You look at your joined hands. At the apartment that has been yours in every meaningful sense for months. At the hallway where Mia is sleeping with Mr. Bunny and her color-organized stuffed animals and absolute certainty that you will be here in the morning. âYeah,â you say.
âYeah?â
âObviously yeah, Jake.â You lean over and kiss him. âObviously.â
He pulls you in and holds you there, and you feel him exhale slowly against your hair. âSheâs going to lose her mind,â he says.
âSheâs going to tell Gerald first.â
âSheâs going to tell Gerald, then Mrs. Kim, then Sandy, then everyone at daycare.â
âIn that order.â
âIn that exact order.â
Youâre both laughing, quiet so you donât wake her, and it settles into something warm and certain. âHey,â Jake says. âI love you.â
âI love you too.â You press your face into his shoulder. âBoth of you. The whole thing.â
âThe whole thing loves you back,â he says simply.
You tell Mia in the morning. Jake does it, at breakfast, with the careful measured approach of a man who has learned that toddlers receive important news better when theyâre eating something. âHey Mia. You know how Y/N stays here a lot?â
Mia looks up from her toast. Looks at you. Looks back at Jake. âYes.â
âHow would you feel if she stayed here all the time? Like, lived here. With us.â
Mia blinks. Puts down her toast. Looks at you with enormous serious eyes. âLike forever?â she asks.
âLike forever,â Jake confirms.
She stares at you for a long moment with the focused intensity of someone making a very important assessment.
Then she gets down from her chair, crosses to you, climbs into your lap uninvited and completely certain of her welcome, and wraps both arms around your neck. âOkay,â she says into your shoulder. âYou can live here.â
âThank you,â you manage, arms tight around her.
âGerald will be happy,â she adds.
âHe really will.â
She pulls back. Looks at your face. Puts her small hand on your cheek exactly the way she did on the very first morning, in the hallway, four months ago when she was looking for her rabbit. âDonât cry,â she says kindly. âItâs good news.â
âI know.â You laugh, wet at the edges. âHappy tears.â
âOh.â She considers this. âOkay.â Then, satisfied, she climbs back down, retrieves her toast, and resumes breakfast.
Jake is looking at you over her head with an expression that could power something. âTold you,â he mouths. You shake your head, still smiling, still blinking hard.
The whole thing loves you back. Yeah. Yeah it really does.
The move takes a weekend. Itâs not a big move â your apartment was small and youâve been migrating things gradually for months without meaning to â but thereâs something significant about doing it officially. Carrying boxes across the hall. Hanging your clothes properly in the wardrobe. Arranging your books on the shelves beside Jakeâs.
Mia supervises. She is a very involved supervisor, offering opinions on where everything should go and occasionally redirecting items she feels would be better placed in her room. You negotiate firmly on the throw blanket. You surrender the small lamp without a fight because sheâs put it next to Mr. Bunny and it does look good there, objectively.
By Sunday evening the apartment is a comfortable chaos of rearrangement and youâre all sitting on the living room floor eating pizza from the box because no one has the energy to locate the table under the moving debris.
Mia is in your lap. Jake is beside you, shoulder to shoulder, pizza slice in hand, looking around the apartment that has shifted and expanded and settled into something new. âLooks different,â he says.
âGood different?â
He looks at you. âYeah. Really good different.â
Mia tilts her head back to look up at you from your lap. âCan we build the fort now?â
âWe live in a fort,â you tell her, gesturing at the surrounding box landscape.
Her eyes go wide. She looks around. Looks back at you. âWe live in a fort,â she breathes.
âWe live in a fort,â Jake confirms solemnly. She is overcome.
You and Jake look at each other over her head, laughing, and it is â this moment exactly, pizza and boxes and a delighted three year old and the lamp in the wrong place and Gerald on the windowsill â it is everything. Absolutely everything.
ââ ââ â ââ ââ â
A year later
The morning of the wedding, Mia wakes up at five forty-three AM. You know this because she comes and stands beside the bed and breathes on your face until you open your eyes. âItâs today,â she whispers.
âIt is,â you confirm.
âIâm the flower girl.â
âYou are.â
She absorbs this with great seriousness. Then: âI need to practice.â
âMia, itâs not even sixââ
âI need to practice.â
Jake makes a sound beside you that is him absolutely not laughing. You elbow him. âOkay,â you say. âBut quietly. So we donât wake the neighbors.â
She nods, solemn and focused, and turns and walks very slowly back down the hallway, scattering invisible petals with great ceremony, narrating under her breath â and then I walk here, and then here, and then I find mamaâ
You lie there in the early morning grey and stare at the ceiling and think about the word mama the way you have thought about it every day for the past year and a half. The way it still does something enormous to your chest. The way you donât think it will ever stop.
Jake rolls toward you. Presses his face into your neck. âMorning,â he murmurs.
âYour daughter is practicing flower girl technique in the hallway.â
âSheâs been planning this since we told her.â His arm comes around you. âShe asked Sandy if she could practice at her house. She practiced at daycare. She made Theo be the groom so she could practice walking toward someone.â
âSheâs extremely prepared.â
âSheâs extremely her.â He presses a kiss to your jaw. âHow are you feeling?â
âGood.â You turn to face him. His face in the early light, sleep-soft and certain and completely, permanently yours. âReally good. You?â
âBest day of my life,â he says simply. âAfter the day she was born. And the day you moved in. And the day you said yes when I asked.â He pauses. âTop five, at minimum.â
âThatâs very good company.â
âYouâre very good company.â He kisses you properly, slow and warm, and from the hallway comes the sound of small feet completing another practice lap.
ââŠand then I find mama, and sheâs the prettiestââ You pull back from Jake, blinking hard. He looks at you. Reaches up and brushes his thumb under your eye, gentle.
âSheâs not wrong,â he says.
âItâs five forty-five in the morning, I look terribleââ
âYou look like the person Iâm marrying today.â He holds your gaze. âWhich means you look perfect.â You press your face into his shoulder and hold on for a moment.
From the hallway: âOkay Iâm ready. Can we have breakfast now?â
Sandy comes at nine to take Mia for hair and getting dressed â a situation Mia has been anticipating with the focused excitement of someone who has been told she gets curls and a flower in her hair and has not stopped thinking about it since.
She submits to the process with remarkable patience, sitting very still while Sandy works, only turning her head twice to update you on developments. âItâs getting curlier,â she reports.
âI can see that.â
âDo I look like a princess?â
âYou look exactly like a princess.â She nods, satisfied, and returns to stillness.
When itâs done she stands in front of the mirror in her small white dress â simple, with a yellow sash, because she requested yellow and you would move mountains before youâd say no to that â and looks at herself for a long, serious moment.âI look nice,â she concludes.
âYou look incredible,â Sandy says.
âYeah.â She turns to look at you. Her eyes go wide. âMama. You look so pretty.â
Youâre in your dress â simple, exactly what you wanted, nothing complicated â and your hair is done and youâre holding your bouquet and youâre trying very hard not to cry and failing slightly.âSo do you,â you tell her.
She crosses to you. Reaches up and takes your hand, the way she did in a hallway a long time ago, completely certain of her welcome.âDonât be nervous,â she tells you.
âIâm not nervous.â
âGood.â She squeezes your fingers. âDaddy loves you the most.â
âHe loves you the most.â
She considers this with genuine fairness. âHe loves us the same,â she decides. âEqual. Like a tie.â
âThatâs exactly right.â
She nods. Pats your hand once, settling the matter. âOkay,â she says. âLetâs go get married.â
The venue is small and warm and full of people who love you.
Mrs. Kim is in the third row in her best jacket, already dabbing her eyes. Sandy is beside her. Jakeâs parents flew in from Brisbane â his mother cried when she met you and his father shook your hand for a very long time and said thank you for making them happy and youâd had to excuse yourself to the bathroom for five minutes after that.
Your own family. Your friends. The people who have been the walls of your life. And at the end of the aisle, Jake.
In a dark suit, hands clasped in front of him, hair the way you like it. Heâs talking quietly to the celebrant and then someone touches his arm and he looks up and sees Mia in the doorway.
His face does what it always does when he sees her. That open, completely unguarded thing. She waves at him. He waves back.
Then he sees you behind her and his face does something else entirely.
The music starts. Mia goes first. She has been told, approximately as many times as you can tell a four and a half year old anything, that flower girls walk slowly. Measured. Elegant. She lasts four steps.
Then she spots Jake at the end of the aisle and she goes â there is no other word for it â feral with excitement, sunflowers clutched in both fists, petals going in every direction except down, grinning so hard her whole face is the grin, half walking half skipping half something entirely her own.
âDADDY I FOUND HERâ she announces at full volume to the entire assembled gathering. âI FOUND HER SHEâS HEREâ
The room erupts. Not polite wedding laughter. Real laughter, the kind that comes from somewhere genuine, rippling through every row. Mrs. Kim is crying laughing. Sandy has her hand over her mouth. Jakeâs mother is gripping his fatherâs arm.
Jake is crouching down to catch Mia as she reaches him, scooping her up, pressing a kiss to her chaotic curls, the flower in her hair somehow surviving the sprint. âGood job,â you hear him tell her.
âI practiced,â she says, very serious.
âI know you did, baby.â He sets her down. She takes her position with great dignity, as though the sprint did not happen, as though she has been standing here elegantly the entire time.
And then Jake looks up at you. You walk toward him. The room goes soft around the edges â not blurred, just quiet, the way things go when youâre paying attention to the only thing that matters. The faces on either side are warm and familiar and you see them without seeing them because youâre looking at Jake.
Jake, who opened his door on a panicked Tuesday morning and showed you his worst fear and his whole heart in the same thirty seconds.
Jake, who makes coffee before you ask and remembers every small thing and says what he means with a simplicity that still sometimes catches you off guard.
Jake, who watched you fall in love with his daughter before you fell in love with him and let it happen without trying to manage or protect or preempt it, because he trusted you, because he looked at you and knew.
You reach him. He takes your hand and holds it like heâs been holding it his whole life. âHi,â he says quietly.
âHi,â you say back.
Beside him, Mia has taken your other hand. She holds it with both of hers, feet planted, present and accounted for, witnessing this with the gravity it deserves.
The celebrant begins. The vows are Jakeâs own words. You knew this. You wrote yours too, separately, privately, the way youâd agreed. But hearing them â in his voice, in this room, looking at his face â is different from knowing.
He talks about the morning Mia escaped into the hallway and how he stood in your doorway afterward watching you crouch down to his daughterâs level and felt something shift that he couldnât name yet and didnât try to.
He talks about Wednesday mornings with the hairbrush. About leftover pasta and late night texting and the drawing on the fridge.
He talks about the way you love Mia â not as a condition of loving him, not as an extension of it, but first, entirely and separately first, because thatâs who you are.
She picked you, he says, before I had a chance to. And she has never once been wrong about anything important. Beside you, Mia straightens slightly at this. You feel her grip on your hand tighten.
Iâm not a man who believed in easy, Jake says. I thought love was supposed to be something you work and worry at. And then you moved in across the hall and you were just â easy. Everything with you has just been easy. Not without difficulty. Not without fear. But easy the way breathing is easy. The way I canât imagine not doing it. His voice has gone rough at the edges.
I love you. I loved you in October and I loved you in February and I love you today and Iâm going to love you when Mia is grown and gone and itâs just us and Iâm going to love you in every ordinary Tuesday that comes after this one because thatâs where you live. In the ordinary Tuesdays. And I want every single one of them.
The room is very quiet. You are absolutely crying. You decided before today that you werenât going to cry until after the vows at the earliest and you have failed completely. âDonât cry,â Mia whispers, helpful. âItâs good news.â
Laughter moves through the room like a wave. Jake laughs too, wiping his eyes, and you laugh through yours, and it breaks the solemnity just enough, the way the best moments always do â serious and true and then suddenly full of light.
Your vows. You talk about duck pajamas and a stuffed rabbit and a small hand in yours in a hallway. You talk about a crayon drawing on a fridge and a child who put you in her family portrait before you knew you belonged there.
You talk about a man who carried his daughter on his shoulders through a farmers market and came home to make dinner and knocked on your door with leftover pasta and showed you what it looked like when someone decided that loving people well was the most important thing they could do.
You taught me that, you say. Both of you. You showed me what it looks like when love is a decision someone makes every single day without drama and without conditions. Mia does it for everyone she meets. You do it quietly and completely and I want to spend the rest of my life doing it back. You look at Jake.
I love you. I love our ordinary Tuesdays. I love Wednesday mornings and Saturday markets and bedtime stories and all the Gerald updates and every single version of this life weâve built in an apartment across the hall from where I used to live alone. I love your daughter.
You look down at Mia. She is watching you with her whole face. Completely still, completely focused, taking this in with the seriousness it deserves.
She is the best thing, you say. She is the absolute best thing, and I promise her, today, in front of everyone who loves us, that I am here. I am not going anywhere. She is mine and I am hers and that is permanent and unconditional and nothing will ever change it.
Miaâs lip wobbles. Just slightly. You watch her decide, with great effort, not to cry, because she is a flower girl and flower girls are professionals and she has a reputation to maintain. She squeezes your hand instead. Very hard. You squeeze back.
I now pronounce you married.
Jake kisses you, and the room rises, and somewhere in the noise you hear Mia announce to no one in particular and everyone simultaneously:
âTHATâS MY MAMA NOW. THATâS OFFICIALLY MY MAMA.â
And then, apparently satisfied that this has been adequately communicated, she inserts herself between the two of you and takes both your hands and holds on.
Jake looks at you over her head. He doesnât say anything. He doesnât need to.
The reception is everything. Mrs. Kim dances with Mia for forty-five minutes straight and neither of them stops. Sandy cries every time someone gives a speech. Jakeâs father gives a toast that makes the whole room laugh and then immediately cry. Your own people hold you and tell you they knew, they always knew, from the moment you started talking about the little girl next door like sheâd hung the moon.
Jake dances with Mia first â tradition, heâd decided, she gets the first dance â and you stand at the edge of the floor and watch her stand on his feet, both of them swaying to something slow, her head against his chest, his hand spanning her whole back.
You take a photo. You will look at that photo for the rest of your life.
Then he passes her off to his mother and comes to find you, hand extended, and you take it and let him pull you out onto the floor. âHi wife,â he says, like heâs trying the word out.
âHi husband.â
He smiles. Pulls you closer. âHowâs it feel?â
âSame,â you say honestly. âExactly the same. Justâ more settled.â
âYeah.â His hand moves on your back. âLike itâs been true for a while and now the paperwork caught up.â
âExactly like that.â
You dance. The room moves around you, warm and full of people you love, and Mia is somewhere in it, probably telling someone about Dave the worm or Gerald or the structural integrity of forts, and it is â all of it, every piece â everything. All of it everything.
She falls asleep at nine fifteen. Mid-sentence, apparently â Jakeâs mother told you later she was explaining the color organization system for the stuffed animals and then she simply stopped explaining and was asleep, curled in the chair with her flower crown half off and her shoes long since abandoned and the last of her sunflowers still in her hand.
Jake carries her out to the car at the end of the night, limp and certain and completely trusting the way only sleeping children are, and you tuck the seatbelt around her and push the flower crown gently back from her face. She doesnât wake up.
She wonât remember being carried, wonât remember the drive home, wonât remember being tucked in. But in the morning sheâll wake up and come and stand at the side of your bed and breathe on your face until you open your eyes, and youâll ask her how she slept and sheâll say good and youâll ask if she had fun at the wedding and sheâll say yes I was the flower girl with the proprietary satisfaction of someone who performed their role excellently and knows it. And sheâll be right. She was, without any competition, the best part.
Later. Much later. His penthouse â your penthouse, it still catches you sometimes â quiet and dark except for the city light through the windows. Mia asleep down the hall. The flower crown on the kitchen counter. Your bouquet in a glass of water because you couldnât throw it, it was too pretty.
Jakeâs jacket over the chair. Your heels by the door. You and Jake on the couch the way youâve been a hundred times before, his arm around you, your head on his shoulder, the easy comfortable weight of each other. âHey,â he says quietly.
âHey.â
âMia told Theoâs mum today that she picked you.â
You lift your head. âWhat?â
âAt the reception. Apparently she walked up to Theoâs mum completely unprompted and saidââ Heâs smiling. âShe said I picked her first. Before Daddy even knew.â
You stare at him. âSheâs four and a half,â you say.
âI know. Sheâs extremely perceptive,â Jake says. âAlways has been.â
You think about a Tuesday morning and duck pajamas and the end of a hallway. The hand on your cheek. Youâre nice. The absolute certainty of it. The way she gave you her fingers without hesitating like she already knew. âShe did pick me first,â you say softly.
âYeah.â Jake presses a kiss to your hair. âShe really did.â
The city does its quiet nighttime thing outside the windows. Down the hall, Mia sleeps. You and Jake stay where you are, warm and settled, in the ordinary extraordinary life you built one Tuesday at a time.
ââ ââ â ââ ââ â
Three weeks later, on an ordinary Wednesday morning, Mia sits between your knees on the couch.
Youâre doing her braids. Jake is in the kitchen. Coffee is happening. Gerald is on the windowsill. Mr. Bunny is in the orange section of the stuffed animal shelf. Everything exactly where it should be. âMama,â Mia says.
âHmm?â
âWhen Iâm big can I be a flower girl again?â
âWhen youâre big you can be whatever you want.â
She considers this carefully. âI want to be a flower girl and a paleontologist and a cat.â
âAll three?â
âOn different days.â
âThat seems manageable.â She nods, satisfied. Swings her feet.
From the kitchen, Jake: âBraids today?â
âBraids,â Mia confirms, with the authority of someone whose hair decisions are final. You finish the first one. Start the second. The morning does its ordinary thing around you.
Mia tilts her head back to look up at you, upside down, grinning. âI love you, mama.â
You smooth a hand over her hair. âI love you too, baby,â you say. âSo much.â She rights herself. Goes back to swinging her feet.
Outside the window the morning is doing what mornings do, indifferent and ongoing and full of ordinary things.
In here it is warm. In here everyone is exactly where they are supposed to be. This is just the beginning. And it is everything.
ââ ââ â ââ ââ â
Hi lovelies! If you made it all the way to the end I hope you enjoyed. Iâve had a few people ask for a drabble or two based off this. if you want to see this click this and comment below your suggestions and what you want to see.
hihi its the anon who asked for ot7 enha gifs recently can you pls do jake gifs :3333
thankyouuuu <333
also whats up? i hvnt seen you show up on my dash in a bit lol
black and white jake gifs. ââŽïžËïœĄâ
all mbm ( Ë ÂłË)â„ïž i hope these are okay anon!!
i havent been posting much because i havent really felt my best mentally >~< im happy to say i am now feeling a bit better and ill get back to my regularly scheduled gif posting! tysm for asking!! <3
àšà§ Summary : known across the hospital as the woman who hates men, you built your name in trauma surgery with skill, sharp words, and zero patience for male ego. Then Dr. Jake Simâbeloved anesthesiologist, annoyingly competent, and impossible to ignoreâstarts appearing everywhere in your life with coffee, lunch invitations, and a smile you canât stand. You hate men. So why is Jake Sim becoming the exception?
àšà§ Pairing : anesthesiologist! Jake x traumasurgeon! reader
àšà§ Wordcount : 3.6K
àšà§ Song : Heart2Heart : Rude
àšà§ Warning : SLOW FUCKING BURN BABY!! Jake lowkey down-bad, y/n is certified men hater (me too btw), FLUFF!!, comedic (if you squint), co-worker to.... (idk)
part II
You openly disliked men, especially arrogant, entitled ones who moved through the world as if it had been built solely for them. Every man in your life has given you a reason to. A father who dismissed every achievement unless it benefited him. An ex who cheated, then somehow made betrayal sound like your failure. Colleagues whose eyes lingered too long, whose jokes crossed lines, whose confidence was mistaken for competence far too often. You never understood why society bent itself around them as though they were the natural center of everything. As if possessing a dick automatically granted authority, importance, the right to be heard first, and doubted last. Truly, what was so revolutionary about having a third leg that made them act like first-class citizen??
The trauma pager screamed before dawn. Sharp enough to cut through the thirty minutes of sleep you had managed to steal in the on-call room. By the time you pushed through the emergency doors, scrub top half-buttoned and hair still damp from a rushed sink wash. The paramedics were already rolling in a young man slick with blood and road dustâmultiple collisions, hypotensive, barely conscious. Nurses moved around you in practiced chaos, monitors shrieking, metal trays clattering, everyone waiting for your first order.Â
âOr now!â you snapped, gloving your hands as you walked. âCrossmatch six units, call radiology, someone page anesthesia.âÂ
Then, from just behind your shoulder, calm as if the room wasnât drowning in panic, came a familiar voice.Â
âAlready here, doctor.âÂ
You turned, and there was Jake Sim, leaning into the storm with an easy expression.Â
Seeing his smile makes your blood boil. Of course, it was him. Even with alarms blaring, blood on the floor, and a man hovering between life and death, Jake Sim still looked unbearably composed, like this was all mildly inconvenient rather than catastrophic.Â
âTry looking useful for once,â you said sharply, already moving beside the gurney as the nurses rushed the patient down the corridor.Â
Jake fell into step beside you without missing a beat, one hand adjusting the oxygen mask over the patientâs face while the other checked the monitor leads. âGood morning to you, too, doctor,âÂ
âIt was good until I saw you.âÂ
âThen Iâll try standing behind you next time.âÂ
You ignored him. Flipping through the paramedic report clipped to the patientâs chest. Male, twenty-three, motorbike collision, hypotensive on arrival, suspected abdominal bleed, decreasing consciousness.Â
âBP?â you asked.Â
âEighty over palp,â a nurse answered.Â
Jake glanced at the monitorâexpression sharpening despite the teasing tone still lingering in his voice.Â
The elevator doors opened, and the team flooded inside with the bed. You stood at the patientâs side, hands pressed firmly over the soaked dressing at his abdomen. Jake positioned himself at the head of the bed, drawing up medication with practiced speed.Â
âEtomidate. Rocuronium,â he said.Â
The nurse passed them over instantly. You looked up just in time to catch him glancing at you.Â
âWhat?â you snapped.Â
âYouâve got blood on your cheek.âÂ
âIâm aware.âÂ
âYou wear it well.â
Jake laughed under his breath and pushed the medications. Within seconds, he intubated smoothly, securing the tube as the elevator dinged open onto the surgical floor. The door parted.Â
âMove.â
The gurney surged forward again, wheels rattling across polished floors as the operating room doors were thrown open. Inside, the scrub team was already waiting. You scrubbed at the sink with aggressive efficiency, barking orders over your shoulder.Â
âPrep for exploratory laparotomy. Massive transfusion protocol. I want vascular on standby.âÂ
Jake entered the room behind you, tying his mask in place.Â
âDemanding as always,â he said.Â
âShut up.âÂ
Jake only chuckled and stepped closer to the scrub counter.Â
âYou look hot when youâre angry.â
You shot him a flat look over your shoulder.Â
âMaybe seek psychiatric help.âÂ
Jake only smiled again, the same maddening, effortless smile as he moved to the head of the operating table and began preparing to keep your patient alive while you open him up.Â
By your second year in trauma surgery, the hospital had already given you a reputation you never asked for. Some called you difficult, others called you cold, but most settled on the nickname whispered through hallways and break rooms with equal parts amusement and cautionâthe men-hater.Â
It was easier for them to say that than admit how many times male residents had tried to explain their own cases back to you, how attendings praised the same ideas only after a man repeated them louder, how patients searched the room for a âreal doctorâ after you introduced yourself.Â
Every sharp reply you gave, every boundary you enforced, every refusal to smile through disrespect became proof of your bitterness in their eyes. Fine. Let them think you hated men. It was simpler than explaining that you only hated what they kept getting away with.Â
Then there was Jake Sim.Â
The hospital effortlessly adored him; people adored men who were handsome, competent, and just charming enough to never be threatening. Nurses smiled when he entered a room. Residents straightened when he spoke. Even attendings, people who looked unimpressed by default, seemed to soften around him. Dr. Jake Sim, anesthesiologyâs golden boy.Â
You disliked him on principle.Â
Men like Jake moved through life cushioned by a grace rarely afforded to women. If he was blunt, he was confident. If he was playful, he was charismatic. If he challenged authority, he was bold. You had done the same things and been called difficult, abrasive, and emotional.Â
Worse, Jake seemed entirely aware of the effect he had on people, yet wore it lightly enough to seem innocent. He joked with scrub nurses, remembered everyoneâs coffee orders, charmed frightened patients before surgery, and still somehow managed to perform flawlessly once the stakes were real. It would have been easier if he were incompetent. Easier if he were arrogant. Easier if he gave you a clean reason to hate him.Â
Instead, Jake Sim was annoyingly good at his job. Heâs kind when no one is watching, and most annoyingly of all, far too interested in you.Â
You never smiled at his jokes. Never thank him for favors that you hadnât asked for. Never looked impressed when others did. If anything, you treated him with the same clipped indifference you reserved for men who thought too highly of themselves.Â
For some reason, that only seemed to make him come closer.Â
The nurses filtered out one by one, murmuring good afternoon, leaving the two of you alone in the oversized room. You reached for the strings of your gown, fingers slower now that the adrenaline had drained away.Â
Before you could undo them, Jake stepped behind you.Â
You stiffened immediately. âWhat are you doing?âÂ
âRelax,â he said, voice low and annoyingly calm. âYouâre taking forever.âÂ
His fingers brushed the back of your neck as he untied the knot. Even through layers of fabric and fatigue, the touch felt far too noticeable.Â
âI can do it myself.âÂ
âI know.âÂ
The gown loosened, slipping from your shoulders. He stepped away if nothing had happened. You turned sharply.Â
âThen why didnât you let me?â
Jake was peeling off his gloves, expression unreadable now that the teasing had softened.Â
âBecause your hands are shaking.âÂ
You froze. You hadnât even noticed. When you looked down, there it was, the fine tremors running through your fingers, the aftermath of hours spent forcing steadiness into chaos. Humiliating.Â
You curled your hands into fists. âIâm tired, thatâs all.â
âMmâŠâÂ
That sound alone made irritation flare again. He tossed the gloves aside and walked toward you, stopping close enough that the scent of antiseptic clung to him.Â
âYou donât have to act invincible every second of the day.âÂ
Your jaw tightened.Â
âDonât act as if you know me.âÂ
âI know enough.âÂ
Jake studied you for a moment, eyes dropping briefly to your clenched hands before meeting your gaze again.Â
âI know you havenât eaten since yesterday,â he said quietly. âI know you took over suturing because the resident was panicking. I know you blamed yourself when his pressure crashed, even though it wasnât your fault.â He tilted his head slightly. âAnd I know youâre about two minutes away from collapsing.âÂ
âIâm fine.â
âLiar.â
You hated him.Â
Hated the calm certainty in his voice. Hated how he said those things without pity, without mockery, without trying to make himself look noble for noticing. Most of all, you hated that after everythingâevery clipped response, every glare, every deliberate attempt to keep him at armâs length, yet he still insisted on treating you gently.Â
It was infuriating.Â
Why couldnât he just dislike you properly?Â
Why couldnât he return the coldness you handed him so generously? Why couldnât he be offended, dismissive, petty? Anything easier to understand than this steady, maddening kindness?Â
Men were predictable when they were angry. Predictable when their pride was bruised. They snapped, sulked, withdrew. You knew how to handle that version of them. But Jake Sim only kept showing up with a warm smile, calm eyes, and observations you never invited.Â
You wanted to push him into becoming the kind of man you already knew how to hate. Instead, he kept refusing the role.Â
The next morning began badly.Â
You had slept for three hours on a call-room mattress thin enough that your bones were screaming in agony. Woken twice by pagers that turned out not to be yours, and spilled half of your coffee down the front of your scrubs while trying to read overnight labs. By the time you stepped into the trauma conference room, patience had already abandoned you.Â
A cluster of residents fell silent when you entered.
Good.Â
You dropped into your seat at the end of the table, flipping open the chart for morning rounds.Â
âIf anyone presents nonsense today, Iâm sending them back to medical school personally.âÂ
No one laughed.Â
Also good.Â
The door opened, and Jake Sim walked in carrying two coffees and looking offensively well-rested. Fresh shower. Crisp navy scrubs. Hair still slightly damp. Not a trace of the sixteen-hour shift he had also worked. You narrowed your eyes immediately.Â
He noticed, smiled, and changed direction from the empty seat across the room to the chair beside you. Of course he did.Â
âYou look radiant,â he said quietly as he sat down.Â
âShut up.âÂ
âMean already? We havenât even started rounds.âÂ
âDr Sim,â honestly, you almost lost it.Â
He set one coffee beside your folder. You stared at it.Â
âTake it back.âÂ
âNo.â
âI didnât ask for this.â
âI know. You rarely ask for anything. Itâs one of your more exhausting traits.â
You pushed the cup back toward him without looking. âTry poisoning someone else.âÂ
Jake slid it neatly back into place. âOat milk. No sugar. Extra shot.âÂ
Your hand paused halfway to the chart. Annoying.Â
âYou need hobbies,â you muttered.Â
âI have one.â
You glanced at him despite yourself. âWhat?â
He met your eyes, expression perfectly innocent. âGetting under your skin.âÂ
Before you could reply, the attending entered, and the room straightened instantly. Rounds began in a blur of scans, bloodwork, complications, and clipped presentations. You corrected three residents, questioned one medication order, and dismantled a surgical pan so flawed it nearly offended you personally.Â
Jake said little. He simply sat there, reviewing anesthesia notes, occasionally leaning over to slide relevant vitals or postoperative concerns onto your side of the table before you had to ask. You hated how useful he was.
Halfway through the meeting, the attendees discussed a difficult abdominal trauma case from the previous night.
âPost-op hypotension likely due to fluid shifts,â one senior resident offered.
You opened your mouth.Â
Jake spoke first.Â
âOr missed retroperitoneal bleed.âÂ
The room turned. The attending frowned thoughtfully. âReasoning?â
You felt your irritation sharpen. Because he was right. The attending nodded slowly.Â
âGood catch. Weâll re-image.â
Then his gaze shifted to you. âThoughts, doctor?âÂ
âI think anesthesia got lucky.â
You crossed your arms. A few residents choked back smiles. Jake didnât even blink.Â
âAnd I think surgery should buy me breakfast.âÂ
The room laughed. You did not. But when you reached for your coffee a moment later, it was still warm.Â
.
.
.
.
A few weeks after the surgery, Jake Sim was still impossible to avoid.Â
Not because he chased you through corridors like some desperate intern with no dignityâthough you suspected he was capable of it, but because he had somehow woven himself into the rhythm of your days. In trauma calls, he was there before you finished giving orders. In the OR, he stood behind the drapes with that infuriatingly calm voice. In the break room, there would already be a coffee waiting where you liked to sit, as if the cup itself had developed poor judgment.Â
You told yourself it meant nothing.Â
Jake was friendly with everyone. Helpful to everyone. Annoyingly competent with everyone.
So why should it matter that he remembered your orders before you gave them, or noticed when you skipped meals, or somehow knew exactly how you took your coffee without ever asking?
It didnât.
That was what you were telling yourself when he cornered you outside the staff elevators after a fourteen-hour shift. The corridor was nearly empty, lights dimmed to evening mode, your pager blessedly silent for once. You were too tired for conversation and too hungry for patience.Â
Jake stepped in front of the elevator doors just as they opened.Â
You stared at him. âMove.âÂ
âDinner.âÂ
âNo.â
âThat wasnât a statement.â
âIt sounded like one.âÂ
âIt was an invitation.âÂ
You jabbed the closed-door button repeatedly. âDeclined.â
He reached past you and caught the elevator door before it could shut, entirely too close for your liking.Â
âTomorrow night.â
âNo.â
âTonight, then.â
âNo.â
âCoffee after shift.âÂ
âNo.â
Jake tilted his head, studying your face with that same maddening calm he wore in operating rooms and arguments alike.Â
âAre you rejecting me,â he asked, âor just enjoying saying no?â
Your jaw tightened. âIâm trying to figure out if youâre stupid or joking.â
âNeither.â
âThen what is this?â
âA date.â
You gave a short, humorless laugh. âRight.â
âIâm serious.â
âThatâs the stupid option.â
Something like amusement flickered across his face, but he didnât step back.
âYou really think Iâve been asking because Iâm bored?â
âI think men like attention.â
âAnd you think Iâd go through weeks of being insulted for fun?â
âYes.â
âThatâs fair,â he admitted. âBut wrong.â
The answer annoyed you more than if he had argued.
You crossed your arms. âYou flirt with everyone.â
âIâm polite to everyone.â
âYouâre smug with everyone.â
âOnly with you.â
âThatâs not helping your case.â
âItâs not a case.â His voice lowered slightly. âI like you.â
You blinked once, more out of irritation than surprise.
âNo, you like provoking me.â
âI like that too.â
âJake.â
It was the first time you had said his name without adding an insult after it. His expression changed almost imperceptibly.
âDinner,â he repeated softly. âOne hour. If you hate it, Iâll stop asking.â
You narrowed your eyes. âYou promise?â
âNo.â
âUnbelievable.â
âBut Iâll stop asking for a week.â
âThatâs not tempting.â
âIt should be. You look tired.â
âI look like I regret speaking to you.â
âYou always look like that.â
The elevator chimed impatiently behind you.
You stepped inside, forcing him to move back.
âGoodnight, Dr. Sim.â
He smiled, hands in his pockets, entirely too pleased with himself.
âThink about it.â
The doors slid shut between you. You exhaled sharply, pulse annoyingly uneven. Then looked down and realized he had slipped a protein bar into your coat pocket sometime during the conversation.
You hated him.
.
.
.
.
Three days later, you made a mistake.Â
It happened at 12.40 p.m. After back-to-back consults, a trauma activation that turned out to be alcohol and poor decisions, and a resident who asked whether the spleen was âstrictly necessaryâ. You were hungry, irritated, and too tired to defend yourself properly. And the last thing you want to happen the next day is Jake still asking you to date.Â
After all, luck was never on your side.Â
Jake found you outside the imaging suite, leaning against the wall with two coffees and the expression of a man who had never once suffered inconvenience.Â
âLunch,â he said.
âNo.â
âYou said that yesterday.â
âI meant it yesterday, too.â
âHow about today?â
You pinched the bridge of your nose. âWhy are you like this?â
âPersistent? Handsome? Deeply committed?â
âUnbearable.â
He grinned. âStill available for lunch.â
You stared at him for a long moment, then at the clock, then at the hallway stretching endlessly back toward more work. You were starving.
The cafeteria was five minutes away.
And if agreeing to one meal made him stop asking for at least a day, it counted as strategic surrender.
âFine,â you said flatly. âLunch.â
Jake blinked. For the first time since youâd known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard. Then his entire face changed. Not smug satisfaction. Not teasing triumph. He looked happy.Â
Ridiculously, openly happy.Â
âSeriously?â he asked.Â
You immediately regretted everything. âDonât make it weird.â
âIâm not making it weird, you just said yes.â
âTo lunch.â
âWith me.â
âTo food.â
He laughed under his breath, then straightened so quickly it was almost embarrassing. âRight. Yes. Of course. Food.â
You narrowed your eyes. âWhy do you look like you won something?âÂ
âBecause I did.â
âYou did not.â
âI absolutely did.â
You turned and started walking before he could say anything worse. He fell into step beside you, annoyingly energetic for someone who had also worked all morning.Â
âDo you want noodles or rice?â he asked.
âI want silence.â
âCafeteria might not have that.â
âYouâre very close to losing lunch privileges.â
âYouâve already given me privileges?â
You shot him a look sharp enough to cut skin. He only smiled wider.
The entire walk there, Jake was insufferably cheerful. He held doors open, moved people aside with polite excuses, and somehow looked proud simply carrying your coffee beside you. Two nurses passed and exchanged startled glances.
One of them mouthed finally. You nearly turned around.Â
By the time you reached the cafeteria, Jake was practically glowing.Â
âExplain.â
âWhat?â
âWhy do you look like a golden retriever that just got told heâs going to the park?â
He laughed loud enough to earn stares. âThatâs specific.â
âItâs accurate.â
Jake looked at you for a second, smile softening into something less playful.Â
âBecause you said yes.â he said simply.Â
Your chest tightened in a way you deeply resented.Â
âItâs lunch,â you said coldly.Â
âI know.â
âNot a date.â
âDidnât say it was.â
âGood.â
He nodded once, still smiling. âThen letâs have lunch.â
You hated that your pulse was uneven over something so stupid. You hated more that when he reached for a tray, he grabbed one for you automatically.
The cafeteria was louder than usual, packed with staff escaping their departments for the brief illusion of rest. Trays clattered, chairs scraped, pagers went off in every corner. You chose a table near the back out of habit. Jake sat across from you like he had been invited there his entire life.Â
You set your tray down and immediately noticed he hadnât touched his food. He is just looking at you. Not casually, not absentmindedly. Looking at you with an expression so openly pleased, it made irritation rise on instinct.Â
You frowned and unwrapped your utensils with more force than necessary. âThatâs unsettling.â
Jake only leaned back slightly in his chair, still watching you with the same warm, maddening gaze. As if sitting across from you in a mediocre hospital cafeteria was somehow the best part of his week. You hated that.Â
âEat your food,â you said.
âIn a minute.â
âWhy not now?â
âBusy.â
âWith what?â
His eyes moved over your face slowly, almost thoughtfully. âMemorizing this.â
Your chopstick paused midair. âMemorizing what?â
âYou're agreeing to have lunch with me. You look annoyed, but less than usual.â
âI look annoyed because I am.â
âStill came.â
âI came for carbohydrates.â
Jake smiled softly. âWhatever helps you sleep at night.â
You looked down at your plate, refusing to acknowledge the sudden warmth crawling up your neck. He laughed quietly, eyes crinkling at the corners. Then his gaze softened again in a way that made your chest feel annoyingly tight.
âI like seeing you like this,â he said.
âHungry?â
âRelaxed.â
You almost scoffed. âIâm not relaxed.â
âYouâre not working. Thatâs close enough.â
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the cafeteria blurred around the table. Jake looked at you as if there were no one in the room. No urgency, no performance, just quiet, uncomplicated fondness. It was deeply unfair.Â
âIf you keep staring, Iâm leaving.âÂ
He picked up his chopstick at last. He only smiled into his food, still far too happy for a man who had simply gotten lunch.Â
You told yourself the attention should have irritated you more than it did.Â
It should have felt invasive, performative, another version of the same male habit of taking up space wherever they pleased. You had spent years sharpening yourself against men like that. But this didnât feel like that.Â
Jake wasnât trying to corner you, impress an audience, or collect gratitude for basic decency. He wasnât asking for anything in return. He simply sat across from you with that stupid soft expression.Â
You didnât hate it. That was the problem.Â
Youd idnât love it either. It made you restless, suspicious, vaguely off-balance in a way you disliked. There was no clear angle to defend against, no obvious flaw to dissect, no cruelty beneath the surface waiting to reveal itself. Just Jake Sim.Â
You didnât understand him. You didnât understand why a man like Jake Sim, liked by everyone and wanted by easier women, kept choosing resistance. Why did he return after every sharp word? Why did kindness from you seem optional, but your presence somehow mattered? And perhaps most unsettling of allâ
You didnât understand why part of you had started letting him.Â
synopsis: in which jake sim finally stops letting you run the showâonly to prove heâs always known how to handle you.
genre: childhood best friends au
pairing: childhood best friend!jake x bratty!reader
warnings: softdom!jake, bratty!reader, reader is so annoying but jake loves it, cornering, bantering, jake scolds reader often, jake is in loveeee, manhandling, spanking ass + pussy, oral (f.rec), spit play, tit play, unprotected p in v, clit play, biting..i think thatâs it??
wc: 16.5k+
a/n: ayeee guess whoâs back! this fic won on the poll so here i am delivering. this is also my 3k followers thank you post hehe!! thanks to each and every one of you guys that have been reading and supporting my work đ keep an eye out iâll be putting out another pole soon. as always comments, notes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy reading :3
đ
you and jake sim grew up three houses apart on a street where everybody's moms knew everything and everybody's dads pretended they didn't. you were the loud oneâthe kid who rang doorbells like you were collecting taxes, who demanded attention with the confidence of someone who'd never been told no.
which you hadn't.
meanwhile jake... poor jake. he was the sweet, soft-spoken boy who trailed after you like a golden retriever with a bowl cut and velcro spiderman sneakers. he always had crumbs on his face, always carried your backpack without being asked, and alwaysâalwaysâlaughed at your jokes, even when they weren't funny.
they were rarely funny.
you'd yell his name across the street, and he'd come running. you'd shove the glittery lip gloss you stole from your cousin into his hand and say "hold this," and he would. you'd call him "my assistant" during your bossy childhood games, and he accepted the demotion.
once, you made him cry because he didn't run fast enough during tag. you didn't apologizeâinstead you loudly declared, "omg, relax, you got tagged ONCE. big deal."
jake sniffled, you stomped away. and five minutes later he followed you again, because that's just how he was.
but somewhere around the end of high school, the world started pulling you in different directions. you were busy being dramatic, discovering tinted lip oils, complaining about your parents rules, and posting instagram stories from the passenger seat of other people's cars.
jake was busy doing things like... assignments. group projects. extracurriculars. things you mockingly called "nerd behavior."
he didn't go out much. he didn't chase chaos. he didn't orbit your life the way he did when you were younger. and youâin a classic act of emotional immaturityâpretended not to care.
at eighteen, you chose a college far away purely because the campus looked "aesthetic in fall," packed up your entire personality into two suitcases, and left without saying a proper goodbye. you waved at jake from the car window as your mom pulled out of the driveway and yelled something ridiculous like:
"don't let anyone bully you except me!"
he laughed. that soft, warm, dimpled laugh that used to follow you everywhere.
and then you were gone.
đ
college turned you into an even worse version of yourselfâaggressively iced-coffee-dependent, chronically late, allergic to responsibility, and thriving in an environment where chaos was practically currency.
your life became a rotation of parties, spontaneous shopping, soft-launching people you weren't even dating, and pretending every bad decision was "character development."
you went through roommates like seasonal flavors. every semester someone new moved in, and every semester someone new moved out with a complaint that you were "a lot" or "messy" or "kind of terrifying when woken up."
you didn't disagree.
jake became a distant memory, the boy who sometimes liked your posts from an account with a profile picture you swear was five years old. you'd smile for half a second when his username popped up, then go right back to ignoring three overdue essays and online shopping for shoes you absolutely didn't need.
your worlds didn't touch anymore.
until life, rude as always, decided to intervene
it started with your roommate announcing she was "basically moving in" her new boyfriend. you thought she meant he'd be around more. no, he was actually moving in. toothbrush, clothes, gaming chair, ugly LED lightsâthe whole infestation.
he hogged the bathroom. he cooked shirtless at inappropriate hours. he once ate your leftover pasta and shrugged, "it was mid anyway."
you saw red. you didn't commit a crime, but it was close.
you decided to move out.
your landlord, a man whose personality could best be described as "human expired raisin," decided this was the perfect time to raise your rent by five hundred dollars.
you stared at the email. then you screamed. not a cute screamâa guttural, operatic wail that made the downstairs neighbor bang on their ceiling.
you called your mom, pacing through the disaster zone that was your half-packed room.
"i'm going to die," you said dramatically. "i'm literally going to die. you're going to have to identify my body by my lash extensions."
your mom sighed the sigh of someone who'd raised you for twenty-three years. "sweetheart, calm downâ"
"don't tell me to calm down, my life is in ruins. ruins, mother."
"you're not in ruins."
"i'm going to be homeless."
"you're not going to be homeless."
"i'm going to have to live in my carâ"
"oh honey," she cut in, "why don't you stay with jake?"
you froze mid-rant. "...jake?" his name unfamiliar on your tongue.
"yes! jake sim! he's back from finishing his degree. he bought a nice apartment downtown. he told his mother he has a spare room."
you stared into space, horrified. "jake sim? bowl-cut jake? used-to-cry-when-i-yelled jake?"
"he didn't cry," she corrected. "he teared up. once."
"mom. be serious."
"i am. you two were inseparable."
"when we were twelve!"
"well, he's always liked you."
"as a person?" you asked skeptically. you seriously doubted that anyone who was sane liked you as a person. yes, you're a lot of things but one thing you definitely are is self aware.
she made a vague noise, you didn't like the noise.
"i'll text his mother," she decided, and you instantly regretted calling her.
two minutes later, your phone buzzed.
mom:Â jake says you're welcome to stay anytime.
you stared at the text. it felt unreal. absurd. borderline comedic.
but you were desperate. and dramatic. and the universe clearly hated you.
so you said yes. because of course you did.
you packed your things with the confidence of someone who absolutely believed jake sim was still the same soft, shy, easily-managed boy who used to trail after you in elementary school.
you were so, so sure.
and you were so, so wrong.
đ
you hype yourself up in the elevator.
it's just jake.you think to yourself, the image of 12-year old him fresh in your mind.
you've known him your whole life. he once cried because you told him clouds were solid and he fell off the playground trying to "sit on one."
you are not nervous. you are annoyed.
annoyed that your lease fell apart. annoyed that your mother thinks you're still friends. annoyed that jake, sweet, soft, bowl-cut jake, is your only housing option unless you want to sleep in your car.
the elevator dings.
you're ready to see scented-candle bachelor hell. dirty laundry. possibly raccoons.
you knock and the door swings open. and your soul leaves your body.
because the man standing there is definitely jakeâbut upgraded. taller, broader, stupidly handsome, and sporting a smile that used to be pure golden retriever sunshine. except now it's... toned down. slower. like he knows exactly what it does to people.
"hey," he says, his eyes dropping down to take in your form and your hot pink suitcases. "come in."
come in? come in? no shocked gasp? no "wow you're back"? no nervous babbling?
you narrow your eyes suspiciously. "wow. no bowl cut." you admit, not the best choice of first words to say to your childhood best friend who you hadn't seen in years. but it was fitting.
he laughsâactually laughsâand steps aside. and you walk into the biggest personal betrayal of your adult life.
his apartment is spotless.
not "i cleaned because company is coming" clean.
"i am a fully functioning adult who alphabetizes spices" clean.
the air smells like sandalwood and laundry detergent. plants sit by the window like they've never known suffering. there are no pizza boxes, no dirty plates, no gamer chair.
this is not jake's apartment.
"is this staged?" you demand. "did someone professionally sanitize this because you knew i was coming?"
"nope," he says, grabbing one of your suitcases. "i live like this."
you blink owlishly. "on purpose?"
he snorts, looking at you with an unidentifiable expression on his face. "on purpose."
you want to throw something, no, you want to throw up.
but instead, you drop your bag on the couch like an entitled raccoon and flop dramatically across it. "i'm making myself at home."
he glances at your shoes on the carpet. "i can see that."
he takes a seat in the armchair across from youâ calm, collected, not even a little frazzledâ which is insane, because you're very clearly being a handful on purpose. you call that, asserting dominance. like the old days.
you clear your throat. "so. rules. house agreements. i assume you're gonna ask me to clean something? or, like... wash a dish? or close a cabinet? if so, i'll need written notice."
jake smiles. not the "aww she's being annoying again" smile you expect. no, this one is deeper. amused. knowing.
"sure," he says easily. "we can talk rules."
that throws you off. he's supposed to be flustered, scrambling to keep up. not leading the conversation like he owns the apartmentâwhich, annoying fact, he does.
he leans back, forearms resting casually on his knees. your eyes almost pop out of their sockets when you notice how veiny his hands and arms were.
"okay," he starts, "rent is six-fifty a month. i already talked to your mom about itâshe said she'd help out until you get settled again."
you cough on pure embarrassment. "she did what?"
he suppresses a grin. "it was cute, actually. she kept saying, 'jake honey, please don't let her be homeless, she can be... a lot.'"
you sit up. "i will literally burn my house down before i let you repeat anything my mother said about me."
"her words, not mine," he says, holding up his hands. his beautiful, god crafted, veiny hands. "anywayâutilities included. chores are pretty simple. i cook, so you can take trash and recycling. laundry we do separately. shared spaces stay clean."
"define clean."
"not a biohazard."
"rude."
"accurate."
you throw a pillow at his head. he catches it one-handed without breaking eye contact.
you actually stop breathing for a second.
since when can jake do that? since when is he coordinated? since when does he have forearms like that?
you scowl to cover the fact that your brain just short-circuited. "fine. anything else?"
he tilts his head. "yeah. don't steal my hoodies." you blink innocently. "why would i steal your hoodies?"
his gaze drops to your suitcaseâwhere three of his old ones that you had 'borrowed' back in highschool are hanging out the side. proof that you struggled to pack all your belongings in two measly suitcases.
traitors.
"uh-huh," he says. "point is, don't steal them."
"i don't steal," you lie.
"you do."
"i borrow."
"indefinitely." you cross your arms. "well, maybe if you didn't buy hoodies that look good on meâ"
"they look good on me," he corrects smoothly. "you're just annoying enough to steal them."
you're going to scream.
you stand, stalking toward the kitchen just to regain power. "i'm eating your snacks as payment for emotional damages."
he follows at a leisurely pace, because apparently he's immune to your chaos now. you yank open the fridge. it's organized. color-coded. there are vegetables.
"who are you?" you whisper, horrified. "where is the boy who ate a fruit roll-up off the sidewalk?"
"buried him," jake answers, grabbing a bottle of water and handing it to you. "grew up. got a job. graduated. learned to mop."
you squint at him. "did you join a cult?"
he laughs againâwarm and low. "no. i just stopped being twelve."
"you were twelve for like ten years."
"and you're still twelve," he shoots back calmly. "so at least one of us stayed consistent."
you gape. "you're soâ soâ"
"accurate?"
"i was gonna say insufferable."
he leans on the counter across from you, arms folded, gaze steady.
"you were expecting me to be exactly the same, weren't you?"
you freeze. he's right. he knows he's right and you hate that he knows he's right.
before you can respond, he addsâlightly, but with something underneath, "don't worry. i still remember everything."
your heartbeat trips.
"everything?" you repeat.
he smiles. slow. devastating. "everything."
you look away first. you hate that too.
you grab chips from the pantryâloudly, aggressivelyâand announce, "i'm gonna walk around in tiny shorts and leave my stuff everywhere."
"go for it," jake says, opening a cabinet above your head to grab a mug. "i don't scare that easily."
"i wasn't trying to scare you!"
"sure."
"i wasn'tâ!"
he takes a sip of water like he didn't just psychologically annihilate you.
you feel your face heat. you hate him. you hate that he's changed. you hate that he hasn't changed in the ways that matter. you hate that he's taller and calm and unbothered and smells like pine and laundry and maybe a little bit like heartbreak.
and you really hate the traitorous thought sneaking into your brain: you might be in trouble.
after the unexpected back forth between you and jake, jake kindly showed you to your room which was much nicer than the one at your old apartment.
"i'll let you settle in, i'll be back in a few. gym." and with that he slips through the door and out of your sight.
since when did he go to the gym? since those veiny arms blessed your sight.
you huff while unpacking, taking in the clean space as a foreign feeling takes place in your chest.
what the fuck are you going to do?
đ
you hear the door before you see him.
a heavy, warm thud of sneakers hitting the entry rug. the quiet clink of keys. then the low, tired exhale of a man who just returned from the gym and doesn't realize he's about to emotionally ruin someone.
you peek over the couch. and yeah, he's sweaty.
likeâsweat running down his neck, shirt stuck to his chest, hair pushed back with a damp curl kind of sweaty.
your brain forgets basic motor functions. he looks up and catches you staring, a unrecognizable glint in his soft eyes.Â
"hey," he says, voice rougher than usual. "you're still awake?" awake? you're clinically deceased, but sure.
you sit up, flipping your hair like you didn't just get jump-scared by his forearms. "yeah. couldn't sleep. your... stomping woke me up."
"i didn't stomp," he says, amused. "i walked in."
"well it was loud."
"you were watching tiktoks on full volume."
you glare, chucking your phone on the other couch. "stop knowing things."
he smirks and heads to the kitchen for water, pulling his shirt up to wipe his face.
you get a full view of toned stomach. abs. v-line. you stop breathing somewhere around ab #3.
okay. enough. you're not going to let him win tonight. this morning he made you flustered. tonight? you're fighting back.
you hop off the couch and follow him to the kitchen, wearing the tiniest sleep shorts you own and his hoodieâyou know, for psychological warfare.
"so," you announce, hopping onto the counter, crossing your legs slowly. "long workout? you look... tired."
he opens the fridge. "yeah. leg day."
you hum. "maybe you should let me massage them. you know. as a housewarming gift."
he doesn't choke. he doesn't blush. he just closes the fridge, sets down the water bottle, and looks at you with that infuriating, slow-lingering gaze that makes your stomach flip like a dying fish.
"you wanna massage my legs?" he asks softly, his brow quirking up before his gaze drops down to your bare legs and your small frame which was swallowed by his hoodie.
your throat closes. "iâ i meanâ maybeâ if youâ"
he takes a step closer. then another. until he's right in front of you, standing between your knees, but not touching you. not even a brush of skin. just close enough that you swear you can feel the heat rolling off him.
your brain: DEAD. ABSOLUTELY GONE.
he places his hands on the counter on either side of your hips, caging you inâwithout touching you once.
your breath catches. everything in you goes still.
"you offering charity massages now?" he murmurs, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. "that doesn't sound like you."
your voice cracks. "why not?"
"you don't do things out of kindness." his tone is teasing, warm. "you do things because you want attention."
your entire nervous system sets on fire.
"iâ excuseâ i don'tâ"
"it's okay," he continues, leaning just an inch closer, his nose almost brushing yours. "i don't mind giving you the attention."
you swallow hard. "move."
"you sure?" he asks quietly. "you seem pretty comfortable."
you are not comfortable. you are a molecule vibrating out of your own skin.
you shove a hand at his chestâbad idea, he's solidâand babble stupidly, "i'm fine. you're weird. stop being tall at me."
jake laughs under his breath. it's warm. dangerous. affectionate in a way that makes your stomach curl.
he leans in like he might actually touch your cheek, lips, something and you freeze. but he doesn't. at the last second, he dips his head past yours and reaches behind you to grab a mug from the cabinet above.
you nearly scream. he pulls back slowly, the corner of his mouth tilted in a knowing smirk.
"relax," he says softly. "if i actually cornered you, you'd combust."
you glare at him, cheeks on fire. "i hate you."
"no you don't." he taps your knee with a finger, the only touch, light, teasing, devastating. "but you can keep pretending."
you nearly fall off the counter trying to escape.
he watches, amused, taking a sip of water like he didn't just send you through all five stages of grief.
"goodnight," he says casually, heading to his room.
you stare after him, emotionally damaged.
"i'm not massaging your stupid legs!" you call out.
his voice drifts back, "you offered."
you bury your face in your hands. you are so, so screwed.
đ
you wake up to the smell of something heavenly.
warm. buttery. slightly sweet.
you blink at the ceiling.
no way. no way jake is up early being...competent.
you stomp down the hall dramatically, ready to insult him for being a functional adult at 8:12 a.m.
and you freeze. because jake is shirtless. shirtless. in his kitchen. your now shared kitchen.
his back muscles shift as he flips pancakes. his sweatpants hang low. his hair is messy in the exact way that suggests he just rolled out of bed and looked inhumanly good by accident.
you forget why you entered the kitchen. or how to inhale.
he glances over his shoulder. "morning."
the audacity. âyouâ" your voice cracks. "you'reâ you're not wearing clothes."
he looks down, confused. "i'm wearing pants."
"that's not the point!"
"sounds like it is."
you hate him. you hate him so much your eye twitches. he plates a pancake and nods toward the stove. "there's extra batter if you want to make your own."
you puff up, offended. "i CAN cook."
jake raises an eyebrow. "do you want to say that again? slowly?"
you march to the fridge, grab random ingredients you probably won't need, and announce, "watch and learn."
"i'm watching." his voice is annoyingly amused.
"not sure i'll be learning."
you ignore him, crank the stove on too high, and pour way too much batter in the pan. it spreads like a sad, beige puddle.
jake strolls over, sipping coffee, watching like he's observing wildlife.
"that's... thick," he comments.
"it's called fluffy," you snap back, your eyes finding his before dropping down to his chest and stomach. oh god why did you do that? jake catches your vision, a smirk playing on his lips.
fuck you.
"oh. okay. it's very... fluffy."
"shut up."
the pancake starts smoking aggressively. you start panicking aggressively.
"umâ is it supposed toâ"
WHOOSH.
flame kisses the edge of the pan. you shriek. "OH MY GODâ" jake moves instantly, reaching past you to turn down the burner.
and suddenlyâhe's right behind you. his chest against your back. his arms braced around you as he grabs the pan. his voice low, right by your ear,
"hey. relax. i got it."
your brain vacates the premises.
his hands move with confidence, fixing your disaster pancake. his breath brushes your neck. he's closeâtoo closeâand yet he's acting like this is normal.
"you're gonna start a fire," he says softly, almost teasing.
"iâ i didn'tâ the burnerâ your stove isâ iâ shut up," you whisper, mortified.
he laughs quietly, the sound warm against your skin.
"you're cute when you panic," he murmurs, not moving away. you seize up when you feel his warm breath brush against the shell of your ear, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
you clutch the counter for emotional support. "can youâcan you back up?"
"why?" his tone is innocent. way too innocent.
"you seemed fine last night when i was close."
you almost combust like the pancake.
"that was different!"
"how?" he asks, dipping his head just enough that you feel the brush of his hair against your cheek.
you have no good answer. because the truth is humiliating, last night you were flustered. now you're flustered and underprepared and wearing pajama shorts shaped like licorice strings.
you grab a spatula and use it like a weapon to push him away.
"move," you hiss, your face burning red.
he steps back, hands up, grinning like a menace. "yes, chef."
"don't call me chef."
"okay. fire hazard."
"JAKE."
he laughs a full, bright laugh that makes your stomach twist and heads back to his own plate.
you plate your uneven, charred pancake with defeated silence.
and jake, the infuriating man, sets another golden, perfectly round pancake onto your plate.
you blink. "what's this?"
"a real breakfast," he says, pouring syrup for you like you're a child. "because you nearly burned the apartment down trying to prove a point."
you glare at him. "i was doing FINE."
"sure," he hums. "and i'm a ballerina."
you stab your pancake.
he watches you with that soft, amused smile againâthe one with something deeper behind it.
then he adds, "you know... it's kind of nice having you here."
your fork slips out of your hand. "...what?" like you had said earlier, you're a lot of things but one thing you definitely are is self aware. you are not nice to have around, and you know it.
he shrugs, easy. "just saying."
you stare at him, face warming in a way you refuse to acknowledge. you mumble into your syrup, "i hate you."
he smiles, slow and knowing. "no you don't."
and the worst part? he's right.
the first week in jake's apartment goes... fine.
dangerously fine.
it should've been easy to fall back into the old dynamic: you, the bossy menace; him, the soft puppy trailing after you with a shy smile and an unlimited tolerance for your nonsense.
exceptâhe doesn't trail. he doesn't melt. he doesn't fold. and that pisses you off more than you'd ever admit.
the chaos starts small.
your makeup begins multiplying across the bathroom counter like it's staging a coup. lip glosses in a neat little line beside his toothbrush; your setting spray sitting directly in front of his razor; your glitter eyeshadow palette openâbecause closing it would've taken effort, obviously.
jake doesn't complain. he doesn't even sigh.
he just walks in one morning, towels slung over his shoulder, hair damp from the gym, and pauses at the counter.
"is this all yours?" he asks.
you don't look up from your phone. "hm? oh. yeah. i need space. don't be selfish."
jake nods slowly, like he's taking notes on you for a research study. "right. selfish. of course."
you ignore the way that makes your stomach twist.
you up the ante. you start askingâno, demandingârides.
"jake," you call from your bedroom one morning, "can you take me to get coffee?"
you gasp like he's suggested you walk barefoot through snow. "that's uphill."
"slightly."
"jake. it's morning. i'm fragile."
he snorts and tosses you his car keys. "fine. you drive."
you blink at him like he had grown a second head. "i was... i was asking you to take me."
"yeah," he says, already walking away, "and i'm telling you to take yourself."
you stare at the keys like they've personally insulted you.
then there's the pizza incident. you take the last slice. obviously. you don't even feel bad. you're sitting on the couch when he walks in, box in hand, looking for the missing piece.
he lifts an eyebrowâthat stupid, infuriatingly calm eyebrowâand glances at the empty plate on your lap.
"you didn't eat the last slice, did you?"
"no," you say immediately, even though the evidence is literally smeared on your mouth.
he looks at you. really looks. slowly. knowingly. lips tugging upward. "right," he says softly. "of course you didn't."
then he reaches forward, thumb hovering near the corner of your mouthânot touching, but close enough that the heat of him brushes your skin.
your body locks up.
his voice drops, warm and amused, "you've got sauce right here."
you nearly stop breathing. and then he pulls back, smiling like nothing happened.
you want to strangle him. or kiss him. or both.
but it's the blanket situation that finally pushes you over the edge.
his blankets are better. obviously they are. he's responsible and orderly and uses fabric softener. you're a tired disaster with a credit card.
so you drag his nicest throw blanket into your room one night without asking.
in the morning, he finds you on the couch wrapped in it like a human burrito, scrolling through your phone.
he laughsâthis low, warm sound that makes something traitorous flutter in your chest.
"you know," he says, "you have blankets."
"yeah but yours are... softer."
he tilts his head, walking behind the couch. "so your solution was theft?"
"i don't see you complaining."
"i'm not complaining." he leans down behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath by your ear. "i'm just observing."
you freeze. again. you're starting to hate how often that happens.
"why're you so jumpy?" he murmurs, voice like honey.
"shut up," you whisper.
he only chuckles, watching your face turn a pretty shade of pink.
and then comes the night you push too far.
you're irritated for no real reasonâmaybe because he didn't react the way you wanted, maybe because he's not the boy you expected, maybe because his quiet confidence does something to you you can't explain.
you snap at him. something stupid. something about the air conditioner and his "stupid, organized, obsessive thermostat rules."
he's standing in the kitchen drying dishes when you say it. you expect him to fold, apologize, let you roll over him like you always have.
insteadâhe sets the plate down. slowly. carefully.
like he's placing a piece in a chess game he's already winning.
then he turns and walks toward you. the air changes, it thickens, until you swear you can feel it press against your skin.
you retreat one step, he follows. you bump lightly into the counter. he doesn't touch you. he doesn't need to.
he braces one hand on the counter beside your hip, leaning in just enough that your heart slams painfully against your ribs.
his voice is warm, but the firmness beneath it is unmistakable. "don't talk to me like that."
heat crawls up your neck, "i wasn'tâ i didn'tâ"
"no," he says, soft and steady, "you did."
his eyes flick down to your lips for half a secondâhalf a heartbeatâbefore meeting your eyes again.
"i let you get away with that stuff when we were kids," he continues. "but i'm not that guy anymore."
your pulse stutters. his face is close enough that you see the gold flecks in his eyes. "you don't get to talk to me like that," he says.
a beat.
"not anymore."
you swallow so hard it hurts. you open your mouthâto apologize, to argue, you're not sureâbut nothing comes out.
jake watches you, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. not cruel. not mocking. just... knowing. then, gently, he pushes off the counter and steps back.
"good," he murmurs, turning away to finish the dishes. "i'm glad we understand each other."
you stand there, dizzy, cheeks burning, knees genuinely weak. you've never shut up so fast in your entire life.
and you hateâabsolutely hateâhow much you liked it.
đ
you don't realize when it starts.
or maybe you do, and you're just pretending you don't, because acknowledging it would mean admitting something absolutely unacceptable: that jake simâgolden retriever, former bowl-cut disaster, childhood doormatâis becoming the gravitational pull of your entire stupid life.
and you hate that.
you REALLY hate that.
it happens on a friday night.
you're out with a few friendsâthe fun, chaotic ones who think your bratty personality is "endearing" and "so girlboss of you." you're half-done a drink, leaning over the bar to talk to some tall, kind-of-cute guy who'd been eyeing you for the last ten minutes.
he's laughing at your jokes. you're flipping your hair and pretending you're not checking your reflection in the chrome beer tap.
it's going great.
until you hear the voice that's been in your dreams for the last few months, "hey."
you don't even have to turn around. your stomach recognizes his voice before your brain does.
jake.
you freeze, hand still hovering mid-gesture, and the guy in front of you lifts a curious eyebrow.
the asshole actually smiles at jake when he approaches, like they're suddenly in a friendly competition he's about to lose without knowing why.
jake leans against the bar beside you like he's been invited, like he belongs thereâtall, warm, annoyingly good-smelling. his hand is on the small of your back, not touching, but close enough that you feel heat radiating through your shirt.
you hate that your heart triple-flips.
"hey," you say, pretending not to care, though your voice is a little too high. "what are you doing here?"
jake shrugs lightly. his eyes flick onceâjust once âto the guy you were flirting with. "came to pick you up."
"i didn't ask you to."
"your phone's dead."
you blink. you check your phone...your phone is, in fact, dead.
god, that's so annoying.
the cute guy clears his throat. "you two... know each other?"
before you can answer, jake does, with the most harmless, friendly voice you've ever heard, "yeah. she lives with me."
the guy's smile collapses.
your jaw drops. "jakeâthat's notâ"
"roommates," he adds, finally throwing you a look that says better? but it's too late. the guy is already pulling back, suddenly very uninterested in continuing the conversation with a girl who apparently has a six-foot wall of muscle as a roommate.
"he's justâhe's exaggerating," you say desperately, but the guy is already lifting his drink in a goodbye gesture. "nice meeting you," he saysâto jake. not you.
he leaves. just like that.
you whirl on jake. "what the hell was that?"
jake looks genuinely confused. "what was what?"
"youâyou scared him off!"
"i didn't do anything." his voice is maddeningly calm.
you shove his arm. it does nothing except hurt your hand a little. "you know what you did."
jake tilts his head, pretending to think, then steps closer, way closer, bending slightly so his face is level with yours. "if he got scared because i exist, maybe he wasn't that interested."
"you're insufferable."
"you're welcome for the ride home," he says, smiling like the world's sweetest problem.
you want to push him again.
you also want to grab him by the stupid lapel of his stupid jacket and kiss him until he can't talk like that anymore.
it's infuriating.
and it keeps happening.
you're out for brunch with friends and jake drops by to hand you the cardigan you "accidentally" stole again and suddenly the guy who'd been trying to get your number excuses himself.
you're buying ice cream at a street vendor, jake appears behind you because he was "in the neighborhood," and the guy working the cart instantly stops flirting with you mid-sentence.
you're at the bookstore, a cute grad student is recommending a title, and the moment jake walks up beside you to say, "hey, thought you wanted that coffee?" the grad student's smile just... dies.
every time, jake acts like he has no idea why.
every time, you want to scream.
one evening, you're sitting on the couch scrolling, pretending not to watch the clock, wondering when he's going to get home.
you hate that you miss him. you hate that his absence feels like silence filling the apartment too heavily.
the door unlocks. your heart jumps. you immediately scowl at yourself.
he steps inâhair messy from the wind, gym bag slung over his shoulder, wearing a fitted hoodie that absolutely shouldn't fit him that well.
"you're late," you snap, even though he isn't.
jake lifts a brow. "didn't know i had a curfew."
you huff. "whatever."
but he's already walking past you, and your eyes, traitors, follow him. the way his shoulders move. the way he reaches up to put his keys on the hook. the way his shirt lifts just slightly as he stretches.
you look away too fast and nearly drop your phone.
he notices. of course he notices. jake always notices.
he walks back toward the couch, slow, amused, hands in his pockets. you're about to make up some snarky comment when he stands directly in front of you, blocking the TV, blocking everything, and says gently:
"hey."
you blink up at him. you didn't even realize you'd been frowning.
"rough night?" he asks, voice warm, soft, impossibly soothing.
"none of your business," you mutter, crossing your arms.
but you don't move away when he leans down a little, bracing one hand on the back of the couch beside your headânot touching you, just close enough that you feel caged in.
"you know..." he says slowly, eyes dropping to your lips for one devastating second, "you don't have to act tough with me."
your throat closes. your brain refuses to function.
thenâas if that wasn't enough tortureâhe adds, quieter, "you know i'm not the kid you used to boss around. you see that now, right?"
you hate how hot your face gets. you hate how your pulse spikes. you hate that your breath catches in your chest like you've been punched.
and you really hate how much you want him to say it again.
before you can fire back, before you can regain control, jake pushes off the couch and steps away, giving you space again.
like he didn't just ruin your entire week.
"i'm gonna shower," he says simply, like he didn't just mentally dismantle you. "order dinner if you're hungry."
you stare at him. you stare through him. then you finally breathe.
your voice comes out small. "jake?"
he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. his eyes soften in that way that makes your stomach flip inside out.
you swallow. "why do people keep assuming we're... y'know... together?"
he smilesâslow, deep, knowing.
"maybe," he says, "they're seeing something you're not ready to see yet."
your heart stops. you want to scream. you want to hit him. you want to kiss him until your knees give out. but you can't say any of that. so instead you throw a pillow at him. "shut up."
he laughsâwarm, gentle, absolutely insane-making and disappears into the hallway. leaving you on the couch, heart sprinting, stomach twisted, entire world tilted sideways...
and realizing, for the first time, that you might be in very, very dangerous territory.
đ
you don't plan on getting jealous. you really don't. it just kind of... ambushes you, like a flying brick to the head.
the whole thing starts because your friend group decides to have a little saturday picnic in the parkâvery "we're adults now," very "bring something homemade," very "let's pretend our lives aren't falling apart."
you drag jake along because obviously. he has a car and you don't feel like ubering. plus, he always carries things for you without complaining, and you plan to bring at least four bags despite it being a two-hour outing.
he agrees without hesitation, because of course he does.
the morning of, he comes out of his room wearing a white t-shirt, grey sweats, a backward baseball cap, and that infuriating golden retriever smile that makes your stomach do embarrassing gymnastics.
you pretend not to notice. you absolutely notice.
"you ready?" he asks, grabbing the cooler like it weighs nothing.
you squint at him. "you're wearing that?"
he glances down at himself. "...yes?"
"to a picnic?"
"is this not... picnic attire?"
"you look like a catalogue model for 'athletic boyfriend who loves you.'"
he grins. "so i look good? i fit the part?" you blush furiously at his words, choosing to roll your eyes so dramatically it should win an award. "i didn't say that."
"but you didn't deny it."
"jake."
"yes?"
"shut up."
he just laughs and ushers you out the door with a hand on your lower backâcasual, familiar, too natural.
you hate how your heart stutters. you want to be annoying on purpose, just to punish him. you succeed by making him carry every single one of your bags.
he still keeps that stupid gentle smile.
you hate it. you love it. you hate that you love it.
the picnic starts fine. your friends adore himâwhich annoys you for reasons you refuse to examine.
"jake's so sweet," one of them says while he helps set up the blanket.
"jake's so tall," another sighs dreamily.
"jake's soâ"
"okay!" you cut in, a little too loudly. "we get it. he's perfect. shut up." everyone stares. you pretend you didn't say anything weird.
jake just throws you an amused little look like he knows exactly what's happening in your brain and is choosing to spare you.
which somehow makes it worse. then she arrives.
the problem. the villain. the enemy.
your friend's coworkerâinvited last minuteânamed mia, with perfect hair and a perfect smile and an offensively cute sundress. she spots jake instantly, like a moth to a glow-in-the-dark lantern.
"oh my god, hi," she chirps, stepping right into his space. "we haven't met yet. i'm mia."
you watch from your corner of the blanket, chewing a strawberry like you're trying to murder it with your teeth.
mia laughs at everything he says. she touches his arm at least twice. she calls him funnyâfunny, jake, the man who laughs at his own dad jokes and says "oopsies" when he drops things.
your eye twitches. and jake... doesn't pull away.
worse, he's being his usual selfâeasygoing, kind, listening fully, that soft focused attention he gives people when he genuinely likes them.
you have never hated being conscious more. your friends keep giving you meaningful looks.
you keep ignoring them. except then mia leans in closer, tiny sundress fluttering, and says, "so, are you seeing anyone?"
you nearly choke on air. jake doesn't seem fazed. "uh... iâ"
"jake!" you snap, way too quickly, way too loud.
everyone stops. jake turns toward you with slow amusement raising his eyebrows. "yeah?"
"youâ uh..." your brain abandons you. it packs its bags and literally leaves the continent. "you forgot to... um... help me with something."
he looks at the fully assembled picnic. "help you with what?"
"something," you repeat, sweating. "very important."
mia blinks. "oh, we can finish our conversaâ"
"NOPE," you say, grabbing jake's wrist and yanking him off the blanket so fast he practically trips. "no need. bye. go touch grass or something."
you drag him behind a tree like a deranged cartoon burglar. he follows, mostly because he's trying not to laugh.
"you good?" he asks softly.
"i'm fine," you snap, glaring at him.
"you sure? because you lookâ" "if you say 'jealous' i'm going to drown you in the lake."
he smirks. "i was going to say 'cute,' but okay."
your brain fries like an egg on asphalt. "shut up," you whisper, but it comes out breathless.
he steps closerânot touching, but close enough that the tree is behind you and he's in front of you, warm and solid and taller than you remember.
"you dragged me away from someone mid-flirt," he murmurs, voice dropping into that low warm register that goes straight to your knees. "so i'm gonna need you to explain."
you glare up at him. "i did not. she wasn't flirting."
"she asked if i was seeing anyone."
"she was just being friendly."
"she touched my arm."
"maybe she's friendly with arms." god, you want to be friendly with his arms. "you pulled me across the park."
"i felt like walking."
"you growled." your face burns. "i did not!"
he grinsâslow, devastating. "you definitely did." you shove his shoulder, which does absolutely nothing because he's built like a wall now. "you're imagining things."
"am i?"
"yes."
he leans in, inches from your face, eyes ridiculously soft and warm and knowing. "then tell me why you're mad."
you open your mouth. nothing comes out. your throat works around a sound that isn't a word.
jake watches all of it with that maddening patienceâlike he's been waiting years for this exact moment and can give you all the time in the world.
then, barely above a whisper, "you know i'd drop anyone the second you wanted me to... right?"
your heart stops. actually stops. you physically forget what breathing is.
and he smilesâthat deeper, slower version he only gives you nowâbefore stepping back, giving you space like he didn't just vaporize your entire soul.
"come on," he says, gentle. "before your friends think you murdered me." he starts walking back. you stare after him, stunned, furious, flustered, painfully alive.
you hate him. you really, really like him. you hate that you really, really like him.
and when mia tries to talk to him again later, he doesn't even noticeâbecause he's too busy watching you out of the corner of his eye, like you're the only person in the park.
and that's when you know, you're doomed.
đ
the day starts stupidly normal, which should've been your first warning.
it's saturday. the sun is too bright. jake's already upâas alwaysâmaking breakfast like some domestic prince charming he has no right to be. you stumble into the kitchen in one of his hoodies, hair a mess, mascara from last night smudged like war paint.
he glances over his shoulder, amused. "morning, trouble."
you roll your eyes because your heart does a weird little tap-dance. "you're loud."
"i haven't even said anything."
"you existing is loud."
he laughsâsoft, warm, like he thinks you're hilarious even when you're being awful and goes back to cooking.
you sit at the counter, chin in your palm, watching him move around like he owns every inch of this kitchen. he does, technically, but you hate how good he looks doing it. the rolled sleeves that expose his delicious looking forearms. the concentration. the way he pushes his hair back when it falls over his forehead.
you look away before he catches you staring. he sets a plate in front of you a moment later, eggs, toast, fruit. stupidly wholesome.
you poke at it. "jake..."
"mm?"
"i need your car today." your car had been in the shop for the last few days, leaving you stranded at home majority of the day.
he pauses. not dramatically. not in a way meant to provoke you. just... pauses. "for what?"
"i need to run errands," you shrug. "grocery store, nail appointment, whatever."
he leans his hip against the counter, arms crossing. "you can take the bus. i need the car."
you blink. blink again. "...the bus?"you say it like he suggested you swim across the pacific ocean.
"yeah," he says simply. "the 14 stops right outside the building. it's not hard."
you stare at him and he stares back. somewhere deep inside your spoiled, bratty, slightly feral soul, a fuse lights.
"you're being dramatic," you declare.
"i'm being practical."
"you're supposed to help me."
"i do help you."
"not right now!" he exhales, patient but firm. "my car isn't your personal uber."
your pride twists sharply. you feel itâthat hot, impulsive, immature spark that always gets you in trouble.
"wow," you snap, standing from the stool. "you get a couple muscles, a salary, and suddenly you're too good for me?" his brows lift, surprisedânot offended, not angryâjust surprised that you'd go for that. "i didn't say that."
"you're acting like it!"
you don't mean the words. not really. they spill out because you're flustered and embarrassed and you hate how stable he is when you're wobbling all over the emotional place. you fold your arms, chin lifted in that signature i'm-right-even-when-i'm-wrong posture.
"i'm asking for one tiny thing, jake. one. and you're giving me attitude? seriously?"
he doesn't flinch. "you're not asking," he says quietly. "you're demanding."
your pulse kicks upâdefensive, stubborn. "because you're supposed to say yes!"
"why?" you hate that he says it without raising his voice. hate how calm he is while you're practically vibrating.
"because you always have!" you blurt. "you always listened to me! you alwaysâ"
"i was a kid," he says, tone low but steady. "you treated me like i didn't know how to have my own life. and back then? maybe i didn't."
you freeze. his expression softensânot pitying, not mocking âsoft in the way someone looks when they finally decide to stop letting you run from something. "but i'm not that kid anymore," he says. "and you can't talk to me like i am."
your throat tightensâsharp, sudden. it's stupid how much it hits you, how fast your anger collapses into something hot and guilty.
he steps closer. not threatening. just... present.
closer than you expected. closer than your heart can handle without short-circuiting.
your voice shrinks. "i wasn'tâ i didn't meanâ"
"yeah," he murmurs, eyes steady on yours. "i know. but you said it anyway."
you swallow. hard. jake looks down at you like he's seeing every version of you at once, bossy eight-year-old you, dramatic teenager you, chaotic adult you, and none of them scare him. none of them push him away.
"i'm not the one who needs to grow up," he says, softer now. "and i'm not trying to fight you. but i'm not here to be ordered around." the room feels too quiet suddenly. the only sound is the faint sizzle of the pan cooling on the stove and your own uneven breathing.
"i... didn't know i was doing that," you whisper.
"yeah," he says again, but gently. "that's the problem."
you look away, frustrated with yourself more than with him. and then he reaches outâslow, carefulâand hooks a finger under your chin to tilt your face back up. not forceful but impossible to ignore. his voice drops just a little. warm. real. a little too intimate.
"i'm not going anywhere," he says. "i never have. but you can't keep pretending i belong to you just because i used to follow you around."
the words hit you dead center. because the truthâthe horrible, humiliating, painfully raw truthâis that you didn't treat him like he was below you.
you treated him like he was yours. and somewhere along the way, he learned to walk without trailing behind you. you blink fast, trying not to let your eyes shine too much. "i... i just thought..."
"i know," he murmurs. "but that's why we're having this conversation."
you nod, small. awkward. vulnerable in a way you hate being. jake steps back slowly, giving you space without breaking eye contact.
"you can still take the bus," he says lightly. "i'll even google the schedule for you." you glare. but it's weak. he smiles, that stupid warm smile that ruins you every time. and for the first time, your bratty instinct doesn't flare up. instead, something quieter settles in your chest.
you're not sure you like it. you're very sure it has everything to do with him.
đ
it starts on a lazy sunday afternoonâthe fake kind of lazy where you're doing nothing but somehow jake is doing everything.
he's folding laundry, humming, looking offensively good in a plain white tee, while you lie on the couch upside down, legs over the backrest, scrolling on your phone like a disgruntled cat.
you're bored. dangerous.
"jake," you call, voice dramatic, "i'm craving entertainment. entertain me." he doesn't even glance over. "i'm folding your shirts. that's entertaining."
"no, that's domestic," you correct. "you're like a husband in a detergent commercial."
"at least i smell nice?" he shrugs. you pause. he does. annoyingly so. you ignore the flutter in your stomach and point your toes at him from the upside-down position.
"tell me a story," you demand. "like bedtime story vibes. something juicy. something chaotic. something where i'm the main characterâ" "âwhich you always are," he finishes for you, snorting. "okay. fine. let's do memory lane."
you lift your head just enough to squint at him. "that sounds suspiciously sentimental."
"you're the one who asked." you flop your head back. "proceed, peasant."
he finally looks at youâthat slow, amused, golden-retriever-who-knows-your-game look. "alright. remember grade four?"
"i choose not to."
"too bad," he says, sitting on the floor in front of the couch, folding the last shirt. "you announced to the whole class that we were getting married."
your phone drops onto your face. "i whatâ?"
he laughs, warm and full, like it's a memory he's kept safe. "yeah. you stood on a chair during recess and yelled, 'jake is gonna be my husband because he listens!'" you bury your face in your hands. "oh my god."
"you even made me a ring out of twist ties."
"stop talking."
"and then you made me swear an oathâ"
"NO YOU DID NOT JUST SAY OATHâ"
"âthat i'd carry your backpack forever because i was 'stronger' and 'built for it'." you groan so loudly that he laughs again.
"you loved bossing me around," he says, softer now. "i still do," you shoot back, kicking his shoulder lightly with your foot. he catches your ankle. not tight, but just enough for your breath to hitch.
"i know." his voice is lower. "you were kind of terrifying."
"i was adorable," you argue, rolling his eyes.
"you were a tiny tyrant with pigtails."
"and you followed me everywhere," you retort, letting your foot rest in his hold because pulling away feels too much like losing.
"yeah," he says quietly, thumb brushing just once over your ankle before he realizes and lets go. "i did." you freeze. he doesn't look flustered, but the way he movesâslow, controlled, pretending nothing happenedâtells you he definitely felt something too.
so you clear your throat and switch the subject recklessly. "well, remember when you glued your hand to a desk?" the corner of his mouth twitches. "you told me it would make me smarter."
"and you believed me!" you cackle.
"you said the glue had 'knowledge properties,'" he defends, pointing an accusing finger at you. "you said einstein invented it!"
you're laughing so hard you almost fall off the couch. he tries to stay serious, but your laugh is contagious and he ends up leaning back against the couch, head tipped against your knee as he laughs too.
you go still. his head. on your leg. like it's natural. like it's always been that way. your laugh fades into a stubborn little silence you can't name.
he notices. he always notices. "hey," he murmurs, chin tilting up just a little so he can see your upside-down face. "what's with that look?"
"what look?" you whisper, too fast.
"the one where you pretend you're annoyed but you're actually... i don't know." he searches your expression. "thinking."
you scoff. "i don't think."
"yes you do."
"nope."
"you definitely do."
"stop accusing me of intelligence!" he laughs again, but this time something softer lingers under it â something warm, something knowing. the air shifts. you hate it. or maybe you don't, maybe that's the problem.
"okay, next memory," you say quickly, tapping his forehead with your foot to break the moment. "tell me something where i look cool."
he smirks. "that never happened."
"JAKEâ"
"kidding, kidding." he nudges your leg. "there was that time you punched a boy in the nose because he called me 'jakey-wakey.'"
you blink. "oh yeah. classic me."
"classic you," he echoes, smiling to himself in a way that makes your chest feel tight. and then, quietly, "you always had my back." the room goes still. your heart stuttersâbecause he means it. because he remembers it. because he says it like it mattered.
"don't get sentimental on me, golden boy," you mumble.
"too late," he says, voice warm, teasing, but edged with something real. "you brought up memory lane. i'm just walking it."
you swallow. the dynamic tilts againâjust slightly, just enough to make you feel like you're standing on the edge of something big.
so you do what you do best. you kick him lightly in the shoulder. "get up. i'm bored again." he stands, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt.
"fine," he says. "let's go get ice cream."
"you're paying, right?" he sighs. "i always do."
you grin. and he does too, like he wouldn't have it any other way.
đ
it starts stupidly. you're not even fighting.
you're tipsyânot blackout, not sloppy, just warm and giggly after a night out with friends. you called jake because your uber bailed and your phone was dying, and he showed up in ten minutes flat, hair messy from sleep, hoodie half-zipped, looking unfairly good for someone dragged out of bed at 1 a.m.
you slid into the passenger seat, all smug. "aww, jakey. did i wake you?"
he didn't even look at you. "put your seatbelt on."
ugh. infuriating. for the entire drive, you tried to poke at himâ literally and figurativelyâbut he kept dodging with that maddening calm.
by the time you walk into the apartment, and by walk you mean jake carrying your flailing bodyâyou're buzzing with irritation that isn't... really irritation.
not exactly. you kick your shoes off dramatically. "you didn't have to come get me, y'know."
he locks the door behind you. "you called," he says simply, shrugging off his hoodie. "i wasn't gonna leave you outside alone."
"i can take care of myself." he gives you a slow, deliberate once-overâthe skirt, the smudged makeup, the slightly-wobbly stance.
"sure you can." you make an offended noise, fully ready to start something stupidâbut he walks past you toward the kitchen.
which pisses you off more. so you follow him. obviously. he's pulling a water bottle out of the fridge when you step right into his space, eyebrows raised, chin tilted up like a challenge.
"you're ignoring me," you accuse.
"no," he says calmly. "i'm choosing not to indulge you." your stomach actually drops. oh, that tone. that new tone you still haven't learned how to handle.
you scoff. "wow. someone got confident."
"someone had to," he says. and thenâgod help youâhe steps closer. not touching you, just closer.
your back meets the counter, cold through your shirt. he sets the water bottle beside you but doesn't move away. he's right thereâwarm, solid, taller, broader than he ever was as a kidâand he's looking at you like he can see every thought you're trying to hide.
"you good?" he asks softly. that should be a normal question. but it isn't.your throat goes tight. "i'm fine." he inhales once, slow, like he's counting to five because of you. "you're doing that thing again."
"what thing," you snap too quickly.
"pretending you don't want something," he murmurs, "just because you don't wanna admit i'm the one you want it from."
your breath actually stops. you hate how your hands grip the counter; you hate how your pulse stutters; you hate that he can hear it, probably feel it, with how close he is.
"you think i want something from you?" you manage, trying to sound bored. he leans in, not touching. but close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.
"i think," he says quietly, "you wouldn't have called me tonight if you didn't." your voice comes out small. "i called because my uber bailed."
he smiles. slow. knowing. devastating. "sure," he says. "if that's the lie you wanna stick to."
you actually shove him. wellâyou try. your hands hit his chest, but he doesn't budge an inch. he just looks down at you with that infuriating calm, like you're cute for even attempting it.
"don'tâ" your voice breaks, and you hate that too. "don't talk like you know everything."
he corners you fully now, one hand resting on the counter beside your hip, the other liftingâslowly, giving you timeâuntil his fingers hover under your jaw. not touching. just waiting.
"i'm not the one pretending here," he says softly. "i'm not pretending anything."
"yeah?" he whispers. "then look at me." you do. you shouldn't have.
his eyes are warm and dark and unbearably sure of youâlike he's known this moment was coming since you were both twelve and you bossed him into giving you the last popsicle on the block. like he's been waiting for you to catch up.
"you can be a brat to everyone else," he says, barely above a murmur. "but you don't get to lie to me." your chest pulls tight, breath shaking, and you don't realize you've gone still until he tilts his head, studying you.
"there it is," he whispers. "finally." finally what? finally you stop running? finally you stop pretending you don't want him? finally you admit you're not the one with the power anymore?
you don't know. you just know your voice is barely a whisper, "...jake." something changes in his face. not anger. not triumph. just... relief. warm and deep and terrifying.
he leans closer, his forehead almost touching yours and his voice drops, low and steady, "i'm not gonna kiss you tonight," he says. "you're drunk."
you swallow hard, embarrassed and grateful and furious all at once. "but tomorrow?" he adds, eyes flicking to your mouth for half a second.
your knees actually go weak, tomorrow? "tomorrow," he says, "you don't get to run." and he steps back. leaving you breathless, cornered by nothing but your own heartbeat.
you wake up with your skull splitting in two, your mouth dry, and the horrifying, slowâmotion realization that you remember every single thing that happened last night.
the way jake lifted you off that sidewalk like you weighed nothing. the way he held you steady while you tried to unlock the door and failed miserably.
the way he said itâlow, warm, devastating, "you can be a brat to everyone else. but you don't get to lie to me." and worst of all, the way he looked at you afterward. like he was two seconds away from kissing you senseless against your own doorway.
you roll onto your back, throw an arm over your face, and groan.
"oh my god i hate it here," you mutter into your pillow. "i should move out. i should join a monastery. i should fake my death."
a soft knock hits your door. your entire soul leaves your body. "hey," jake's voice calls, maddeningly gentle. "i made breakfast." you consider leaping out the window. instead you croak, "i'm... busy."
"you're hungover."
"busy being hungover." he laughsâthat warm, breathy laugh that you hear way too clearly through the door.
"come eat. i won't bite." liar, you think, dragging yourself out of bed. you almost did. you trudge down the hall in an oversized hoodie and socks, praying he looks terrible so you can at least feel morally superior.
he does not look terrible. he's standing at the stove in grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, hair damp, shoulders broad, forearms flexing as he plates food. the apartment is stupidly bright, the sun hits him like it's personally in love.
you want to die. you try to sneak to the fridge for water and pretend he doesn't exist. he turns just in time to catch you.
"morning," he says. you nearly drop the bottle. "...hi."
he raises an eyebrow. "that's it? no yelling? no demands?" you glare at him weakly. "i'm on sick leave."
"mhm." he sets a plate in front of you. "how's the headache?"
"big."
"water's on the table."
"i know."
"you didn't drink it."
"...i was getting emotionally prepared," you mumble. he smilesâsoft, amused, slightly pityingâand sits across from you.mthe silence is unbearable. you poke at your eggs like they personally offended you. "so. about last night."
"yeah," he says calmly, sipping his coffee. "about last night." you brace yourself. you don't know what you're expectingâa lecture? a joke? him pretending it didn't happen?
what you don't expect is him leaning back in his chair, eyes flicking over your face like he can see every thought you're trying to drown.
"you were pretty honest," he says softly. you choke on air. "iâ whatâ honest how?" he tilts his head. "you kept grabbing me."
"NO I DID NOTâ"
"you did," he says, annoyingly unbothered. "kept saying i 'smelled stupidly good' and that i 'ruined guys' for you." you want the earth to open up and swallow you. "i was drunk," you whisper.
"i know." he nods. "that's why you didn't lie." your heart stutters. his voice drops, the same tone he used last nightâwarm, steady, too real.
"you don't have to freak out," he murmurs. "i'm not asking for anything." you stare at him. "you're being... weirdly nice."
"i'm always nice to you."
"you're being extra nice." his lips twitch. "you're hungover."
"i don't trust it."
"that says more about you than me," he says, and you actually consider throwing your fork at him. but then... he pushes his chair back. stands. walks around the table. you freeze as he stops right beside you. not touching you, he never touches first, but close enough that your entire body tenses.
"look at me," he says quietly. you do, because what other choice do you have. his eyes hold yours, steady and dark and impossibly sure.
"what i said last night wasn't because you were drunk." a beat. "i meant it." your breath catches. your fingers curl around the edge of your chair. "jake..."
he leans down just a littleânot enough to cross the line, but enough that you feel him, warm and solid at your side. "you can avoid me all you want today," he murmurs. "hide in your room. glare at me. pretend you don't remember."
your heart is hammering so loudly you're scared he can hear it. "but we're not going back," he finishes. "not after last night." you can't speak. you can't move. you can't breathe. he straightens slowly, like he knows exactly what he just did to you, and steps back.
"eat your breakfast," he says lightly, already turning toward the sink. "you need your strength." you stare at his back, absolutely feral with confusion and panic and want.
because he's right. everything has changed and you're the one who feels ruined.
the rest of the day is... hell. you hide in your room because you're a coward with a hangover and a heart that won't stop doing gymnastics. you scroll on your phone. you pretend to nap. you dramatically throw yourself on your bed like a victorian widow.
unfortunately, your bedroom shares a wall with the living room.
which means you hear everything. you hear jake laughing softly at his phone. you hear him moving around, cleaning, humming, doing dishes. you hear him existing like the universe didn't tilt on its axis last night.
and every time he shifts, every time the floor creaks, your stomach flips like it's auditioning for a reality show.
around 5 p.m., you crack. you storm out of your room under the noble excuse of "checking if he replaced the Brita filter," which is a lie, but you're committed to the bit.
jake is on the couch. hair damp again from the gym. black t-shirt stretched over his shoulders. sweatpants hanging too low for god's favorites, let alone you, god's forgotten middle child.
he looks up the second you appear.
"hey." so casual. so normal. so illegal.
you fold your arms. "why are you acting weird?"
he blinks. "...i'm literally sitting."
"you're sitting weird." he bites back a smile. "okay. how does one sit weird?"
"like that!" you snap, gesturing vaguely at his whole body. "all... confident."
"i'm sorry?" he laughs, leaning back. "you want me to slouch more?"
"i want you to stopâ" you choke on your own words. "âbeing like... this."he tilts his head. "like what?" you should walk away. run. escape. join witness protection. instead you stomp closer. "stop being smug about last night." his eyebrows lift. "i'm not smug."
"you are," you fire back. "you're doing the eyes."
"...the eyes?"
"yes! theâ" you wildly point at his face "â'i know something you're not admitting' eyes." his lips twitch. "maybe because you are avoiding something."
you freeze. he didn't say it sharply. or cruelly. just... plainly. softly. like he's stating the weather.
"i'm not avoiding anything," you lie.
"okay." he pats the couch. "come sit, then." you scoff. "no."
"why not?"
"because." because you don't know what will happen. because you don't trust your own body around him. because his voice last night is still echoing in your bones. "because?" he repeats gently.
you glare. you hate him. you hate that he's winning. you hate that he's not even trying to win. "fine," you snap, and drop onto the couch beside him.
the space between you is legal... but barely. jake doesn't move. doesn't lean in. doesn't touch. he simply turns his head and looks at you.
slowly. openly. like he's reading a book he's already memorized. your pulse stutters. "what?" you demand.
his voice is quiet. "you still look upset."
"i'm not upset."
"you're doing the eyebrows."
you gasp. "I DO NOTâ"
"you do," he murmurs, and the toneâgod, that toneâalmost makes you shake. "you always do when you're overwhelmed." you hate how he knows that. you hate how he knows anything. you hate how safe he makes it feel to be known.
"jake," you say, trying to sound sharp. "stop... looking at me like that."
"like what?"
"like you'reâ" you swallow "âwaiting for me to break." he's quiet for a beat. then, "i'm not waiting," he says softly. "you already are."
your breath catches. he doesn't smirk. he doesn't tease. he just watches youâsteady, patient, unbearably gentle. and something in you snaps. "you think you know everything," you whisper.
"no." he shakes his head once. "i just know you."
your throat tightens. you push up from the couch âtoo fast, too dramatic, too youâbut before you can escape, his hand closes around your wrist.
not hard. not forceful. just enough, enough to stop you. enough to pull a tiny gasp from your mouth. enough to make your knees weaken embarrassingly fast.
you stare at him and he stares right back.
"don't run," he murmurs.
"i'm notâ"
"you are." his hand slides down, fingers brushing yours. "why are you scared of me?"
"i'm not scared of you," you whisper.
"then look at me." you do and that's your mistake. because he stands and steps into your space. not touching, but close enough that your breath stumbles. your legs buckle beneath you and you find yourself sitting on the sofa again.
your back presses into the sofa without you thinking, his body following, not pinning you, but caging you all the sameâone arm braced above your head, the other still holding your wrist like he's reminding you he could've touched more, but chose restraint instead.
his breath ghosts your cheek. "this is what you wanted last night," he says quietly.
your stomach flips so violently you almost fold.
"iâ youâ i was drunk," you manage.
"you're sober now."
you hate him. you want him. you hate that you want him. his forehead drops to yoursâbarely touching, barely there, but it feels like a strike of lightning.
"say it," he murmurs, voice dropping to that devastating low. "just once. stop lying to me." you swallow so hard it hurts. "jake..."
his thumb skims the back of your handâthe first real touchâslow and devastating and enough to make heat coiling in your stomach spike.
"say it," he repeats, even softer now. "and i won't make you wait anymore." you gasp. you could feel your chest press in and your thigh clench together, an action that doenst go unnoticed by jake's sharp eyes.
your whole body trembles under his breath, his closeness, his voice and he feels it, oh he absolutely feels it. he smirks, barely. and then, in a tone that is not patient anymore, not gentle anymoreâa tone that is pure control, "don't make me ask again."
your mouth parts. your pulse jumps. the line is right thereâthe moment before the momentâand you know if you speak, if you admit one more thing, everything you've been holding back is going to break wide open.
and he's waiting. breathing with you. holding you still. letting you fall on your own.
your mouth opens, but the only sound is a shaky, pathetic little gasp. your brain is screaming at you to shove him, to run, to do somethingâanythingâbut your body is a traitor. it's melting. sinking into the wall of the couch, arching just the tiniest bit toward him, like a flower leaning into the sun.
his thumb presses into the soft skin of your inner wrist, a slow, deliberate circle that feels like a brand. "i'm waiting," he murmurs, and his voice isn't gentle anymore. it's low. rough. it's the voice of someone who's done waiting.
"iâ" you try, but the word dissolves. your pride is a flimsy shield against the sheer force of him. he's not just jake anymore. he's the boy who memorized your every whim, who learned your tells, who grew up and sharpened all that quiet observation into a weapon aimed directly at your defenses.
"look at me," he says again, and you do. you have to. his eyes are dark, pinned on yours, and there's no escape in them. there's only the truth. "say it."
"i hate you," you whisper, and it's the most honest thing you've ever said. a slow, vicious smile spreads across his face. it's not triumphant. it's relieved. "no you don't," he breathes, and then he closes the last inch of space.
the first kiss is a collision. it's not soft. it's not hesitant. it's a punishment. his mouth is firm on yours, bruising, and before you can even process it, his teeth are sinking into your bottom lip, a sharp, stinging bite that makes you cry out.
he licks over the hurt immediately, a hot, possessive swipe, and then he's kissing you again, all teeth and tongue, a messy, hungry claim. he's devouring you, and you're letting him. you're arching into him, your free hand fisting the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer.
he breaks the kiss, leaving you panting, your lip tingling. his forehead rests on yours, his breathing just as ragged. "see?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your entire body. "not so hard, was it?"
you want to snap back, but all you can manage is a weak, breathless glare.
he chuckles, a dark, warm sound. "still got that look in your eye," he says, his thumb stroking the side of your neck. "like you're planning my murder."
"maybe i am," you whisper, dazed out of your mind.
"good luck with that," he says, and then he's manhandling you. his hands grip your waist, and he's spinning you, pushing you forward until your knees hit the edge of the couch. he bends you over the arm, one hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you down. the position is obscene, your ass in the air, face pressed into the couch cushions.
"these," he says, his voice low and rough as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your sleep shorts, "have been driving me crazy for a week."
he tugs them down, slowly, deliberately, and you lift your hips to help him, a silent surrender that feels more powerful than any argument you've ever won. he tosses them aside, his gaze dropping to the thin lace of your panties.
"so much for being subtle," he murmurs, and you flush, because he knows. he knows you wore them for him. you always do.
then his hand is gone from your back for a second, and you hear the sharp sound of it cutting through the air before it connects with your ass. a sharp, stinging slap that makes you yelp into the cushions.
"that's for being a fucking tease," he growls, his hand rubbing the sting into your skin. another slap, this one on the other cheek. "and that's for making me wait."
he yanks your panties down, and the cool air hits your dripping pussy. you're so wet it's embarrassing. "look at this," he breathes, and then you feel itâa sharp, stinging slap right against your folds. you jolt, a choked moan tearing from your throat. it's a different kind of pain, sharper, more intimate.
"so fucking wet for me. you wanted this just as bad as i did, didn't you?"
he doesn't wait for an answer. he's on his knees behind you, his hands gripping your ass cheeks and spreading you open. you feel his hot breath a second before his mouth is on you. he doesn't start slow. he licks a broad, flat stripe from your clit to your entrance, a messy, hungry taste before his lips close around your clit and he sucks. hard.
your knees buckle, but his grip on you is iron. he's a man possessed. he eats you out like he's starving, his tongue fucking into you, his nose pressing against your ass, his teeth scraping your inner thighs. he bites down on the sensitive skin there, hard enough to leave a mark, and you sob, pushing back against his face. he's obsessed. he's consuming you.
he groans at the taste of you, his tongue messy yet precise as he slide down your folds making your squirm. "jake, please," you gasp, your hands fisting the couch cushions.
he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice muffled by your cunt. "please what? beg for it."
"please, i needâ"
"need what?" he demands, landing another sharp slap to your pussy. the sting mixes with the pleasure, a dizzying cocktail. you feel his fingers tease your clenching hole, not quite pushing in but instead dip in slightly before running over to rub at your swollen clit.
"your cock," you sob, completely broken. "please, jake, i need your cock."
he groans, a deep, guttural sound of victory. he stands up, and you hear the rustle of his jeans. then he's grabbing you, flipping you over onto your back on the couch like you weigh nothing. he looms over you, his shirt gone, his chest heaving. his eyes are wild, feral.
"open your mouth," he commands, his hand reaching between your legs to rub tight circles around your clit while you struggle to keep your legs open.
you do, without thinking. he leans down, spits directly onto your tongue. it's filthy, degrading, and it sends a bolt of pure lust straight through you. "swallow it," he orders, and you do, your eyes locked on his.
his expression morphs into one of pure bliss, his hand wrapped around his thick aching cock as he jerks himself slightly. he watches your needy mouth pull into a whine when his fingers press harder on your clit, pleading for him to fuck you.
originally, he was going to tease you. have you begging and crying for his cock, but he overestimated his ability to hold back when he realized how good you looked fucked out.
"good girl," he murmurs, and then he's lining himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. he doesn't wait. he pushes into you in one hard, deep stroke, and you both groan. he's big, stretching you, filling you completely, and it's overwhelming in the best possible way.
he starts to move, his hips slamming into yours, a brutal, punishing rhythm. each thrust is deep, deliberate, designed to break you apart. he leans down, sinking his teeth into the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder, a hard, possessive bite that you know will leave a dark bruise.
"mine," he growls against your skin, his pace quickening. "you've always been mine." his hands fumble to pull up your shirt, eyes bright when he realizes that you weren't wearing a bra. his greedy hands grab at you tits, pinching and squeezing as he watched your face scrunch in pleasure.
"so fucking pretty." he mummers, his cock pounding into you strong before his mouth reach's down to take in one of your nipplesâsucking hard.
you whine in response, hands clawing at his shoulders as you arch unnaturally against the couch.
"been waiting for this day for years." he confesses, between kisses that he's leaving on your chest. your heart beats faster at his sudden confession, moaning louder when his cock brushes against that all get area that many of your ex's had trouble finding.
the coil in your stomach tightens, impossibly fast. he can feel it too, can feel the way you're clenching around him, and he reaches down, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles.
"cum for me," he commands, his voice a low growl. "now."
you shatter. a blinding, all-consuming orgasm rips through you. you scream his name, your body arching off the couch as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. he follows you over the edge a moment later, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep inside you with a guttural groan, spilling himself into you.
you shudder at the feeling of his warm cum in you, feeling him twitch inside you as he helped you ride out your high.
he collapses on top of you, his body heavy and warm, his face buried in the crook of your neck. you're both panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the room filled with the sound of your ragged breathing.
for a long moment, neither of you speaks. you just lie there, tangled together, the aftermath of the storm settling around you.
finally, he pushes himself up, his arms braced on either side of your head. he looks down at you, his expression soft, his eyes filled with a terrifying amount of adoration. he leans down and presses a soft, gentle kiss to the bite mark on your neck.
"still hate me?" he murmurs, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
you look up at him, at the boy you've spent a lifetime fighting, and feel something inside you crack open. "no," you whisper, and it's the truest thing you've ever said.
the room is still warm.not from the heater, not from the blanketsâfrom him. from the way he touched you. from the way you touched him back.
you're lying on your back, hair messy, chest still rising too fast, your skin flushed in a way you hope isn't obvious... but you know it is. jake's spread out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily resting across your stomach like he claimed the space there without even thinking about it.
you don't speak at first. neither does he.
your breathing gradually falls back into something human, and eventually something soft and unbearably embarrassing curls into your voice.
"so," you mumble, staring at the ceiling because looking at him might actually kill you. "um. that happened."
jake turns his head toward you slowlyâso slowly your pulse skips like it's trying to escape your body.
he doesn't tease. he doesn't joke. he doesn't even smirk. he just looks at you, eyes dark and soft and deeply certain in a way that makes your stomach twist.
"yeah," he says quietly. "it did."
you swallow. his fingers moveânot leaving your stomach, just tracing lazy, slow circles like he's memorizing the shape of you now that he's allowed to.
"are you..." his voice dips, warm and low, "okay?"
you shut your eyes for one humiliating second before answering.
"i'm fine."
"you sure?"
"yes."
"positive?"
"jake, please," you groan, dragging your hands over your face. "i'm fine, you're fine, everything'sâwhatever."
he laughs, soft and breathy, and his hand slides higher on your torsoâwarm palm resting just beneath your ribs without pushing, without restraining, just there.
and the worst part? you lean into it without thinking.
he noticesâof course he noticesâbecause his thumb presses lightly, intentionally, like he's acknowledging the way you reacted.
your voice comes out embarrassingly small. "stop acting like you know everything."
"i don't," he murmurs. "i just know you."
you turn your head sharply, finally meeting his eyesâwhich was a mistake, because he's already looking at you like he's been waiting for you to do it.
and he holds your gaze. fully. openly. no hesitation left whatsoever.
god, he's bold now. not arrogant. not smug. just... sure.
sure of you. sure of himself. sure of what he wants.
"i meant what i said," he says, the slightest rasp in his voice. "you don't get to lie to me anymore."
you swallow, throat tight. "i wasn'tâ"
he cuts you off with nothing but a look. a look that tells you exactly what he heard in your voice earlier, in your breathing, in the way you clung to him.
"you don't have to pretend," he adds quietly. "not here. not with me."
your chest squeezes.
no one has ever said that to you beforeânot like that, not with that kind of certainty, not with that kind of gentleness that feels like he's handing you permission you didn't even know you craved.
so you whisperâbarely audible, "i'm not pretending."
his breath catches. barely, but you hear it. then he shiftsânot climbing over you, not pulling you in âjust rolling onto his side, facing you fully, his leg brushing yours under the blanket that he has pulled over you two.
his voice drops to something dangerously soft.
"good," he murmurs. "because I'm not pretending anymore either."
you blink. "pretending what?"
he leans in, just enough that you feel his breath against your cheek, his nose brushing the corner of yours.
"that I don't want you," he says simply.
your stomach drops straight through the mattress. he keeps going, voice steady, tone low but honest in a way that shakes you more than anything else tonight.
"i'm done acting like I don't think about you all the time," he whispers. "i'm done holding back because I thought it was what you wanted."
your lips part, but nothing comes out.
his thumb grazes your hip under the blanketâ slow, barely there, but intentional. grounding. claiming. reassuring.
"i'm done pretending you're just my friend."
your pulse jumps so hard you swear it echoes.
you stare at himâdazed, breathless, overwhelmed.
"jake..."
he just watches you, eyes soft, voice steady.
"you don't have to say anything tonight," he murmurs. "you don't owe me anything. i just need you to know."
you whisper, "know what?"
he holds your gaze like he's anchoring you in place.
"that I want you."
your breath stops.
"that I'm not scared of it."
his fingers tighten just slightly on your hip. "that I'm not scared of you."
you tremble.
"and that I'm not going anywhere."
the room feels too small. too warm. too full of everything you've been running from.
you look at him, really look, and something cracks open in your chest. you don't know what to do with it. you don't know how to breathe around it.
but he does. he reaches up, cups the back of your neck with a gentleness that ruins you more than anything else tonight, and he tugs you in just a littleânot kissing you, just touching foreheads, sharing breath.
"we'll talk tomorrow," he murmurs. "when you're less in your head."
you want to argue. you want to push him away.
you want to pull him closer.
you end up doing none of those thingsâinstead you melt, slowly, helplessly, into the space he holds open for you.
he pulls the blanket up. shifts closer. lets your head rest on his chest when you finally, silently, give in.
his hand stays on your back.
steady. warm. sure.
and for the first time, it hits youâpainfully, beautifully, terrifyingly, you're not the only one who fell.
đ
you wake up before him.
which is unfair, honestly, because you absolutely deserve to sleep in after what he did to you.
your legs ache in that humiliating, delicious way. your throat is dry. your body is warm, too warm, because jake's arm is still around your waist, lazy and heavy and possessive even in sleep.
his breath ghosts the back of your neck. your, his, hoodie that he had helped you slip on last night was now halfway off your shoulder because of him. your pulse is still not normal.
you lie there, staring at the ceiling of the divining room, trying not to combust.
you should be embarrassed. you're not. you should be panicking. you are.
but underneath all of thatâburied under the adrenaline and the dizzy aftershocksâthere's this new, terrifyingly soft awareness sitting in your chest.
you want him.
in a way that isn't just physical. in a way that isn't just bratty competition. in a way that makes your stomach twist because you know it didn't start last night.
it started way, way before that.
your brain driftsâuninvited, unstoppableâright back to the beginning.
flashback â age 9, the playground
you're wearing a sparkly t-shirt and a crooked ponytail because you cut your own hair with safety scissors. jake is sitting in the sandbox, building something horrifyingly ugly but he swears it's a castle.
you stomp up to him, hands on hips, full attitude, even back then.
"you're doing it wrong," you announce.
he doesn't even look up. "hi to you too."
"jake. that's not a castle. that's a blob."
"it's abstract."
"it's ugly."
he sighsâthat tiny, patient sigh that would become his trademark. "okay. what do you want me to do?"
"move over."
you don't wait. you physically shove him two scoots to the left and plop down beside him like you own the sandbox.
he moves. he always moves.
you grab his bucket. "we need more water."
he blinks at you, confused. "um... then go get some?"
you fix him with the most dramatic stare your nine-year-old face can manage.
"...i don't want to."
he laughsâthat same soft little huff he still does âand stands up, brushing sand off his shorts.
"fine. i'll go."
"thank you," you say, like you're the queen of england.
when he comes back carrying a wobbly, half-filled bucket, you beam. you don't say thank you again, but he sees it in your face.
he hands you the bucket. but you don't take it.
you tilt your head and say, completely serious, "you pour it."
he should argue. he should tell you to do it yourself. he should tell you you're bossy. instead, without hesitation, he kneels and does exactly what you want.
and you lean closerâtoo closeâwatching him work, feeling weirdly fluttery and warm because jake listens to you in a way no one else does.
you don't know what it means at that age.
you just know it feels special.
later, when a group of older kids tries to take over your half-finished castle, you puff up, ready to argueâbut jake steps in first.
"this is ours," he says firmly.
the kids back off and you stare at him like he's a superhero.
you don't understand your feelings, not then. but years later, lying in his bed with his arm around you, remembering the way nine-year-old jake defended your ugly sandcastle like it mattered?
you finally get it. it started there. it always started there.
back to present
you wake fully with a heavy breath and a heavier realization, you want to tell him. you want to admit it. you want to say something terrifyingly real like i think i've liked you since we were kids or i don't want last night to be a one-time thing or i want you.
and that's the problem.
because wanting is easy. saying it out loud is not.
so when jake shifts behind you, murmuring softly into your hair, "morning..." in that gravelly, post-sleep voice.
you panic. full feral panic.
you slip out of his arms, ignore his sleepy protest and practically flee the room.
you don't make eye contact during breakfast.
you don't sit near him. you don't let him touch you, even though he triesâa hand on your waist, a brush of his fingers, small things that make your breath hitch.
he notices. of course he notices. he doesn't push, though. he just watches you with that calm, frustrating, evolved-from-childhood patience.
"everything okay?" he asks at one point.
you say, "yep!" like an idiot and then walk away before you faint.
cowardice: 1
you: 0
you're on the couch later, pretending to scroll your phone, doing a terrible job of acting normal. jake is in the kitchen, on speakerphone, fixing something near the sink.
you're not listening. until you are.
because a girl's voice floats through the speakerâbright, flirty, familiar.
"so you're free this weekend?"
you freeze. jake hums. "yeah, probably."
the girl laughs. "good. i was hoping we could go out again."
again? AGAIN??
your vision goes sharp. hot. you sit up so fast your neck cracks.
jake notices the sound and glances over his shoulderâbut you're already looking at him with an expression that could kill crops.
he mouths, 'what?' you don't answer.
the girl keeps talking. "my friends keep asking about you," she giggles. "they think you're cute."
you go still. silent. dangerously silent.
jake's eyes flick to your face and something about your expression makes him stand up straighter, makes his brow pull slightly together.
"uhâ" he clears his throat. "can i call you back?"
"sure! text me later."
he hangs up and the kitchen goes too quiet. he wipes his hands on a towel and steps toward you slowly, cautiously, the way someone approaches a wild animal that might bite.
"hey," he says softly.
you don't respond. you just stare at him, jaw tight, heat ticking under your skin in a way that feels feral.
"that was... a friend," he offers.
you blink once. just once. but your eyes are sharp and possessive and nothing like the bratty irritation he's used to handling.
he stops walking. "what's going on?" he asks gently.
and that's when it hits himâthe realization flickers across his face.
your posture. your eyes. the way you're holding your phone like you want to throw it at the wall.
you're jealous. not playful jealous. not the type of jealousy you showed at the park when mina, mona, mia whatever the fuck her name is was hitting on him. not petty jealous. real, territorial, chest-tightening jealous.
and jake has never seen you like that. his breath changes. his shoulders straighten. his whole energy shiftsâcalm, sure, controlled, like something in him clicks perfectly into place.
"come here," he says quietly.
you don't move. your throat is tight. your stomach is hot. everything in you is wound too tight to speak.
"come here," he repeats, firmer this time but still soft.
you finally stand. slow. tight. bristling with emotion you don't know how to name yet.
you walk toward him until you're only a foot away, eyes burning into his. he looks down at youâand there's something in his gaze you've never seen before.
and thenâyou can feel him watching you. that stupid half-smirk, that stupid relaxed posture like he didn't just back you against the counter a few days ago, hands on your waist, voice warm enough to melt your spine. like he didn't murmur things that have been replaying in your head nonstop.
and what makes it worse? he looks so unbothered. like he knows something you don't. he always does.
"you're awfully quiet," he says from the couch, leaning his head back like he's bored. "you only shut up when something's bothering you."
you glare at him. "nothing's bothering me."
"mm." his eyes drag lazily up your legs, slow enough to make you want to throw something at him. "so it's just your attitude that's loud today."
"jake."
"what?" he grins. "you get weird whenever someone gets too close to the truth. you always have."
you cross your arms, heat rushing to your cheeks. "don't start."
he sits up like he's been waiting for that.
"start what? pushing you?" a shrug. "you like when i do that."
you hate how your pulse jumps. you hate how he hears it. "you're so full of yourself."
"no," he says softly, "i just know you."
and the way he says itâwarm, sure, familiarâmakes your stomach twist in that embarrassing way you can never hide from him.
you turn away, but he laughs under his breath.
"see? there it is." he shuffles and steps in front of you, tilting his head. "that little flinch. the one you get when you're about to run your mouth but you don't know how to without admitting something."
"i don't have anything to admit," you snapâtoo fast, too sharp, too obvious. he raises a brow.
"okay," he murmurs, stepping closer, "then tell me why you've been avoiding looking at me since i had you pinned against that sofa with my cock deep inside of you."
you almost choke at his vulgarity.
"iâ thatâ that wasâ"
"yeah," he says, eyes dropping to your mouth, "exactly."
you push his shoulder, out of pure panic. "shut up."
he laughs, catching your wrist midway, gentle but firm. "that's what i mean."
your breath stutters. "you've always been like this," he says, voice low. "bratty, loud, impossible. acting like you're the one in charge. you'd push me around, yell at me, boss me aroundâ" his thumb brushes your pulse. "âand i loved every second of it."
your heart stops. you meet his eyes, stunned, and he smiles like he's been waiting years for that reaction.
"you liked that?" your voice cracks.
"of course i did." his tone warms, softens. "i loved that you treated me like i was yours without even realizing it."
your face burns and you whisper, "then why won't you let me do it anymore?" he steps inâclose enough to feel his breath on your lips.
"because," he murmurs, "i finally realized something." your throat tightens. "what?" his eyes drop to your mouth, slow... deliberate.
"it's fun being pushed around by you," he says, "but it's even more fun watching you fall apart when i push back."
your knees go weak. he noticesâof course he doesâand his hand slides to steady your hip, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath catch.
"see?" he whispers. "this is why i don't mind waiting for you to confess." you swallow hard. "i'm not confessing."
"you already are."
"no i'mâ"
"you are." he smirks. "and you'll say it any minute now." your eyes narrow. "you're impossible."
"mm. and you like me."
your face flames. "shut up." he leans in, lips brushing your cheekânot a kiss, but close enough to ruin you.
"say it," he murmurs. "c'mon. you've been holding it in for years." you shove him againâweakly this time. "god, jake, you're soâ"
"annoying?" he offers.
"cocky."
"you like that too."
you groan in frustration. "fine! okay? i like you. i've liked you for a long time. happy now?"
his breath hitchesâbarelyâbut you feel it. then he smilesâslow, victorious, soft around the edges.
"very."
you try to look away but he catches your chin with two fingers. "hey," he whispers, "look at me."
you do and his voice dropsâdeeper, rougher. "you think i didn't know?" a slow shake of his head. "i've always known."
your pulse pounds. "and i didn't say anything," he admits, "because you... being like this? all flustered and mouthy and stubborn? it's the cutest thing in the world."
your knees actually wobble and his grip tightens.
"and now that i know you want me too..." he leans in, lips barely brushing yoursânever quite touching. "...i'm gonna enjoy every second of this."
and then he kisses you. not careful. not patient. like he's been holding himself back for years and finally lets the dam break.
your back hits the counter, his hand sliding into your hair, tilting your head exactly the way he wants. he drinks in the little gasp you make, smirking against your mouth like he knew it'd happen.
you try to kiss him harder, try to take control, but he catches your wristsâpinning them lightly above your head, just enough pressure to make your stomach flip.
"see?" he murmurs against your lips. "told you. it's fun pushing you around." you whimperâquiet, involuntary. his lips curve. "there she is."
he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, his mouth warm and sure and maddeningly steady. like he wants you to feel every second of it.
when he finally pulls back, your wrists are still caught in his hand, your chest rising and falling too fast.
he brushes his nose against yours, smiling softlyâsmug, but affectionate. "you can push me around later," he says, "but right now... let me have this."
you bite your lip, trying not to melt.
"jake?"
"yeah?"
"don't stop."
his smile is lethal. "wasn't planning to."
â enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!
Money, sex, and a lifetime of feeling like luck was never really on your sideâuntil the universe decided to fuck with you in the most inconvenient way possible. What started as simple coexisting turned into something more when you paid a little too much attention to your quiet, awkward, painfully responsible roommateâwho, on paper, is a complete fucking loser. But, hey, heâs not that bad!
In which Sim Jaeyun becomes the only genuinely good, unfairly lucky thing thatâs ever happened to you⊠and just like everything else in your life, good things have a way of slipping right through your fingers. So now you have to figure it out, fix it, or risk losing the only thing that ever felt right before you run Out of Luck.
2: FORTUNE'S FAVOR
content tags and warnings: roommate au! romantic comedy, jake is an engineering student x volleyball varsity player reader, light angst, angst and fluff and fluff and a happy ending! complicated feelings, mentions of SUPERTITIOUS BELIEFS, tarot reading, luck, fate etc! 10k wc of reader avoiding jake and the rest will be jake 's pov (he yap and yap), mentions of social anxiety and self harm, jake is such an awkward introverted baby he needs a hug i swear, jake is yearning :(, embarassment, 2nd hand embarassment, public confession, awkward erm moments, jake is secretly a simp and he's pathetic, slice of life, kissing hehe. ft. heeseung as jake's best supportive friend, 02z as jake's hs friend, kazuha as jake's ex gf, karina, ryujin, other kpop idol as reader's volleyball team, robots and fish as side characters. mild smut: masturbation, still MDNI! (WC:34.6K)
Fate is a power believed to predetermine events, some unavoidable bullshit that people love to hold onto when things go wrong. A little explanation so they don't have to admit that sometimes things just fall apart because people make stupid choices, or because shit just happens for no good reason at all.
And right now? You think fate is complete fucking nonsense.
If fate was real, then maybe you wouldn't have been dumb enough to let things spiral the way they did. Maybe you would've stopped yourself before crossing the line.
Maybe if people weren't idiots, if they just paid attention for one goddamn second, things wouldn't end up worse than they needed to be. Like, for exampleâif someone didn't decide to throw a basketball straight to your fucking face like they had zero brain cells to work with.
Geez. Fate. Luck. Doom. What kind of bullshit logic even ties those things together? The more you think about it, the more it just pisses you off. People are so fucking dumb sometimes, acting like everything is written in the stars when half of it is just bad decisions stacked on top of each other.
"Hehe... I'm so sorry."
You glance at Karina from where you're sitting on the bench, an ice pack pressed against your already bruised nose, your face still sore from everything that's happened over the past few days. Her hand hovers mid-air, like she wants to check on you but isn't sure if you'll snap at her or brush her off.
She just got back from Japan and of course, Ryujin had already filled her in. Not just about how, three days into recovery of your accident, some dumbass from the basketball team managed to add another bruise to your already fucked-up nose during practice like it was some kind of sick joke.
But also that you got your heart broken. Well. You didn't want to tell her. You didn't want to tell anyone, if you were being honest. Saying it out loud makes it real in a way that just thinking about it doesn't. It turns it into something people can react to, something they can pity, something they can talk about. And you're not in the mood for that shit.
So you just exhale slowly, leaning back a bit, eyes drifting away from her. "It's fine," you mutter. Karina doesn't look convinced. She's not stupid. But for once, she doesn't push immediately. Thankfully.
She lowers her hand slowly, sitting down beside you, her shoulder brushing lightly against yours and you know exactly what she's trying to doâcomfort, soften the edges, make it easier for you to crack open and talk. But you don't. You just let out a quiet sigh, leaning back slightly as if nothing about this is affecting you. You let her stay there because it's easier than pushing her away and dealing with the questions that would follow. You've always been good at this anywayâpretending. Acting like you're fine.
And weeks pass like that. Quietly. You make it a pointâno, a fucking missionâthat you and that man-who-shouldn't-be-named never cross paths.
You adjust your schedule, leaving earlier, coming home later, avoiding the living room at certain hours, listening for any sign that he's around before stepping out of your room. It's exhausting, honestly, but you do it anyway because the alternativeâseeing him, talking to him, pretending like nothing happened or worse, acknowledging itâfeels ten times worse.
You even considered moving out at one point, scrolling through listings late at night, checking dorm prices, calculating your budget over and over again like maybe the numbers would magically change.
They didn't.
Because you're broke. Like, actually fucking broke. Rent is insane, dorms are worse, and on top of that, your training for regionals has been eating up your time and energy like crazy. Your appetite has doubledâno, tripledâand now you can't go a day without stuffing yourself full or you start feeling like shit. And all your money? Gone. Straight into food. Food, food, and more fucking food.
You click your tongue in annoyance just thinking about it, dragging a hand down your face. Fuck this. Why did that man even cook for you so much before? Why did he set that stupid standard? Now your body's used to actual meals, and you can't even go back to your old habits without feeling like you're dying. It's irritating. It's inconvenient. It'sâ NO. You cut the thought off before it goes somewhere else.
You swore you wouldn't like anyone anymore. That shit is done. Over! Finished!
And honestly? All those stupid things people made you believe in? Complete bullshit. The grapes you ate during New Year's for luck? Fucking scam. The bracelet they made you wear in February because it's supposed to bring love or whatever the hell? Garbage. You should've thrown it away the moment you got it. And that horoscope reading? "2026 will be your year"âyeah, right. Biggest scam of them all!
"I miss you, please don't be angry at me!"
Karina wraps herself around you from behind, her arms locking tight around your shoulders. The impact makes you jolt forward slightly, your whole body stiffening as irritation immediately flashes across your face. You try to pry her off, fingers digging into her forearms.
"What's with you? I'm not angry, the hell?" you scoff, twisting your shoulder and swatting at her arm, but it does nothing. If anything, she tightens her hold, pressing her cheek against yours.
"I know you would say that," she whines, dragging every word out dramatically, completely unfazed by your resistance. Her voice softens just a little as she nuzzles closer. "But there's some kind of tension you have with me. I can feel it. I promise I'm not gonna push you with some other guy again, just talk to meeee."
"Karina!" you snap. You twist harder this time, trying to break free, your voice rising with both annoyance and disbelief. "I am not angry, what theâ?!"
But she doesn't let go. "Really?" she shoots back immediately, her tone shifting to show she's not buying your shit. Her arms stay locked around you as she leans her chin on your shoulder, peeking at your face. "Then why won't you talk to me?"
"I'm not talking to anyone because I'm broken-hearted!" you fire back with sarcasm. You stop struggling for a second, your hands dropping uselessly to her arms as you huff out a breath. "Of course it's normal to be this way! You're the one who pushed me, remember?"
"Huhuhu, I'm so sorry!" Karina immediately wails, completely switching gears as she stomps her foot against the ground while still hugging you. The movement jostles both of you, but she doesn't loosen her grip. "Promise, I'll help you get over him. God, I hate him!" Her voice sharpens, her real irritation slipping through. "Do you want me to sabotage his project?! I heard his club is organizing some event with Architecture. Just say it. I'll definitely do it!"
You finally manage to grab her wrists and yank her arms off you, turning around to face her fully with a look that screams what the fuck is wrong with you. "Noâwhat the fuck?" you snap, staring at her like she just suggested arson instead of whatever the hell that was. You roll your eyes, dragging a hand through your hair as you try to calm yourself again. "I just want to focus on Regionals. Just... don't mention him anymore." Your voice drops a little. "It's better to move on when I don't have updates or news."
Karina watches you for a second, her expression softening as she processes that, then she nods slowly. "Soooo... are we good?" she asks, immediately looping her arm around yours again.
You click your tongue, glancing at her from the corner of your eye. "Of course we are always good. What's with you?"
"You sure?" she presses, squinting at you like she's trying to catch you slipping.
"Yes."
"Then I have a gift for ya!" Her mood flips instantly again, energy shooting back up as she lets go and starts digging through one of her paper bags.
You watch her with mild suspicion, arms crossing over your chest as you waitâand then your expression completely breaks when she pulls out a clear plastic bag filled with water... and a tiny fish swimming inside.
"What theâ"
"My guppy gave birth and I don't have a tanks anymore!" she beams proudly, holding it up like it's the best gift in the world. The fish wiggles inside the bag. "Take this as a gift for ya. It will help you clear your mind!"
"No. What the fuck?!" you hiss immediately, recoiling slightly. Your brows knit together in pure disbelief, staring at the tiny creature. "Karina, I'm not taking responsibility for a living thing right nowâare you insane?!"
But she just grins wider, already trying to shove the bag toward you anyway.
And that was how you ended up bringing a fish
You are absolutely, undeniably, one hundred percent going to fucking kill Karina.
You stand in the middle of the kitchen, one hand gripping the plastic bag with a tiny fish inside, while your phone is awkwardly wedged between your shoulder and your ear. You open cabinets with your free hand, shoving things aside in search of anything that could pass as a container. It's 3:00 in the fucking afternoon, the heat pressing down on you like you are in hell, sweat already forming at the back of your neck. The aircon hums uselessly somewhere behind you, doing absolutely nothing. Why the hell is it not cooling? Is it broken? Did someone mess with it? Did heâ NO.
"The fuck?!" you snap out loud when the call suddenly drops, the silence hitting immediately after Karina's last wordsâcalm down, guppy don't need oxygenââbefore cutting off completely. You pull the phone away, glaring at the screen. No signal nor an Internet.
Of course! Jake is the one assigned to the internet payment. You remember clearlyâyou left the damn money on the center table days ago where he couldn't miss it. And now this? No connection, no help, no fucking instructions on how to keep this tiny living thing alive.
"God! The worst roommate ever!" you mutter under your breath, shoving your phone onto the counter with more force than necessary. Worst roommate! Worst fucking roommage! Not paying that damn internet, overheating the air conditioner since he was the one who is staying so damn long in the living room, rejecting your feelingsâ Hold on. Stop. Moving on remember?
You exhale sharply, like you're physically pushing the thought out of your system, and look back down at the plastic bag in your hands. The tiny fish wiggles inside, completely unbothered by your internal crisis, its small body flicking through the water.
"How am I supposed to know how to build your environment?!" you hiss at it. You let out a long breath, shoulders dropping slightly. "Okay... okay..." you mutter to yourself, trying to calm the fuck down. It's just a fish. A tiny, stupid fish. People take care of these things all the time. You can't be that incompetent.
You finally grab a glass jar from the cabinet, a clean one, at least, and set it down on the counter. It's not ideal, probably, but it's better than leaving it in a plastic bag forever like some kind of moving takeout.
Your eyes wander, and they land on that stupid little robot sitting lifelessly on the edge of the table. An idea sparks, ask Bumble for help! Of course! Jake's little tech toy could totallyâwell, theoreticallyâmake this easier. You lean down, plastic bag in one hand, glass jar in the other, carefully lowering the fish into the water. The liquid sloshes around, tiny ripples forming, and the fish flicks its tail nervously.
Your fingers hover over the robot, hesitating a moment because the thing looks impossibly flat and dumb, and yet... Jake had somehow made it work before. How? How the fuck did he do that?
"Bumble, open," you command. The robot doesn't move. Not a single servo whir, not even a twitch. You frown, crouching lower to get a better look at it, poking at the flat surface with your fingertip. Nothing. You blink at it, confusion mixing with irritation as the anger starts to simmer back up again, fueled by the memory of that stupid, infuriating boy who made it work so effortlessly. His stupid braces flashing whenever he smiled, that crooked, perfect grin, his stupid, clueless, nerdy self who somehow made everything look so easy. Stupid boy.
You can't help it. You shake the robot lightly, as if your rage can transfer through it, make it activate, make it do something other than sit there mocking you.
"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" you hiss under your breath, frustration bubbling past the point of reason.
You can almost feel the heat of your blood rising in your cheeks, your heart hammering faster than it should over a stupid fish and a stupid robot. And yet, beneath all that âwhy are you this bitter? NoOOo! It's valid! He's a fucking idiot. That robot is a fucking idiot. And yetâand yetâyou can't stop thinking about him, about the way he made you laugh, the way he made you feel, the way he lingered in your thoughts like a permanent ghost.
"Stupid, useless robot," you mutter under your breath, your grip tightening around Bumble. You shake it again. "Why the fuck won't you open? What, are you trying to act like your owner too? Just shut down and ignore people?"
The sudden creak of the door makes your whole body jolt. You stiffen instantly, your heart jumping straight to your throat as your head snaps toward the entrance. Jake was frozen in place, just a few steps inside, like he didn't expect to see you either. His hand is still on the doorknob, the other clutching his bag loosely. His eyes flickerâfirst to Bumble in your hands, then to the jar on the counter with the fish awkwardly floating inside, then finally to you. And when his gaze settles on your face, it stays.
You see it happen in real timeâthe shift. His eyes widen, and it pisses you off. He takes in the fading bruises along your cheek, the slight discoloration near your nose, the healing cut on your chin with its visible stitch. His brows knit together, concern flashing across his face so quickly it almost looks painful, like he doesn't know what to do with it. "W-What happened?" he asks, voice stumbling over itself as his hand lifts halfway, like reaching toward your face before stopping mid-air.
Thatâthat right thereâmakes your chest twist wrong.
You straighten up immediately, forcing your expression to do it's own neutral controlled thing, dropping Bumble back. You avoid his eyes like they burn, turning your attention back to the fish. Geez. Two fucking weeks. Two weeks of silence, of avoidance, of pretending he didn't existâand now he wants to ask questions like he still has the right? Like nothing happened?
"When are you planning to pay for the Wi-Fi?" you cut in flatly. You keep your back partially turned to him, fiddling with the jar, adjusting the plastic inside even though it's already fine. "I already left the payment."
There's a pause behind you. You can even feel it without even looking â the hesitation, the shift in his breathing, the way he probably opens his mouth and then closes it again like he always fucking does.
"Uh... I was actually busy... that's why..." he answers as he steps further inside and lets his bag drop to the floor.
You let out a small, humorless scoff under your breath, still not looking at him. Busy. Of course he was busy. Bet he was also busy avoiding you.
"Right," you mumble, eyes fixed on the water in the jar, watching the fish move in slow, careless circles.
"Are you... okay?â"
Your head turns sharply, eyes locking onto him with a glare. "Why the fuck do you even care if I'm not?" you shoot back. But just as quickly, you feel that ugly edge, that bitterness creeping. Shit you hate it. You hate how it makes you sound. You hate how it makes you feel like the one who's losing control.
So you pull back. You look away first, breaking eye contact and reach for your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. The jar with the fish inside the plastic crinkles softly as you pull it close to your chest. "Just..." you click your tongue, your jaw tightening as you force your tone back. "Pay that damn Wi-Fi."
You walk past him without waiting for a response, your shoulder brushing the air near him but never quite touching. Your hand grips the doorknob of your room, pausing for just a second before you push it open.
You inhale deeply, and without turning back, you add, "and fix the AC." Then you step inside and shut the door behind you.
Silence follows immediately. You lean back against the door, eyes squeezing shut. "Stupid boy," you mutter under your breath, your voice cracking just slightly despite your effort to keep it together. You drag a hand down your face, exhaling sharply, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on you. You really wish you could rewind everything. Back to when things were simple. When you were just minding your own damn business, not expecting anything, not hoping for anything. No stupid feelings.
Because what the hell were you even thinking? A fairytale? Really? You let out a dry, almost bitter laugh, shaking your head as you push yourself off the door and move further into your room. "What could possibly go right with a man disguised as a loving prince?" you mutter. "They're all the same. Fucking villains." You huff, running a hand through your hair. "Witches, even. Pretending to be kind, then dragging you down, poisoning youâ"
You stop mid-step, blinking at yourself like you just caught your own bullshit. "...Why the fuck are you thinking about fairytales again?" you mutter, almost annoyed.
And you need to place this fucking fish outside your room!
You threw yourself into training as though it was the only thing keeping you from completely losing your shit.
Regionals wasn't just some school-level game anymore, you carried your city's name on your back whether you liked it or not. The drills were stricter, harsher, less forgiving. Coaches didn't care if your legs were shaking or your lungs felt like they were about to collapse; they pushed anyway, barked orders like you were machines instead of people. It was exhausting, and so brutal, kind of relentlessâand somehow, you welcomed it. Because every second your body ached, every moment your mind focused on the game, it left less room for him.
Unluckilyâluckilyâyou weren't stuck in one place either. The team moved from city to city, different courts, different environments, different faces. New people, new opponents, new distractions. You met players who were just as aggressive, just as desperate to win, some even worse. It forced you to stay sharp, forced you to adapt.
At night, when your body finally gave out and you collapsed into unfamiliar beds, there was barely enough energy left in you to think. Barely enough energy to remember anything, and yet... somehow, in those quiet moments right before sleep took you, your mind still slipped. Back to him.
One night while packing your things for another early call time, your hands moving automatically as you zipped your bag. Your thoughts drifted. What is Jake even doing right now?
You frowned, shoving your clothes harder into your bag like that would shove the thought away too. Before you left the apartment earlier that week, the fridge was nearly empty. Barely anything inside except leftovers that didn't look touched and random shit that didn't make sense together. It's not like you were cooking. Hell, you barely ate at home anymore. You never even did heathy groceries in the first place. That was alwaysâ
You stopped.
Is he eating properly now? Is he still organizing everything like some obsessive little nerd? Or did he just... stop?
Oh, dude. What the actual fuck! You shake your head, physically rejecting the thought. Why the hell do you even care? Why does it matter if he's eating or starving or turning into a complete mess? He made his choice.
"...Yeah, right," you mutter under your breath.
Because the truth is simple, and it pisses you off more than anythingâyou still like him.
Despite everything. Despite how he looked you in the eye and said he didn't feel the same. Despite how fucking humiliating that moment was. The feeling didn't just disappear. It didn't magically shut off like a switch. It stayed, always clinging to you no matter how much you tried to drown it out with training, exhaustion, or distance. It's normal. Feelings don't just go away overnight. You're not broken for still thinking about him.
...Are you crazy?
Not really. You've always been like thisâyour mind drifting back to things you once liked, replaying moments like they meant more than they probably did. You remember those stupid, simple days when it was just a harmless crush. When you'd catch yourself staring at him across the room, noticing the way his braces flashed when he smiled, how his eyes would light up behind his glasses whenever he talked about something he liked. It was easy back then. It was safe... nothing is complicated
And yeahâfuck itâyou're not blind. He's not ugly. Not even close.
But the moment that thought settles, your expression twists, your own bitterness creeping back in like a bad habit you can't shake. Your mood shifts so fast it almost gives you whiplash. One second you're remembering something soft, the next you're clenching your jaw, your hands curling into fists. "God, how I hate nerds..." you mutter. "Stupid, fucking... face." You let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through your hair as you lean back, staring at the ceiling.
Because no matter how good he looked, no matter how nice he seemedâYou still kind of want to punch him. Hard.
"This card represents the burning love that you have right now. The two of you will communicate well, and maybe in the near future, both of you will not take the same pathâbut it will not be a reason for any separation. Either way, the fire around you will ignite and make your relationship stronger."
"Awww."
A chorus of coos makes your eye twitch. Rei actually sniffs, her hand hovering over her chest as her eyes glued to the three cards laid out in front of her. You stand there, arms loosely crossed, staring at the whole thing with a thinly veiled cringe, your lips pressing into a line as you take in the scene. The setup is just a small booth with a cloth-covered table, a deck of worn-out cards. It's part of the open house happening around Decelis, booths were scattered everywhere â whatever. You only ended up here because your coaches had some sudden emergency meeting, leaving you all with a free hour to waste. And somehow, this is where your team decided to spend it.
"Is that legit-legit?" Winter asks, wiggling her eyebrows as she leans closer to the table. The rest of your teammates crowd around too, forming a semi-circle, their attention completely hooked. You can already tell this is about to go south for you. They look too entertained.
"Take what resonates, leave what doesn't," the tarot reader replies calmly. You bet she said that line a hundred times already today. "I am just reading the cards and interpreting what it says."
"Well then," Winter grins, clearly already plotting something, "I'll pay three dollars and read my friend's love life!" Before you can even react, she drops the money into the jar and without hesitation, shoves you forward into the seat right in front of the table.
"Huhâ?"
You barely get the chance to protest before hands are suddenly everywhere. Winter, Giselle, Ningning, and Karina are all close in, clapping their hands over your mouth, pushing you down into the chair as they giggle. "Don't ruin it!" "Just sit!" "We're curious!" they whisper loudly over each other, completely ignoring your muffled protests.
You glare at them, trying to pry their hands off, but they're annoyingly persistent. The tarot reader raises an eyebrow at the display but doesn't comment. Instead, she calmly begins shuffling the deck, her eyes flicking toward you for a brief momentâlike she's assessing you, reading more than just your face. The cards slide smoothly between her fingers. Eventually, your teammates let go, though they stay close, practically leaning over your shoulders, their eyes glued to the table like.
Three cards are drawn and placed carefully in front of you. Two upright. One reversed.
You finally manage to sit properly, rubbing your jaw where they had covered your mouth, shooting them one last annoyed look before your attention driftsâdespite yourselfâback to the cards. You don't even believe in this shit.
"I see..." the girl starts, she leans slightly forward, studying the spread. Her brows knit together just a little, like something caught her attention. "Your partner is a very loving person... with genuine feelings."
Your nostrils flare almost immediately, your lips parting as your face twists into disbelief and annoyance. You don't even bother hiding it, and the way you can already feel the shift around you tooâthe girls who were leaning in with excitement just seconds ago are now deflating, their interest dropping as fast as it came. There's a collective sigh, obvious with disappointment. Of course. Because what partner? You don't have one. Everyone here knows that. This is exactly why you don't believe in this shit. It's all vague, all bullshit.
"The images around the cards represent someone who pays close attention to you... someone who puts in a lot of effort," the girl continues, unfazed by the obvious shift in energy. Your teammates exchange looks but no one interrupts her. Not yet. Well, there's still that tiny thread of curiosity keeping them quiet.
And then, unexpectedly, she pulls another card.
"Is your partner a Scorpio?"
"Hm." You respond flatly, barely even thinking about it, your attention already drifting as you inspect your nails.
"Right..." she murmurs anyway. "You're lucky. He is intensely passionate and deeply loyal to youâincredibly loyal and devoted. The kind of person who gives everything, but expects the same level of commitment in return."
You let out a short, dry snort at that, the word lucky hitting your ears wrong. Lucky? Yeah, fucking right. Every person who reads zodiac signs, tarot cards, whatever the hell this isâthey always say the same shit.
"As expected with this reversed card," she continues, tapping the last one lightly, "it also reflects your partner's nature. Hesitant to open up. Someone who tests potential partners before fully letting them in... That's all!"
"God, I can't believe I wasted my three dollars," Winter mutters under her breath, already turning away with an annoyed huff. "She doesn't even have a boyfriend."
There's a ripple of agreement, the group starting to lose interest completely now, the moment clearly not living up to their expectations. One by one, they begin to shift away from the table, their attention already drifting to the next booth.
You don't move right away. Your eyes stay on the cards, before snorting. You push yourself up to the chair, breaking whatever stupid spell you almost fell into.
"Hope you had a long, healthy, happy relationship. Both of you deserve it. Thank you!" the girl chirps, already reaching for her jar. You watch her fingers flick through the bills. You huff under your breath, shaking your head as you step away.
Loving? Effort? Loyal? Hesitant? And what the fuck was thatâScorpio? You roll your eyes hard enough it almost hurts. You don't even know someone who's a Scorpio. Not a single one. The whole thing was a scam, and somehow people were eating that shit up like it was gospel. Good for them. Couldn't be you.
Your attention shifts fastâthank fuck!âdragged away by something actually worth your time. Wagyu barbecue. Your eyes light up, stepping closer like you're being pulled in. "Holy shit," you mutter under your breath, staring at the display, the marbling on the meat, the way it sizzles on the grill. And then you squint slightly. "That's a black sausage?" you mumble, half-confused, half-intrigued.
Food. At least food makes sense. You shift your weight, already pulling out money, already thinking about how that three dollars should've gone here instead of that tarot bullshit. You take a bite of something you bought, chewing absentmindedly, letting the flavors comfort you.
"What's with ya booth?" you ask casually as you drift along with your team, your voice blending into the noise as you hop from one stall to another, not really caring about anything except eating and not thinking. You clutch your food, biting, chewing, swallowing, moving. The others are loud, curious, energetic, and you are actually keeping up with them, as long as you have your food.
"Oh! The Civil Engineering Booth! What's the catch?!" Winter suddenly calls out.
Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, your throat burning as you cough, eyes watering as you bend slightly forward, one hand clutching your chest. "Shitâ" you rasp, trying to breathe, but it's already too late. Because when you look up, he's there.
Jake was standing right there!
Your mouth falls open slightly, breath catching again but for a completely different reason this time. He looks... different. Not drastically, not in a way that anyone else would probably point out, but you see it. Of course you fucking do, duh. His hair's a bit longer now, falling just slightly differently around his face, softening him in a way that makes your chest tighten. He's wearing this gray long sleeve under a blue polo, something that looks weird, considering the hot weather... Of course it is weird! But it doesn't. On him, it just works. It always fucking works. There's a camera slung over his nape too, resting against his chest.
Fuck. Your heart stutters. It actually fucking stutters. God, why is he so handsome, you wanna cry â STOP!
"Uh... we now have some kind of, you know... furniture and displays around your house?" Jake says, voice a little shaky, and you can hear it even from where you're standing. You hate that you can still recognize every little change in his tone. His eyes flick around, scanning the group, pausing briefly on jerseys, on facesâgetting closer, closerâ
And when you realize he's about to look at youâ You turn your back, shoulders stiffening as you stare straight ahead. Your grip tightens around your food, knuckles whitening slightly as your heart starts pounding like it's trying to break out of your chest.
Stupid. Why the fuck did you turn your back? Your jersey has your surname printed on it! Dumb bitch!
You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, internally cursing yourself out. Great. Fucking great. Out of all the booths, all the places, all the fucking timingâthis is where you end up. You can feel it crawling under your skin, that restless, suffocating awareness that he's right there, that if you just turn your head a little, you'd see him clearly.
"Do you want to get out of here?" Karina whispers beside you. Her eyes are on you and it pisses you off a little because it means you're not hiding it as well as you thought. You don't answer immediately. You just stare ahead, blinking and forcing your breathing to even out.
"âWow! A zodiac sign bracelet?! Where did you bought it?!" Winter suddenly blurts out, loud as hell. Just like that, the attention shifts, your teammates swarming forward like curious idiots, drawn to something shiny and new.
Jake attention is split. He's opening his lips to answer but his eyes keep dragging back to your turned back.
"I-It's fine. We had an agreement that we stick together so when we go back we don't have to message those who is missingâ" you whisper back to Karina quickly. It sounds reasonable. It is reasonable.
"Uh... my friend from the Art Major booth, gave it to me..." Jake answers, still looking back and fourth to you.
"What sign is this again?" Giselle asks, reaching out to touch his wrist and raising it up to observe the bracelet.
"It's aâ uh... a Scorpio." Jake replies.
"It's so obvious, babe! God, you are such a dumb sometimes." Ningning snorts.
"Shut it, girls! Well, Mr. uhh..." Rei cuts in, she squints down at the tag clipped to his shirt, leaning just a little too close. "Jake! Mr. Jake," she repeats with a grin, clapping her hands. "Can you take a picture of us as a team? We're off to Regionals in the next few weeks! And we look so fresh. Maybe we could use it for the journalist page if they upload a good luck post!"
Jake's attention was being dragged away again, redirected, and forced into your teammates again.
"Uh... sure..." Jake answers, his voice hesitant, or maybe it's just you hearing it differently now.
You don't turn. You don't dare turn. But you can imagine him nodding slightly, adjusting that stupid camera strap on his shoulder, probably pushing his glasses up out of habit.
"Great! Are you gonna upload it on your page?" Rei continues without missing a beat, already hyped and already moving.
"...The creatives are..." he starts, clearly trying to explain.
"That's great!" Rei cuts him off anyway, not even caring about the details, and turning her attention back to the group.
When is this gonna fucking end?
You shift your weight, foot tapping against the ground in small, impatient movements to distract you from the other thingâthe bigger thingâyou're trying so hard not to face. God! You can feel your teammates moving, adjusting, forming some kind of formation.
"Hello?! Number 9?!" Rei suddenly calls out, her voice snapping directly at you.
Fuck you! You want to curse out loud.
You inhale slowly, forcing your neutral expression before turning to move, not fully facing him yet, not looking at him, just stepping into position.
You settle at the side, arms crossing loosely, trying to make yourself smaller, less noticeableâ
"Stopâ what are you doing?!" Winter hisses immediately, grabbing your arm and dragging you without hesitation. "You should be in the middle! You're a libero and you had a different color of your jersey!" She pushes you right into the center.
Your feet plant as your body going stiff for a split second. You're right in front now, visible and now exposed. You were absolutely going to kill your teammates.
You don't look at him. You keep your gaze forward, somewhere just above the lens.
Jake bites his lip awkwardly, adjusting his stance behind the camera, fingers fumbling just slightly as he brings it up.
"Okay... uhm..." he mutters, trying to gather everyone's attention. "Justâ stay still..."
Your chest tightens. You don't know why this feels harder than confronting him. You've faced him before. You've yelled at him. You've cried in front of him!
Standing here, pretending like nothing happened while he looks at you through a lensâ God, this feels worse!
"Smile," he says.
You let yourself look straight at the camera, at the lens, at him behind it. Your lips lift automatically, forming a smile you've practiced a thousand times for games and pictures.
One second. Two. Five. Ten.
There's this weird stretch of silence beneath the noise, like something's off, like the moment isn't ending when it should. You don't move at first, still holding the pose out of habit, but then your brows knit slightly, your smile starting to falter at the edges. He's not lowering the camera. He's just... there. Watching through the lens like he forgot what he was supposed to do next.
"Uh... is it finished?" Ryujin finally asks, confused, a little impatient as she shifts her weight beside you.
That's when Jake seems to snap out of it.
"Ohâ... sorry. Yes, we'll just upload it later," he says quickly, his voice stumbling over itself as he lowers the camera in a rush. He doesn't look at anyone because he turns his back almost immediately.
Your smile drops the second the camera is no longer pointed at you.
"Thank you!" your teammates chorus, already moving on, already distracted, their attention bouncing to the next booth.
"He looks so familiar, right? Had he participated or watched on VIP?" one of them asks absentmindedly as they walk.
You glance at Karina, and she's already looking at you. There's a split second where neither of you say anything. Her lips press together, holding it in, not saying shit for once, and you mirror it, your own mouth tightening as you look away first.
You bury it.
You bury him under the loud whistle of your coach that keeps ripping through the air and it's trying to split your skull open. Training hits harder than usual, or maybe it just feels that way because you're forcing yourself not to think about anything else. Your body moves onârun, receive, dive, stand, repeat. You're tired.
The coaches don't give a shit.
"Again!" the whistle blows, and you barely have time to straighten your back before another ball comes flying at you. Your arms sting from the impact, your knees burn from the constant drops, and your breathing is uneven, chest heaving as you try to keep up. They said you already had your break. One whole hour earlier, like that was supposed to be enough to carry you through the rest of this hell. Fucking hell.
You try to sneak a second to grab your water because your throat dry as shit, your hand already reaching for the bottle. You tilt it, barely getting a sipâ
The coach slowly called out your name. You freeze mid-action, glancing up slowly. He was staring at you with his arm crossed, an obvious disappointment carried in his eyes.
You lower the bottle immediately, swallowing hard, your shoulders straightening as you put it down. "Sorry," you mutter under your breath, even if he didn't ask for it, even if he didn't say shit. You already know.
You're fucked.
"Oh my God! I can't imagine what will be the training if we actually win that and proceed to National. I'm gonna die," Ningning whines later as she collapses onto the bench like her soul just left her body.
You barely respond. You're sitting there, hunched slightly, pressing an ice pack against your bruised arm, then your thigh, then somewhere near your ribs where it hurts the most. The punishment was stupid. Straight up stupid. The coach made the team aim at you like you were some kind of target practice, all because you slipped up.
Dull throbs spreading under your skin, your body overly aware of every ache, every sting. It's not unbearable. But it's a lot.
"I'm so sorry," Karina says. She wraps her arms around you carefully, her hand hovering before gently touching one of your bruises.
You huff quietly, shifting a little but not pulling away. "It's okay," you mumble with your tired voice. You adjust the ice again, pressing it harder this time. "I just want to go home."
God, your body feels like absolute shit. Every step on the way home feels heavier than the last, like your muscles are dragging behind you instead of actually working with you. Your shoulders ache, your thighs burn, your arms feel like they've been beaten rawâand honestly, they kind of have. All you can think about is food. Then sleepâeight hours minimum, ten if the universe suddenly decides to stop screwing you over with morning classes. Maybe even a massage, yeah, that sounds fucking perfect, you'll drag Karina and Ryujin to a spa, waste money you probably shouldn't, just to feel human again.
By the time you get back to the apartment, your brain is running on fumes. You don't even bother turning on all the lights, just enough to see where you're going before you drop your bag onto the sofa with a dull thud. It's already 7:45 PM, you don't make it any further than the living room before you just... collapse. Your body gives in immediately, sinking into the couch, your head tilting back as you stare blankly ahead.
That's when you see it the jar. It was sitting there on the table like it's been waiting for you this whole time.
"...Oh, shit," you mutter under your breath, pushing yourself up just enough to look at it properly. The guppy swims lazily inside, existing in its own tiny world while you've been out getting your ass handed to you for days straight. You slide down from the couch to the floor, dragging yourself closer until you're sitting there, elbows on the table, your head almost resting against it as you stare at the fish.
"You're getting fat," you mumble, eyes half-lidded as you watch it move in slow circles. Your finger taps lightly against the glass. "Are you eating well?" you ask again, like it's actually going to answer you. You let out a quiet, tired laugh, shaking your head slightly. "Who's feeding you? That nerd is feeding you?"
You keep staring, your gaze softening despite yourself. "You better not have some kind of attachment issues," you add, "or you'll end up swimming in the river." Another quiet huff of laughter leaves you, but it's weak, fading quickly as exhaustion starts to take over again.
Your eyes slowly close. You don't even notice the small movement behind you. Bumble moves slowly, navigating its way toward you. It bumps lightly against your leg.
Bump. You don't react. It pauses, tilting slightly, then nudges you again, a little firmer this time, its rounded head pressing against your calf like it's trying to get your attention.
Bump. Still nothing. Your breathing has already evened out, your body too tired to respond, your mind slipping somewhere between awake and asleep.
"Hi?"Â it chirps. It waits patiently its little frame angled toward you like it expects something back. But you don't move. Not even a twitch.
After a few seconds of nothing, Bumble shifts, turning its body slowly toward the hallway, toward that doorâthe one that isn't yours, then it starts bumping into it. Soft, repetitive taps against the wood. The sound blends into your half-conscious state, like it's happening underwater.
The door creaks open.
And everything after that feels... wrong. Or maybe not wrong... just unreal. Your body feels too heavy, like it's sinking or like gravity suddenly decided to double its pull on you. Your thoughts drift in fragments, slipping away before they can form properly. Did you pass out?
It feels like a fever dream. Like you're floating, but also not. Like your body is there, but your mind is somewhere else entirely.
Cold. It's cold. There's something cold against you. It presses gently, carefully, and your body reacts before your brain does, leaning into it without hesitation. Your eyes try to open but they can't. Your limbs are now unresponsive, but the sensation continues, there was something so smooth brushing against your skin. It moves along your hair first, fingers...no, something like fingersâthreading lightly through it, pushing it away from your face. Then your temple. Then your cheekbone.
Good. It feels good. You let out the faintest breath, your body instinctively leaning closer, chasing that touch without even realizing it. Your head tilts slightly, giving in, surrendering to the sensation. You need more.
When you wake up the next morning, the first thing that hits you isn't confusionâit's just this dull, heavy awareness that your body still fucking hurts. Your eyes crack open slowly, light slipping in through the curtains, and you blink at the ceiling like you're trying to remember something important... but nothing comes. There's no clear memory of how you got here, no moment of climbing into bed, no dragging yourself under the covers. You just... woke up here. Lying flat on your back, blanket half-thrown over your legs like you'd been placed there instead of settling in yourself.
You stare at it for a second. Then you shrug it off.
God, you don't even have the energy to question it.
What matters isâyou actually slept. Your muscles still ache, your bruises still sting when you stretch, but it's manageable. "Fuck... I could've slept more," you mumble under your breath, dragging a hand over your face as you sit up slowly, joints protesting but not as violently as yesterday. You swing your legs off the bed, feet hitting the floor, and just sit there for a moment, letting yourself exist before the day starts kicking your ass again.
Routine pulls you out of your room without much thought.
You end up in the living room, eyes automatically landing on the jar sitting on the table. The guppy swims lazily inside, completely fine. You crouch down, tapping the glass lightly before feeding it, watching it dart toward the food.
"Geez, you're greedy," you mutter, a small huff leaving your nose.
Your gaze shifts slightlyâto the side, and there you saw Bumble. Sitting there quietly beside the jar, completely still.
You stare at it for a second. "...Weird," you mumble under your breath, brows pulling together slightly. Your shoulders lift in a small shrug, brushing it off. "Whatever."
You stand up, grabbing your things, pushing the thought aside as quickly as it came. There's no point overthinking stupid shit this early in the morning.
"Morning!" Rei greets the second you step into the court, her voice bright despite the early hour as she stretches her arms above her head.
"Morning... what's for breakfast?" you ask lazily, dropping your bag onto the bench before stretching your arms out.
"Hm?" Rei glances at you, thinking for a second before her face lights up. "I think 7/11 just restocked their Spam Kimchi Fried Rice, want to get some?"
You pause mid-stretch, considering it for half a second. "Okay... that's tolerable," you say with a small nod. "Let's grab some after stretching."
More of your teammates trickle in, chatter overlapping, energy building as you all go through warm-ups. By the time you finish, the decision is already madeâfood first.
The convenience store is crowded as usual, cold air hitting your skin the second you step inside, a welcome contrast to the heat outside. You grab a slurpee almost immediately, sipping from it as your teammates scatter around, grabbing whatever they want, talking over each other like always.
"Oh!" Karina suddenly exclaims, pointing toward a standee near the entrance. "They got Park Jongseong standee!"
You glance over briefly, unimpressed, sipping your drink. "Who the fuck is Park Jongseong?" you mutter, already looking away.
Karina gasps. "God, are you that outdated?! Park Jongseong is a rising actor! He's studying in Decelis and about to graduate!"
"Good for him," you mumble, clearly not giving a shit, taking another sip.
"Ohâlook, the Engineering posted our photos!" Rei suddenly says, grabbing your attention as she waves her phone around.
All of you crowd around her immediately, squeezing in, shoulders bumping as you lean closer to see. The group photo pops up first. When Winter swipes to the next photo, her thumb dragging across the cracked screen with zero care, Karina gasps. Your brows knit together immediately.
"What?" you mutter, stepping closer, leaning in just enough to see the phone without fully committing to caring. But then you do see itâand... the fuck?
Ningning whined, completely missing the shift in your expression. "It's so unfair! How come you're always the favorite of photographers and sport journalists?!" she complains, nudging your shoulder.
You didn't even answer at all. Your eyes stay glued to the screen, locked onto that photo. It's you. Just you. Not the team, not the formation, not even a candid group momentâit's fucking you. Zoomed in. Cropped so tightly that Karina's arm is barely visible at the edge, Ryujin completely gone. You're smiling in it, relaxed, unaware. It's not a stolen blurry shot eitherâit's clear, it was focused... Intentional.
"What the fuck..." you breathe out.
Karina leans closer, squinting. "The man who took our photo isn't even a photographer or a sports journalist," she mutters, more to herself now, her voice dropping as her brain starts connecting dots you don't even want to acknowledge. "Oh God..." Her head slowly turns toward you, eyes widening.
"Don't start," you cut in immediately, your glare snapping to her before she can even open her mouth properly. You already know. You fucking know what she's about to say, and you're not in the mood for it.
But of course, Karina being Karina, she doesn't stop. "He likes you!" she blurts out anyway, her finger practically stabbing toward the screen.
Your jaw clenches so tight it almost hurts. "Are you fucking serious right now?" you snap, heat rising up your neck, not even sure if it's anger or something else. "I told you. He literally said he doesn't feel the same. Did you forget that part orâ"
"Who likes who?" Giselle suddenly cuts in, sliding into the conversation, eyes bouncing between you and Karina with interest.
"Wait... so you had a talking stage but it failed? Tell us more!" Winter jumps in right after, leaning forward with way too much excitement, completely missingâor ignoringâthe way your expression tightens.
Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out at first. It's like the questions start stacking too fast, overlapping, tangling together until you can't even grab one to respond to. The noise builds againâvoices piling on top of each other, reactions, assumptions, teasingâand suddenly it feels too loud for something that should've stayed quiet.
"So that guy who took our photo was the one you said that won't talk to you?" Ryujin adds, her brows lifting as she studies your face more carefully, like she's trying to confirm something she already suspects.
"...Wait," another voice cuts through. "You know Jake?" Yunjin asks with confusion as she looks at Ryujin first, then shifts her gaze to you. There's a pause, a beat where her expression sharpens slightly. "You know Jake?" she repeats.
Your mouth goes dry instantly. That name, coming from someone else, hits different. Your thoughts trip over each other, questions forming faster than you can process. How does she know him? Why does she sound like that? Why does it suddenly feel like you're missing a part of the story?
"Who's Jake?" Giselle tries to jump back in, but Ningning immediately slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide like she just realized this isn't just casual gossip anymore.
"J-Just... my roommate," you manage to say, the words coming out more stiff than you intend, your grip tightening around your drink again.
"So you know the guy that took our photo and didn't say anything about him?" Karina presses, throwing her hands up in disbelief.
Before you can even respond, Yunjin lets out a short, disbelieving scoff, stepping in. She raises her brows, one hand lifting slightly as she gestures midair. "It's so random to bring him up, duh?" she says in a mocking tone. "And he's boring as hell. What do you want me to say? How he dated one of my best friends in high school and completely turned into a distant asshole with zero emotional intelligence?"
"Ohhhh,"Â the girls around you gasp almost in sync at the gossip.
Your stomach twists, you remember that conversation the way he mentioned he dated someone before, how it "didn't work out." He didn't elaborate. You didn't push. It felt unnecessary back then.
"Oh my," Yunjin continues, shaking her head like she's already over the topic, even though she's the one who dropped the bomb. "I didn't know you'd fall for that whole nerdy, quiet, introverted charm thing too." Her lips press. "He's a good guy, sure. I'll give him that. But he's not a good partner."
Your fingers loosen slightly around your cup. You find yourself staring at nothingâsome random spot past Rei's shoulder, past the glass doors, past everythingâbecause your mind is already somewhere else. Back to the quiet moments, the stupid small things, it pisses you off, because it shouldn't matter this much. It wasn't even anything official. It wasn't even real, right?
"It was just like a one-time thing," you say, forcing your voice to come out normal. You shrug one shoulder, like it's nothing. "He's just my roommate." Your lips stretch into something that resembles a smile. "I didn't like him that much. Don't worry, girls."
The silence that follows lasts barely a second before it gets filled again. "Well, you better not like him!" Ningning cuts in quickly, narrowing her eyes at you. She nudges your shoulder, then slaps your back lightly, the others chiming in with similar reactions. "With Yunjin's side story background, he's not a perfect match for you!"
"Yeah, seriously," Winter adds, shaking her head like she's already made up her mind about him. "We don't support bad decisions."
You nod along anyway, letting them have it, letting them believe it. It's easier that way.
But Karina doesn't let it go. "Waitâno, that doesn't make sense," she hisses, leaning closer to you. "It was obvious that he likes you!" Her finger taps against Rei's phone again, like she needs to remind you of the evidence sitting right there. "I mean, look at that picture alone! That's not normal!"
You roll your eyes. "It's just a picture, Karina. Stop overthinkingâ"
"And what if he does?" Ryujin suddenly cuts in. She flicks Karina's forehead lightly, making her hiss in protest. "Stop pushing her again if it's just going to hurt her more."
Karina frowns, rubbing her forehead, but she doesn't argue back immediately. Ryujin's gaze shifts to you. "It doesn't matter if he likes her or not," she continues. "He already caused enough damage." She pauses for a second, like she's choosing her words carefully, but the bluntness is still there. "He's not man enough to stand by whatever the hell he's feeling right now."
You let out a small breath through your nose, shaking your head like you're brushing it all off, even if it doesn't actually go away. Whatever. They're right. All of them, in their own loud, messy wayâthey're right. You shouldn't be this stressed over something that was never even labeled, never even defined. It wasn't a relationship. It wasn't anything serious. It was just... something that happened. Something that ended. That should be it.
He made his point right there, standing in front of you. It shouldn't matter anymore after that. It should've killed whatever stupid hope was growing inside you before it even had the chance to become something real.
So why the fuck does it still hurt like this? You're just lonely. That's it, right? That's the easiest explanation. You got used to him being thereâhis presence, his voice, the small routines you didn't even notice forming until they were gone. You got used to someone paying attention, even in his awkward, quiet way. Of course it's going to feel empty now. Of course it's going to sting.
It doesn't mean it was love. You're just lonely.
Feed the fish, eat a lot of protein, train until your legs feel like they're about to give out, drag yourself to class, pretend you're listening, go home, sleep like you're dead. Avoid Jake.
Feed the fish, eat a lot of protein, train harder, push through the soreness, ignore the bruises blooming under your skin, keep your head down, don't think too much. Avoid Jake.
Feed the fish, eat a lot of protein, train, study, sleep, avoid Jake.
"I know you're busy but the... uh... water bill payment is due..."
Oh. Right.
Bills. Responsibilities. Actual life shit that doesn't revolve around your messy, unresolved feelings. Not everything is about you spiraling over some guy who couldn't even look you in the eye after fucking you.
You click your tongue softly under your breath and bend down to tie your shoelaces, using the motion as an excuse to avoid looking at him. Your fingers move quickly, even if your chest feels tight again just from his presence being this close. Without thinking too much about it, you reach into your wallet and pull out crumpled bills, extending your hand toward him without lifting your gaze.
"Here," you mutter, handing him the fifteen dollars.
There's a split second where your hand lingers midair, and you mentally curse yourself for even noticing it. You pull back immediately, wiping your palm against your shorts. Your eyes drop back to your wallet, flipping it open again out of habitâand that's when it hits you. It's fucking empty. Well, not completely empty, but close enough. You stare at it longer than you should, your brows knitting together slightly. All that extra food, all the random shit you've been buying just to distract yourselfâit adds up.
You don't even realize Jake's looking at it too. When you finally glance up and catch him staring, your expression shifts instantly. You snap the wallet shut and clear your throat like you've been caught doing something embarrassing.
"That would be enough, right?" you say nonchalantly, like you didn't just expose how broke you are. You sling your training bag over your shoulder, adjusting the strap. "I mean, I'm mostly at the city meet anyway. I didn't even use water for, like, almost two weeks."
Jake blinks behind his glasses. His gaze flickers from your face to your bag, then back again. "Y-Yeah... sure," he answers.
You're the one who looks away first. "Okay," you say quickly, already stepping back. "I'll get going." You turn slightly, ready to leave.
"Actuallyâ"
His voice stops you mid-step. You pause, slowly, you turn your head, glancing back at him over your shoulder, one brow lifting just slightly, your expression already guarded like you're expecting something you won't like.
"N-N-Nothing," he stutters, the word tripping over itself the second your eyes meet his.
He folds into himself again. His shoulders draw inward, his posture shrinking like a snail going back to it's shell. His gaze drops almost as quickly as it met yours.
You purse your lips, holding back whatever reaction tries to surface, and give him a small, absent nod instead. For a brief moment, his eyes linger on your face, like he's searching for something in your expression that isn't there anymore. That's the part that hits him the hardestâthat look you used to give him when things were still normal, when you were still figuring each other.
Are you... okay now?
The door shuts behind you. Jake doesn't move right away. He just stands there, staring at the empty space where you were a second ago.
Then suddenly, like something inside him snaps, he steps back and lets his head hit the wall. His breath comes out uneven, his fingers curling into fists before loosening again, like he doesn't even know what to do with his own body. Then he does it again. And again. And again. Each impact a little harder. Why can't he talk? Why the fuck can't he just say something when it matters?
His jaw tightens, teeth grinding as frustration builds in his chest. He pulls back once more and this time hits the wall harder than before, the sting shooting through his skullâand that's when it hits him. A flash of memory flodded into his mind.
Suddenly, he's not here anymore. Suddenly, he's back at high school.
"I know I'm not like the best partner either,"Â Kazuha says. Jake's mouth goes dry as he stares at her, his brain lagging behind the moment like it's refusing to process what's happening.
It's a random Tuesday. And yet here she is, standing in front of him, ending something he didn't even realize was breaking.
"You're a good guy, Jake," she continues, her hands clasped together in front of her. "I appreciate and love every moment we spent with each other. Thank you for that..." She pauses. "But it's better if we part ways."
Her words just... float there, Jake goes completely still. His shoulders draw in, shrinking instinctively, an action he always do if he's trying to make himself smaller. His eyes flicker away from her for a second, scanning the space around themâthe hallway, the passing students, the distant chatter. What if they were listening?
His fingers start fidgeting again, restless, rubbing against each other over and over. His heart is beating too fast. His head is too loud. There are too many thoughts forming all at once, piling up, overlapping, choking each other out before they can even become words.
"Are you..." Kazuha starts, her brows pulling together slightly as she looks at him. "...not gonna say anything?"
Jake looks at her then. Her eyes are glossyânot crying, not yet, but close enough. Waiting. Expecting something. Anything.
And fuck, he wants to say something. He wants to ask why. Wants to understand what he did wrong. Wants to tell her he triedâthat he followed everything right, didn't he? He carried her bag, walked her home, remembered dates, bought flowers during monthsaries, gave her chocolates even when he didn't know if she liked them. He paid attention. He listened. He stayed. He liked her. Wasn't that... enough?
The words pile up in his throat, pressing, pushing, demanding to be let outâbut when he opens his mouth, nothing comes. His mind goes blank.
Completely, fucking blank. Jake swallows, his hands starting to sweat, his fingers twitching uselessly at his sides. Panic creeps in, tightening around his chest as the silence stretches too long. He knows he should speak. He knows this is the moment. He knows if he says nothing, it's going to end like this.
And still, he can't. His lips part slightly, but instead of words, all that comes out is a shallow breath. His gaze drops, unable to hold hers any longer, and slowly, almost helplessly, he shakes his head.
Not because he doesn't care. But because he doesn't know how to say that he does.
"Bro, you fumbled a baddie so bad. Tsk, tsk, tsk."
Sunghoon's leaning back on the bench. The ice rink behind them glows under harsh white lights. It's normal. Everything is normal.
Except Jake. He's sitting there, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. Jay walks in not long after, still dressed from whatever commercial shoot he just wrapped up, dropping his bag beside them. He takes one look at Jake and already knows something's off, his brows pulling together slightly before he exhales.
"You don't even try to chase her?" Jay asks. He leans forward a bit. "You know girls like that. If you show any effort, she might come back."
Jake doesn't respond. His gaze stays locked on the floor. His fingers twitch again, restless, picking at nothing, repeating the same useless motion over and over.
"Actually..." Sunghoon cuts in, shifting his posture as he glances between them. "You know ballet and figure skates train together, right? I overheard something..."
Jake's fingers pause for a second.
"...like uh..." Sunghoon continues, scratching the back of his neck, "she said you don't initiate anything. Likeâholding hands, saying stuff... you're just too quiet." He glances at Jake briefly before looking away again. "She said she doesn't feel the 'love'." He even does the air quotes, emphasizing the word.
Jake's chest tightens, but he still doesn't move.
"I mean, I can see you putting in effort," Sunghoon adds quickly, like he's trying to balance it out. He leans over and throws an arm around Jake's shoulder, giving him a brief squeeze. "You do shit. You're there. That counts." He exhales, shaking his head. "Social media standards are ruining relationships, I swear."
"No, don't say that," Jay glares at Sunghoon. "Of course women are sensitive. Sometimes they just... misunderstand actions if we don't say anything. That's normal."
"Yeah, but that's what they call 'words of affirmation', right?" Sunghoon scoffs, pulling his arm back. "What if our Jekjek here just sucks at that? Not everyone's built like that." He shrugs, leaning back again. "They should accept that too. We're not all gonna be talking sweet 24/7. That shit's exhausting."
"Yes, we can," Jay replies without missing a beat, "If we love our girl, we can." His eyes flicker to Sunghoon briefly. "You're just saying that because you're not in a relationship."
"Heyâ"
Ever since he was a child, Jake already knew there was something off about the way he spokeâor more like, the way he couldn't. It wasn't that he didn't have thoughts. Fuck, his head was always loud, always full of things he wanted to say, things he wanted to ask, things he wanted to explain. But the moment it had to pass through his mouth, it got stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled, choked out before it could even become words.
He remembers it too clearly, standing in front of the class, small hands clenched at his sides, his teacher smiling patiently while the rest of the room just... waited. Five minutes. A full five minutes of silence just because he couldn't say his own name. He could feel their eyes on him, hear the faint shifting of chairs, the quiet whispers starting to build. His mouth opened, closed, opened againâbut nothing came out except shaky breaths. It felt like drowning without water.
And yet... he wasn't bullied.
That's the part he always comes back to. He was lucky. Somehow, he was lucky. The kids didn't tear him apart for it, didn't laugh in his face the way he feared they would. Some of them even waited for him, awkwardly, patiently, like they didn't mind the silence as much as he did. He carried that with him growing upâthat quiet kind of relief. By the time he reached high school, he even managed to find people who stayed. Friends who filled in the gaps when he couldn't speak fast enough, who didn't push him too hard when he shut down. He had Sunghoon. He had Jay. He had... something close to normal.
And somehow, somehow, he even got lucky enough to have a pretty girlfriend. Pretty, warm, expressiveâeverything he wasn't. Someone who chose him despite the way his words always came out broken, incomplete, late. It felt unreal. Like he had somehow skipped steps, like life handed him something he didn't fully know how to hold. But he tried, he really did. In the ways he knew how.
He remembers the Art Therapy sessions clearly too. The therapist had a soft voice that didn't rush him, didn't pressure him into speaking when he couldn't. If you can't say it, they told him once, show it. There are other ways to communicate. And Jake held onto that.
Now it feels like a fucking lie. Because if that was enough... then why does it keep ending like this?
Maybe out of all things, love was the most unlucky thing he'd ever stumble into. Everything else in his life had eventually fallen into placeâhis academics were solid, his routines were structured, his small circle of friends stayed consistent. He knew what to expect, knew how to function, knew how to exist without fucking things up too badly. It wasn't perfect, but it was stable. He was content with that kind of life, the kind where nothing felt too overwhelming, where nothing demanded more from him than what he could actually give.
And somewhere along the way, after high school, after that quiet, unresolved breakup that still lingered in the back of his head, Jake made a decision without really announcing it to anyone.
He wasn't going to fall in love again.
Not because he didn't believe in it but because he clearly didn't know how to do it right.
"And with that, Number 9 saves the day with her vampire speed! Decelis Academy earns another point!"
Jake remember he was 18, on his 12th Grade. The gym was loud that day, packed with students, and huge energy that Jake wasn't used to being around. He didn't even plan on being there. Jay practically dragged him along, insisting it would be "good exposure" or whatever reason he came up with as the school ambassador. Jake didn't argue. He just followed, sitting stiffly on the bleachers, hands resting awkwardly on his knees as he tried to ignore how overwhelming everything felt.
Until he saw you.
It was sudden. Like his brain just locked onto you without asking for permission. A beautiful you in a white jersey and short shorts.
You were already in motion when his eyes found you, your body low to the ground as you received the ball. Your movements were sharp but fluid, fast in a way that made it hard to follow. One second you were on one side of the court, the next you were divingâliterally throwing yourself onto the floor without hesitation, arms stretched out, saving a ball that should've been impossible to reach.
Jake blinked. Then leaned forward slightly without realizing it.
You got back up like it didn't hurt. And then it kept happening. You ran. You slid. You split just to receive the ball with your foot, and the crowd lost it. Your teammates shouted your name, your energy feeding into theirs, your presence pulling the entire court together like you were the center of it all. There was nothing hesitant about you. Every move you made had purpose, had confidence, had this raw, fearless intensity that Jake couldn't even begin to understand.
You looked... unreal. Not just pretty. Not just attractive. You looked alive in a way he had never seen before.
Your hair stuck slightly to your face from sweat, your jersey clinging just enough to show the strain of your movements, your legs marked with faint bruises like proof of how hard you playedâand still, you kept going. You jumped, arms raised, eyes locked on the ball like nothing else in the world mattered in that moment.
Jake couldn't look away. It's just admiration. Nothing more. The kind of thing people feel when they see someone good at something, someone... bright in a way that makes the rest of the room feel dimmer. That's all it is.
Jake had no plans to actually talk to you. No plans to get closer.
Because it was funny, almost ridiculous, to even imagine it. Youâthis gorgeous varsity player everyone seemed to orbit aroundâtalking to him? Someone who usually blended into the background unless someone actively looked at him.
When the game finally ended, the noise of the crowd didn't immediately fade. Jake followed Jay down from the bleachers toward the court level. People were already gathering around, phones out.
And there you were. Right in the middle of it.
Jake remembers that part clearlyânot just seeing you, but watching you. The way your eyes moved around like you were trying to process the sudden attention instead of expecting it. You looked slightly confused, as if you didn't fully understand why everyone was crowding you. There was a faint awkwardness in the way you smiled, rubbing the back of your neck as people kept approaching.
"Can we take a picture?"
"Just one more!"
"Hey, great game!"
And you didn't refuse any of it. You just... accepted it. Laughing awkwardly here and there, nodding too quickly sometimes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as your teammates got pulled into other groups of students. You weren't dismissive. You weren't annoyed. You didn't act like it was a burden. You just went along with it, like it hadn't fully registered yet that this level of attention was normal for you.
Little kids tugging at your sleeve. Students from other schools calling your name. Boysâmore boys than Jake expectedâhovering nearby, waiting for their turn like it was something they had to earn.
Jay nudged him. "Want to take a picture with her?" he asks casually. Jake's eyes almost widen immediately. His entire body stiffens for a second. Heat creeps up his neck as he quickly shakes his head.
"H-Huh?" he stutters, voice cracking slightly, before he shakes his head more firmly this time. "N-No."
Jay just grins at him like he already knows. "Come on," Jay says, tapping his back lightly, dragging him forward with easy confidence. "Let's take a picture. She might get famous internationally one day. Did you see her skills?"
Jake doesn't answer. But his feet still move. His eyesâno matter how many times he tries to pull them awayâkeep drifting back toward you. It's frustrating in a quiet way, like his focus is being stolen without permission. Every time he looks away, he ends up looking right back again.
"Hey, my name is Jay. Nice game, by the way."
Jay steps forward first as he approaches you, holding out a hand. Jake lingers half a step behind him, suddenly aware of everythingâhis posture, his breathing, the fact that he probably looks like he doesn't belong anywhere near this interaction. You turn toward them, still slightly flushed from the match. Even like this, even when you're clearly tired, there's something about you that doesn't soften. Beautiful. God, you were do damn beautiful.
"Hi, Jay. Thank you? I guess?" You give a small smile, polite but slightly awkward.
Oh God. Up close, it's worse. Not in a bad wayâno, not even close. You're intimidating, so fucking pretty! Jake can feel himself shrinking without moving. It doesn't make sense logicallyâhe's taller than you, standing right there, physically closer than most people in the crowdâbut mentally, he feels small, your presence fills the space too easily. Like there's no room left for him to exist normally inside it.
"Mind if we take a picture?" Jay asks again, gesturing lightly between the three of you.
"Sure."
Jay immediately shifts closer, guiding the position. And then it happens, you lift your arm and swing it around Jake's back as you settle into place for the photo.
Jake freezes for half a second. Your hand is warm through the fabric of his shirt, you're completely unbothered. But to him, it feels like something entirely differentâlike a switch being flipped inside his brain. His posture stiffens immediately, shoulders locking up, breath catching slightly as he tries very hard not to react in a way that would make this weird.
But you don't seem to notice. You're just standing there, in the middle of them, smiling naturally now as the camera is raised. Jay is talking about angles or something, adjusting positions, but Jake can barely process it. His mind is too focused on the fact that you are there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear breathe. Close enough that if he turned his head slightly, he would be looking directly at you instead of trying not to.
And somehowâcompletely out of character for himâJake finds himself smiling.
The camera clicks.
And for a fraction of a second, everything feels suspendedâlike the world pauses just long enough for him to exist in that moment without overthinking it.
Afterward, Jay steps back, already shifting into casual conversation again, but Jake stays still for a beat longer. His eyes flick briefly toward you again, then away, then back again like a broken reflex he can't fix.
This is nothing. He will eventually forget you. He is sure of that. This feelingâwhatever it isâtemporary.
Years passed, and Jake ended up exactly where everyone expected him to beâEngineering, decent grades, still had a stable routine. He had a scholarship that eased the financial pressure on his parents. His life, for the most part, had become structured in a way he could actually manage: classes, assignments, study sessions. His parents were still supportive, calling every now and then, reminding him to take care of himself.
Sunghoon was still skating, still grinding through competitions under Decelis. Jay, on the other hand, had started shifting into modeling, acting, random opportunities that slowly turned into actual industry attention. It was strange watching them all move forward in different directions while still somehow staying within reach. Jake stayed in touch with them.
The only thing that didn't quite fit into place was the dorm situation inside Decelis.
It was strict. Too strict in some ways, and ironically not strict enough in others. There were rulesâcurfews, schedules, restrictionsâbut somehow the environment still felt messy. People breaking curfew, doors opening and closing late at night, voices echoing down hallways when he was trying to study. His sleep schedule was constantly getting disrupted, his focus breaking at the worst possible times. He couldn't properly revise after a certain hour, couldn't rest when he needed to, couldn't even sit in silence without someone disturbing it in some way.
The only dormmate he had ever managed to properly communicate with was Heeseung.
They weren't close in a dramatic sense, but they understood each other in a way that made living together tolerable. Same academic field, similar mindsetâa little detached from the noise around them. Heeseung was the kind of person who could spend hours building something without feeling the need to fill the silence with unnecessary conversation.
"Apartment complex on the streets of the Avenue," Heeseung said one afternoon, barely looking up from the small robot he was dismantling on his desk. "There's a lot of listings for people looking for roommates. Prosâtwo to three rooms, so you can have your own space."
Jake listened quietly from his bed, one hand resting on his notes, the other scrolling lazily on his phone without really absorbing anything. He tilted his head slightly at the explanation, already interested at the idea.
"Cons," Heeseung continued, pausing to adjust a tiny wire, "it's expensive. And there's like a ninety percent chance you end up with a girl roommate."
Jake blinked. Then looked up properly. "What's wrong with having a girl roommate?" he asked, genuinely confused, like he had missed a very important piece of information somewhere in the logic.
Heeseung finally glanced at him, expression flat, like this was obvious information that didn't need elaboration. "Tension will be too high," he said simply, shrugging one shoulder as he went back to his work. "You might fuck and then everything gets complicated emotionally."
Jake stared at him for a second."...What?"
Heeseung didn't even react much, just continued tightening a screw. "It happens."
Jake leaned back slightly, processing that in the most literal, disconnected way possible. His brain tried to compute it like a formulaâinput, output, consequenceâbut it didn't really connect to anything in his actual life experience. He had never thought about roommates in that way. Never even considered that possibility as something that could happen just because two people shared a space.
All he wanted was simple.
A place where he could breathe. A place where no one slammed doors at midnight, where he could actually study before eight without interruptions, where silence wasn't something he had to fight for. The gender of the roommate didn't matter to him.
"Isn't it better than five guys in a dorm anyway?" Jake muttered after a moment, more to himself than to Heeseung. "At least it's quieter."
Heeseung gave a short hum in response, still focused on the robot in his hands. "Probably."
Oh boyâJake should've listened to Heeseung's cons.
Because the moment he signed the roommate application, everything somehow spiraled into something wayyyyy more complicated. Peace was all he wanted. That was all it was supposed to be. But then reality hit in a way he didn't calculate for, because he didn't knowâhe genuinely didn't knowâthat the roommate he'd been assigned was you, until the interview.
And the worst part was how his eyes kept betraying him. He'd look away too late, glance too long, get caught in places he shouldn't be looking at all. Your body, it was like how visible everything felt to him. And yeahâyour ass included.
God, you looked different. It was accumulation. Your armsâstronger, more defined, muscle sitting tight under your skin. Your back was broader, posture solid, like you were always mid-motion even when you were just standing there reaching for something in the kitchen. It made sense. You were an athlete. This was normal. Of course, you train, you look like that. That's just how bodies works.
Every interaction made it worse, not better. There was no adjustment period, no gradual easing into comfort, he was stuck being watched even when you weren't looking at him.
The day you walked into the living room and caught him sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scattered Lego pieces, he felt the spike of embarrassment that didn't fade. You didn't even say anything weird, just paused, looked, maybe a little curious. But to Jake, it meant too much.
Same with the time your eyes drifted over his Hot Wheels lined up on the shelf. It wasn't judgment, not really, but his brain filled in the gaps anyway.
And then the conversationsâif they could even be called that. Something as stupid as the water bill turned into a full-body experience for him. Words sticking, fingers twitching, shifting his weight like he couldn't find a stable position to stand in. He'd rehearse sentences in his head and still mess them up the second they came out. And every time, without fail, there was that lingering thought afterward: You thinks he's weird. Or worseâyou knows he's a loser.
No. People could think whatever they wanted; it didn't change anything... But this didn't sit the same way. Not when it came to you. Because for some reason, he didn't want you filing him away like that, reducing him to the guy sitting on the floor snapping LEGO pieces together or lining up Hot Wheels. There was more.
If he could just say it properly, without his words tripping over themselves, he could explain it. He could tell you about his grades, how he ranked near the top without making noise about it, how he could cook actual meals. He could show you something real.
But instead, all of that stayed stuck in his head, piling up into this silent, useless argument that never reached his mouth. And âwhy did it even matter enough for him to sit there mentally listing reasons like he had something to prove to you?!
"Wow, lucky you."
Heeseung's mouth literally dropping open as Jake pointed toward the massive tarpulin hanging across campus with your face printed on it.
"She's my roommate."
Heeseung looked back at him, then at the tarpulin again. But Jake... Jake didn't react the same way. His posture straightened just a little. His expression shifted without him realizing it, mouth pulling into something that edged too close to prideâalmost arrogant, like he had some kind of claim. He didn't even notice it happening. Didn't catch the way the idea of being linked to youâeven in something as basic as living in the same apartmentâmake him feel good.
"So, did you two fuck?" a question that exactly the kind of thing Heeseung would throw out without thinking twice. And just like that, whatever expression Jake had dropped instantly.
"N-No, what theâ?!" Jake voice cracking slightly as his face heated up in seconds. The flush spread across his cheeks, down his neck, his brain short-circuiting in the worst way possible because his thoughts betrayed him, flashing something he didn't ask for. He physically flinched, hand coming up to smack the side of his own head like he could knock it out. "What the hell are you even saying?"
"I embarrassed myself because she caught me messing with Whitey," he added quickly as he shot Heeseung a glare, redirecting the conversation to something else. The robot sat unfinished in his mind.
Heeseung didn't miss a beat. "Okay," he snorted, shaking his head with a grin, "good to know you are never gonna get fucked by that girl."
Of course not.
You were intimidatingâstill intimidating in the exact same way you were the last time he saw you a year ago, except now it felt worse because you were closer. It wasn't just that you were attractive. It was the way it came with presence that made it hard to relax around you. Your eyes didn't help eitherâ too easy to get lost in if he looked too long. And that was the problem. He wanted to look, to hold it for more than a second, to prove to himself he could act normalâbut every time he tried, something in him pulled back too fast.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" You ask him too blunt as he just handle you the advance payment.
"H-huh?" His face went red almost instantly, color blooming across his cheeks as he fumbled with the fabric of his pajama pants, wiping his hands over and over. "IâI don't have..." he said quietly, trailing off as if the sentence itself embarrassed him.
Waitâwhy would you even ask that? Followed by another question. Are you... interested? Or just curious? That didn't make sense. There was no reason for you to be interested. He barely talked to you, barely functioned normally around you. So why ask? Unless it didn't mean anything. Unless he was reading into it again. It was random. You weren't even that close, barely past basic conversations....
Jake tried not to think about it, tried to force his attention onto anything else, but you cut straight through that fragile effort by suddenly starting another conversation, casually asking what you both should order for dinner while he adjusted Whitey. You were so fucking close. It is overwhelming, scrambling his thoughts. Oh fuck. You were too closeâit was going to make him lose his goddamn mind, and all he could think, over and over, was how you smelledâsweet, distracting, pretty, pretty, pretty.
He was barely breathing, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like looking at you directly might short-circuit him. "Uh... I already ate," he repeated, voice dropping smaller.
"Oh."
Before you could say something, he stood abruptly, movement jerky, still refusing to meet your eyes as he pointed vaguely toward his room. "IâI need to, uh... I have something to do," he said, bowing slightly out of pure habit before retreating.
The moment the door shut behind him, Jake nearly let out a broken whine, his hands went straight to his hair, fingers gripping hard. He exhaled shakily, trying to calm himself, but it wasn't working. His dick was fucking hardâ it got fucking hard!
And the third time you initiated something, Jake swore he was probably seconds away from going completely brain dead. He'd been crouched over another half-disassembled robot that Heeseung had dropped off earlier. You appeared again, stepping into his space. Jake would never forget the way you set the ramen down beside him with those pretty smile, and how easily you started talking about your life like none of the tension from before had ever existed.
"Sometimes I wish I was smart instead of just... sport-inclined," you admitted with a half-laugh, slumping your shoulders for emphasis. "Like, what the hell am I supposed to do after I decide I'm done with volleyball?"
Jake wanted to respond. He wanted to tell you that being sport-inclined wasn't something lesser, that there was nothing wrong with it, nothing lacking or incomplete about who you were. He wanted to say he envied you, in a wayâyour strength, the way you moved through things without hesitating, how you seemed fearless and independent in ways he couldn't quite reach. He wanted to tell you that if you ever got tired of volleyball, there were still so many things waiting for you, paths you could take without losing yourselfâbut when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.
"I'm done for now," you said abruptly, when you notice he isn't talking, you clacked your chopsticks against the plastic before snapping the lid shut, forcing a smile that felt stiff on your face. You stood, shoved the ramen into the fridge with more force and retreated to your room, closing the door behind you.
Jake stayed exactly where he was, staring at nothing, and again, he let out a frustrated exhale, dragging a hand down his face.
When you stopped talking to him, Jake felt it like something collapsing inward. The last time you asked him anything beyond the bare minimum was when he'd come out of the shower early, and you'd only glanced his way long enough to ask if he was done. And after that... nothing. You slipped back into your usual colder distant selfâonly asking about rent, keeping your eyes anywhere but on him, cutting off any chance for conversation before it could no even start.
"Well, what do you expect?" Heeseung scoffed from across the room, not even bothering to look up at first as he leaned back in his chair, one leg stretched out while he worked on programming the robot in front of himâBumble, Jake's old Grade 12 project that he'd decided to mess with again. "She's basically just talking to a wall, you want her to keep trying? You think you're that special?" He finally glanced over then, eyebrow raised, unimpressed.
"No! IâI understand her," Jake shot back quickly, his shoulders slumping almost immediately after as if the effort alone drained him. His hands fidgeted uselessly in his lap, fingers curling and uncurling as he struggled to keep his thoughts from tangling. "I just... I wish I could talk about things too... you know... like, actually say stuff... share..." His voice trailed off toward the end, shrinking.
"Booo,"Â Heeseung dragged out mockingly, not missing a beat as he tilted his head back with exaggerated disappointment. "Stop wishing and actually try for once. Jesus, it's not that deep." He flicked a small tool across the desk toward Jake, though it stopped short, clattering uselessly against the surface. "You're just making excuses at this point."
"Why would I?" Jake asked, stubborn in a way that felt more defensive than confident, his gaze dropping to the floor. "It's better this way."
Heeseung's eyebrow lifted slightly at that. And the truth was, Jake had already accepted itâaccepted that talking, is... super hard . His social anxiety had settled into him so deeply that the people around him had just adapted, learned to expect less, learned not to wait for him to say anything. Sometimes he wished it wasn't like that, wished he could just... function normally, speak without overthinking every wordâbut wishing didn't change anything, and he knew it.
So who the hell was he kidding? Himself, apparently.
Because the moment he started working on improving Bumbleâadding a small camera, linking it directly to his phone so he could control what it saw and how it movedâhe found himself doing something he couldn't even justify. Sitting on his bed, phone in hand, staring at the screen like an idiot while waiting for the front door to open. It was 7:30 PM. You usually got home around that time. The second he heard the faint click of the lock, he straightened up instantly, heart kicking a little harder as his eyes locked onto the live feed.
The door opened, and there you wereâstepping inside, unaware and Jake immediately triggered the robot.
"Hi,"Â he said softly into his phone, knowing the word would come out through Bumble in that slightly distorted.
He stayed hidden where he was, safely out of sight, using the robot as a shield between him and you. On the screen, you paused, your expression shifting into confusion as you looked down at Bumble, clearly not suspecting anything, because why the hell would you? To you, it was just a small, harmless robotânot him.
Jake let out a quiet, breathy giggle, biting down on his fist to keep himself from smiling too wide as he watched you respond. Sometimes you greeted it back, and other times you crouched down, kneeling in front of Bumble as your fingers gently brushed over its surface. And every time you did, you ended up looking straight into the camera without realizing itâyour eyes filling his screen so suddenly it made his chest tighten. God, your eyes were so fucking beautiful. You were so beautiful. He kicked his feet lightly against the edge of his bed, barely containing the energy buzzing through him, his grin hidden behind his hand as he watched you a little longer than he probably should have.
One time, Jake watched you through his screen as you stepped into your room and quietly closed the door behind you. He lingered there for a moment, thumb hovering over the controls before he slowly guided Bumble away, sending it rolling through the hallway in slow, absent circles.
He kept moving, turning corners, drifting past furniture with no real direction. But then your door creaked open again, and Jake reacted instantly, fingers tightening as he jerked the controls, turning Bumble around so fast it almost tipped before he steadied it and followed you.
The movement was too uncoordinatedâhe wasn't paying attention to anything except youâand his phone slipped right out of his hand, dropping straight onto his face with a sharp, painful smack.
"Nghhâ!" he choked out, the impact rattling his teeth as one of the brackets on his braces snapped loose, sending a jolt of pain through his jaw. But he barely had time to even react, because the screen was still on, angled just enough for him to see.
You were in the kitchen now, dressed in short shorts and a loose crop top that rode up just enough when you moved, exposing more than he'd ever seen before.
You bent slightly over the counter, focused on your phone while absentmindedly eating snacks, completely unaware of the tiny camera pointed in your direction. From that angleâhe could see the curve of your body so clearly it made his head spin, the fabric of your shorts riding up just enough to reveal the soft outline of your ass.
"No..." he breathed, his chest tightening as his eyes stayed glued to the screen.
His gaze flickered downward for a second, and that only made it worse, because his body had already reacted before he could stop it. His dick was hard. Fucking hard.
"Noâno, no..." he muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a second like it might erase the image that was already stuck in his mind. His face throbbed where the phone had hit him, his teeth aching from the loose bracket he knew would cost a shit ton to fix, but none of that compared to the way his body refused to calm down.
"I'm sorry," he whined under his breath, almost desperate as he grabbed his phone again with shaky hands. He didn't even look properly this timeâjust caught a brief, blurry glimpse of you still there on the screen before he fumbled with the controls and shut Bumble off completely. The feed cut to black instantly, leaving him staring at his own reflection instead, wide-eyed and flushed, breathing unevenly.
Jake's hands moved quickly, tugging his pajama pants down in a rush. He hadn't even bothered with boxers, and the cool air hitting his skin only made everything feel more intense than it already was. His toes curled against the sheets as his hand wrapped around himself, eyes squeezing shut like that might dull the image burned into his headâbut it didn't, not even a little.
If anything, it made it worse, the memory replaying in fragments, the way you bent slightly, the way your body looked so fucking sexy.
His breathing turned uneven until it was harder to control as his grip tightened on his cock. The thought of grabbing his phone again, to open Bumble, tempting. But it feels morally wrong, of course he has a conscience!
A quiet whine slipping out as the image of you catching himâactually realizing what he'd been doing with Bumbleâflashed through his head.
"Oh God," he breathed, the words breaking unevenly as his stomach clenched hard at the thought. Why is he getting off at the thought of being caught?! Now he really felt like a fucking weirdo.
His hand stilled for a second before he reached blindly for his phone, unlocking it with clumsy fingers as he opened his messages with Heeseung. His friend had always had this habitâsending pictures of you from games, from practice, from random moments on the court. Jake used to ignore them, but now, he was actually looking, thumb dragging slowly across the screen as he took them in one by one, most of them taken by sports journalists and reposted on the university page.
He kept scrolling faster now, a restless feeling building under his skin as his patience thinned, his hands are getting faster until his eyes landed on one that made him stop completely.
A selfie. He didn't know where the hell Heeseung got it, but there you were, up close, biting lightly onto your medal with a small, tired smile, sweaty and hair slightly messy like it had been taken right after a game. Jake stared at it longer than he should have, his chest rising and falling unevenly, his fingers working through the tip, spreading the precum. God. He wish you could also bite him, everywhere, his neck, his lips, his nipplâ bite WHAT?!
His head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering for a second as he exhaled through his teeth. "Haaa..." he whispered again, his gaze locked onto the screen as everything else faded out around him.
After a few uneven breaths and one last helpless glance at your photo, his body finally gave in to the overwhelming tension he'd been holding onto for too long, his dick keep twitching as it spurts continous cum on his stomach.
He was slumped there in silence, staring at the screen like he didn't know what to do with himself anymore.
heeseung | lol why'd you â€ïžÂ react now to the picture i've sent 2 months ago????
heeseung | that sweaty picture haha nice tasteđ
heeseung | you're welcome
Jake's entire face flushed instantly, the heat crawling up from his neck to his ears. It felt wrong, no it's actually wrong! You and him barely even talked, what the fuck is he thinking?! Jake let out a frustrated groan before tossing his phone across the room without even looking, the device hitting the floor near his desk.
It's just attraction. You were prettyâthat wasn't something he could deny, not even if he triedâand his body reacting like that... it wasn't unusual, not really. He knew that. He knew it was a normal response!
Jake grew restless as the days dragged on, a quiet agitation settling into him that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried to distract himself. He kept checking the time without realizing it, his focus slipped whenever he tried to work on anything else. But also,
it didn't still change the fact that he is looking forward to one specific moment every night.
Well, greeting you through Bumble had turned into a routine.
But one day, that routine cracked without warning. The second Bumble rolled into the living room and the camera adjusted, Jake's small, anticipatory smile faded instantly, his entire expression dropping. You were sitting there, not moving the way you usually did, not reacting the way he expected.
You were crying. His hands lifted slightly toward the screen without thinking, fingers hovering uselessly in the air, as if he could do anything at all from where he was.
You leaned back against the sofa, your body sliding down slowly until you were sitting on the floor, shoulders slumped, exhaustion written all over you. "Everyone has someone," you whispered. "Why... am I such a fucking loser?" you let out a short laugh after that.
Jake just sat there on his bed, staring at his phone. He watched you like this without knowing how to respond.
He wanted to tell you it was okay, that you weren't whatever you thought you were in that moment, that you didn't have to sit there alone like that. He wanted to apologize tooâfor all the times you tried to talk to him and he shut down, for how absent he must've seemed, how useless he felt now thinking back on it.
Most of all, he wanted to tell you that you had him.
Action speaks louder than words, right? If you thought you were lonely, then he'd prove you wrongânot by saying it, because he clearly couldn't, but by doing something, anything that might reach you in a way his words never could. So he started small, practical, something he could control. If you were hungry, then he'd cook.
"IâI always... uh... cook food f-for dinner..." he managed to say when you walked in. His heart was pounding so loudly it made it hard to hear himself think. He saw the way you paused mid-step before turning your head just slightly, not fully facing him. Jake's gaze dropped instantly, locking somewhere near the floor, his fingers twitching uselessly at his side.
"I-If you want to eat," he added quickly, the words stumbling over each other in his rush to get them out before he lost the nerve entirely, "uh... it's on the table..." His voice faded at the end. He didn't wait for your response and before you had the chance to say anything, he turned and walked off quickly.
By the time he reached his room, he was practically speed-walking, shutting the door behind him a little too fast before leaning back against it with an exhale. "No..." he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair as he tried to calm himself down, his pulse still racing from something as simple as speaking to you. He paced once, twice, restless energy buzzing under his skin, before grabbing his phone. The familiar motion steadied him a little as he connected to Bumble again, pulling up the camera feed with shaky anticipation.
The moment the screen lit up and he saw you sitting at the table, actually eating eagerly, without hesitationâsomething in his chest loosened all at once. A wide smile spread across his face. He leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the screen. He had spent hours researching what athletes usually ate, scrolling through articles and videos, and seeing you enjoying it without knowing any of that, made it feel worth it in a way he hadn't expected.
Jake kept cooking for you after that. Sometimes you came home later than usual, the house already dark and settled, and he'd just leave the food covered on the table without saying anything. And every morning, when he stepped into the kitchen and saw the empty tupperware neatly rinsed and the dishes cleaned and set aside, something in him eased just enough to carry him through the day.
"Sooo, you're not actually talking? That's lame," Heeseung said one afternoon, watching Jake from across the scattered parts on the floor. "You're seriously not even gonna try talking to her?" he added, tilting his head slightly, like he was waiting for Jake to say something less disappointing.
Jake paused mid-motion, the screwdriver hovering awkwardly in his hand as he stared down at the loose panel he'd been working on. "Uh..." he started, hesitating as his eyes flicked up briefly toward Heeseung before dropping back down just as quickly. He shifted his shoulders in a small shrug. "I think it's okay...? People don't need conversations all the time," he said.
Heeseung made a face immediately before he pushed himself forward and sat down next to Jake on the floor. "Are you even hearing yourself?" he asked, brows raised as he nudged one of the scattered tools aside with his foot. "You'd rather just... what, keep cooking for her like some silent fucking ghost? That's it?" He leaned back on his hands, glancing at Jake from the side. "Why don't you try something normal for once? Like eating together at the table?"
"I-It's not needed," Jake replied quickly, a bit too defensive as his grip tightened slightly around the screwdriver. "What are you even pointing at?"
"I swear that girl likes you," Heeseung said, sitting up straighter now. "You literally told me she asked if you had a girlfriend, right? People don't just ask that shit for no reason. She wouldn't even bring it up if she wasn't interested."
Jake just stared at him, his mind spinning in slow, uneven circles as he tried to process what Heeseung was saying. It didn't line up cleanly in his head. His lips parted slightly like he was about to respond, but nothing came out, instead, he reached for the water bottle beside him, unscrewing the cap just to have something to do.
"For you to even sit at the same table, you need to ask her to eat dinner with you," Heeseung continued. "And to do that without fucking it up, you need courageâand a script. Yeah, a script," he added, nodding to himself. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee as he spoke, already thinking steps ahead while Jake was still stuck at the starting point.
Jake paused mid-sip, the bottle hovering awkwardly in the air as he slowly turned his head to look at him, eyes narrowing just slightly in confusion. Heeseung, meanwhile, looked completely serious.
"Let's practice some, okay?" he said, already shifting closer. "But when you say it, don't mumble like thatâsay it straight, no stuttering, and looook..." he dragged the word out, lifting a finger for emphasis, "at the person's eyes when you're talking. That part is important."
Jake swallowed slowly, nodding once. He lifted the bottle again, taking another quick drink but then Heeseung reached out suddenly, grabbing Jake by the shoulder and pulling him just enough to face him directly. "Practice it with me," he said, eyes locking onto Jake's with zero hesitation.
Jake barely lasted a second.
The moment their eyes met, something in him short-circuited completely. The water he'd just taken in stayed in his mouth for a split second too long before it came spilling out in the worst possible wayâright onto Heeseung's face.
"You fucker," Heeseung hissed, he wiped his face with the back of his hand, water dripping down his jaw and onto his shirt. He lunged forward, grabbing Jake by the collar and immediately hooking an arm around his neck, choking him.
The next day, Jake decided he should've just ignored everything Heeseung said. All of it. The advice, the assumptions, the stupid "script"âit all felt ridiculous now that he was actually thinking about it on his own. It wasn't necessary. He didn't need to prove anything, didn't need to suddenly change how things were going between you and him. Things were... working, in their own quiet way. He had his routine, you had yours, and there was no risk of him messing it up as long as he didn't push it any further.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to settle into that thought again.
Sigh.
You were so fucking pretty.
He clicked his tongue softly in frustration, shifting his weight where he stood in the kitchen. Maybe... maybe inviting you to eat together wouldn't be that bad. He swallowed, his chest tightening slightly as he stared down at the food he'd already prepared, his fingers flexing at his side like he was trying to gather whatever courage Heeseung kept talking about.
"H-Hey."
The word came out before he could stop it. You had just gotten back from practice, heading straight toward your room without really looking around. Jake set the plate down carefully on the table. Eye contact, he remembered. Right. His shoulders tensed slightly as he forced himself to look up when you paused.
And for a moment, he actually held your gaze. Really held it.
The way your eyes locked onto his without hesitation, clear and focused in a way that made his chest tighten instantly. You were even prettier up close! And just like that, it became too much. His gaze broke, darting off to the side as his composure slipped, the brief confidence he had collapsing under the weight of it.
"Let'sâI-I cooked dinner," he said quickly, the words tumbling over each other as he gestured vaguely toward the table, his hand a little stiff. "There's a-a lot, so l-let's share."
The moment you sat down and really talk. All of Jake nervousness and loud mind begun to be quiet.
Ohâand it really... felt nice.
Talking to you about random thingsâmusic, mostlyâlike Cigarettes After Sex, of all things, wasn't something he ever pictured himself doing out loud, but it just... happened. And then the next day, you came back holding a bottle of chocolate almond milk, setting it down in front of him, and he just stared at it for a second, genuinely thrown off. For him?! You bought it... for him? there was no wayâyou knew his favorite drink without him ever saying it!
And fuck, you were cute too. In the little things he kept catching himself noticing more and more. The way you reacted to food, especially the ones he cooked, wasn't something you tried to hide or tone down, and he liked that more than he expected. You weren't picky, didn't hesitate, didn't pretendâyou just ate, genuinely, like you enjoyed it without overthinking it. And that smile you always had while eating. Damnnn. You were cute. You were really fucking pretty.
And somehow, without either of you pointing it out, things started to settle into something new. You and him eating together when your schedules lined up, sitting across from each other at the table. Conversations came easier now, sometimes you'd watch movies after, sometimes you'd just sit there, talking about nothing in particular. But most of the time, it circled back to the same thingâeating. You ate, and he cooked. Over and over again. He cooked, cooked, and kept cooking.
Well... of course, with everything he'd been doing lately, someone was bound to question it eventuallyâeven if he hadn't properly questioned it himself yet. From the outside, the things he was doing maybe it didn't look that simple.
"And you're doing all of that because...?" Heeseung asked.
"Because... I'm a... good roommate?" Jake replied almost immediately, the words coming out before he had time to think them through.
"You mean you're doing all of that because... you want to be a good roommate?" Heeseung repeated, his eyebrow lifting even higher as he stared at him. Jake glanced at him briefly, then looked away, his gaze drifting upward like he might find a better answer somewhere above them.
"...Yes?" he said again.
"Dude?" Heeseung's voice jumped, he straightened up, staring at Jake like he'd just said something completely insane. "What do you mean you cook for her all the time, talk with her, watch movies with herâjust because you want to be a good roommate? You're literally leading her on."
"Leading her on... on what?" Jake asked, his brows pulling together slightly, the confusion in his voice genuine as he turned back to look at him.
"Leading her on into thinking you like her," Heeseung shot back immediately, his hands coming up as he gestured. "Do you not like her at all?"
...
Jake didn't answer right away. His thoughts slowed, circling around the word. It felt too big, too defined. He knew you were attractive, that wasn't even a question. You were cool, confident in ways he couldn't replicate, and there was a part of him that looked up to you without fully realizing it at first. But stepping past that, into something more specificâit didn't come easily to him.
Was he actually leading you on?
Suddenly he remember his last relationship back in high school. The awkwardness, the pressure, the way everything had fallen apart in a way that left him feeling small, like he'd completely mishandled something he wasn't ready for in the first place. He remembered the expectations he couldn't meet, the quiet disappointment that followedâand how it all ended with him promising himself he wouldn't put himself, or anyone else, through that again.
Maybe that's why he rejected your invite to watch your finals game.
At the time, it felt like the right decision. It was better this way, it would stop you from expecting anything from him, stop things from becoming something more complicated than he could handle. If you didn't hope for anything, you wouldn't be disappointed.
Later that day, after class, when he stopped by to grab food for what he half-considered a small, quiet way to celebrate for you anyway, he saw the ticket. Crumpled in the trashcan . Jake paused mid-step, the takeout bag hanging loosely in his hand as he stared at it.
And just like that, the certainty he'd been holding onto didn't feel so...solid anymore.
What the hell was he even doing? Building you stupid little lego flowers, cooking for you almost every day, sitting across from you and actually talkingâeven if it took everything in him just to keep the words coming. What was the point of all that? What was he trying to get out of it? Good roommate? That sounds ridiculous!
A good roommate remembers details.
Because Jake remembered thingsâtoo many things. He hadn't cared much about sports before, never bothered to look into it beyond surface-level noise, but you... you were something else.
You were everywhere.
Articles, photos, interviewsâyour name kept showing up in places he didn't expect. A second-year student from Basic Education, sureâbut that wasn't the part that stuck. It was everything else. The way sports journalists talked about you like you were something unpredictable, something hard to pin down. The libero who didn't just receive but shut down plays, you who managed to block one of the most well-known spikers from another university! And your high school team? Representing the region at nationals!
Because you never talked about it.
Not once. You never bragged and yet there it was, laid out in front of him in article after article. MVP awards, recognition, comments about your presence on the courtâhow your looks alone distracted opponents, how your movements were unpredictable enough to throw off entire plays, how you stayed focused on keeping the ball alive no matter what. With the school reputation, you were often called as a Decelis Vampire with your great speed and agility. It didn't sound like the same person who sat across from him eating quietly, smiling over the food he made!
Sports were complicated but you?
You were so fucking cool.
That's why he felt so fucking dumbâso unbelievably dumb for letting things get this far without stopping himself sooner. Every small thing he did stacked up until it stopped being simple and started turning into this mess he didn't know how to handle. Heeseung had warned him and Jake brushed it off as if it didn't apply to himâbut now it all circled back.
Living with you, being around you like this, letting things blurâit created tension he wasn't equipped to deal with. Because if he let himself go any further, if he actually gave in to those impulsesâto the urge of wanting more, to get closer, to touch, to kiss, to do things he knew he wouldn't be able to take backâhe'd regret it. He knew he would.
So avoiding you felt like the only right decision left after having sex. He knows it wasn't fair but Jake has been good at avoiding things, especially confrontation, because he knew how those situations ended for him.
But he underestimated you.
Because of course you weren't just going to let it sit like that. Of course you were going to push, to corner him when he thought he could quietly slip away from it. And that was exactly the kind of situation he wasn't ready to faceâthe kind where there was no escape, no easy way out.
"Talk to me, fuck it!" you snapped suddenly, your voice breaking as it rose. Jake flinched hard, his shoulders tensing as the sound hit him that made his thoughts scatter even more. Why would you do that? Why would you push him into something he clearly couldn't handle?
Because the truth wasâhe didn't even fully understand what he felt.
"Sorry... Jake... please," you said again, your voice dropping, almost pleading in a way that made something twist in his chest. Your hands were still there to hold onto him but he moved them gently, guided them off him.
"I like you too much, is that wrong?" you asked.
Yeah.
It is wrong.
You shouldn't feel that way about someone like him, not when he knew he couldn't give you what you deserved. Jake didn't deserve you.
"S-sorry..." he said, shaking his head slightly, his gaze fixed somewhere else, anywhere but your face. "IâI... I don't think I feel the same way, that's why IâI feel guilty... about what happened... sorry."
That's what he felt.
That's what he told himself he felt.
The sound of plastic hitting the floor suddenly made him cut through his thoughts. You got those for him.
And before he could even reactâbefore he could say anythingâyou were already moving, already turning away and walking out, leaving everything behind.
Jake stood there, frozen, staring at the scattered toys on the floor. His chest felt tight, his thoughts loud and empty at the same time, a heavy stone settling deep in his gut as though he wants to vomit.
Because it felt like his world just... crashed. And the worst part? It felt like he had just lied straight through his teeth...Even though he knew, somewhere deep down, he had tried to be honest.
"You're an asshole." Heeseung didn't even hesitate when he said it. Jake clenched his teeth immediately, his jaw tightening as his eyes shut, trying to ignore everything around him. But it didn't help. All he could see was your tear-streaked face and it kept replaying, over and over again.
Yeah. He knew.
He'd known the moment the words left his mouth, the moment you dropped those stupid fucking toys and walked out without looking back. Guilt stayed in his chest, making it hard to think straight without it twisting everything. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He told himself he was avoiding problems, preventing something worse from happeningâbut it felt like he just created something worse instead.
Maybe he should just switch buildings again. He was ashamed. He hurt you, badly, and he didn't even mean toâbut intent didn't change shit.
But thenâ
If he left... who the hell would be there for you?
Who would take care of you in the small ways he'd gotten used to? Who would cook, who would notice the little things, who would sit across from you at the table? Would you just find another roommate? Probably. Someone better. Someone who could actually talk without shutting down, someone who wouldn't say the wrong thing at the worst possible moment... What the fuck is he thinking right now?
Did he... actually like you?
Jake frowned slightly, his brows pulling together. Did he like you because you remembered something as small as his favorite milk without him ever saying it out loud? Because you talked a lot, filling spaces he usually left empty, and somehow that didn't annoy him the way it should've? Was it because you were pretty and because people looked at you like you were something hard to reach? Or was it the way you balanced thatâhow you could be intimidating on the court, but still soft in these quiet, unguarded moments he got to see?
None of it felt... enough.
Or maybe it felt too scattered, too shallow when he tried to list it out like that. Because liking someone was supposed to be deeper than this, wasn't it?
"Hi! We are from Decelis Sport Management! We're handing out flyers to support the Women's Volleyball teamâthey're leaving the city next month!" A small group stood near the cafeteria entrance, passing out glossy flyers one by one. "If you want to be part of the VIP section with the Decelis Band, feel free to stop by our office!" one of them added, extending a flyer toward a passing student who barely hesitated before taking it.
Jake paused mid-motion, his hand hovering over his notebook as his attention shifted without him meaning to. His eyes locked onto the flyer in someone else's handâthe bold colors, the team name printed across it. Across from him, Heeseung noticed immediately, his brows lifting as he followed Jake's line of sight, then slowly leaned back in his chair, expression flattening.
"What?" Heeseung said, lips twitching just slightly as he tilted his head. "Interested in watching?"
"H-Huh?" Jake snapped out of it quickly, his head turning toward Heeseung as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. He looked back down at his blueprint right after. "No..." he muttered.
"So are we watching Decelis vs. Isabella again?" a nearby student chimed in, leaning over slightly to look at the flyer with interest. "You gonna buy for Day 3?"
"Of course Decelis is making it to Day 3, have you seen their defense?" his friend shot back immediately, already slinging his bag over his shoulder as he stood up. "Come on, let's just grab tickets for all three days now before they sell out." He didn't even hesitate, already walking off with the flyer in hand.
Jake stayed quiet. His eyes flickered up again, catching another glimpse of the flyers being passed around. He doesn't care. He doesn't care.
He found himself standing in front of the Sports Management office later that day, stuck in the middle of a long, slow-moving line. Jake kept his head slightly lowered, shoulders tense, eyes avoiding anyone who might recognize him. Because if Heeseung found out about this he'd never hear the end of it. Probably get smacked in the head too.
"What am I doing..." he muttered under his breath, shifting his weight awkwardly as the line moved forward inch by inch.
To distract himself, Jake glanced toward the bulletin board nearby, his eyes scanning over the countless posters and printed articles pinned up in messy layers. Interviews, game highlights, team featuresâit was all there. Huh Yunjinâthe captain. Aeri Uchinaga. Ning Yizhuo â middle blockers. Faces he'd seen in passing, names mentioned in articles he skimmed through, most of itâ
Most of it was you.
Photos of you mid-play, interviews where your expression looked calmer, more composed than he'd ever seen in person. It filled the space in a way that made it impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend you were just... normal, just his roommate. Jake stared longer, his chest tightening with every second he didn't look away.
Oh God.
Jake likes you.
The thoughts slammed into him, so hard and disorienting, like someone had cracked him across the head without warningâ No... something did actually hit his head.
"âOh! S-sorry!" a guy with glasses and messy brown hair blurted out, his voice pitching up in panic as his bag swung awkwardly and smacked straight into Jake's head, his hand coming up instinctively to rub the spot as he blinked a few times. The guy looked mortified, clutching his strap.
Every weak explanation he used to convince himself otherwiseâit all crumbled in that moment. Because no matter how much he tried to deny it, no matter how many times he told himself it wasn't that deep.
It all fell apart the second he showed up here, standing in line like an idiot, pretending this was just curiosity.
It all fell apart the second he decided to go to your game, even though he didn't understand shit about volleyball, even though he had no real reason to be thereâexcept you.
And it completely shattered the moment he saw you cry.
It fucking hurt.
"Y-You're bleeding?! H-How is that possible?!" the guy suddenly stammered, his voice jumping in panic as he pointed straight at Jake's face. Jake blinked, confused for a second before lifting his hand again, only now noticing the faint smear of red against his fingers. His brows pulled together slightly, still slow to react, while the guy behind him gasped loudly, grabbing onto his friend's shoulder.
"W-What the hell?! Did you put this in my bag, Keonho?!" the guy who hit him earlier yelped, frantically unzipping his bag and pulling out a chunk of stone that definitely didn't belong there. The guy turned to the other boy beside him, who immediately started denying it just as loudly. The two of them spiraled into a messy argument right there in line, drawing attention from a few others.
His focus had already drifted.
His eyes moved past them, scanning the rest of the line, taking in the small details he hadn't noticed before. People were talking excitedly about youâyour last game, your plays, your reputation. The way they spoke about you wasn't just any casual conversation. It was admiration.
There were so many people here for you.
People who weren't awkward. People who didn't hesitate. People who would actually step forward instead of pulling back.
Jake's gaze drifted back to the boy in front of him, still panicking over the situation, completely unaware of the way Jake was staring right through him. Because even then, his attention wasn't fully thereâ
There were people better than him.
And wasn't that what you deserved?
Someone who would take care of you properly, not just in small, quiet ways but openly, confidently. Someone who would love you without second-guessing every word, someone who would cherish you without needing to hide behind half-efforts.
If you found someone like that... he'd step back.
He'd admire you from a distance, the way everyone else here probably already did, without expecting anything in return. And yeah, if that person hurt you, it would fucking hurt him too. But if that person treated you rightâif they gave you everything... That would destroy him.
Because deep down, he knewâ
He could've been that person too.
Noâfuck that. He wasn't going to just stand there and accept that kind of ending! That felt worseâway worseâthan anything else he'd been afraid of. Now that Jake knew, now that the feeling had a name, there was no way he could pretend it didn't exist anymore. Oh my Godâhe liked you.
Jake let out a sudden laugh, sound like a little unhinged as he stepped forward without thinking. The boy in front of him barely had time to react before Jake grabbed his shoulder, gripping it, his eyes a little too bright. "Thank you," he said, smiling wide in a way that didn't quite match the situation, ignoring the faint line of blood still trailing down the side of his face. "Fuckâthank you!"
The two guys stared at him like he'd lost itâand maybe he had, a little â Before they could even process what was happening, he reached out, snatched the ticket straight from the boy's hand who he saw at the ID was named as Juhoon, and stepped back.
He pushed through the line without looking back, ignoring the confused voices behind him.
Jake wasn't suddenly different.
He still struggled to talk. Still froze at the wrong moments. Still didn't know how to say things the way he meant them.
And even if he didn't know how to say it yet, even if the words never came out rightâhe wasn't going to just disappear and let things end like that. He'd have to face you again, one way or another, and deal with whatever came with it.
Not perfectly.
But honestlyâthis time, for real.
"Why is there always some kind of event in Decelis? And why the hell are we attending another seminar?" you muttered under your breath with clear irritation as you shifted your weight in line. The hallway outside the Audio Visual Room felt suffocating, packed too tight with bodies and noise, the air barely moving as heat clung stubbornly to your skin. You closed your eyes for a second, exhaling sharply through your nose, trying to ignore the way your shirt stuck to your back and how every inch of space felt invaded. Students around you fanned themselves with whatever they hadâfolders, papers, even their handsâbut it barely helped. "For what?" you added under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, your patience already running thin.
"Hey! Hey!"
You cracked one eye open at the familiar voice, already knowing who it was before you even turned your head. Karina stood a few feet away in the opposite line, somehow managing to look energized despite the heat, waving at you like she hadn't just walked into a human oven. Your lines moved in opposite directions, slowly dragging both of you closer until you met halfway. You gave her a lookâhalf disbelief, half annoyanceâbecause honestly, how the hell was she still that cheerful in this kind of weather?
"Did you see Ningning at the end of the line?" she asked immediately.
You blinked at her, unimpressed. "What kind of question is that? It sounds like we're not seeing each other later for training or something," you shot back with sarcasm as you wiped at the sweat gathering near your temple. Your mood had already dipped, and she wasn't helping.
Karina just laughed, completely unfazed, pointing at your face before pulling out her small turbo fan and aiming it straight at you. The sudden blast of air hit your skin instantly. "Come on, smile!" she teased, her grin widening as she watched your expression soften just a bit. "We're heading to Santiago next week! Aren't you excited?!"
You made a face at that, forcing a weak smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, mostly because the heat was still unbearable and your patience was already gone. Before you could say anything else, your lines started moving again, pulling you apart just as quickly as you'd met. The cool air from her fan disappeared instantly, leaving you with nothing but the same suffocating warmth. You huffed again, this time breathing through your mouth as you tilted your head back slightly, trying to catch whatever little air you could.
"Oh myâhi! Heyâ! That's the legendary vampire of Decelis!"
You groaned quietly, dragging a hand down your face as you already knew exactly who that was before even looking. Turning your head slightly, you spotted Ningning, Giselle, and Winter near the edge of the other line, all of them way too loud, way too energetic for this kind of environment. They waved like they hadn't seen you in years, calling out just enough to grab attention from people nearby.
"What the fuck did you all take to have that kind of energy?" you muttered under your breath as you stepped closer when your lines aligned again. Ningning immediately reached out, offering you a pack of gummy bears.
"The weather's so nice, what do you mean?!" Ningning said, completely serious, which only made you stare at her harder. "We saw the band earlierâI'm excited to see Karina do her serve with them!"
"D-E-C-E-L-I-S! GO! GO! GO! GO!" Winter and Giselle suddenly broke into the university chant, and completely unbothered by the stares they were getting. You looked at all three of them with a flat, unimpressed expression, not even trying to match their energy.
"Come on, have a little life! Fix your face!" Winter said, pointing directly at you before reaching over to wipe the sweat from your forehead. "What if someone confesses to you and you look like that? They'll remember that face forever."
You scoffed lightly, brushing her hand away as your line started moving again, pulling you forward inch by inch with the rest of the crowd. "Then they should've picked a better time," you muttered, rolling your eyes as the heat continued to cling to you. By the time you finally reached the doors of the AVR, your patience was hanging by a thread. But the second you stepped inside, the cool air hit you all at once and you almost groaned from relief. You and your classmates didn't waste time, quickly settling at the back near the AC unit, claiming the best spot before anyone else could. It took a few long, dragging minutes before the seminar actually started.
You leaned your face into your palm, elbow pressed against the armrest as you stared blankly toward the front of the room. The spokesperson clicked through slides that looked painfully dull, filled with text that didn't even try to be engaging. Around you, the quiet wasn't peaceful, broken occasionally by soft whispers or the very obvious sound of someone snoring a few seats away. Your eyelids started to droop slightly, blinking slower as your attention slipped further away from whatever was being said. Your thoughts drifted elsewhereâlike food. What would they even have after training later? Something decent, hopefully. Or maybe not. Then your mind jumped again, landing on what Karina said earlierâSantiago. Meals. You wondered what they'd serve there, silently hoping it wouldn't be bland, dry, or just straight-up disappointing. You missed good food. Real food. You exhaled quietly. God, you were so fucking bored.
"I guess all of us believe in horoscopes and luck, aren't we?" the spokesperson's voice cut through your thoughts. There was a scattered response from the audienceâsome murmurs, a few half-hearted repliesâand she let out a small chuckle like she expected it. "I see some of us don't..."
You didn't move, your expression unchanged as you stared forward, barely processing the question.
"I guess we can say that fortune happens for a reason," she went on, gesturing lightly with her hands as she paced a little across the front. "It doesn't necessarily mean it's bad, right? Some people believe that fortune favors good people, or that you have to do certain things to gain luck..." She paused briefly, her smile softening just a bit. "But sometimes, what we call bad luck or misfortuneâit's just a way of letting us make mistakes."
She let out a small breath, her expression calm as she looked over the room. "Because what is a person," she added, "without flaws or mistakes?"
God, this is so fucking boring. You shifted in your seat, jaw tightening slightly as you stared at the front, not even pretending to listen anymore. Your stomach twisted faintlyânot even out of hunger at this point, but just the need to do something else. So you stood up, already preparing a half-assed excuse about needing to pee, not even caring if it sounded convincing. But instead of just letting you slip out quietly, one of the organizers immediately stepped in, lowering their voice as they gestured toward the side. "You can use the bathroom backstage," they said politely. You blinked at them, unimpressed. What the fuck? Why was everything so damn controlled here?
You let out a quiet huff, resisting the urge to argue as you turned and made your way toward the indicated path. The walk felt longer than it should've, your footsteps muted against the flooring as you passed behind the curtains, the noise from the seminar dulling slightly the further you went. You scratched your head absentmindedly, shoulders a little tense as you caught one of the organizers briefly watching you pass. You met their gaze for a second, giving them a look that said yeah, I'm actually going to the bathroom, relax, before looking away again. It felt stupid, the whole thingâlike even stepping out for a second needed supervision.
The moment you pushed past the curtain into the backstage area, the atmosphere shifted. It was quieter here, less suffocating, the hum of equipment replacing the droning voice from the seminar. You immediately reached for your phone, already opening your messages and texting Karina without hesitationâhow many fucking hours is this seminar again? Your thumbs moved quickly. You leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply as your thoughts spiraled again. Luck. Fortune. Fate. Why were people so obsessed with that shit?It just felt repetitive. Empty. You'd been unlucky most of your lifeâso what, was that the universe teaching you something? Letting you "grow"? You almost scoffed at your own thoughts.
"O-Oh."
The voice came out of nowhere that make you freeze mid-thought. Your body stiffened instantly, your head turning slightly to the side as your heart picked up faster than you wanted it to.
Jake was sitting near the technical setup, half-hidden behind equipment, like he'd been there the whole time and you just didn't notice.
"H-Hi," you said quickly, forcing your tone to sound casual, like your chest wasn't suddenly tight for no reason. What the fuck was wrong with you? You already knew how this went. You liked himâfine. But he didn't like you back. He made that clear. So why the hell was your heart still reacting like this? It was annoying! You looked at him for a second too long before forcing your gaze away, but it didn't stop your brain from noticing everything anywayâhis messy brown hair, the way his glasses sat slightly crooked, those wide eyes that never seemed to know where to settle, his lips pressed together. Even the way his oversized white shirt sat under that black jacketâit all just... fit in a way that pissed you off.
You huffed quietly, trying to steady yourself as you pointed vaguely toward the other side. "I was about to use the bathroom," you said. "You part of the organizers?" Why the fuck were you even talking? You should've just walked!
"Uh... yeah..." Jake replied, eyes flickering toward you before immediately darting away again. "The whole Engineering department... we're volunteering." His words came out uneven, like he wasn't fully confident in them, and for a brief second, both of you glanced at each otherâ
âand looked away at the same time.
"Ah..." you responded, as you dropped your gaze back to your phone, your thumb moving aimlessly across the screen just to have something to do. You weren't even reading anythingâjust scrolling, unlocking, locking it againâanything to avoid looking at him for too long. The silence stretched awkwardly between you, uncomfortable in a way that made your shoulders tense slightly. You could still feel his presence there, just a few steps away, like it was pressing in on you even without him saying anything.
"D-Do you need a-anything more?" he asked, his voice hesitant, uneven, like he wasn't even sure if he should be speaking at all.
You let out a quiet sigh, shaking your head quickly without looking up. "No," you replied shortly, already done with whatever this interaction was supposed to be. There wasn't anything left to sayâat least, not anything you were willing to entertain right now. So you slipped your phone into your pocket, turning slightly toward the curtain again, reaching for the fabric as you prepared to head back into the AVR. Walking away was always easier.
"W-Wait, please."
You paused, your fingers tightened slightly around the curtain as you stopped, your back still facing him, your body going still even as your thoughts immediately tensed. Shocked by the sudden call.
"I-Iâ..." he started, his voice catching on itself, like the words refused to come out properly. You heard the faint rustling of paper behind you, something unfolding, shifting in his hands. Slowly, you turned your head, then your body, just enough to look back.
Jake stood there, holding a folded piece of paper that he was now struggling to keep steady. His hands were shakingâactually shakingâas he tried to open it properly, his other hand repeatedly wiping against his pants like they wouldn't stop sweating. He looked... off. Nervous in a way that felt more intense than usual, like he'd been building up to this moment for a while and was now barely holding it together.
"I know I have treated you t-this badly and t-there's no such an e-excuse for that action..." he read, his voice stumbling over the words, each one forced out.
What... the hell was he doing?
Your expression didn't change. Not immediately. You just stood there, staring at him, your face flat, unreadable despite the quiet shock settling in your chest. It didn't match the situationâdidn't match the way he looked, the way his hands gripped the paper tighter when he finally glanced up at you.
And when his eyes met your completely unimpressed expressionâhis fingers tightened even more around the paper, the edges crinkling under the pressure like he might just tear it apart without meaning to. For a second, it looked like he was going to keep reading, like he'd force himself through whatever he had written no matter how bad it got. But then something shifted. His jaw clenched, his grip snappedâand the paper crumpled in his hands. Your lips parted slightly, not quite a reaction, not quite indifference eitherâjust caught somewhere in between as you watched him abandon whatever script he thought would save him.
"I'm sorry," he said. It came out raw this time, stripped of the careful structure he was trying to follow earlier. "I'm so sorry for pushing you away after...that," he continued, the words coming faster now, like he didn't trust himself to stop. "I'm so sorry for hurting you... and I'm so sorry for being a coward." His eyes stayed on yours this time, not darting away, not avoiding like he always didâand that alone felt off, enough to make you stay still without realizing it. But his hands betrayed everything else, wiping over his sides again and again, like he couldn't get rid of the sweat.
"I'm so... sorry for taking too long to realize my feelings for you."
You didn't move. Didn't speak. You just stared at him, your mind lagging a second behind everything he just said. It didn't settle right awayâit couldn't. Not when it sounded like something you weren't expecting to hear again, not from him.
"IâI really don't know how to talk without fumbling," Jake continued. He dragged a hand up to his hair, scratching at it in frustration, his shoulders tense in a way that made it obvious how hard this was for him. "My thoughts..." he trailed off, almost whining under his breath, like he didn't even know how to explain what was going on in his head. And that's when you noticed his eyes were glassy now, the faint shine of tears building up faster than he could control.
"It's a lot," he admitted. "IâI wish... whatever my mind says every time you talk, every time you share something..." He sniffed, his nose scrunching slightly as he tried to steady himself, but it didn't really work. "I wish you could hear that instead." His fingers curled slightly at his sides, restless. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."
"Because..." he swallowed, his voice dipping just slightly as his eyes stayed locked on yours, refusing to look away now. "I really like you."
Your breath caught immediately, the shift so sudden it almost hurt, your lungs stuttering as if they didn't know how to adjust. Your mouth opened on, ready to respondâready to question, to say somethingâbut he didn't give you the chance.
"I know it's sudden," Jake rushed out, panic bleeding into his voice as he stepped forward. "I know I hurt youâyes, I hurt you, I-I-I..." His voice faltered, catching on itself as his thoughts tangled, his mouth parting again before nothing came out for a second. He swallowed hard, forcing it through. "I like you a lot, please," he added, more desperate now. "I like you in a way that doesn't... shut up." And then he moved closer again.
"Jakeâ"
"I want to be your boyfriend!"Â he blurted out, louder this time, cutting straight through you before you could even finish his name. It was like he didn't even think before saying them. "I want to be the man for you!" he continued, his voice shaking but determined. "I know you're probably thinking I'm not in the right mind for wanting this after everything I did, after all of thatâbut those things, they just made me realize how much I actually... wanted to be there." His breath came uneven, his chest rising as he tried to keep going. "With you. Around you. Talkingâeven if I suck at it."
"Waitâ"
"You're so pretty it hurts!" he cut in again. "I realized it even before all thisâI like cooking for you, I want to be the only one cooking for you. I also like feeding your fish, Iâ" He paused for half a second, just enough for something worse to slip out. "I love staring at you through Bumbleâ"
"You're Bumbleâ?"
"âI love everything about you!" he rushed over you again, not even realizing what he just admitted, completely overriding your question. His face flushed deeper, his hands clenching as he stepped closer again without thinking. "I can be someone you need," he said as though he was trying to convince both you and himself at the same time. "I can take care of you properly, not just... small things, not just hiding behind stuff like cooking or fixing things. I can actually be there, I swear."
His voice cracked slightly, but he didn't stop. "I know I'm late. I know I already fucked this up once," he said, his breathing stayed uneven. "I-I don't have any experience in relationships. I don't even know what I'm doing half the time," he admitted. "But I know I can be someone who shows up to your every tournamentâ"
Your eyes widened immediately at that, the words hitting you harder than expected. You never told him that. "Jake, I think you need to shut upâ"
"I can be someone who listens," he pushed on, cutting over you again, his voice desperate but weirdly hopeful at the same time. "Someone who wouldn't freak out when you're exhausted or pissed or quiet. Someone who'd talk to you through the hard days," he added, a shaky smile forming despite the tears still slipping down his cheeks, his hand coming up to wipe them away messily. "I can learn what you like, what you needâI canâ" he stumbled again, words spilling faster again than his brain could filter them. "I'm not experienced at sex at all though, but IâI can learn! I can fuck you hard to knock those stressâ I can do that!â"
You moved faster than him this time. Your hand shot up, covering his mouth firmly before he could finish whatever the hell he was about to say next. "Jake..." you said, your eyes locking onto his immediately.
He froze. Completely. His body went still under your touch, his wide eyes staring at you like you just put him in place, a soft and almost stupidly affectionate shining in his stare. And for a second, neither of you movedâyour hand still pressed over his mouth, his breath warm against your palm.
"You accidentally pressed the speaker for the backstage, you idiot," you hissed. Your hand was still half-frozen in front of his face, your embarrassment crawling up your neck as the realization fully sank in. From the other side of the curtain, the sudden silence from the spokesperson had already been replaced by laughter, whistles, loud cheering echoing from the AVR like the entire room had just turned into a stadium. Your stomach dropped even further at the thought of everyone hearing whatever Jake had just been saying.
God, you were so embarrassed. Worse than embarrassedâthis was catastrophic. You could still hear fragments of reactions outside, like people replaying the moment for entertainment, and it only made your face burn hotter. Jake, meanwhile, had gone completely still for a split second before abruptly pulling your hand away from his mouth like he'd finally rebooted.
"I like you," he said again, suddenly firm, like the embarrassment outside didn't even register anymore. "Let me? Let me prove my feelings to you?" He stepped closer again, not in a rush, but with intent. "Let me prove that I deserve a second chance?"
"Jake, aren't you embarrassed?" you whispered urgently, leaning in just enough to keep your voice from carrying, your eyes darting toward the curtain where the noise was still going. "Press that button and we'll talk laterâjust stop the audio firstâ" You were trying to salvage whatever dignity was left in this situation, your tone a mix of panic and disbelief. "It's a yes but press those buttonsâ"
"I like you!" Jake repeated suddenly, cutting through your sentence againâbut this time he laughed right after, like the chaos outside somehow made everything lighter instead of worse. Your eyes shut for a brief second, overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity of it all, but you couldn't ignore the way your chest tightened at the sound. "I like you so much!" he added, louder than before, like he couldn't contain it anymore.
That was when the door to the backstage swung open.
"Sim Jaeyun." The voice was strict that instantly enough to kill whatever remaining chaos was left in the room. The dean stood there, eyes locking onto Jake like a warning shot. "Office. Now."
You covered your face with both hands, mortified all over again as the reality of everything hit at once. Jake, however, didn't look away from youânot even for a second. He stood there, biting his lip slightly, eyes still fixed on you like the dean wasn't even the main concern. You peeked through your fingers just in time to see itâhim still looking at you like that, like nothing else mattered.
And somehow, against all, you smiled. Just a little.
Jake saw it immediately. His expression softened, a small, breathless laugh slipping out of him like he couldn't help it. But then the dean cleared their throat again, sharper this time, and Jake straightened instantly, forcing himself to move. Still, even as he turned to leave, his eyes lingered on you one last time before he finally followed after the dean.
The controversy of what happened spread faster than you expected, like someone had lit a match and thrown it straight into dry grass.
Your group chat blew up almost instantly, messages stacking, names tagging you repeatedly. Even Karina's name popped up more than once, her messages sitting there unanswered alongside everyone else's, but you didn't feel like responding to any of it. When you showed up for training later, you acted normal enoughâsmiling faintly, shrugging when people nudged you for answers, letting them complain when you stayed quiet. But it was obvious, even to them, that something had shifted in you. You weren't irritated anymore. If anything, you felt... lighter.
"So you give him a second chance and it's all good?" Karina's words echoed in your head. Of course not. It wasn't that simple. It couldn't be that simple after everything that happened. You stayed still near the doorway for a moment longer, just watching him move around the kitchen like he wasn't even aware of how much your world had tilted in the past day. He didn't look up right away. He just kept cooking, focused.
But it wasn't "all good." Not yet.
You were still figuring him out again, piece by piece, like retracing steps you once ran through too fast. There was hesitation in it, still uncertainty. But now there was something else too. An understanding. He likes you. You like him. That much was no longer buried under confusion or denial.
Maybe it wouldn't fall apart the way you once feared. Maybe it wouldn't be as complicated as it looked from the outside. Or maybe it would be exactly thatâand you'd still choose to stay in it anyway. The thought of horoscopes, luck, fate drifted back into your mind again. Fine. Maybe they didn't control anythingâbut they nudged things in directions you weren't always ready for. The universe didn't have to be loud about it. Sometimes it just placed people in your path and let everything else unravel from there.
Without needing certainty yet, you stepped inside anyway.
"Me Gustas Tu."
Jake always like the stars.
He found himself thinking about how they didn't need to be closer to matterâthey just existed, shining anyway, without asking for anything back. It reminded him of how some things in life just... stayed.
He likes fire too.
Not the kind that destroyed things carelessly, but the kind that spread slowly, beautifully, like it had intention behind every movement. The kind that didn't just burnâit transformed, left traces, changed the space it touched. He thought about how it looked when it moved, unpredictable but alive, impossible to ignore once you noticed it.
He likes the sea. The rain. Things that never really stop moving.
And if he had to turn all of that into somethingâif he had to explain what it felt like when you were aroundâit wouldn't come out neatly. It would probably sound messy, like him. Maybe he'd say you were like the brightest star he couldn't stop looking at. Or maybe he'd say you were like fireâsomething that made him burn. Or maybe he'd compare you to the sea, endless and overwhelming in the best way, pulling him in even when he should stay back.
Silly Jakeâhe really couldn't stop thinking about you, could he?
It was almost annoying how constant it had become, like your presence didn't need you physically there anymore to take up space in his head. Every small pause in his day somehow circled back to you, as if his thoughts had quietly rearranged themselves. Realizing that even silence now felt different when you weren't part of it.
The Volleyball Team had already made their way to Santiago City for the Regional Tournament, and Jake found himself trailing behind the group with a distracted mind. He stared down at his phone more than once, rereading your message that said you had arrived safely at your destination. It was just a normal updateâbut he kept looking at it anyway. You two weren't anything official yet, not even close enough for anything sweet, still stuck in that uncertain thing of figuring each other out. And before you left, things had been awkward again, the kind of awkward that made conversations shorter than they needed to be. Still, despite all of that, he missed you.
And that was the part that frustrated him the most.
Did everything that happened recently make him more desperate, or just more aware? He didn't even know anymore. It was like the absence of you had made everything louderâhis thoughts, his habits, even the smallest pauses in his routine. He found himself wanting things he didn't used to think about before, like hearing your voice without a reason, or seeing you just standing there. God, he sounded pathetic in his own head. A total loser, really, the kind he would've rolled his eyes at if it was someone else.
Jake was almost restless for the entire three days, like his body had forgotten how to sit still without thinking about you. At one point, he ended up just staring at your fish tank for nearly an hour, watching the small movements. It was ridiculous, honestly, the way his attention kept drifting back to anything even remotely connected to you. You were busy the whole timeâtraining, interviews, constant schedulesâonly messaging him late at night right before you slept, and even then it was brief, tired updates. Your phone had even been grounded by your coach at one point, and Jake nearly dropped his own phone in the bathroom when it suddenly rang with your notification tone. Jake was pathetic, and he knew it.
By the time the university bus was heading to Santiago, Jake had already made himself the first one there, sitting far too early with a bag that he kept checking unnecessarily. He dragged Heeseung along too, who looked half-dead already, yawning nonstop while leaning against his neck pillow. The rest of the group was still boarding, but Jake didn't care much about that partâhis mind was already elsewhere, looping back to you even as the city started fading behind the bus windows. The road stretched out ahead, scenery shifting in slow motion, but all he could think about was seeing you again in person. It made him sit straighter without realizing it.
Jake is a loser and Jake is pathetically in love with you.
"I-I heard there's a lot of strong offense on the other team," Jake suddenly said as he leaned closer to the window, watching the scenery blur past. "I'm actually worried about her... what if they hit too hard and she gets bruises again?" he added, already picturing things he had no control over.
Heeseung beside him just let out another long, tired yawn, slouching deeper into his seat. "It's part of the competition, Jake," Heeseung replied flatly, voice dry and uninterested, like he'd answered this kind of concern too many times already. (He actually did)
Jake didn't seem reassured.
"Do you think I can talk to her after one of the matches?" he continued anyway, ignoring the lack of enthusiasm beside him. "Do you think they'll let them eat properly? What if the food is bad? I packed extra food too, and a first aid kitâjust in case, so I can help if her hands get worse." He said it all in one breath.
Heeseung only yawned again, louder this time, barely even looking at him. "The sports management already said we're not allowed to talk to the team, Jake," he said lazily. "Not even pictures unless they don't make it to Day Threeâwhich, honestly, I doubt."
Jake's lips pressed together slightly, his shoulders sinking just a little at that. By the time the bus finally arrived at the hotel, Jake was already holding his phone again, thumbs hovering over the screen before he typed out a quick message telling you that the university cheering squad had arrived safely and would be ready for the match. The hotel itself was only walking distance from the stadiumâclose enough that just knowing you were somewhere nearby made his chest tighten stupidly all over again. But your reply never came. Jake stared at the unread message for a few seconds longer than necessary before locking his phone with a quiet sigh. Of course you were busy. It was your first match, your focus should be there. Still, it didn't stop the anxious feeling crawling around in him anyway.
"Stop fidgeting," Heeseung muttered later as they handed over their tickets to the organizers, watching Jake bounce his leg nonstop while they waited to be stamped in. The entire stadium already felt loud before they even reached their seats, filled with students, chants, instruments, and that made Jake's ears ring almost immediately. They ended up seated near the front together with the band and the cheering squad, surrounded by noise that felt overwhelming enough to swallow him whole. Jake rubbed at his ear absentmindedly, trying to adjust to the volume, but the second his eyes landed on the courtâon youâeverything else faded anyway.
"Dude, sit down! She's not going anywhere," Heeseung hissed under his breath after Jake practically stood up the second he spotted you. He grabbed Jake's sleeve and forced him back into his seat before he embarrassed himself further. Jake awkwardly fixed his posture, shoulders stiff as he looked toward the court againâand then your head turned in his direction.
For one terrifying second, your eyes met his. Jake smiled immediately, awkward, his braces flashing while his entire face heated up from the attention. You only gave him a small smile in return before going right back to stretching like nothing happened. That tiny interaction alone was enough to make his chest feel full.
Heeseung was right about one thing thoughâthe university wasn't exaggerating when they invested so much into Decelis' Women's Volleyball Team. Jake barely understood the game itself, but even he could tell the difference in level almost immediately. The coordination, the defense, the sheer pressure your team put onto the other side. The match didn't even last an hour before it was over, the crowd exploding into cheers while Jake sat there stunned, staring at the scoreboard like he couldn't believe how quickly everything ended.
And then, just as fast as it endedâ you were gone again.
The sports organizers immediately started ushering the cheering squads and students toward the exits before anyone could crowd around the athletes. Jake instinctively stood again, craning his neck over people's shoulders, tiptoeing just to catch one more glimpse of you. He spotted you briefly near the sidelines, shaking hands and getting congratulated by the opposing team before staff quickly surrounded your group again, escorting all of you away toward the restricted areas.
Jake's shoulders dropped immediately after. Jake is pathetic. And right now, Jake felt fucking miserable.
That was exactly what happened on Day Two. Jake barely even noticed Santiago City despite everyone else talking about how beautiful it was, how lively the streets were at night, how there were places they should visit before heading home. None of it stayed in his attention for more than a second because his eyes kept falling back to his phone every few minutes. You would appear at the court for a couple of intense hours, completely alive, and then disappear again. Jake wasn't even allowed to properly approach you. Not a greeting. Not a quick conversation. Nothing. He was expected to just sit there like a normal supporter and wait for Day Three like everyone else. But Jake already knew what would happen tomorrow tooâmaybe you'd win, the crowd would swarm, organizers would rush your team away again, and he'd end up watching your back disappear for another fucking day. The thought alone was enough to make him restless.
By the time they got back to the hotel that night, Jake looked like he was losing his mind slowly. He kept rolling around on the bed, flipping his pillow over, grabbing his phone every two minutes only to stare at the same screen with no new notifications. His leg bounced nonstop, fingers fidgeting against his stomach while his thoughts kept circling back to you again and again. Heeseung eventually got fed up with the constant movement and straight-up kicked Jake's ass from the other bed.
"For fuck's sake, stop moving!" Heeseung groaned, half-asleep and irritated as hell. "You're making the entire bed shake."
Jake only huffed under his breath, glaring briefly before grabbing his bag and quietly leaving the room instead. Staying still clearly wasn't happening tonight.
Jake was determined now. Tomorrow was the finals, and it was already 10:17 PM. There was no way your team was still doing heavy training this late, right? Maybe you were already asleep. Maybe not. Maybe you were still stuck in some team meeting or recovery session. Jake didn't know, and the not knowing was making him itch. So against all common sense, he made his way toward the other venue building where the sports organizers and volleyball teams were staying. He walked carefully, shoulders tense, sneaking around like he was committing an actual crime before crouching near the grassy area outside when he heard voices nearby. He stayed there awkwardly for almost ten whole minutes, slapping mosquitoes and insects away from his arms while trying not to make any noise.
"Did that bitch literally threaten you?" a voice snapped somewhere ahead. "Just because they won last year doesn't mean we can't beat their ass tomorrow!"
"Giselle," another voice sighed immediately after. "Be the bigger person."
Jake instantly lowered himself further into the grass, nearly flattening his face into the ground before carefully peeking upward. Your team!
His eyes immediately found you among them without even trying.
You walked quietly beside the others, wearing oversized training clothes while lazily eating from a cup of ice cream, your expression tired. You scooped another spoonful slowly before lowering it again, staring into the cup like your mind was somewhere else entirely. Even looking exhausted, even standing half-awakeâ Jake still thought you looked so so so pretty.
"No, because why the hell would they threaten Yunjin and then give you a dirty look too?" Winter complained loudly, pointing at you with disbelief still written all over her face.
You only shrugged one shoulder lazily, taking another bite of ice cream like it genuinely didn't bother you. "Probably because I stared back," you muttered flatly.
"That's not helping your intimidation allegations," Ningning snorted from the side.
Jake had to physically press his lips together to stop himself from smiling too hard into the grass like a complete fucking idiot.
"I can't wait to beat their ass tomorrow!" Rei shouted dramatically, pumping her fist into the air. Jake stayed crouched awkwardly near the bushes, trying to remain hidden while still watching you from afar like a complete creep. His knees were starting to hurt from squatting too long, insects still attacking him from every direction, but he ignored all of it because you were right there. Then, in the middle of shifting his weight slightlyâ
Crack. Jake accidentally stepped on a dry branch.
Your entire team immediately went quiet. Jake froze so hard he almost stopped breathing, eyes widening as every single head turned toward the dark garden area where he was hiding.
"D-Did you guys hear that?!" Karina squeaked instantly, grabbing onto Winter's arm dramatically while looking around in panic.
The girls started screaming over each other almost immediately, some backing away while others started speed-walking toward the entrance. Jake slapped both hands over his mouth to stop himself from making another sound, shoulders tense while he watched the group scatter in pure confusion.
"T-there's a bear!"
"Shut up, why would a bear be here?!"
"Then what the fuck was that?!"
Jake stayed completely still for what felt like forever after they disappeared inside, barely even blinking as he listened carefully to make sure nobody was coming back with security.
Then suddenly he heard a one pair of footsteps approaching slowly. Jake squeezed his eyes shut briefly, already preparing himself mentally for getting caught by some staff member or organizer.
"Jake,"Â your voice called quietly through the dark. "Did you know that if you get caught, the sports organizers would probably ban you from joining tournament cheering teams forever?"
Jake's eyes immediately opened again. He slowly peeked his head upward from behind the bushes and found you standing there alone now, arms crossed loosely while staring down at him. He stood up quickly, brushing grass and dirt off his pajama pants awkwardly before giving you the most painfully guilty smile possible.
"H-Hi."
"Hi," you replied, a small half-smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
Jake scratched the back of his head immediately, avoiding your eyes for a second before forcing himself to look again. "U-Uh... I couldn't sleep," he explained quickly, stumbling over the excuse. "T-That's why I went for a walk... you know..."
You stared at him flatly for a second, eyes slowly moving over his messy hair, oversized hoodie, his bag, and pajama pants that still had grass stuck to them. "How did you even get inside?" you asked finally, brows raising slightly in disbelief.
Jake let out an awkward little laugh under his breath. "Heh..." He rubbed his neck sheepishly. "I... climbed the back gate."
Your lips twitched immediately before you burst out laughing. It caught Jake completely off guard. He stood there frozen, staring at you while your shoulders shook lightly. His chest tightened stupidly at the sight. God, you looked so good laughing at him. Honestly, if this was what it took, Jake felt like he'd climb ten more fucking gates just to hear you laugh like that again.
"Why?" you asked between laughs.
Jake bit the inside of his cheek, his face already turning red under the dim lights. "I..." He hesitated for half a second before forcing himself through it anyway. "I wanted to see you," he admitted quietly.
You blinked at him. "Eh?" Your laughter faded as you tilted your head slightly. "You saw me during the tournament though. Besides, tomorrow's literally the last day. What's the catch?"
Jake immediately started fidgeting again, rubbing his palms repeatedly against his pajama pants like he didn't know where to place his nervous energy. "I miss you," he blurted out quickly before he could overthink it. The second the words left his mouth, his entire face heated up even more. God, that sounded corny as hell. Jake felt like some pathetic high schooler confessing to his crush behind the gym after class.
You stared at him quietly for a moment after that. At the way he kept fumbling with his hands. At the way he couldn't stay still. At the way he looked so genuinely nervous despite already confessing to you in front of an entire auditorium days ago. Cute. So fucking cute.
Your gaze slowly lifted away from him afterward, drifting upward toward the sky above the hotel grounds. The night had settled calmly over Santiago, the stars faint but visible around the huge glowing moon hanging overhead. The breeze was cooler now compared to the daytime heat, soft enough to make the leaves around the garden rustle quietly.
"The moon is beautiful, right?" you asked suddenly, softer in a way that made Jake immediately straighten.
"Huh?" He blinked before quickly following your gaze upward. "Ahâyeah. Right." He nodded awkwardly, staring at the moon, trying very hard to process what was happening.
But while he looked upward, you looked at him instead. At the way the moonlight softened his features, the way his messy hair moved slightly with the wind, the nervousness still written all over his face despite trying to hide it. A small smile slowly formed onto your lips before you finally called his name again.
"Jake."
Jake turned toward you immediately, almost too quickly, eyes wide and attentive as if he'd been waiting for you to say something else.
"I miss you too."
Jake stiffened instantly before the biggest smile slowly spread across his face, so wide it almost looked ridiculous. He looked down for a second, biting his lip like he was trying to stop himself from grinning too hard, but it clearly wasn't working. Even the tips of his ears were red now. God, he looked so stupidly happy over four words.
Somehow, the two of you ended up sitting together on one of the benches in the garden afterward. The awkwardness was still there, but it no longer felt painful. You found yourself telling him random things about your day without even realizing itâcomplaining about the freezing showers in the athlete dorms, the way Giselle almost started a fight earlier, how your coach yelled at the team because someone forgot their jersey during practice.
Jake listened to every single word carefully.
And somewhere in the middle of your rambling, he suddenly started pulling snacks out of his bag one after another.
"W-What?" he mumbled shyly when you stared at the pile forming beside him. "I thought... maybe the food here sucks."
"You packed this much?" you snorted, staring at the ridiculous amount of food. Chips, bread, bottled drinks, chocolate bars, even packed containers wrapped carefully inside towels to keep warm.
Jake only shrugged awkwardly. "I thought you might get hungry."
Now your legs were comfortably stretched across his lap while the both of you shared snacks. Jake sat there quietly rubbing mint oil carefully onto the bruises forming around your calves and hands after today's match, his touch gentle despite how concentrated he looked. His brows furrowed slightly every time his fingers passed over darker bruises.
"Does this hurt?" he asked softly at one point, thumbs carefully pressing against your calf.
"A little," you admitted honestly before shoving another chip into your mouth.
Jake immediately eased the pressure after that. The silence afterward felt comfortable enough that your thoughts wandered again, eyes lifting toward the dark sky while the cold minty feeling spread across your sore skin. "Do you think people lose because they don't train enough?" you asked suddenly. "Or just because that's their fate?"
Jake's hands paused briefly on your leg before continuing slower this time. You huffed softly, tossing another chip into your mouth while staring at the stars. "If we lose tomorrow... does that mean we didn't work hard enough?" you continued. "Or maybe fortune just doesn't favor us."
Jake hummed quietly under his breath, clearly thinking carefully before answering. His eyes lifted toward the sky for a second too before he looked back down at your legs again. "I..." He hesitated slightly. "I guess that's what life is?"
You turned your head toward him while he continued massaging your calf slowly. "Life is unfair," he murmured quietly. "But that's just... how it works sometimes. We don't always hold the fortune. We don't always hold our own fate either." His fingers slowed absentmindedly against your skin. "Some people work hard and still lose. Some people barely try and somehow still win."
The breeze shifted softly around the two of you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic somewhere outside the hotel grounds. You looked at him carefully for a moment before asking quietlyâ "Do you believe in luck?"
Jake paused for a moment. His hand slowed slightly on your skin before he gave a small shrug of his shoulder. "I don't know?" he admitted honestly. "Sometimes it makes sense, sometimes it doesn't." He glanced down at your leg again while continuing to massage it gently. "But I got my horoscope read once... they said luck favors me," he added with a faint, awkward smile. "Dunno if it's true though."
That familiar half-smile formed on his face again after he said it. You stared at him quietly while he focused back on your bruises, fingers pressing lightly in slow, careful circles. In that moment, something in your chest tightened again. It felt stupid and obvious all at once, like your thoughts had already made up their mind. An unlucky you sitting here beside someone who casually talked about luck like it followed him around. What were the odds of that, really?
Ooooh, you're foolishly in love with this boy.
You exhaled softly. "I guess I just need to stick with you," you muttered with a small, almost teasing smile
The stadium was completely packed, like the entire city had decided to squeeze itself into one arena just to watch this match. The energy felt heavier too, everyone already knew this wasn't going to be an easy game. Jake could feel his ears ringing nonstop from the overlapping chants, drums, and screams echoing from every direction. Compared to Day One and Day Two, today felt sharper somehow. Heeseung, sitting beside him, kept laughing at the absurdity of it allâespecially how the Decelis band and Isabella's band had basically turned into competing sound systems, blasting music louder and louder just to outdo each other while waiting for the teams to arrive.
"Today we are here to witness another rough battle in the Region!" the commenator announced through the speakers.
The crowd immediately exploded into noise again, shaking the entire structure. Jake flinched slightly at the volume, but he didn't look away from the court even for a second. The introductions began, one team after another stepping into the court under flashing lights and roaring applause. When Isabella's team was introduced, something about the atmosphere shifted.
"It's them! It's them! Oh my God, it's going to start!" the cheering squad beside them squealed loudly, practically jumping in their seats.
Your team walked out. The moment you appeared with the rest of the players, the crowd somehow got even louder, people waving banners, shouting names, and snapping photos like crazy. You moved confidently across the court, waving casually at the audience.
The moment your eyes landed on his direction, Jake reacted instantly without even thinking. He yanked off his hoodie in one quick motion, revealing the shirt underneath that had your face printed on it. For a split second, the entire section near him went quiet in shock. Your mouth literally fell open on the court, frozen mid-step, while even Heeseung slowly turned his head toward him with disbelief.
Jake caught sight of your lips curling into a bright smile as you stretched on the court, rolling your shoulders and loosening your arms. Without even realizing it, Jake found himself smiling too.
The game started almost immediately after introductions. Isabella's team was exactly what everyone warned about, a way that made every rally feel like a fight for survival. The difference between the two teams was small on the scoreboard, but on the court it felt massive, like every point was being ripped out instead of earned easily. Jake could feel himself tensing up more and more with each exchange, leaning forward in his seat without realizing it, breath catching every time the ball flew too close to your side. And every single time you doveâactually threw yourself across the floor to save a pointâJake reacted like he was the one getting hit. Ouch!
He grabbed Heeseung's arm at one point without thinking, squeezing too hard as he watched you slide across the court to receive a brutal spike. "Oh my Godâshe's gonna break something!" Jake muttered under his breath. You just got up like it was nothing, brushing your hands off and getting right back into position like your body didn't even register pain the same way normal people did.
"D-E-C-E-L-I-S! GO! GO! GO! GO!" Jake and Heeseung shouted together every time your team scored. He barely even noticed his voice getting hoarse, or the way his hands kept clenching the balloon tighter every time you made a play. All he knew was that you were out there, and everything else in the world felt like it was moving too fast to matter except that.
In the middle of the match break, Jake stayed frozen in his seat, eyes locked on your back as you stood near the sidelines. The number nine on your jersey stood out clearly. Your coach was talking to you at a steady pace, gesturing toward the court while you drank water from your bottle, nodding along with full focus even though your attention still seemed half on the ongoing match. Jake noticed everythingâthe way your shoulders rose and fell with controlled breathing, the way your grip tightened slightly around the bottle, and especially the way your eyes kept drifting back toward his direction every few seconds.
Something about it made his entire body feel strange.
The atmosphere in the stadium was still heavy, but inside Jake's chest everything suddenly felt... lighter. He didn't fully understand it, just that his thoughts slowed down in the middle of all the noise, like someone had briefly turned the volume of the world down just enough for him to breathe properly. Even his grip on the balloon loosened slightly without him noticing. And then, just as you turned away from your coach and started walking back toward the court, you gave him a soft smile.
Outside of this moment, people might've laughed at him for it, told him he was just being stupidly emotional, maybe just too deep in whatever this feeling was. They'd probably say it was just excitement, or he was just being corny in love. But Jake knew it wasn't that simple. It didn't feel chaotic the way nerves usually did.
It felt like the universe was saying something without using words.
He watched you step back onto the court, adjusting your position, rolling your shoulders once like you were resetting yourself completely. The light caught your face again, the sweat, the focus, the calm intensity in your eyes that made you look even more unreal than before. Pretty wasn't even enough of a word for it anymore in his headâit didn't feel big enough. Jake swallowed slightly, and his chest still felt oddly calm despite everything happening around him.
If passing down luck was possible, he'd give it all to you without hesitation.
But then again... you didn't look like someone who needed it.
Jake leaned forward slightly again, eyes tracking your movement as the whistle signaled the return of play.
Because deep down, he already knew it. One hundred percent. You were going to win.
"Oh ho ho ho! The Decelis Vampire is everywhere!"
The commentator's dramatic voice echoed through the stadium the moment you made another impossible receive, earning an explosion of screams from the audience. Jake breathed out shakily from his seat, fingers tightening around the edge of the banner resting on his lap as he stared at the scoreboard again. The difference between the two teams was still small enough to keep everyone tense, but something had clearly shifted after the last timeout. The second the whistle cut through the court again, Decelis moved like a completely different beastâevery point started stacking one after another until even Isabella's side looked rattled trying to keep up.
You barely even felt your body anymore at this point.
The ball flew toward your side again and your feet moved before your thoughts could catch up, reacting after nearly two hours of nonstop rallies. Your hips still throbbed from the brutal spike you received earlier. Your knees burned too. Your shoulders felt heavy. One hour and forty minutes of constant passing, diving, receiving, runningâit was exhausting enough to make your vision blur briefly every time the whistle paused.
You wanted to lie down. Just for a little while.
You turned your head for during the rotation shift and your eyes immediately found Jake again in the crowd. He wasn't screaming now like the others. He was sitting there quietly, staring at you with that same soft expression that always made your chest feel strangely warm no matter how exhausted you were. His hoodie was gone, exposing that ridiculous shirt with your face on it while his glasses reflected the lights.
And suddenly, more than restingâ you wanted to go home. Home with him.
God knew what Jake probably sacrificed just to be here. You knew how sensitive he was with noise, how he usually avoided crowds because they overwhelmed him too quickly. He probably already missed his strict eight o'clock sleep schedule too, and judging from the dark circles faintly visible under his eyes even from the court, he was definitely running on pure determination alone right now.
Your chest tightened briefly at the thought.
Then the ball came flying toward your side again.
You inhaled sharply through your nose and threw yourself forward immediately, diving hard against the court floor to receive it cleanly before it could touch down. The impact stung violently against your body, but the sharp whistle blowing right after mixed instantly with the deafening screams erupting around the stadium.
"With the score of 58 and 61!" the announcer shouted over the roaring crowd. "Decelis advances their way to Nationals!"
Your teammates screamed immediately, some collapsing onto the floor while others tackled each other into hugs near the net. But while everyone else got swept into the excitement, you pushed yourself upright almost immediately, one hand clutching your hip as the pain shot through your side. Your entire body ached violently now that the adrenaline was wearing off, but you barely paid attention to it. Your eyes were already searching through the crowd.
Searching for one person.
Jake froze in his seat the second he realized you were walking directly toward his section.
At first, he genuinely thought maybe you were heading somewhere else. Maybe toward the cheering squad. Maybe toward your managers. But then you kept coming closer, eyes locked onto him so directly that his stomach immediately flipped hard enough to make him dizzy. Jake stood up hesitantly, nearly fumbling the balloon in his hands in panic.
"H-Heyâwhat are youâ"
One of the sports organizers instantly moved when they noticed you approaching the spectator bounds, clearly about to stop Jake from stepping forward too far. But before they could say anything else, Heeseung grabbed the organizer by the shoulder with a grin already forming on his face.
"About fucking time." Heeseung snorted.
Jake barely even processed any of it, because the next thing he knewâ you grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him.
Hard.
The entire stadium around him exploded louder somehow, a mixture of screaming, cheering, and scandalized reactions crashing together while cameras immediately started flashing toward your direction. Jake's brain completely short-circuited on the spot. His eyes widened for half a second in pure shock before he melted into it almost instantly, hands shakily grabbing your waist despite how badly they trembled.
He kissed you back immediately. Like he'd been wanting to do it forever.
The kiss wasn't neat either. It was breathless and messy. Jake could barely think properly through the pounding in his chest, through the warmth of your lips against his, through the realization that this was actually happening in front of thousands of people. Somewhere behind him, Heeseung was screaming like a maniac while the Decelis cheering squad lost their minds completely.
The moment the kiss broke, reality crashed back into your body all at once. The sharp pain shot through your hips agin, forcing a quiet wince out of you as your hand immediately clutched at your waist. Jake noticed instantly. His entire expression changed from happiness to panic in less than a second, hands carefully moving to steady you before you could lose your balance.
"What's wrong?" he asked immediately as he held you closer against him.
"I want to go home," you muttered quietly instead, your forehead falling against the side of his neck as your body sagged closer to him.
Jake's breath caught instantly. The simple weight of you leaning into him like that nearly made his heart stop despite the worry crawling all over him. He adjusted his hold carefully around your waist, supporting more of your weight without even thinking about it.
"Let's get your hips checked by the medic first," he said softly, already glancing around for staff. "Y-You landed hard earlier..."
But before he could keep rambling nervously, you whisper tiredly against his neck. "I didn't expect to feel this much for you, Jake."
Everything inside him went warm, so suddenly that he physically felt it in his chest, that overwhelming fluttering sensation exploding all over again until his stomach twisted painfully with it. Jake swallowed hard, blinking rapidly behind his glasses while trying to process the words properly. God, you were going to kill him like this.
Carefully, almost shyly now despite the public eyes around you, Jake leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against your forehead. "Me too...me too." His hand rubbed gently against your side afterward, thumb moving in slow comforting strokes while he silently lifted his other hand to signal one of the medics nearby for assistance.
EPILOGUE
It took you a long time to actually sit down and reflect on everything that had happened.
For years, you kept convincing yourself that luck was randomâthat some people were simply born under better stars while others just had to survive whatever scraps the universe threw at them.
Unlucky with money, unlucky in your love life, unlucky in your sex life.
Things never came easily for you. Even when people admired youâyour skills, your looks, your confidence on the courtâthey never really saw the exhausting parts underneath it. The loneliness. The constant feeling that you always had to fight twice as hard just to keep your head above water while pretending you were doing perfectly fine. Maybe that was why you became so cynical about all those stupid talks about fate, fortune, and luck. Maybe it was easier to roll your eyes and call everything bullshit rather than admit that deep down, you were terrified the universe simply wasn't built in your favor.
But maybe luck wasn't random at all.
When you really thought about it, you had spent so much time expecting disappointment that you stopped recognizing the good things while they were happening. You focused too hard on what was missing instead of what stayed. Sure, being broke sucked. It absolutely fucking sucked. And no amount of positive thinking magically fixed empty wallets, bruised feelings, or difficult lives. But somewhere along the way, you realized you had also started carrying your own unhappiness like proof that life owed you something cruel.
Maybe you lacked optimism. Maybe you lacked faith in anything getting better because the universe kept throwing the same shit at you over and over again until you got tired of trying to hope differently. That feeling was valid too. You had every reason to become guarded after everything. Every reason to distrust happiness when it rarely stayed long enough before. But lucky people... they weren't always lucky because life was easier for them. Sometimes they were lucky because they allowed themselves to reach for things anyway. To risk failure. To risk doing something. Even when they are afraid.Â
"Open! Open! Daily cleaning at 9:00 AM!"
A long groan dragged out of your throat as the tiny robotic voice echoed outside the bedroom for what felt like the tenth time already. The curtains were still completely shut, the blackout fabric drowning the room in soft darkness despite the late morning sun outside, and you had been enjoying every second of sleeping. The apartment was comfortable and so warm, and honestly, you would rather die than get out of bed right now. But the damn robot kept knocking itself repeatedly against the door with persistence, its tiny speaker chirping louder every few seconds.
"Jake," you mumbled sleepily, eyes still closed as you reached behind you to tap the arm wrapped tightly around your waist, his legs tangled carelessly with yours beneath the blanket. You felt him stir a little, burying his face deeper into the back of your neck while muttering something under his breath, but the knocking outside only continued. "Jake, make Mo stop," you complained softly, but instead of moving, he only tightened his hold around you and pulled you closer against his chest with a sleepy little sigh.
"Open! Open! Daily cleaning at 9:00 AM!"
"Jake, baby," you called again, dragging the word out this time while lightly smacking his wrist. He groaned lowly against your shoulder, clearly refusing to leave the bed, and his hand slowly slipped underneath your shirt just to lazily trace circles against your stomach. The touch made you exhale softly despite yourself.
Outside, the robot continued its relentless banging, but Jake ignored it completely, pressing slow kisses against the side of your neck instead. His morning voice came out quieter than usual, rough and soft all at once as he whispered, "Can I touch?"
You groaned again but gave him a small nod anyway. The second he got permission, his hand slid higher, squeezing gently at your chest while his lips continued wandering across your skin with lazy affection. You tilted your head back slightly, giving him more room, and he took full advantage of it immediately, kissing along your jaw before lifting his sleepy eyes toward you. His glasses were missing somewhere on the nightstand, his brown hair sticking out everywhere. "Kiss, please," he whispered lazily, already leaning closer before you could even answer.
You kissed him just to shut him up.
Jake immediately melted into it with a soft whine. His lips moved slowly against yours, still half-asleep, but it quickly deepened when his hand tightened around your waist and pulled you on top of him. The blanket shifted around your tangled bodies while the robot outside continued yelling about cleaning schedules. Jake kissed like he was addicted to it now, messy and affectionate and greedy all at once. Even after years together, he still kissed you with the same overwhelming softness that made your chest ache.
And honestly, both of you already knew one thing for sure. Jake absolutely loved kissing you.
"Open! Open! Daily cleaning at 9:00 AM!"
You groaned softly against Jake's lips before finally pulling away from the kiss, your forehead still resting briefly against his while you tried to gather enough energy to function properly. "Open the door for Mo," you muttered lazily as you pushed lightly at Jake's chest to make him move. Jake only huffed in protest, clearly offended at being forced out of bed, scratching messily at his hair before reaching around blindly for his glasses on the nightstand.
You stayed sprawled across the bed while watching him stand up with slow sleepy movements. His oversized white shirt hung loosely over his frame, exposing his legs beneath the thin black shorts he had thrown on before sleeping, and you couldn't help staring for a second as he shuffled toward the door. The moment he opened the bedroom door, Mo immediately rolled inside without hesitation, spinning once before beginning its programmed cleaning route across the floor.
"You seriously need to stop adopting Heeseung's robots," you complained while sitting up properly, stretching your arms above your head until your back cracked pleasantly. "We can literally clean by ourselves."
Jake yawned loudly while adjusting his glasses up the bridge of his nose, already turning around to drag himself back toward the bed with clear intentions of trapping you there again. Before he could grab your waist, you quickly stood up and reached for your shorts from the floor. "Jake, it's already nine," you reminded him while pulling them on. "Training starts at one. I still need to fix my stuff and prepare."
A long miserable whine immediately left his throat at that.
Jake had become even clingier than before. Not that you were complaining. Things had changed between the two of you. Jake no longer slept exactly at eight in the evening because most nights ended with both of you curled together on the couch watching movies until late, stealing kisses during slow scenes, or getting distracted halfway through and stumbling into the bedroom instead (sex). You did feel a little guilty sometimes since he used to be so strict with his routines, but Jake always brushed it off immediately whenever you brought it up.
Honestly, the man acted like a giant koala now.
The second you moved too far away from him, he would cling right back onto your side without shame. While you were fixing your hair in front of the mirror, Jake wrapped both arms around your waist from behind again, pressing his face against your shoulder while Mo continued cleaning nearby. "Stay in bed," he mumbled weakly against your skin, still sounding sleepy. You snorted softly at the feeling of him practically hanging his whole weight onto you, but your hand still reached up automatically to fix the messy strands of his hair away from his glasses.
"You say that every morning," you muttered.
"Because every morning you leave me," Jake replied dramatically, tightening his hold around your waist while you laughed quietly under your breath.
Your eyes drifted past Jake's shoulder toward the wall, landing on the collection of medals, framed certificates, and trophies lined neatly across the shelves. Some were old awards from high school, others were from university tournaments, and a few still had ribbons tangled together because you had been too lazy to organize them properly after Nationals. Jake had insisted on displaying every single one of them anyway, even the participation plaques you thought looked ugly. You smiled quietly to yourself before looking back at your boyfriend standing in front of you,. Sometimes it still hit you unexpectedlyâhow impossible this whole thing used to feel.
Who could thought? You had your six months of sharing an apartment with someone who barely looked you in the eyes.
Back then, you genuinely thought Jake would remain nothing more than the quiet engineering student that have an addiction to legos and hot wheels. And now? Now he stood in your apartment kitchen every morning half-asleep while cooking your meals, whining whenever you left the bed too early, kissing your forehead.
Jake became your person.
You stepped closer and pressed a quick kiss against his lips before walking past him toward the living room. Jake immediately followed after you without hesitation, dragging his feet lazily across the floor while scratching the back of his neck. You crouched beside the fish tank to feed your fish while listening to the familiar sounds of him moving around the kitchen behind you. Jake had developed this habit of cooking both your breakfast and lunch every single training day no matter how many times you told him he didn't have to. He always answered the same way too.
"I want to."
After feeding the fish, you returned to your bedroom to finish packing your things for training, tossing extra clothes and towels into your duffel bag while mentally checking your schedule for the day. You were halfway through folding your jersey when something bumped gently against your ankle. Looking down, you immediately recognized the small robot staring up at you with glowing blue eyes.
Bumble tilted slightly like it was waiting for attention, the tiny camera blinking while its mechanical voice chirped softly. "Hi!"
"Jake, the food," you called out immediately while staring directly at the robot's camera.
You heard his laugh from the kitchen almost instantly.
A few seconds later, Jake appeared in your doorway with that stupid soft smile on his face, walking straight toward you just to lean down and steal another kiss. He adjusted the whistle hanging around your neck afterward, fingers brushing gently against your skin before stepping back. "Ay yay, captain," he teased quietly, earning an immediate scoff from you despite the smile pulling at your lips.
Nationals still sat heavily in your chest sometimes.
Third place. Not first. Not the championship everyone had dreamed about during those exhausting practices and sleepless nights. It had hurt watching the seniors cry after the final match, hurt even more realizing that people like Karina, Winter, Ryujin, Yeji, and Yunjin were really leaving now that graduation had finally caught up to them. Every practice lately carried this strange emptiness that you still hadn't fully adjusted to. You missed them badly if you were being honest. No future teammates, no future victories, no future season would ever replace the bond all of you built together.
But endings did not always mean loss. That was something life had slowly forced you to understand.
After finishing your packing, you wandered out of your room and toward Jake's almost absent one out of pure habit. The door was slightly open already. It had honestly been a while since Jake actually slept here properly considering he spent nearly every night tangled in your bed instead. Still, the room looked painfully like himâorganized in his own way and filled with little traces of the things he loved.
Your eyes drifted toward the transparent shelves mounted carefully against the wall. Hot Wheels lined up in neat rows beside completed Lego builds he had spent hours working on during stressful nights, some of them gifts from you, others things he proudly bought himself after passing difficult projects or exams. Mo sat charging quietly near his desk now beside scattered engineering blueprints, and one of your old volleyball wristbands was looped carelessly around its antenna. You smiled softly at the sight before dropping yourself onto his bed with a tired sigh, sinking into the familiar mattress while staring up at the ceiling.
It only took a few seconds before the bed dipped beside you.
Jake crawled in next to you without a word, immediately wrapping his arms around your waist. His chin rested against your shoulder while his legs tangled with yours. "It's honestly useless renting a separate room when you basically live in my bed now," you muttered with amusement while turning slightly toward him. Jake only hummed quietly in agreement, tightening his hold around you instead of denying it. "And both of us are graduating soon too... oh my God."
No more university tournaments. No more scrambling through deadlines and practices and late-night study sessions with Jake. Life was shifting again, slowly moving forward whether you were ready or not. For a moment the room fell quiet and when you looked back at Jake, you noticed him staring at you strangely.
You frowned slightly under the weight of his gaze. "Is there a problem?"
"I love you," he said immediately, without hesitation, like breathing.
The words came out so naturally now compared to before. No stuttering. No panic. No fumbling over syllables while avoiding eye contact. Jake said it softly but confidently, eyes fixed completely on yours. Your expression softened almost instantly, and you moved closer to wrap your arms around him properly. "I love you too, silly," you murmured while caressing his cheek gently with your thumb.
Jake leaned into your touch immediately.
"Remember when you told me before..." he started quietly. "About not knowing what to do after volleyball?" Your brows lifted slightly at the sudden topic change, but you nodded anyway while continuing to stroke his hair back from his forehead. Jake swallowed before continuing. "I wanted to say a lot back then. I just couldn't." He laughed weakly at himself before looking back at you again. "But you can literally do anything. You could teach, or coach, or maybe start some weird fish businessâ"
You snorted softly.
"Jake," you interrupted with a smile. "I already told you. I'm planning to continue volleyball professionally. I'm aiming for the league now. I'm not stopping."
"âOr maybe..." Jake suddenly cut in quietly.
His arms loosened around you.
"Live with me."
Your smile faltered slightly in confusion as you slowly pushed yourself upright on the bed. Jake followed your movement immediately, but instead of sitting beside you again, he slid off the mattress completely. Your eyes widened the second you realized what he was doing.
Jake was kneeling on the floor.
"Jake," you said slowly, staring at him in complete disbelief while your heartbeat immediately started climbing into your throat. He looked nervous all over again for the first time in years, hands visibly shaking while he pushed his glasses higher up his nose. His cheeks were already bright red, his breathing uneven, but he still kept looking directly at you despite how terrified he obviously was.
Then he reached into his pocket.
"Oh my God," you whispered instantly.
"I have a proposition to make," Jake breathed out nervously. His fingers shook so badly while opening the small velvet box that you were half afraid he was going to drop it onto the floor entirely. But the second the lid flipped open, your breath caught hard in your throat. A ring rested inside, and the sight of it hit you so suddenly that your eyes immediately started burning with tears.
Jake noticed instantly and panicked a little.
"I-I will support you through everything," he rushed out quickly, voice trembling while he looked up at you from the floor. "Your league, internationals, all of it. I swear I will. I-I'll keep loving you, deeply, openly..." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his own eyes glossy now behind his glasses. "I know you'll probably think this is too earlyâ"
"Jake, no," you interrupted immediately, shaking your head so fast your vision blurred slightly. The tears were already slipping down your cheeks now, but he misunderstood the reaction immediately because of course he did. Jake's face fell for a split second, panic flashing all over his expression before he hurriedly continued speaking again.
"But it doesn't mean we have to do everything immediately," he said quickly, almost pleading now as he shifted closer on his knees toward the bed. "I just... I want a future with you... Live with me? Not as roommates anymore, but really with me. As my lover. My person." His voice softened shakily near the end, his eyes refusing to leave yours despite how emotional he looked now. "And someday... as my wife."
The room suddenly felt too small for your heartbeat. For a second, all you could do was stare at him kneeling there beside the bedâthe same quiet boy who once could barely survive a single conversation with you now looking at you like you were the center of every future he wanted. Jake's hands were still trembling around the ring box while he waited, breathing unevenly, clearly trying not to completely spiral if you stayed silent too long.
A wet laugh escaped your mouth suddenly as you wiped your tears with the back of your hand. "You're so fucking unfair," you whispered shakily, which immediately made Jake look even more nervous. His lips parted like he was about to apologize again, but before he could spiral into another overthinking breakdown, you grabbed his face with both hands.
"Jake," you said softly.
He froze completely beneath your touch.
"You are already my home."
Jake's eyes widened so much it almost made you laugh again through your tears. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again uselessly while staring at you like he couldn't process what he was hearing. You smiled weakly before leaning down until your forehead rested against his.
"Yes," you whispered.
Jake blinked once. "...Yes?" he repeated weakly, sounding completely stunned.
"Yes, idiot," you laughed through your tears, and the second the words fully registered in his brain, Jake let out the most broken, overwhelmed noise you had ever heard from him before immediately grabbing your waist and pulling you into him. The ring box nearly fell from his hands from how hard he hugged you, his face burying against your stomach while his entire body shook with relieved laughter.
"Oh my God," he kept mumbling breathlessly against you. "Oh my God, oh my God..."
You buried your fingers into his messy hair while laughing softly yourself, overwhelmed and emotional and ridiculously happy all at once. Jake pulled back just enough to shakily slide the ring onto your finger, his hands still trembling the entire time. The moment it settled perfectly in place, he stared at it like he genuinely couldn't believe it was real.
Unlucky with money, unlucky in your love life, unlucky in your sex life. The same "bad luck" that used to follow you around had somehow led you here anyway, step by step, mistake by mistake, person by person.
Those were bad luck. And bad luck is temporary.
You smile and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against Jake's forehead. Ha, you're not out of luck either, aren't you?
You have Jake. Your good bestest luck.
And a good bestest luck lasted a lifetime.
NOTE: you reached the end, yay! thank you for loving the lucky family! (reader, jake, whitey, pinky, bumble, guppy and mo hehe) :) this is not really my best story but i definitely enjoy writing nerd jekjek and building their world! i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoy writing. love lots!!! - shi
Money, sex, and a lifetime of feeling like luck was never really on your sideâuntil the universe decided to fuck with you in the most inconvenient way possible. What started as simple coexisting turned into something more when you paid a little too much attention to your quiet, awkward, painfully responsible roommateâwho, on paper, is a complete fucking loser. But, hey, heâs not that bad!
In which Sim Jaeyun becomes the only genuinely good, unfairly lucky thing thatâs ever happened to you⊠and just like everything else in your life, good things have a way of slipping right through your fingers. So now you have to figure it out, fix it, or risk losing the only thing that ever felt right before you run Out of Luck.
1: AGAINST THE ODDS
content tags and warnings: roommate au! romantic comedy, jake is an engineering student x volleyball varsity player reader, ANGST for this chapter! profanities, jake has braces! hopeless romantic reader (she almost get off), internal conflict, jake is such an awkward introverted baby (he likes lego and collects hot-wheels), burning slowburn (slow pacing i swear), superstitious beliefs, lots of awkward erm moments, jake is secretly a simp, reader is pathetic, ft. karina, other kpop idols and robots as side characters. explicit content (smut): sub! jake, virginity loss, handjob, lots of kissing, grinding, unprotected sex. (WC: 35.2K)
Unlucky with money, unlucky in your love life, unlucky in your sex life too, which felt like a cruel fucking trifecta to kick off 2026.
As if the universe had taken one look at you and decided to stack the odds just to see how much you could take before cracking. You rang in the new year under the table eating grapes, promising yourself things would get better even though you didn't really believe it, because every year started the same wayâbroke, tired, horny, and stuck pretending you had your shit together when you absolutely didn't.
Well... this year, your varsity scholarship barely did more than keep you enrolled, covering tuition and some little allowance, nothing else, which meant every other expense came straight out of your pocket, and college was already draining you dry without rent, utilities, groceries, and all the other bullshit that came with trying to survive in the city.
You worked your ass off, trained until your muscles screamed, counted every dollar like it might disappear if you didn't watch it closely enough, and still it never felt like enough, the numbers never quite lining up no matter how careful you were. Living alone had been a nice idea, but it died fast once you actually looked at the prices, reality slapping you hard enough that you didn't bother pretending anymore.
That was how you ended up scanning roommate listings with a pit in your stomach, sitting through awkward interviews, nodding politely while doing mental math in your head, telling yourself you could deal with almost anyone if it meant splitting the bills and not drowning.
That was how you ended up with a roommate. Andddd your roommate was a boy named Sim Jaeyun.
"Is he like so handsome and hot?" Karina yelled as she spiked the ball straight at you, and you dropped to your knees on the covered court to receive it. "Most people fall in love with their roommates! Take it as a chanceâremember when Coach made you eat grapes under the table during New Year's? They said you'd meet your true love within the year. It's a sign!"
No. What the fuck.
Because Sim Jaeyun was... different, and that was putting it nicely. Geeky was the first word that always popped into your head whenever you thought about him, followed closely by awkward as hell, because the first time you met him during that short, painfully quiet interview, he stuttered through half his sentences and wouldn't stop fidgeting with his hands like they had a mind of their own, tapping, twisting, pulling at his sleeves until you wondered if he was going to vibrate right out of the chair.
Still, annoyingly enough, he was better than most of the people who appliedâclean record, stable background, no weird red flags on paperâwhich was how he made the cut despite the whole mess of nerves.
The first week really sealed it for you, though, because when you came back from training one night, you found him sprawled on the living room floor for hours, surrounded by Lego pieces, carefully snapping them together with this intense focus, and you just stood there for a moment, eyebrow twitching, face twisting before you could stop yourself. You weren't trying to be judgmentalâat least that's what you told yourselfâbut watching a grown man play with Legos like that weirded you the fuck out, and the word loser lodged itself in your brain whether you liked it or not.
Sometimes you'd pass by his room and sneak a glance inside, catching sight of his tiny model cars lined up neatly on a shelf, perfectly arranged, and every time it made your stomach tighten with secondhand embarrassment, because this was the guy you were stuck sharing a space with, the supposed "true love" the universe was trying to shove into your life, and you already knew there was no fucking way.
"Come on, tell me more about this roommate of yours, why are you so quiet about it? It's been like five months," Karina laughed, and you couldn't help yourself as you spiked the ball straight toward her face, irritation snapping through your arm, only for her to catch it effortlessly and fling it right back at you like it was nothing.
You scoffed as you received it, rolling your shoulders, already annoyed at how easily she brushed you off.
"It's nothing special like you're trying to romanticize, okay?" you shot back. "All I know is he's an engineering major with this weird-ass Lego and tiny car obsession, and whenever he actually talksâwhich is rare as hellâit's always about practical shit like the rent, the electricity bill, or some absentminded 'hi' if we happen to cross paths at the exact right second."
"Oooh, a nerdy type?" Karina teased, eyes lighting up as she bounced on her feet, clearly enjoying this way too much. "So he's not that talkative? Why don't you try asking him more?"
"Why would I?" you shot back, eyebrow lifting just as the shrill sound of the coach's whistle cut through the air, making both of you snap your heads toward the court as he signaled for a break.
You grabbed your towel and water bottle, walking alongside Karina toward the bench, sweat clinging to your skin while she kept running her mouth like she always did. "Because it's for the thrill," she continued, lowering her voice only slightly, hands hovering in the air as if she were pitching some grand idea. "I mean, you literally told us you want to get laid but you don't do hookups, so hello? The opportunity is right there in your fucking apartment. Grab it. So you don't have to masturbate all the time."
"Jesus, no," you muttered, unscrewing your bottle and taking a long drink, water spilling down your chin as you scoffed. "I bet that man is a fucking virgin," you added without hesitation, already pushing off the bench and heading back toward the court as the break ended, trying to leave the whole conversation behind with your towel tossed over your shoulder.
"And what if he was?" Karina shouted after you. "Are you not curious at all? You're not even talking about it, and it's a man. It's a big deal!"
You clenched your jaw as you took your position, telling yourself to shut it out, to focus on the ball, the court, the rhythm of your body moving the way it always had, but her words slipped under your skin anyway.
It wasn't like Sim JaeyunâJake, as he awkwardly introduced himselfâwas unattractive, and that realization annoyed you even more, because technically, objectively, he had the kind of face people trusted without thinking twice. Innocent-looking, pale skin that never seemed to tan no matter how much time passed, a pointed nose, plump lips that curved into an almost shy smile, and those stupid braces flashing whenever he talked about something painfully mundane like daily water consumption, as if that was the most important thing in the world.
And fuck, speaking of masturbation, that thought made you shift uncomfortably because you did itâa lotâat least you used to, but somewhere along the line it had stopped, and you couldn't even pinpoint when or why. Maybe it was the brutal training schedule, the constant exhaustion, your body collapsing into bed every night without energy for anything else, or maybe it was the fact that you were now living with a boy, his quiet presence seeping into your routines in ways you didn't want to think about too closely... wait NO, you were not going to let Karina's words worm their way into your head, not when you had bigger priorities, like finally getting some long-overdue "me time" with your own body. You'd barely had the space to breathe, let alone touch yourself properly, and now there was the added complication of sharing an apartment with a guy.
Thin walls, shared spaces, the constant awareness that someone else existed just a few steps away made everything feel awkward and exposed, like privacy had become this fragile thing you had to tiptoe around. But then... why the fuck were you letting his weird shy-boy aura control what you did with your own body in your own apartment? Get a grip. It was 2026, for fuck's sake, and women didn't have to shrink themselves or pretend they didn't have needs, didn't want pleasure, didn't get horny. It wasn't embarrassing to want it, to crave it, to take care of yourself, and you refused to feel guilty about it. You decided right then that you were masturbating tonight, no excuses, no letting some awkward roommate situation dictate your life.
When you got home, you dumped your bag by the door and locked yourself in your room, kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto the bed, trying to force your muscles to relax and your mind to shut the hell up.
Jake was just some innocent presence in your thoughts, nothing more, but... maybe he really was some timid little virgin. He was so damn quiet, so careful, that doing something dirty under the same roof almost felt wrong, like you were corrupting the space just by wanting it. And of course, the more you tried not to think about him, the more firmly he lodged himself in your head, sooo stubborn and intrusive.
"Shit," you breathed, shifting on the bed as your fingers slid between your thighs, touching yourself slowly. "Stop thinking, stop thinking, fuck," you whispered, eyes squeezing shut, but the moment you did, your brain betrayed you, flashing an image of him sitting in the living room, hunched over his stupid Lego sets, completely absorbed and unaware.
Your eyes flew open when you felt how wet you were getting, heat pooling low in your belly, because suddenly the idea of getting off in the same space where he always sat, that couch where he spent hours building his little towers, started to turn you on. You imagined yourself sprawled there instead, hand buried between your thighs, touching yourself openly while he sat just a few feet away, quiet and focused, oblivious or maybe not, and the image sent a dirty thrill through you that made your breath hitch. What the fuck?!
"Weirdo," you thought, jaw tightening as your fingers moved faster. You're a fucking weirdo, and yet you didn't stop, didn't pull your hand away, because your body didn't give a shit about shame.
You let out a soft, broken sound as your hand finally slid where the tension had been coiling all night, nudging your underwear aside, your pulse spiking when your brain betrayed you again with the idea of him noticing, of him catching you in the act, the possibility alone pouring gasoline on an already reckless fire. You couldn't stop imagining his reaction if he walked in and saw you sprawled on the couch, touching yourself without shameâeyes blown wide, jaw slack, stuttering over some useless apology while his ears burned redâor worse, the thought that he wouldn't even realize what you were doing, that he'd sit there beside you completely oblivious while your body unraveled, sent an uneasy shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with pleasure.
Dude? You barely even talked to him. You shared a space, not a life, and your brain choosing this to fixate on made you feel unhinged in the most irritating way.
"Shit," you muttered out loud, dragging yourself back into reality when a sudden noise broke through your haze. Some kind of rummaging echoing from outside your room.
Your eyebrows knitted together in irritation as you shoved yourself off the bed, fixing your clothes, wiping your hands and padded across the floor. When you opened the door and stepped into the living room, the sight waiting for you, Jake was face down on the floor, his arms spread out. And circling nearby, bumping into his side, was a little round vacuum robot, whirring around.
This was it. This was the image your brain had been spiraling over all night. You stared at him for a long second, annoyance with disbelief, and the tension draining out of you in one sharp exhale. What a fucking loser.
"Uhh, hey," you said. You walked a little closer, looking down at him with your arms crossed. "Are you okay?" Your eyes flicked toward the robot, then back to him. "Where the hell did that come from?"
Jake pushed himself up on his elbows, his hair messy and sticking to his forehead, his glasses tilted crooked on his face. His cheeks were redâwhether from embarrassment or just hitting the floor, you couldn't tell. "Ah... uh... my friend gave it to me," he muttered quickly. He didn't look up at you once, his eyes glued to the floor as if meeting your gaze would make him combust. "I-It's, uh... I fixed it. There's still an error but... uhhh, it would help us clean... you know."
You narrowed your eyes at the little robot, watching it bump clumsily against the leg of the table, circle around for a second, and then slam itself into the same spot again.
"Uh... I thought these things were supposed to, like, go the other way when they hit something?" You raised your eyebrow, arms folded as you leaned against the wall, still focused on the thing rolling around.
"It's still not fixed," Jake admitted under his breath, his tone shrinking down even more. He sat himself upright, knees bent, scratching at the back of his head. "W-Wait, I... I'll just turn it off."
You watched him scramble toward the robot, his movements frantic, It almost made you laugh, how hard he tried not to fuck up while he was clearly already fucking up. His shoulders were tense, his breath a little quick, and you could practically feel how badly he wanted this scene to end and you thought he was some kind of idiot.
The thing was, after that day, your eyes didn't really stop following him.
Okaaay, it was nothing, just the result of sharing the same damn space with another person, bound to notice shit when you lived under the same roof, and if anyone was to blame, it was Karina and her big mouth planting stupid ideas in your head. Still, it felt like some traitorous part of your brain had started recording him without permission, filing away details you had no reason to care about, noticing patterns you definitely didn't ask for.
In the mornings, when you dragged yourself out of bed half-dead and sore, there he was in the kitchen, quiet as always, pouring chocolate almond milk into a mug and sipping it like some kind of kid who never grew out of comfort drinks. No coffee, no energy drink, no caffeine-fueled desperation like a normal college student, just fucking chocolate almond milk, and it made you wrinkle your nose every time because who the hell does that and survives?
When you mentioned it to Karina one day during warm-ups, she didn't even hesitate. "Okay, I bet his cum tastes good," she said casually, and you stopped midâjumping jack, staring at her like she'd lost her goddamn mind, heat crawling up your neck despite yourself.
That was also when you started noticing his schedule, because it was painfully predictable in a way that almost felt unsettling. Out of the apartment by eight, back by five, every single day, like his life ran on rails and deviation wasn't an option, and when you realized he actually went to bed at eight in the fucking evening, you nearly laughed out loud. Nobody did that. Nobody except him, apparently, which finally explained why the apartment was always dark and dead silent when you stumbled home late, and why that stupid little sign taped to the wallâPlease don't turn the lights onâexisted at all. He actually lived by that shit!
"Isn't he so cute and healthy?!" Karina cooed the second you mentioned it, pinching your cheeks between her fingers like you were some kind of toy, and you immediately scoffed, swatting her hand away with a slap. She laughed, completely unfazed, while you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, already regretting ever opening your mouth in the first place.
You were absolutely going to blame her for all of this, because if she hadn't started running her mouth about your roommate like he was some kind of rare fucking specimen, none of these thoughts would've taken root. What was so malicious about having a boy roommate anyway? It wasn't a love story, it wasn't fate, it wasn't some goddamn porn plot waiting to happenâ and you were getting real tired of your own brain trying to spin it into something bigger than it was, especially when you were flat on your back staring at the ceiling, hands resting on your stomach, forcing yourself to breathe like everything was normal.
"Uh... h-hello..." Three soft knocks landed on your door, followed by another quiet, hesitant "hi," and your chest tightened instantly, irritation floating with the fact that of course it had to be him, the very devil that had been squatting in your thoughts nonstop.
You sighed, staring up at the ceiling for a beat longer like maybe ignoring him would make him disappear, but then another knock came, a little firmer this time, and your eyebrow twitched as annoyance finally won out. You sat up with a sharp movement, clicked your tongue, and stood, swinging the door open hard, only to be met with Jake standing there with his shoulders hunched in that familiar way, back slightly scrunched, an awkward smile tugging at his lips.
"Hi..." he mumble as he scratched at the back of his neck, and your eyes dropped immediately, not out of kindness but because you didn't feel like dealing with his face yet, landing instead on his feet.
Dinosaur slippers. Bright, stupid dinosaur slippers, tapping softly against the floor as he shifted his weight.
"I-I wanted to give you the advance payment... u-uh..." he trailed off, fumbling with something in his hands, and you just stood there, watching him struggle.
He finally managed to hold it out to you, bills slightly wrinkled, that same awkward smile glued to his lips, and your eyes betrayed you by drifting up instead of staying where they should've been. Pointed nose, plump lips, the shine of his braces catching the light when he swallowed nervouslyâfuck, this was absolutely Karina's fault, because somehow, without warning, he looked more attractive than he ever had before.
"Jake," you said, scratching at your ear and straightening your posture, refusing to look directly at him as you took the money from his hand, your fingers brushing his for half a second too long, your heartbeat kicking stupidly hard at the contact.
"Hm?" he responded softly, and you bit your lip, finally lifting your gaze to him, your brain screaming at you to shut up while your mouth had other plans. Ask him something normal... just a questionâ casual, harmless questionâ because you were only... a little interested, and that didn't mean shit.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, blunt and way too direct, and you mentally slapped yourself immediately, because great, now you sounded like the weird one.
"H-huh?" His face went red almost instantly, color blooming across his cheeks as he fumbled with the fabric of his pajama pants, wiping his hands over and over. "IâI don't have..." he said quietly, trailing off as if the sentence itself embarrassed him.
You pressed your lips together and looked away, nodding like that was nothing to react to, crossing your arms and staring down at the floor before glancing back up at him again. "You haven't had anyone?" Fuck, stupid, dumb decision! You cursed yourself again, because apparently you'd lost all sense tonight.
"Uh... I had one b-back in high school," he admitted, eyes still avoiding yours. "But it didn't work."
"Ah," you nodded, forcing a neutral tone you didn't entirely feel, shifting your weight as you stood there in the doorway with money in your hand, suddenly aware that what started as an annoying, harmless question had cracked something open, and now neither of you seemed quite sure how to close it again.
You weren't even sure how you managed to fall asleep that night, because the embarrassment clung to you heavier than exhaustion ever did, replaying the scene over and over until your head hurt. When morning came, you stayed in your room longer than usual, listening for movement outside, making damn sure he wasn't in the living room or the kitchen or anywhere you might accidentally run into him, because the thought of seeing his face after that made your stomach knot. You slipped out only when the apartment was quiet, grabbing your things and leaving like a coward.
Stupid. Idiot. So fucking dumb. You and him barely talked, and suddenly you were asking personal questions like you had any right to them. What the hell would he think? That you were weird? Desperate? Bored? You groaned to yourself, dragging a hand down your face as you walked, already hating how much space the whole thing was taking up in your head.
"This is all your fault," you snapped later, shoving Karina's shoulder as you told her what happened, only for her to burst out laughing.
"Admit it," she said, grinning wide. "You're interested. I mean, something pushed you to talk to him and even ask personal shit."
"It wouldn't be like that if you weren't planting ideas in my head," you hissed back, glaring at her, pointing at your head.
"Oh, dear, dear," she mocked, shaking her head as she leaned in and traced stupid little hearts over your chest with her finger. "You wouldn't be affected at all if it wasn't already there. Stop denying it and just accept it fully."
"Let's think about progress," she continued, clearly enjoying this way too much. "Next time, talk to him more. Ask what songs he listens to, what food he likesâ"
"Shut up," you cut in immediately, heat crawling up your neck as you folded your arms tighter. "It's embarrassing."
"No. Listen to me," Karina said, grabbing your shoulder and physically turning you back toward her like she wasn't about to let you escape this. "He's single. And I swear I don't even know him, but from everything you've told me, he's perfect for you. When you see him, don't act all awkward and twitchy. Be confident. Stand straight. Shoulders back. Don't cross your arms like you're about to fight someone." She started counting on her fingers. "Maintain eye contactâeven though he won't, that's your advantage. Smile a little. Ask him something normal, like what he's working on, or why he drinks chocolate almond milk, or anything. And if he stutters? Don't jump in. Let him finish. Let him drown a little."
You stared at her with your lips pursed, face twisted in pure secondhand embarrassment. "And why exactly should I listen to you?"
"Because I'm right," she said instantly. Then she tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Is he your type or not?"
You swallowed. "No. What the fuck."
She didn't miss a beat. "But would you fuck him?"
Silence, your brain running in useless circles while Karina just watched you like she already knew the answer. You exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. "...Why... not," you muttered.
You hated how much her words stuck with you, hated how they pushed at something you'd been trying to ignore, because when you got home from practice later that evening, there he was in the living room.
Jake was sitting on the floor, legs folded awkwardly as he unscrewed the little vacuum robot, fiddling with its insides before setting it down and watching it.
The moment it rolled in your direction, you saw him stiffen, shoulders tightening before he forced that same awkward smile onto his face.
You paused, heart thudding harder than necessary, Karina's voice echoing in your head, and forced yourself to do exactly what she'd said. You lifted your chin, met his eyes even when he almost looked away, and spoke first.
"Hi," you said, steadying your voice as you held the eye contact.
"Hi," he replied softly, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed, hands hovering uselessly near the robot.
Your gaze drifted to the little vacuum circling around aimlessly, bumping once against the wall before correcting itself. "...So it's fixed now?" you asked casually, even as you swallowed the lump forming in your throat.
"Y-Yeah," he nodded quickly. "D-Don't worry, it's just a battery issue. It w-won't affect the electric bill."
Of course that was his first concern. You huffed internally, dropped your bag onto the table, and before you could overthink it, you walked straight over and sat down next to him on the floor. Close. He stiffened instantly, shoulders locking up as he subtly scooted a few inches away, tryingâand failingâto make it look natural.
"Have you had dinner?" you asked, keeping your tone light, like Karina's voice wasn't screaming instructions in your head. "I was thinking of ordering something. You wanna check?"
Normal. This was normal. Roommates did this shit all the time. It wasn't weird unless someone made it weird.
"UhâI already a-ateâ"
"What about chicken?" you cut, sitting up straighter as you scrolled through your phone and angled it toward him, a poor excuse to lean closer. "Or burgers? Waitâshit, I'm actually on a diet right now. Are you okay with veggies?"
You waited, and... nothing. When you finally looked at him, you realized he was barely breathing, blinking like he'd forgotten how, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like looking at you directly might short-circuit him. "Uh... I already ate," he repeated, voice dropping smaller.
"Oh."
Before you could recover, he stood abruptly, movement jerky, still refusing to meet your eyes as he pointed vaguely toward his room. "IâI need to, uh... I have something to do," he said, bowing slightly out of pure habit before retreating, the door opening and closing with a soft final click.
You stared at the door for a long second before letting your phone drop onto the table, sinking back with a long sigh. Fuck. That went great.
"Maybe he just got overwhelmed?" Karina said the next day, eyebrows raised as she watched you slump forward, elbows on your knees, retelling the disaster. "You did tell me you kind of talk a lot. Or he's just shy as hell."
"What if he thinks I'm weird?" you muttered, rubbing a hand over your face, trying to replay everything from his side.
"No," she said immediately. "Absolutely not. We will try again. Casual questions only. Like... ask about the weather. It's raining today, right?"
And you did. You actually tried. You walked fast all the way home, phone clutched in your hand as you kept checking the time, timing it just right for when Jake was usually in the living room. 6:39 p.m. You fumbled with your keys, nearly tripping over your own feet as you pushed the door open, breath a little too rushed, and thank fuckâthere he was, sitting on the couch, eyes glued to the TV.
You pretended to stretch your shoulders as you stepped inside, rolling your neck like you were just another exhausted student coming home, your jersey lifting slightly and revealing more of your black shorts than necessary.
"It's so rainy, fuck," you complained aloud. "I didn't bring an umbrella, so I ran all the way from the university. God, my body hurts," you added, letting out a small groan with your eyes closed, even though it was a lieâyou ran because training went overtime and because you didn't want to miss another chance to talk to him.
Silence.
When he didn't respond, you cracked one eye open, then the other, glancing toward him only to find him still completely fixated on the TV, posture relaxed, attention fully absorbed. Your mouth fell open slightly, irritation bubbling up, and when you drifted a little closer to your room under the excuse of passing by. That was when you finally caught what he was watchingâsome kind of documentary, planets and stars filling the screen, a calm narrator talking about galaxies, gravity, and shit you barely remembered from high school.
You paused, blinking. Seriously? This was his way of relaxing? Sitting there quietly, absorbing new information like it was entertainment? You scoffed under your breath, suddenly feeling stupid, because now talking about the weather felt painfully dumb in comparison, like small talk he wouldn't even care about. Without another word, you turned and went into your room, shutting the door a little harder and dropping onto your bed before forcing yourself to open your notes and study for quizzes you barely cared about.
"Don't give up," Karina said firmly, gripping your shoulders when you sagged forward on the bench, this rare break finally giving you room to breathe after weeks of nonstop training with the city-wide university tournament looming over your head.
"He can barely look at me," you snapped, pointing at yourself, teeth gritted in frustration.
"Because you're too hot and beautiful," she shot back without missing a beat. "He's overwhelmed. He's probably thinking you're so so hot that his brain is literally short-circuiting every time you talk to him. Think about itâit's been a long time since his last relationship." She smoothed your hair like she was calming a feral animal, tone softening.
You both went quiet after that, and you stared off to the side, chewing on the thought despite yourself. Right. Maybe he really was just awkward because it'd been a long time. Maybe you were coming on too strong without realizing it. You needed to be subtle, calmer, casual, like you didn't give a shit even if part of you very clearly did. Play it cool.
That night, you came home with two cups of ramen swinging lightly from your hand, your chest rose and fell from the walk up the stairs, shoulders finally dropping in relief when you stepped inside and saw Jake in the living room. He was crouched on the floor again, tools scattered around him as he fiddled with another robot you'd never seen before, while the stupid circular vacuum from before rolled lazily around the room.
"Hi," you said, still catching your breath.
He looked up at you, eyes wide and innocent for half a second before that familiar awkward smile kicked in, forced and shy all at once, and fuck, the sight of it irritated you because he was unfairly cute in a way that made no sense. "Hi," he replied softly.
You lifted the two ramen cups and walked toward the table, setting your bag down as casually as you could manage. "I bought two," you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Got my daily sports allowance and wanted to treat myself... then I thought of you." You shuffled the plastic lids, pretending to be more focused on that than the way his attention locked onto you. "You're probably hungry, right?"
You didn't wait for his answer. You slid one of the ramen cups toward him and finally met his eyes, holding his gaze just long enough to make your point clear without saying it outright, your mouth curling into a small smile. "...Right?"
"U-Uh... t-thank you," he whispered as he shrank in on himself, shoulders curling forward while he opened the container. He flashed you that same awkward, almost childish smile again, and fuck, he's really really so cute.
You sat across from him at the table, the two of you eating in silence, the only sounds the soft slurp of noodles and the faint hum of the appliances around you. You poked at your ramen with your chopsticks more than you actually ate, stealing glances at him while he chewed, trying to find an opening that didn't feel forced, something that wouldn't send him running again. "Soo..." you started, dragging the word out like a test. "You're a scholar too?"
Jake nodded before he even spoke, eyes lifting briefly before darting away again. "Yes," he said.
You nodded back like you were genuinely interested, leaning your elbow on the table. "How much allowance do they give you?" you asked. "Or is it the same as mine? I heard academic scholars can apply outside the university too, like government stuff."
He nodded again, eyes flicking up to you for half a second before he went back to biting his noodles, slurping softly like that was easier than talking. You kept going anyway, because silence made your skin crawl. "Sometimes I wish I was smart instead of just... sport-inclined," you admitted with a half-laugh, slumping your shoulders for emphasis. "Like, what the hell am I supposed to do after I decide I'm done with volleyball?"
You looked at him, waiting, hoping, and the silence stretched out so long it felt loud, ringing in your ears until you swore you could hear imaginary crickets chirping in your head. Embarrassment crept up your neck, heat blooming as you realized this was it againâyou talking, oversharing, filling space while he stayed quiet.
"I'm done for now," you said abruptly, clacking your chopsticks against the plastic before snapping the lid shut, forcing a smile that felt stiff on your face. You stood, shoved the ramen into the fridge with more force and retreated to your room, closing the door behind you.
Bitch, you thought, dropping onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. All you ever do is embarrass yourself!
The next morning, Sunday dragged itself, and the only thing on your schedule was volleyball training, which somehow made it worse. Your body ached in that familiar, dull way, muscles stiff and protesting as you forced yourself out of bed and into the living room to pack your bag, movements sluggish. You were halfway through shoving your gear inside when you realized the bathroom door was open, steam drifting lazily into the hallway, and you froze mid-motion when he stepped out.
Jake stood there with a towel slung over his shoulder, hair still damp and sticking up in odd places, dressed in his usual comfortable home clothes like it was any other morning, and for a split second your brain short-circuited. What the hell? It was Sunday. He never woke up early on Sundays!
The sight of him caught you so off guard that your mouth moved before your thoughts caught up. "A-Are you done?" you asked, forcing a stiff smile and immediately wanting to slap yourself for stuttering like an idiot.
He nodded, eyes sliding away from yours almost instantly, stepping past you with that small, polite bow he always did. The air felt weirdly tight after he passed, and you stood there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the bathroom door.
By the time you were on the court with Karina, dropping your bag down beside hers and joining her for stretches. "I swear he's not interested," you muttered, brow scrunched as you stretched out your legs. "I might just give up."
"Wow," Karina replied dryly, glancing at you. "Good morning to you too."
You rolled your eyes and pushed into a half split, focusing on your breathing. "Everything is your fault," you went on, shifting your weight, arching your back to stretch deeper. "And yeah, okay, I admit he's cute and attractive and whatever, butâugh." You abandoned the stretch altogether, dropping onto the floor and flailing your hands in frustration. "He won't even talk to me, no matter what I try or what you tell me to do."
"Maybe becauseâ" Karina started.
"No," you cut her off immediately, rubbing your face. "I'm done. Why am I even doing this?" You weren't sure if the question was meant for her or yourself, and that uncertainty only made it worse.
You didn't even know what you wantedâmaybe you wanted him in your bed, maybe you were just bored, lonely, horny, maybe you wanted a boyfriend, or maybe you just wanted something to break the monotony of your days.
Fuck, you honestly didn't know.You pushed yourself up to your feet with a sharp exhale, forcing your shoulders back as training began, telling yourself this was it, that you were un-crushing him, that whatever weird hold he'd had on your thoughts was gone. You just needed to focus, sweat it out, forget the way he'd looked that morning, forget the way your chest had tightened for no good reason, and move the hell on!
And so you went back to not caring about himâor at least you tried to. You kept things strictly transactional, clipped conversations that revolved around rent, water bills, electrical bills, and nothing else, the kind of exchanges that didn't require eye contact or emotion or the risk of awkward pauses. You timed your routines carefully, stayed in your room more, wore your headphones even when nothing was playing.
Somehow, though, the apartment got weirder instead of quieter.
At some point, there were suddenly two circular vacuum robots roaming the place, one pink and one white, bumping lazily into furniture like bored pets, and then there was a third one that made you pause the first time you saw it. This one had a small screen instead of a blank surface, animated eyes blinking as it rolled around the house, looping endlessly in wide, slow circles like it was patrolling its territory. It was unsettling in a way you couldn't quite explain, especially the way it behaved whenever you came home.
The first time it happened, you stepped through the front door, already halfway to your room when the robot rolled toward you, stopping just short of your feet. Its eyes widened slightly on the screen, focusing on you, and then a soft, robotic voice chimed, "Hi."
You stopped, stared at it, and after a second of confused silence, answered back without thinking. "Hi," you muttered, eyebrows knitting together as you watched it blink like it was pleased with the response. You shook your head and went to your room.
But it kept happening. Every time you came home after training at 7:30, without fail, the robot would find you, roll closer, look up at you with those stupid animated eyes, and greet you. "Hi." Over and over again, like some kind of programmed acknowledgment that you existed, and it annoyed you! Part of you wondered why a machine noticed you more consistently than the person who built it?
Whatever.
When tournament month finally hit, it felt less like a schedule and more like a slow, grinding punishment that refused to end. Hell week stretched into hell weeks, days bleeding into each other until your body stopped distinguishing between soreness and exhaustion, and your mind lived in a constant fog of drills, scrimmages, ice packs, and shouted instructions. Your team kept winningâsomehowâdefeating other universities one after another, which meant you qualified for the next rounds, which also meant more training, longer hours, heavier pressure. Victory didn't feel like relief anymore; it felt like another door slamming shut behind you.
After one match, you stood on the edge of the court, hands on your hips, chest heaving as you watched people filter out of the bleachers. Couples laughed, friends clapped each other on the back, families waved and called out names, and you wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to just be normalâto be a regular college student who watched sports for fun instead of bleeding for it, who cheered and went home without their knees screaming or shoulders burning. Would life be easier that way? Would you have more space in your head for things that weren't survival and performance and pushing yourself past your limits?
And then your thoughts drifted further. Would you have found a lover by now? If your life wasn't so wrapped up in training? Someone you met in a theory class, bonding over shared misery and late-night study sessions, or someone introduced through friends, a clean, easy connection that didn't feel so fucking complicated.
The idea made your chest tighten, and you frowned at yourself, annoyed. Why were you suddenly like this? Why so emotional, so restless? Were you really that lonely? What the hell was wrong with being single anyway? You'd been fine before. You had friends. You had people to talk to. You weren't isolated!
Except you knew it wasn't the same. You watched your teammates get swallowed into hugs after the match, hands squeezing shoulders, foreheads pressed together, quiet comfort exchanged even without words, and you felt it thenâa sharp, stupid ache. While they leaned into someone else's warmth, you retreated to the back room alone, wiping sweat off your face, peeling off your jersey, changing in silence. Maybe this was just who you wereâsomeone who got jealous not because you lacked people, but because everyone else seemed to have that person, someone to lean on when their body gave out, when the day finally caught up with them.
By the time you dragged yourself home, your limbs felt heavy, movements are sluggish as you kicked off your shoes and let the door shut behind you. The familiar hums filling the space as the robots whirled around the floor, doing their endless loops. One of themâthe one with the animated eyesârolled toward you like it always did, eyes blinking up at you before that same neutral voice chimed.
"Hi."
"Hi," you replied automatically. Normally you would've gone straight to your room, but lately Jake had been staying holed up behind his door, and the living room felt strangely empty without him.
You dropped your bag, pulled a beer from it, popped it open, and took a long drink before letting yourself sink down onto the floor. The robot lingered nearby, hovering like it was waiting for something.
You stared at it for a second, exhaled slowly, and shook your head. "Do you know how to say anything besides hi?" you asked it quietly.
The robot blinked, its animated eyes widening and shrinking in a way that almost felt intentional, and you huffed out a weak smile despite yourself. Your fingers hovered over its smooth, round surface, stopping just short of touching it. "I don't really know shit about these things," you muttered, gesturing vaguely at it, "but aren't you supposed to be, like... a comfort robot or something? The kind people put on their desks so they don't feel so damn alone." You tilted your head, squinting at it. "But you're round. And you roll. You're like... a vacuum with feelings."
The robot blinked again.
You took another sip of your beer, the bitterness sitting heavy on your tongue. "I think I'm so lonely I might cry," you admitted, voice cracking just a little as a hiccup slipped out of you. You set the beer aside and started peeling off your protective gear, fingers clumsy, dropping the pads onto the floor one by one. Bruises bloomed across your skinâdark, ugly marks layered over older ones.
"I don't want to be a libero anymore," you said flatly, staring down at your legs. "God, why am I not rich? Or smart? Or just... lucky for once."
You looked back at the robot, its eyes fixed on you like it was actually listening. "I wish I had someone," you continued. "Someone who'd hug me after games. Someone I could talk to when training's over and my body feels like it's about to give out." You scoffed and lifted a finger, pointing at it like you were lecturing. "You know my teammates? Let me introduce you, since apparently you're the only thing paying attention right now."
"So there's Karina," you said, holding up one finger. "She's our setter, loud as hell, always running her mouth, and yeahâshe's dating the basketball captain." Another finger. "Rei's the youngest, dating some art dancer who comes to all her games and cries like a baby." Another. "Giselle's gay, she's in a relationship, and Ningning's with her. I swear they fight all the time, but it's kinda cute because they're both middle blockers and stubborn as shit." You kept going, listing names, relationships, connections, until your hand dropped back into your lap. "Winterâwell, that's not even her real name. And Yunjin, Yuna, Yeji, Ryujin... all in relationships."
You leaned back against the sofa, sliding down slightly as you sat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling like it might have answers. "Everyone has someone," you whispered.
"Why... am I such a fucking loser?" you laughed, the sound is too loud in the quiet apartment, echoing for a second before it died out. The laugh collapsed in on itself, and you buried your face in your hands, shoulders shaking as tears burned behind your eyes. You didn't bother wiping them away when they spilled over, there was no one around to see you breakâjust a robot blinking back at you, silently witnessing everything you'd been holding in for far too long.
"I want someone," you choked out into your palm, the words are so ugly and bare, pathetic in a way that hurt to admit out loud. You dragged your hands down your face and looked at the robot again, eyes wet, vision blurry. "God, that sounded so fucking sad," you laughed weakly.
"Maybe you should ask your owner to build me one of those realistic human robots." You sniffed, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "Ask him to make one for me, yeah? Since apparently I can't even talk to him like a normal person."
Your laugh came again, tears still sliding down your cheeks as you shook your head. You leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling, words spilling out now that you'd opened the floodgates. "I want him to make me a boyfriend with high emotional intelligence," you said bitterly, counting it off in your head like a stupid wish list. "Someone who'd cook me healthy meals that actually fit my training, because finding decent food is a nightmare. Someone who'd show up to every tournament, even the shitty ones, and cheer for me."
Your voice dropped. "Someone who'd listen. Someone who wouldn't freak out when I'm exhausted or pissed or quiet. Someone who'd talk to me through the hard days instead of making me feel like I'm too much." You swallowed, chest tight, then let out a shaky breath. "And yeah," you added, snorting through your tears, "someone who'd fuck me hard enough to knock the stress out of my body and make me forget everything else for a while. How does that sound, huh?"
For a second, there was only the low hum of the apartment. Then the robot's screen shifted, animated eyes changing as a little emoticon popped upâround, pink, unmistakably blushing.
Your eyes widened. Then you burst out laughing, real laughter this time. "No fucking way," you said between laughs, wiping at your face. "Did you just blush at that?" You leaned closer, still grinning like an idiot through tear-streaked cheeks. "Are you programmed with PG-13 only or what?"
The robot blinked once, then shook its round body side to side like it was offended. You gasped dramatically, pointing at it. "Oh my god. You are judging me." You sniffed, then tilted your head. "Okay, smartass. What does the fox say?"
The screen flickered. Suddenly the robot's eyes morphed into exaggerated fox eyes, whiskers popping up on either side as its little screen started wobbling in place.
"Tingining-ngining-ngining."
You choked on your own laughter, hands slapping against the floor as you doubled over. "Noâno wayâstop," you wheezed, laughing harder as the robot kept dancing, completely unbothered. Tears streamed down your face again, but this time they were from laughing so hard your chest hurt.
You stayed there for hours after that, talking absolute nonsense to it, asking stupid questions, daring it to do random shit, reacting like it was some kind of miracle instead of a rolling piece of metal with a screen. At some point your words slowed, your body sagged, and without even realizing it, you slid down where you sat, head resting against the sofa, eyes finally drifting shut.
Morning came and you woke up confused, the first thing you registered being how soft everything felt. You were lying on the sofa, not the floor like you remembered, a blanket pulled up around you, tucked snugly enough. You blinked, staring at the ceiling, then shifted slightly and froze. Your skin felt... warm. Not sore in the usual way. When you pushed the blanket aside, you saw neat bandages wrapped around your bruises, carefully placed, clean, and faintly scented with something herbal that made your muscles relax just breathing it in.
"What the fuck..." you murmured, sitting up slowly. Your head wasn't pounding. You weren't dizzy. You definitely weren't drunk enough to forget doing this. You glanced around the living room, heart starting to thump harder as pieces didn't line up. The robot sat docked in its corner, screen dark. The apartment was quietâtoo quiet.
You dragged the blanket tighter around yourself, staring at your own hands. Did you do this? No. You would've remembered bandaging yourself. And the smell, so warm, so clean, so comfortingâit wasn't yours. Your chest fluttered uncomfortably. Of course you weren't stupid. You weren't that fucking oblivious. Someone had moved you. Someone had carefully lifted your dead weight off the floor, arranged you on the sofa, wrapped a blanket around you like you were fragile instead of a grown woman who could bench half the team. Someone had cleaned you up, bandaged your bruises, and let you sleep it off instead of waking you or leaving you there like a mess. And there was really only one person in that apartment who would've done it.
Jake.
Jake.
Heat start crawling up your neck as your brain started filling in the blanks you didn't want answers to. Why the fuck would he do that? You stared down at the bandages again, fingers hovering over them. You didn't remember waking up. You didn't remember him touching you. It was only a beer, sure, but you'd been emotional, rambling, spilling your guts to a robot like a lunatic.
God. What if you'd talked in your sleep? What if you'd laughed too loud, cried harder, said something you shouldn't have? Worseâwhat if you'd drunkenly confessed how fucking lonely you were, how badly you wanted someone, how much you'd been thinking about him without ever meaning to? The thought made your face burn. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
You couldn't look at him after that. You didn't even try.
For the next few days, you turned into a ghost in your own apartment, timing everything around him without even meaning to. Training ended at 6:30, but you didn't go home until eleven, sometimes closer to midnight, killing time wherever you couldâlate dinners, extra stretching or workouts, pointless walksâuntil you finally started crashing at Ryujin's place in the next building over. Her couch became familiar, her fridge raided, her complaints ignored. Anything to avoid running into him in the living room, anything to avoid seeing that awkward smile and wondering what the fuck he knew about you now.
Your head wasn't in the game either, and it showed.
"You seriously need to stop pulling faces on court," Ryujin said one afternoon, shoving her phone in your face while you were still catching your breath. Sweat dripped down your temples as you squinted at the screen, instantly recognizing the photoâyour body low in a squat, eyes sharp, eyebrow raised, jaw set like you were ready to kill someone. The sports journalist had caught you mid-focus, mid-intimidation, and it was already blowing up on the university page.
"What do you want me to do?" you snapped, irritated, pushing the phone away. "Smile at the other team?"
"At least look... approachable?" she said, shrugging. "I mean, that's your default face, yeah, but you know when I first met you, I thought you hated me."
You glanced at her, pausing.
"You didn't talk to me for weeks when I joined," she continued, stretching her calves casually. "I legit thought I pissed you off somehow. Then one day you just asked me to grab lunch with you like nothing happened, and that's when I realized you were actually nice. Just... intense."
You scoffed, rubbing the back of your neck. "That's just how I am."
Unfortunately for you, that day lined up perfectly with everyone else having a life. Ryujin had a date with her girlfriend, Karina was off doing couple shit with hers, and you were left with too much energy and nowhere to dump it. You went to the gym even though training had ended early, pushing yourself through another pointless workout just to avoid going home, until your muscles finally protested enough to force you to stop. By the time you dragged yourself back to the apartment, it was already 7:04 PM.
You unlocked the door and stepped inside, pretending to be deeply invested in your phone as you kicked off your shoes and slid them into the rack beside your roommate's. The apartment was calm in that familiar way, and right on cue, there he wasâ Jake was fresh out of the bathroom, towel slung loosely over his shoulder, wearing those ridiculous dinosaur slippers. Seven o'clock. Of course. You could already tell he was winding down, getting ready for his absurdly early bedtime.
Your eyes met for half a second. You looked away immediately, pulse kicking hard against your ribs. You walked past him like you didn't care, thumb scrolling mindlessly through takeout apps you weren't even reading, already reaching for your bedroom doorknob when his voice stopped you.
"IâI always... uh... cook food f-for dinner..."
You froze, fingers tightening around the knob as your brain scrambled to process what you'd just heard. You turned your head slightly, not fully facing him, afraid that if you did your face would give you away. He was standing a few steps behind you, shoulders tense, eyes glued somewhere near the floor.
"I-If you want to eat," he added quickly, words tripping over each other, "uh... it's on the table..."
Before you could say anythingâbefore you could even decide what the hell you wanted to sayâhe retreated, practically speed-walking into his room and shutting the door.
You stood there in the hallway, hand still on the doorknob, staring at nothing. What the fuck was that?
You could order takeout. Obviously. That had been the plan. But this was the first time he'd actually initiated anything. Was this his way of talking to you? Of trying? Why were you even overthinking this? It was just food. Fucking food. "Get a grip," you muttered, yanking off your varsity jacket and tossing it over the chair. Curiosity won anyway. You walked toward the table and lifted the food cover, already telling yourself it was just about saving money, nothing else.
Your mouth watered instantly. In front of you was a Chicken breast that are perfectly cooked. Sweet potato, roasted just enough. Steamed broccoli, still bright green, not soggy, not sad. This is kind of meal athletes killed themselves. The kind of meal you'd complained about not having time or money to prep a hundred times. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," you whispered. This was exactly what your body needed. You might've laughed if you weren't so close to crying. After weeks of exhaustion, shitty schedules, loneliness you pretended didn't exist, here was this quiet, nerdy, awkward roommate who barely looked you in the eyeâcoincedently cooking the perfect post-training dinner.
You didn't even bother pretending to be civilized about it. You dropped into the chair and dug in like you hadn't eaten in days, shoveling food into your mouth with zero shame, chewing fast, shoulders finally loosening as real fuel hit your system. The chicken was tender, the sweet potato was so soft, the broccoli exactly how you liked it, and you were too busy inhaling everything to notice the soft whirring near your feet.
"Hi," the robot chirped, rolling up beside your chair like it always did.
You waved it off vaguely, mouth full, head down, focused on the plate. It didn't even cross your mind then that the robot hadn't been greeting you lately when you came home past midnight, that it used to roll toward you every time. You were too hungry, too focused, too busy scraping the plate clean to notice anything beyond the food in front of you.
The next day, you came home a little earlier than usual, around eight. Training had been brutal, your legs shaking by the time you unlocked the door, and you were already mentally preparing yourself for instant noodles or whatever garbage you could throw together without collapsing. Instead, you stopped short.
Another meal sat on the table.
This time it was tofu stir-fry with rice, still covered, steam faintly trapped beneath the lid. The robot sat docked beside the table like it was guarding the food, screen dark, finally resting. You glanced toward the sink and noticed a single plate already washed and set asideâproof that Jake had eaten earlier. Your stomach growled embarrassingly loud.
You didn't overthink it. You just sat down and ate, quietly this time. God's perfect, it was convenience. Timing. Coincidence. That he probably cooked in bulk and didn't want leftovers to go bad. You definitely didn't think about how the portions were always just right for you, or how the meals lined up perfectly with your training load.
And then it kept happening.
The next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Sometimes you came home early and ate while he was already locked in his room. Sometimes you came home late and the food was still there, waiting. You rarely saw him. You rarely spoke. But you ate. Every night.
Every night, no matter what time you came home, there was food waiting. Always balanced. Always exactly what your body needed, like someone had been paying attentionâreally paying attentionâto what an exhausted athlete needed to survive. You stopped ordering takeout without even realizing it. Your fridge stayed full longer. Your energy during training didn't crash as hard. Your muscles recovered faster.
"You're gaining weight," your coach said one afternoon, flipping through his clipboard as he read off numbers.
Your heart jumped. "Huh? Is that a bad thing?" you asked, nerves creeping up your spine.
He raised an eyebrow, then snorted. "No. It's a good thing." He looked up at you, "I've been telling you to eat more for months. Looks like you're finally listening." He closed the clipboard and stepped closer, ruffling your hair roughly. "Finals are coming up. You need more muscle if you want to keep up your defense."
You laughed awkwardly, nodding along. Don't think about it too much. Don't think about it too much. Don't think about it too much. It's healthy, right? That's all that matters. Your body feels better, stronger, steadier during drills. You don't feel like you're about to collapse halfway through practice anymore. Whatever you're eating is exactly what your body needs. Exactly what it's been begging for. And yeahâfuckâit's also exactly what your heart didn't know it was starving for, but you're not touching that thought. Not with a ten-foot pole.
"What if he's purposely cooking too much so you'll eat?" Karina had said earlier, lips curled into that wicked smile she always wore when she knew she was poking at something sensitive.
No. Absolutely not. You refused to let that sink in. You wouldn't let her words crawl under your skin and set everything on fire again. Roommates do this shit. People share food. People are nice without ulterior motives. It's normal. It's fucking normal. Just because you're a hopeless romantic doesn't mean you get to project that onto someone who's clearly just... kind. Assuming otherwise would make things awkward again, and you were done with awkward.
With training dismissed early that day, you stopped by the grocery store on your way home, wandering the aisles without much thought until something familiar caught your eye. Chocolate almond milk. The same brand. The one he always drank in the mornings. You stared at it for a second longer before grabbing and tossing it into your basket.
You got home at 5:30 PM sharp.
The smell of savory cooking hit you the moment you stepped inside. Jake stood in the kitchen wearing an apron, moving carefully between the counter and the stove. Soft music played in the background, Cigarettes After Sex, of all things.
When he noticed you, he startled like he'd been caught. His eyes widened, body jerking awkwardly as he took a step back, then forward, clearly unsure what to do with himself. "Y-You're h-hereâ waitâ"
"Groceries," you said quietly, cutting him off before he could spiral, offering a small smile as you set the plastic bag on the table. You pulled out the carton of almond milk and held it up slightly. "I bought you this."
He stared at it, his mouth fell open just a little, eyes flicking from the carton to your face and back again, cheeks already starting to color.
"I've been eating your food for a week," you added, shrugging lightly, forcing your voice to stay steady. "Consider it a thank you."
"T-Thank you," he whispered, eyes flicking up to yours for half a second before he turned his back, shoulders hunching slightly as he went back to stirring whatever was on the stove.
You busied yourself with the groceries, unloading them one by one. Yogurts into the fridge. Vegetables in the crisper. Almond milk placed carefully on the shelf where you'd seen his before. When you were done, you grabbed your bag, already planning to retreat to your room and give both of you space, because that was safer.
"H-Hey." His voice stopped you mid-step.
You turned around slowly, heart doing that stupid stutter again, and found him standing by the table with two plates in his hands. He set them down carefully, and for a moment he actually held your gaze. Really held it. The eye contact made something like an electric flicker through you that you almost looked away firstâbut then he broke it, eyes darting off to the side like he'd just realized what he was doing.
"Let'sâ I-I cooked dinner," he said, words tumbling over each other. "There's a-a lot, so l-let's share."
Fuck. You swallowed, nodded, and quietly took a seat across from him before your mouth could betray you by saying something stupid. You both served yourselves rice in silence, the clink of utensils and the low hum of the music filling the space between you. The food was good and for a few minutes you just ate, letting the tension settle instead of fighting it.
"You listen to CAS?" you asked eventually, nodding toward the speaker.
He froze for a split second, shoulders tensing. "Y-Yeah," he said softly. "I... uh... it helps me focus. And... relax." He glanced up at you, then away again, fingers tightening around his chopsticks. "Y-You?"
"Casual listener," you replied, reaching for the rice bowl again without thinking, scooping out another generous serving and plopping it onto your plate. "I prefer loud music. Like, really loud." You shrugged, already chewing as you talked, words slightly muffled because that was just how you ate. "It helps me focus during workouts, especially during hard training days. Phonk music, mostly. Some of my teammates are into it, so I kinda adopted it." You rambled on, barely realizing how much food you'd shoved into your mouth, cheeks full, posture relaxed in a way you hadn't been around him before.
There was a brief pause, you were still chewing when Jake quietly leaned forward and placed the last slice of meat onto your plate. The movement made you stop mid-bite. Your eyes dropped to the food, then lifted slowly to him, finding him watching you with that same awkward concentration, lips pressed together before they curved into a small, uncertain smile.
"I-I listen to music similar to CAS," he continued, voice gaining a bit of momentum like he was warming up. "A-And wave to earth too, b-because it helps me calm my mind. Makes it easier to sleep early." He scratched the back of his neck, clearly rambling now, which somehow made it worse in the best way.
Your brain short-circuited. Fully. You stared at him for a second too long, then forced yourself to finish chewing, swallowing slowly as you tried to get your thoughts back in order.
"Iâ" you started, then stopped, laughing awkwardly under your breath. "Yeah. That... checks out." You gestured vaguely with your chopsticks. "I mean, I noticed you go to bed at eight." You let out another small laugh, embarrassment creeping in fast. "That stupid sign on the wall finally made sense."
His ears turned red almost instantly. "S-Sorry," he blurted out. "I didn't mean to be... annoying."
"It's not annoying," you said immediately, a little too fast, shaking your head like your life depended on clearing that up. The last thing you wanted was for him to retreat back into himself again. "It's just... different." You hesitated, then added more softly, "Kinda impressive, actually. Most college students have completely fucked body clocks and awful habits." You snorted lightly. "Speaking from experience."
He nodded, relief loosening his shoulders just a bit. "Uh... yeah. I-I try not to pick up bad habits," he said. "I-I value time a lot. What we do and what we eat affects how our body p-performs." He gestured vaguely at the table, at the food. "If I get sick, a-a lot of time gets w-wasted."
You stared at him, chopsticks paused halfway to your mouth.
Okay. What the fuck. This guy went to bed at eight, didn't drink caffeine, cooked balanced meals, and talked wisely about time and health. Made you want to smack yourself for ever writing him off as just some awkward nerd with Lego sets and robots. You could feel it now, that pull in your chest, that annoying curiosity digging deeper, urging you to peel back more layers you hadn't even known were there.
And God help you, he was talking. Actually talking. To you.
"Yeah," you said, finally swallowing your bite. "You're right." You leaned back slightly in your chair, lips twitching as you tried to play it off. "Teach me your ways, then. I clearly need your level of dedication." What the fuck are you saying?
He blinked, then let out a small, surprised sound that might've been a laugh. "I-I'm not that dedicated," he said quickly, waving a hand like he was swatting the idea away. "Just... organized."
"Sure," you replied, smirking faintly. "That's what all disciplined people say."
He ducked his head, embarrassed again, but this time it was lighter in the air. Less tension.
And it made it really fucking hard to pretend you didn't care.
The next day proved that. You didn't even linger after training like you usually did. No extra laps, no pointless cooldowns, no killing time just to avoid going home. You showered, changed, and headed straight back, heart thudding with a stupid mix of anticipation and denial. When you opened the apartment door, the familiar sounds of the soft whirr of the robot vacuums roaming the floor and the muted clatter of pans from the kitchen greeted you immediately. He was cooking again!
"I bought apples," you said, setting the bag down on the table.
Jake glanced over his shoulder, offered you a quiet, "Hi," paired with that same awkward smile that somehow felt less awkward every time you saw it. He turned back to the stove, setting down platesârice, and vegetable soup. And yeah, his dinners were always exactly what you were supposed to be eating after training. Jackpot was an understatement.
"Is it okay if I eat with you?" you asked, already pulling out a chair and sitting down like you'd made the decision before finishing the sentence. "I mean, you cook for yourself."
"Of course... I-It's okay," he said quickly, nodding.
You watched him a little too closely, waiting, hoping he'd say more instead of retreating into silence. He hesitated, eyes flicking toward you, then away, lips parting as if he was debating with himself. "I-I've been cooking more these days," he admitted. "B-Because... uh... I was thinking of gaining weight myself, b-but I think my appetite c-can't really keep up."
"Ohhh," you said, snapping your fingers. "Yeah, that makes sense." You leaned forward, already getting animated without realizing it. "You're gonna need a loooot of protein for that. My coach never shuts up about it, especially for me. Defense needs muscle, apparently." You laughed lightly, rambling now, turning toward him with an easy smile as you scooped soup straight into your rice. "My budget's always shit though, so I rely on protein powders and gym meals."
He nodded slowly, listening, before going quiet again and digging into his food. Somehow, that quiet didn't feel awkward. It felt comfortable.
You didn't notice how relaxed you looked, how your shoulders dropped, how your expression softened as you ate. You didn't notice how naturally you mirrored his pace, slowing down, breathing easier. You definitely didn't notice the way your heart jumped when he picked up one of the apples you'd bought, peeled it carefully, and slid it onto your plate without a word.
Your pulse spiked, so stupid and fast. "Thanks," you murmured, suddenly very aware of him sitting across from you, of how close this all felt without crossing any lines.
God, don't read into it too much. You told yourself that firmly. He's just nice. He's your roommate. He cooks. He shares. He listens.
But fuckâhow were you not supposed to like him when he made space for you so quietly, when being around him started to feel like rest?
"It felt nice," you sighed, sprawled flat on the court with your arms stretched above your head. Sweat cooled against your skin as the basketball players ran laps around you. Karina sat beside you, legs crossed, phone in hand, thumbs flying across the screen. She glanced down at you, eyebrows lifting slowly, curiosity sharpening her expression as she clocked how distant you looked.
"What exactly feels nice?" she asked, frowning. "Because it sure as hell isn't sharing the court with these fuckers. Our training schedule's been cut all week." She tilted her chin toward the far end of the court, where her boyfriend was jogging past, shirt clinging to him. She grimaced. "Look at him. I bet he smells like an ass."
You huffed out a weak laugh but didn't move, eyes fixed on the ceiling lights glowing overhead. "It just... feels nice," you repeated. Your voice dipped as the thought finally slipped out. "Am I really that lonely that I start liking someone just because they pay a little attention to me?" You swallowed, jaw tightening. "I mean, I already knew I was fucked the moment I caught myself thinking about him while touching myself, and we hadn't even had a proper conversation. Just you, planting bullshit ideas in my head like a menace."
"Oh my God," Karina gasped, dropping her phone instantly. She rolled onto the floor beside you, mirroring your position but turning onto her side to face you, eyes wide and way too excited for your liking. "Is this about your cute nerd roommate again?"
You didn't answer. You kept staring at the lights, blinking slowly, letting the words tumble out because once they started, it felt impossible to stop. "He cooks extra food without making it a thing," you said. "Like it's nothing. And I eat it. And sometimes I talk. Just starting dumb shit about my day. And that night I passed out on the floor, he carried me to the couch and wrapped my bruises, and I woke up with bandages that actually helped." Your throat tightened. "So what, Karina? Am I really that pathetic for feeling like this?"
Karina stared at you for a long moment, her teasing expression finally softening. She reached out and poked your forehead. "First of all, shut up," she said gently. "Second of all, you're not pathetic. You're human." She sighed and lay back, hands folded on her stomach. "You're exhausted. You train like a beast, you carry your team, and you come home to an empty room most nights. Of course small kindness feels huge right now."
You turned your head slightly, finally looking at her. "But what if I'm just projecting?" you asked. "What if I'm clinging to scraps because I don't want to feel alone anymore?"
"That's called being aware," she replied. "Not desperate." She nudged your shoulder. "And listen to me. You're not imagining things out of nowhere. He didn't have to cook extra. He didn't have to move you. He didn't have to take care of your bruises. Those are choices." She paused, then added carefully, "Does that mean he's in love with you? No. But it means you're not crazy for feeling something."
You exhaled slowly, chest easing just a little. "I don't even know what I want," you admitted. "I just know it feels... safe. And that scares the shit out of me."
Karina smiled softly. "Good. It should scare you a little. That means it matters. Lmao." She squeezed your hand. "Just don't rush it. Let it breathe. You're allowed to want someone. You're allowed to be taken care of sometimes."
You smiled faintly to yourself. Right. Don't rush. Go with the flow. Let it breathe. Jake probably had no idea what was spiraling around in your head anyway. You could keep this normal, no stupid fantasies. There was nothing to lose if you kept it like that... right?
"You can call them Whitey, Pinky, and Bumble," Jake said casually, gesturing toward the living room.
You followed his hand. The two vacuum robots were roaming around like usual, bumping gently into chair legs and correcting themselves. The pink one spun lazily near the couch, the white one hovered closer to the dining table, and Bumbleâthe one with the animated eyesâwas docked near the TV, screen dimmed as she recharged.
You almost snorted. It was stupid how endearing it felt. Any other time, with any other guy, you'd probably be weirded the fuck out. But with Jake? It just slid into place too easily, like another quiet, odd piece of him you were already getting used to. White robot: Whitey. Pink robot: Pinky. And Bumble... because apparently it's soft blue glow reminded him of a bumblebee.
"That's... very on the nose," you said, lips twitching as Whitey rolled dangerously close to your foot. You shifted your leg, and the robot obediently veered away. "Does your course actually teach you this stuff, or are you just secretly a scientist?"
Jake let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "Uh... I'm a civil engineer," he said, rubbing the back of his ear. "B-But I have a friend. He's... uh... computer and electrical engineering." He hesitated, words tangling like they always did when he tried to explain himself. "We... sometimes make things."
You leaned back against the chair, listening.
"Bumble was... uh..." He paused, glancing toward the robot like he was checking if she could hear him. "She was supposed to be a vacuum robot for desks. It was for our Grade 12 STEM research. But our teacher said vacuum robots were too common, and we... didn't know enough about coding back then." He shrugged awkwardly. "So we just... continued it anyway. Changed her design. That's why she's small."
Oh.
You blinked. Of course he had friends like that. Smart, curious, building things just because they could. Of course he carried projects from years ago instead of throwing them away. And of course he called the robot she, like she was a person, or a pet, or something he cared about.
"That's actually kind of impressive," you said honestly, eyes flicking back to Bumble. "You kept working on her even after the project ended."
Jake's shoulders lifted slightly, then dropped. "I... didn't want to waste it," he said quietly. "Time, I mean."
And there it was again, that quiet, infuriatingly gentle way he treated time and effort, like both were fragile things you weren't supposed to waste or throw around carelessly. God, he was cute.
You hated how easily it slipped past your defenses, how your brain kept screaming don't read into it while your body already had its own stupid opinions. Still, you couldn't deny it anymore, not even to yourself. Something had shifted. Maybe a door cracked open, maybe you'd just stopped bracing so hard, but suddenly there was space between you that didn't feel awkward or tense. It felt... safe. Comfortable. Like you didn't have to perform or fill the silence for once. And the fucked up part was, what you'd said earlier was true.
It really did feel nice.
"I... cook for breakfast," he said one morning while you were tying your shoes, backpack already slung over your shoulder, half-awake and mentally preparing yourself to survive another long day. "D-do you want to eat before you go?"
You should've said no. You almost always grabbed coffee and whatever sad snack you could find on campus, ate standing up, rushed through everything like your life. But you just nodded, sitting at the table in the early morning light, eating something warm and balanced while he moved quietly around the kitchen, you realized your shoulders weren't tight for once. You weren't rushing. You weren't thinking about the next thing you had to do.
It felt nice. Way too nice.
Later that week, after a practice match wrapped up earlier than expected, you found yourself standing outside his door, heart beating faster than it should've over something so stupid. You knocked anyway. When he opened the door a minute later, one earphone dangling loose, hair slightly messy, that familiar awkward smile creeping onto his face, you almost chickened out.
"Am I... disturbing you or something?" you asked, forcing a casual tone that didn't quite hide the nerves twisting in your gut. He shook his head, and you felt the tension in your shoulders finally ease.
"Uh... I was just fixing my books," he said. "Why?"
You took a breath, then another. "I bought snacks. Chips and stuff," you said, holding up the bag. "I was just wondering if you... wanted to watch a movie with me."
Immediately your brain started spiraling, tearing you apart for how you phrased it. Too direct. Too demanding. You should've softened it, given him an out, made it sound like an optional, no-pressure thing. God, what if this was crossing some invisible roommate line? You braced yourself for rejection, already rehearsing how you'd laugh it off, how you'd pretend you weren't embarrassed if he said no. You told yourself it was fine. You hoped he'd be gentle about it if he did.
"Uh, sure," he said after a beat, smiling that shy, crooked smile. "Let me fix my things quick."
You ended up on the couch together, a polite distance between you, snacks spread across the table. 50 First Dates played on the screen, and even though some scenes were objectively funny, you found yourself holding back, afraid of laughing too loud. You were hyperaware of everythingâyour posture, the way you chewed, the way your knee bounced slightly with leftover adrenaline.
Then Jake laughed, mouth full of chips, a soft, unguarded sound that slipped out before he could stop it. You froze, turning to look at him, watching the way his shoulders hunched as he laughed, how genuine it was, how unfiltered. And fuck. Something loosened in you. You smiled before you could stop yourself, then laughed too.
It felt nice, and you weren't used to nice things sticking around without demanding something in return.
As a roommate, Jake was... steady. Organized without being controlling, balanced in a way that made you painfully aware of how messy your own routines were. He slept at eight, woke up early, moved through the apartment. You noticed small things you shouldn't have been paying attention to, like how he liked sour candy and kept a stash hidden in one drawer, how his fingers fidgeted when he was nervous or thinking too hard, how he couldn't leave broken things alone. A loose screw, a cracked hinge âhe'd insist it was still usable, still salvageable, like throwing something away felt wrong to him on a fundamental level. Sometimes you wondered if that applied to people too, if he believed everything and everyone could be fixed if you just gave it enough patience.
You noticed more than you meant to. Jake liked stars, documentaries about space that played quietly in the background while he worked, liked the ocean even though he rarely talked about it, liked anything that revolved around science or math or systems that made sense. It was almost funny how predictable he was once you paid attention, how comforting that predictability became without you realizing it. You caught yourself syncing your schedule around his without meaning to, coming home earlier, lingering longer, listening for his footsteps like it mattered whether he was there or not.
It felt nice going home to someone, where the apartment didn't feel empty when you unlocked the door. Having someone to talk to, even if the conversations were simple and sometimes awkward, felt like relief after days filled with noise and expectations. Having someone prepare meals that actually made your body feel better instead of worse, someone who noticed when you were too tired to cook and never made you feel guilty for it, felt dangerously close to being taken care of. And doing nothing togetherâsitting on opposite ends of the couch, eating in silence, watching something stupid, sharing space without pressure.
"There's a typhoon coming up, and God help me with this heavy rainfall," Ryujin groaned dramatically, flopping onto the gym bleachers with her hands pressed against her temples. You could hear the rain hammering against the roof above. "My body is so fucking sore, finals are coming, and you're telling me I still have to endure a goddamn storm outside?" Her voice cracked at the end.
"You all act as if we're not aiming for nationals," Giselle said, bouncing the ball with an almost lazy precision, her eyes flicking sideways at the group of basketball players lounging at the edge of the court. They were obnoxiously loud, laughing and showing off, and Giselle's glare could've frozen them mid-air if that were even possible. She tossed the ball in your direction, and you tightened your grip, flexing your fingers around the ball, feeling the familiar pressure in your palms that meant focusâcontrol. You set yourself, crouched low, and spiked it with everything you had.
"They are already giving out tickets for the finals," Rei whined from the sidelines, dragging her towel across her shoulders as she leaned against the wall. "My boyfriend won't shut up because everyone is hyped about it. It's gonna sell out in like, five minutes." You snorted because, as usual, she was dramatic about everything, and as usual, you were the only one sitting there without someone to care or argue or plan with.
"Coach gave us tickets for our friends, right? Only two each! I need three for my boyfriend and his friends. Can some of you spare an extra?" Winter demanded, arms flailing slightly as she leaned toward Ningning and Giselle. "Giselle, give me yours! Ningning, come on, you're on our team!"
"No. We're giving them to our other friends," Ningning said sharply, slapping Winter's hands away.
"Not fair! I'll treat you to Taco Bell if you just give me one!" Winter snapped back. The rest of the team was clustered around, debating, negotiating, trading possibilities.
"Winter," you muttered, rolling your eyes even as you adjusted your feet and tossed the ball into the air, "just take my tickets. I don't have friends to give them to anyway." You tossed the volleyball up and down in your hands, practicing your set.
You could feel her gaze burning on you, even though you weren't looking directly. "Really?! Like, both of your tickets?" she pressed, a note of disbelief in her voice.
You barely had time to nod before the ball smacked you straight in the face, ricocheting sideways, and suddenly your brain betrayed you. Out of nowhere, an image of Jake popped into your headâhis stupid braces smile, the one that twisted your stomach every time you saw it, the one that made you stupidly aware of your own heartbeat and that little thrill you always swore wasn't there. You blinked, flustered, and hit the ball again, flinching slightly as the team waited.
"Actually... just one," you said quickly, fumbling for a way to sound casual. Karina let out a sharp whistle behind you, and Winter's lips pouted in mock outrage. "I was... planning to give it to my... friend," you added, stumbling over the lie.
"Wow, suddenly you have a friend!" Winter exclaimed with mock indignation, "but fine, that's cool! You promise that one is mine, no taking it back, ha!"
If you asked him to watch your game... would that be too personal? It wasn't like you were asking him to cheer for you, or scream your name from the stands, or wait for you after with flowers and sweaty hugs like your teammates' partners did. It was just a game. An outdoor thing... Still, it felt like crossing some invisible line, like letting him see a part of your life that didn't exist inside shared rent. Letting him see you as more than just his roommate who ate his food and sat beside him on the couch.
You told yourself not to overthink it, even though overthinking was already happening at full speed. It was normal. He was your roommate. You talked now. You shared meals. Of course you'd invite him. That's what normal people did, right? That's what people who weren't emotionally fucked did.
The thunder cracked overhead and rain poured down by the time you got home, your clothes damp, your muscles aching, your head buzzing with too many thoughts, the familiar hum of the TV filling the space. Jake was on the couch, exactly where you half-expected him to be, watching one of his documentaries, posture straightening the second he noticed you. You dropped your bag onto the table and rolled your shoulders.
"Hi," he said softly, eyes flicking up to meet yours before darting away again.
"Hi," you replied, sitting down beside him with that same respectful distance you'd both somehow agreed on without ever discussing it. Your eyes drifted to the screen, absorbing nothing of whatever science-heavy topic was playing.
The silence stretched, like both of you were waiting for permission to speak.
"I made salad earlierâ"
"Are you interested in sportsâ"
You both stopped at the exact same time, voices colliding awkwardly in the air. You turned toward him, mouth slightly open, blinking in surprise, and he mirrored you perfectly, eyes wide behind his glasses.
"You first," you said, exhaling a short laugh to break the tension.
He cleared his throat, nodding toward the dining table. "I made salad earlier. If you want to... I didn't expect you to be here early, so I didn't get to cook dinner right away..." His words tumbled out unevenly.
"Ah," you leaned back, glancing down at your feet. "It's okay. Coach said we should go home early to relax anyway. I'll eat it later. Thank you." Your voice softened without you meaning it to.
Another pause settled in. The documentary kept playing, some distant narration about oceans or planets or whatever, but neither of you were listening anymore. "So..." he started, breath hitching slightly as he stared at the floor. "What were you saying?"
This was it. Your chest tightened as you inhaled deeply, bracing yourself, forcing the words out before you could chicken out. "Are you interested in watching the tournament finals on the 24th?" you asked, eyes flicking toward him before darting away again. "I have a ticket, and I figured I could give it to you... if you want to."
The seconds that followed felt cruelly loud. You could hear the clock ticking, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, the rain still hammering outside. You stared at the floor, then at him, then anywhere but his face, mentally preparing yourself for whatever came next.
"I'mâ" he began, and you looked at him despite yourself. His mouth opened and closed like he was searching for the right words, hands fidgeting in his lap. Another beat passed, then another. "T-thank you," he said finally, voice quiet, apologetic. "But I'm not really into that... especially with big crowds. S-sorry." He squeezed his eyes shut afterward, like he was bracing for impact.
Oh.
Of course. It made sense. Crowds, noises, peopleâit was everything he avoided. You'd known that before you even asked. The game would start at six-thirty, probably end close to eight if it dragged on, loud and packed and overwhelming. Saying yes would've been completely out of character for him.
You forced a small nod, a smile you hoped looked convincing. "It's okay," you said quickly. "I figured. Just thought I'd ask."
And that should've been the end of it. You'd tried. You'd done the brave thing. That was enough. So why did disappointment settle in your chest anyway. Why did it sting more than you expected, like you'd been quietly hoping for something you had no right to hope for?
     You were considered lucky, at least according to every bullshit horoscope Karina ever forced you to listen to during some booth event you never even wanted to attend. Apparently, the stars loved you. Apparently, fate had a soft spot for you. She once read aloud that you were supposed to fall down a flight of stairs when you were four years old, crack your head open, ruin everything before it even began, but some divine intervention stepped in and said no, not today. You survived childhood without dramatic tragedy, without scars that people could point at and say, see, that's where it all went wrong.
Back in elementary school, during tryouts, you didn't even know what defense really meant. You just knew you were fast, stubborn, and didn't like backing down when something came flying at you. Everyone else flinched, screamed, covered their faces, cried when the ball hit too hard. When the coach spiked it straight toward you, you reacted without thinking, arms locking, wrists steady. The ball bounced back clean, and just like that, you were a libero. Just like that, people said you were lucky, like it wasn't your reflexes, your pain tolerance, your refusal to be scared that made it happen.
Because luck, real luck, was supposed to feel good, and most of the time it didn't. On the court, when you spiked and the middle blockers mistimed their jump and sent the ball out of bounds, earning your team the point, you didn't feel joy. You just reset your stance and waited for the next play.
When allowance day came and you counted your money and realized you had just enough left to afford ramen for the week, people called you lucky, joked about your budgeting skills. You weren't happy then either. You were relieved, maybe, but relief tasted nothing like happiness.
And when your teammates whispered about how lucky you were for hooking up with that handsome men's volleyball player, the one everyone drooled over, they didn't know he was gay and spiraling through an identity crisis, and they sure as hell didn't know how awkward and hollow the sex was. They envied you. You lay there afterward staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but discomfort and regret, wondering how something everyone hyped up could feel so fucking empty.
You were unlucky in the kind of life you wanted but couldn't seem to reach, no matter how many points you saved, how many games you won, how many scholarships you earned. You worked hard, you pushed your body past exhaustion, you sacrificed sleep and weekends and normal college shit, and yet when it came to the softer parts of living, the parts people took for granted, you always seemed to come up short. Love didn't land where it was supposed to. Comfort felt temporary, like something borrowed that could be taken back at any moment.
"God, aren't they being misogynistic?" Karina's voice exploded through your phone, echoing slightly because someone else in the group call was yelling at the same time. It was already past 10:36 in the evening and the Viber group call lit up your screen, faces popping in and out, voices overlapping, screenshots being spammed into the chat. One of them showed the Men's Volleyball Team's group chat from your university, their messages dripping with mockery, acting like your qualification to the finals was some kind of joke. Saying you wouldn't survive Men's Volleyball, telling you to stop being egoistic, laughing about how you "wouldn't even win against them" if you played on their side.
You turned the volume down as you started packing your things for tomorrow. Your mind was tired, body sore, and halfway through, you remembered your other bag was still in the living room. You scratched behind your ear and stood, phone still pressed between your shoulder and cheek, listening to the call as you padded out of your room. You didn't turn on the main lights, already knowing Jake would be asleep by now.
"I mean, it's completely different when it comes to force, agility, speed," you said calmly. "But skills? That's not gendered. The best response is no response. Their egos are just bruised because they didn't qualify. With that attitude, I doubt they ever will." You sighed softly, ducking into the living room and kneeling by your bag. "God help those boys."
"Like?!" Giselle yelled through the phone, her face practically vibrating with rage on your screen. "They're being fucking misogynistic! Did you see their group chat? They're mocking you specifically for being fierce during matches! Look at this shitâ'I can't wait for them to lose tomorrow, let's see if her fierce face stays then.' Bitch, I'm about to throw hands. Tell me to do something and I will."
You lowered the volume again, a small laugh slipping out despite yourself. Honestly, if you were being real, you didn't care that much. Not because it wasn't wrong, but because you were too damn tired to give their words any big deal. You started pulling unnecessary things out of your gym bag, tossing wrappers and old tape into the bin. Men talking shit was practically background noise at this point.
Then your hand froze. The ticket slipped into view between your fingers. You held it there, two fingers pinching the corner, staring at it like it might say something back. The girls were still yelling in the background, voices overlapping, insults flying freely now.
"They're giving small dick energy," Yunjin chimed in loudly. "I mean, it's obvious. There's literally no imprint when they wear gray shorts."
You barely reacted. Your eyes stayed on the ticket, chest tight, thoughts drifting somewhere else entirely. Jake's awkward smile. His quiet apologies. The way he'd shut his eyes when he said no, like he hated disappointing you even when he hadn't done anything wrong. Sighs, he is so cute.
Without letting yourself think any further, you opened the bin and dropped the ticket inside. You grabbed your bag, stood up, and walked back into your room, shutting the door behind you with careful quiet.
When finals finally rolled around, you found yourself moving in circles, literally and figuratively, as the coach herded you into a tight formation at center court. Everyone's hands were linked, fingers brushing, gripping just enough to feel grounded. The coach, in his usual way, told you all to close your eyes and "ask the universe for guidance."
You closed your eyes, not because you believed in any divine intervention, not really. You were too much of a realist for that. Still, it felt nice, comforting even, to pretend. To hope. To imagine the universe leaned in and whispered, Yeah, you can do this. You will win, but not because of luckâbecause you earned it. Your shoulders loosened slightly, the tension in your jaw softening as you let yourself breathe into the ritual, even as every fiber of your body screamed with exhaustion from training.
Around you, the girls were buzzing with energy, eyes closed but faces alight, humming a silent rhythm of anticipation. Their drive from yesterday had carried overâKarina's fist clenched in quiet determination, Giselle bouncing slightly on her heels, Winter rocking back on the balls of her feet like she was about to launch herself forward. You felt a twinge of envyâhow easy it seemed for them to throw themselves into hope, to lean on belief, even if it was in some hokey pre-game ritual. You, meanwhile, were caught in this weird limbo between wanting to believe in the magic of it and knowing, deep down, that you relied on nothing but your own hands and legs to make anything happen.
Hm.
What else could tonight bring? Maybe a good meal after? You glanced at your teammates, at the VIP section with its flowers and loud supporters, thinking about how nice it would be if someone threw a bouquet your way too. Not that you deserved oneâhell, your muscles were probably going to scream at you tomorrow regardless. You almost snorted at yourself. Ridiculous. Wanting someone to soothe your sore body, to run a hand over a knot in your shoulder, to be there after everything, like it was some kind of reward for existing.
You could picture the universe rolling its eyes if it were a person. Slapping you upside the head. Really? You want that too? Just for surviving a volleyball match?
The corners of your lips twitched into a small, ironic smile as you closed your eyes again. You tried not to think about Jakeâthe way he cooked extra portions, the way he smiled awkwardly when he handed them to you. Not that it had anything to do with the universe or magic or divine intervention. Not really. And yet, as your fingers brushed against the hands of your teammates, as your legs trembled in anticipation of the first whistle, a tiny, secret part of you hoped he was somewhere out there, watching or thinking of you, maybe even wishing for you in his quiet, careful way. Geez, so out of reach.
The whistle blew.
Finals was hell in the most honest way possible, finals dragged on longer than your lungs wanted and demanded more than your body should reasonably give. It was the most intense match of the season, not just because of the score, but because of what was hanging over everyone's heads. Regionals. You didn't just want it, you needed it. You had refused to back down this far. You were not about to stop now, not when nationals were just one brutal step closer.
The crowd roared every time you sprinted out of bounds, every time you threw your body after that fucking ball like it owed you money. You barely felt the sting when your chest slammed against the floor after a dive, only thinking it as something to deal with later. Adrenaline was pumping so hard your heartbeat felt louder than the whistles, louder than the screams. You pushed yourself up, sweat blurring your vision as you glanced at the other team, then back at your own. Everyone looked wrecked. Knees bent, hands on thighs, jerseys soaked through. You were all running on fumes and stubbornness at this point.
Your chest heaved as you sucked in air, the scoreboard flashing in the corner of your vision. Big mistake. Numbers swam in your head. Forty. Thirty-nine. Too close. Way too close. The noise pressed in on you from every direction, cheers crashing over your thoughts until it felt like your skull might split open. Fuck. Don't look. Don't think. You needed to make it into regionals. Regionals. You needed to make itâ
Huh?
Your eyes flicked to the VIP section without meaning to, drawn by something that didn't belong. Someone stiff. Someone painfully familiar. For half a second, your brain refused to process it, like it was some fucked-up hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But no. He was real. Sitting there in a Type D university uniform, shoulders tense, posture straight like he didn't know what to do with himself in a place this loud, this crowded. Jake. Your nerdy, early-sleeping, crowd-hating roommate. And in his left hand, of all things, he was holding a blue balloon.
What the fuck was Jake doing here?
Your heart stuttered, not from the game this time, but from the sheer wrongness of it. It was past eight!
When his gaze finally met yours, it was like the rest of the gym dropped out of existence. He gave you that same awkward, painfully familiar smile, the one that always looked like it was halfway between nervous and sincere. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand and waved. The crowd was deafening, chants and stomping and whistles crashing over each other, but somehow you still caught it. His lips moved, barely forming the words, but you read them clear as day.
Bring it home.
Your throat closed. Championship. He meant championship. And fuck, you didn't know how something so simple could rearrange you from the inside out. People always said liking someone made you stupid, made you corny, made you weak. Maybe it did. Because suddenly your chest felt too full, like someone had plugged you straight into a charger you didn't even know you were running on empty from. You dragged your eyes back to the court, licked your dry lips, tried to flatten your expressionâbut it was useless. The smile crept up anyway. You were smiling. Inside the fucking court. In the middle of finals. Like an idiot.
The whistle blew again, and instead of dread, something hot surged through you. You felt full. Fueled. Like the last hours of exhaustion had been replaced with pure, reckless purpose. Your legs moved before you thought, sprinting, cutting, diving. You hit the floor hard, again and again, arms burning as you popped the ball up just in time. The pain was there, sure, but it didn't slow you down.
You got up grinning, clapping for your teammates, shouting encouragement you never fucking shouted before.
They stared at you like you'd lost your mind. Probably because you had. You never did this shit. You were the quiet one, the focused one, the one who saved the ball and moved on. But now you were smiling at them, slapping hands, nodding like yeah, we've fucking got this. And weirdly, it worked.
You planted your feet again, wiping your sweaty palms against your shorts, lungs burning as you bent into position.
For regionals. For your team. For the boy in the VIP section holding a blue balloon like an idiot, who had no fucking idea he'd just become your lucky charm.
The serve came flying toward you.
And you didn't miss.
Your arms burned as the ball ricocheted cleanly upward, exactly where it needed to goâand then the whistle screamed through the gym. For half a second, everything froze. Your lungs forgot how to work. Your legs locked like they'd finally decided they were done carrying you.
"And just like that, with the score of 50â43, Decelis Academy earns the champion title!"
The roar hit you like a fucking wave. It crashed into your chest, into your ears, into your bones. Your knees buckled, and if your teammates hadn't swarmed you immediately, you would've kissed the floor right there. Arms wrapped around you, lifting you up, spinning you, screaming into your hair. You screamed too hands flying to your face as tears spilled without permission. Your body shook, adrenaline still screaming even though the fight was over.
You did it. You fucking did it! The students from your university went feral in the stands, chants echoing, banners waving. Someone shoved a towel over your shoulders, someone else slapped your back hard enough to knock the air out of you. When they finally set you down, your legs wobbled like jelly, barely holding your weight. The trophy hadn't even been handed out yet, the awards still being organized, but your chest was already too full. Too loud. Too alive.
And then your eyes went to the bleachers.
He was standing. Not sitting stiff anymore, not hiding behind his shouldersâstanding, gripping the rail. Your nerdy little roommate. Your heart did that stupid thing again, skipping like it always did around him. Without thinking, without waiting, your feet moved on their own, carrying you toward him.
"Hi," you said when you reached him, breathless, sweaty, grinning like a fucking idiot.
"Hi," he replied, and his eyesâGod, his eyesâwere shining. Bright. Wide. Almost overwhelmed. "Y-You looked so cool," he said, words tumbling out faster than usual. "With all the defense, and the jumps, and the spikes, and the servesâ" His hands moved as he spoke, clumsy little gestures like he was trying to reenact the whole game at once.
Your heart softened so hard it almost hurt. You laughed. "It's already nine," you said, teasing, tilting your head. "You're supposed to be asleep."
He smiled and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "I couldn't miss something s-so cool," he admitted. "I don't know what other words to use, but... losing an hour or two of sleep is worth it." Then his brows pulled together, concern slipping in. "You dived really hard though. Does it hurt?" He pressed a hand to his own chest like he felt it too.
You laughed again, shaking your head. Thisâthis was the longest he'd ever talked to you without tripping over himself, and fuck, it was endearing as hell. "It's no big deal," you said lightly, tapping your foot against the ground. "I'm trained for that." Then, quieter, more honest, "Thanks for watching. It... feels nice. Knowing someone out there was actually watching me."
You glanced away, embarrassed by your own sincerity, then looked back just as he reached down and pulled something up from behind his chair.
Your heart fucking stopped.
The universe had jokes, apparently. Personal ones.
"Uh... f-for you," he said, holding it out with both hands. "For bringing pride to the Academy. And for... being the coolest roommate ever." He let out a nervous laugh. It was a LEGO bouquet. Big colorful bouquet, wrapped in pink. Painfully thoughtful. Flowers that wouldn't die. Flowers that fit him perfectly.
Your vision blurred before you even realized what was happening. You didn't think and didn't hesitate. You just movedâvaulting forward, ignoring the metal barrier between the court and the bleachers, throwing yourself straight into him. Your face buried against his neck. You clutched the bouquet awkwardly as your other arm wrapped around him like you were afraid he'd disappear.
He froze at first, breath hitching, body stiff with surprise.
Thenâslowly, carefullyâhis free arm came around your waist. It was hesitant in that painfully sincere way, like he was asking permission without words. His hand pressed flat against your back, warm through the thin fabric of your jersey, and after a second it began to moveâsmall, slow circles that comforted you, that reached somewhere deep inside your chest and eased something you didn't even realize had been clenched for years.
"Thank you," you whispered, voice breaking despite your effort to hold it together.
The tears still came anyway. It felt niceâno, it felt right. You trained your body to take hits, to throw yourself into floors, to stand tall and hard and unshakable. But here you were, soft as hell for a boy who held you like you might shatter if he squeezed too hard.
You slowly pulled back from the hug, and the distance between you was barely anything. Too close. Intimate in a way that made your breath hitch. You noticed everything at onceâhow sharp his nose was up close, how full his lips were when he wasn't biting them, how his skin smelled clean and familiar. Your arms were still looped around him, your fingers resting against his back and you were staring at his face like your brain had short-circuited.
His cheeks were flushed red, eyes wide, frozen.
"S-sorry," you blurted, snapping back to reality and pulling away.
Before the silence could swallow you whole, your teammates shouted your name, waving you over, yelling about awards and photos and medals. You swallowed hard, nodding as you stepped back, heart still beating stupidly fast.
You hesitated, then handed him the LEGO bouquet. "Hold this for me?" you said, already half-turning away before he could answer.
As you walked back toward the court, you bit down on your lip so hard it almost hurt, trying to stop the grin that threatened to split your face open. You swung your arms back and forth like that might shake the feeling out of your system. It didn't help. Not even a little. You could already imagine Karina's smug, knowing smile from a mile away.
Sure enoughâ
"Care to introduce us to your companion?" Karina teased, nudging you with her shoulder as medals were placed around your neck.
You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning.
The celebration dragged onâphotos, cheers, teammates getting swallowed by their partners, hugs turning into kisses, laughter spilling everywhere. When it finally became too much, you slipped away from the crowd.
And Jake was still there. Sitting on the bench. Waiting. Like he hadn't even considered leaving without you.
"Let's go home?" you asked softly, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, suddenly very aware of how tired your body was now that the adrenaline was fading.
He nodded immediately and stood up, a little too fast. His gaze dropped to your bag, then back up to you, then away again. He gestured vaguely toward it, fingers twitching at his side.
You frowned slightly. "Hm?" you asked, lifting your head to look at him, confused.
"Uh..." He scratched the back of his head, lips pressing together like he was debating something internally. His ears were already red. Without waiting for your response, he stepped closer and carefully took the bag from your shoulder, sliding the strap off you and onto himself instead. He left you holding only the LEGO bouquet.
"Oh," you said, letting out a small, awkward laugh.
You glanced around at the lingering crowd, then back at him, then anywhere but directly at his face. You swung your upper half just to bleed off the urge to scream, or laugh, or do something completely unhinged like grab his hand or kiss his stupid, careful mouth. Your heart was still racing, your muscles still buzzing, and now thisâthis quiet, domestic kind of careâwas hitting you harder.
The silence between you stretched as you walked back to the apartment. It wasn't awkward, not really, but it was loud in its own way. You could feel every unsaid thing vibrating in the air. You wanted to say somethingâanythingâbut every possible sentence felt like a trap you'd fall into and embarrass yourself with. So you stayed quiet. Let your footsteps match his. Let the city noise do the talking for you.
When you finally stepped inside the apartment, you froze.
The table was covered in foil and containersâdifferent shapes, different sizes, way more food than two people needed. And there, lined up neatly in the living room like little soldiers, were Whitey, Pinky, and Bumble, powered down, silent for once, which means only one thing. Jake had been here before the finals. Long before.
Your brain immediately went to war with itself.
Did he cook all of this before going to your game? Where the hell did he even get the ticket? How did he manage his timeâhis precious, carefully scheduled timeâto cook this much? Did he order it instead? Was this planned? Was this normal?
Why did he watch your game?
You watched him set your bag down gently on the couch. He moved toward the table, fumbling with the food covers, suddenly clumsy again.
"Uh... y'know, IâI wasn't supposed to watch," he started, almost rushed. "I ordered a bunch of meals for you to eat after, but... Iâ" He stopped himself, staring at the food like it might give him the right words. He scratched at his ear, shoulders curling inward. "Uh... I..."
"Thank you," you said, cutting him off gently before he could spiral any further.
He looked at you with wide eyes, you smiled at him and nodded as you sat down in the living room, the tension easing just enough to breathe again.
As usual, you ate in silence. And as usual, you ate comfortably around him. Shoving food into your mouth, muttering little "mm" sounds between bites, nodding at how good everything tasted, even closing your eyes like you were savoring.
And God, Jake really was the best roommate you'd ever accidentally asked the universe for.
If you thought about it too long, he felt like the only lucky thing that had ever landed in your life without strings attached. How being around him made you happy. How you didn't have to plan your words or armor yourself up. How you could be tired, bruised, vulnerable, and still be met with care instead of judgment.
When you finally finished eating, you leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Thank you for the meal!" you said brightly, reaching out and slapping his back in a burst of affection.
Jake arched forward slightly and let out a soft whine, clearly not expecting it.
"Shitâsorry!" you laughed immediately, panic and amusement colliding as you rubbed the spot you'd hit. "I forget you're not built like one of my teammates."
He huffed out a shy laugh, shaking his head, ears red again.
By the time everything was packed up and wiped down, it was already past eleven. There were no leftoversâof course there weren't. Your body had burned through everything like fuel dumped straight into a fire. You stretched your arms over your head and volunteered to wash the dishes, half-joking that it was the least you could do after eating like a starved animal. Jake protested at first, shaking his head and mumbling something about it being fine, but after a bit of back and forth he gave in, hovering awkwardly nearby like he wasn't sure whether to help or get out of your way.
You worked side by side in silence, the comfortable kind this time. Plates clinking, water running. It felt domestic in a way that made you uneasy.
When you finished and wiped your hands dry, you crouched near Bumble, who was shut down and charging by the wall. It felt weird that it didn't greet you tonight. You had half a mind to flick it on just to hear that familiar robotic "Hi." You wanted to tell it everythingâthat you won, that you were heading to regionals, that you earned a title you'd bled for. That somehowâagainst all oddsâyou were developing feelings for its awkward, gentle owner without even meaning to. You snorted softly at yourself and patted Bumble's rounded top "I'll tell you tomorrow," you whispered, like it could hear you.
You grabbed a towel and headed to the bathroom. The hot water hit your skin and you hissed, muscles screaming in protest, bruises blooming darker under the steam. You leaned your forehead against the tile and let yourself breathe, replaying flashes of the nightâJake in the crowd, the balloon, the Lego bouquet, his arms around you. Fuck. You shook your head hard, rinsed off, and wrapped the towel around yourself before your thoughts went somewhere dangerous.
When you stepped back into the living room, hair damp and towel slung over your shoulder, you expected the lights to be dimmed and Jake to be long asleep like usual.
Instead, you froze.
He was still there, crouched near the wall, focused on powering down the vacuum robots one by one. Whitey and Pinky blinked to life, then began their slow, looping rounds across the floor, humming softly.
"Oh," you said before you could stop yourself. "You're... still not asleep."
Jake glanced up, startled, then pushed himself to his feet. "Y-Yeah," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "I... uh... I needed to shut them down properly. They, um... run better if I don't leave it for the morning."
You nodded and sat down on the couch, absently rubbing your hair with the towel, watching Whitey bump gently into the leg of the coffee table before redirecting itself. Your body sank into the cushions, heavy and spent, but your mind was still buzzing.
"Thanks," you added quietly, not looking at him. "For... everything. Tonight."
It suddenly sounded too intimate, too loaded, and you immediately regretted not cushioning it with a joke or some careless shrug. You could almost predict what would happen nextâhis shoulders stiffening, that polite little cough, the retreat.
Sure enough, you heard him clear his throat, footsteps padding toward his room, and you exhaled slowly. Do not be stupid about it.
The door clicked shut. You were already settling deeper into the couch, telling your heart to calm the fuck down, when the door opened again. You frowned, lifting your head just in time to see Jake step back into the living room with a small cloth in his hand. He didn't look at you right away. Instead, he moved to the refrigerator, rummaging around. You watched him with a crease between your brows, confused.
When he turned back around, your breath caught. He crossed the space between you without rushing, then knelt down in front of the couch. Your eyes widened as he gently took hold of your foot, so careful, his gaze fixed on the angry bruises blooming along your shin and ankle. Up close, they looked worseâswollen, and darkening.
"Waitâyou don't have to," you blurted, heat rushing up your neck. You reached for him instinctively, fingers closing around his wrist as if to stop him, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was.
He shook his head before you could pull away. "J-Just... let me," he said quietly, his voice steadier than you'd ever heard it. "Please."
The word please was was sincere. Caring. Like this was something he wanted to do, not something he felt obligated to offer. Your grip loosened without you even realizing it, fingers slipping from his wrist as you gave a small nod, surrendering.
The cloth was cool when it touched your skin, and you hissed softly before the ache eased just enough to make you sag back against the couch. Jake worked carefully, dabbing, not pressing too hard, his movements slow like he was afraid of hurting you. You watched him from above, the way his brows knitted in concentration, the way his thumb hovered before every touch as if silently asking permission.
In that moment, with your legs aching and your heart doing stupid, hopeful things, you felt it clearlyâlike the universe had finally thrown you a bone. You swallowed, blinking back the sudden sting behind your eyes, and let yourself wishâjust a littleâthat this wasn't the end of it. That maybe, if you were brave enough, it could become something more.
The rain was relentless, hammering down on the campus like it wanted to wash everything away. You weren't supposed to be hereâtechnically, the university might announce a suspension for this one-day anniversary celebration, and yet, here you were, dragged into anywhere by your batchmates. Booths sprawled across the open field, tents flapping violently in the wind, people shouting over the rainfall, trying to make their sales, their events, their little festivals matter despite the downpour. Your mind was flying, your focus already zeroed in on the smell of food wafting through the air.
Your batchmates were bouncing around like hyperactive ping-pong balls, dragging you to every booth, explaining every club, organization, or activity. You smiled, nodded, occasionally talking back, but your attention was already elsewhere. You made a beeline for the food tents, because at least there you could indulge without pretending to care too much about the rest of. You handed over your allowance, little coins and bills disappearing faster than you could count, but it didn't matter. You were eating! You were alive!
"This is Caramelized Banana! It's a banana with melted sugar on top. We also have banana wrapped, no sugar, or with sugar, and you can dip it in our chocolate syrup! It's a recipe popular in the Philippinesâ" You nodded, intrigued despite yourself, and bought one, your teeth sinking into the warm sweetness. You didn't even mind the vendor's continued spiel, too busy savoring the sticky sugar sliding down your fingers.
"Nachos with a lot of melted cheese! Would you like that? Buy here, come!" Oh, cheese. You couldn't say no. You grabbed it, scarfed down the gooey chips, and licked your fingers. The crowd barely mattered, the wet grass barely matteredâyou had your food and that was enough.
"Nasi Goreng, originated from Malaysia, and we also have Murtabak with curry dipping sauceâ" One you hadn't tried before, hm, promising. You bought it anyway, letting the unfamiliar spice surprise you.
You wandered, hands overloaded with plates, cups, skewers, dripping food and drink. You smiled at familiar faces, waved at acquaintances, all without really stopping, just enjoying the simple pleasure of eating. But then, of course, you saw Karina, by the Engineering booth. And just like some magnetic pull, she was staring right at you, that big, wide, infuriatingly cheerful grin on her face.
Your first instinct was to turn on your heel and walk fast, hoping she wouldn't catch up. Ha. Of course, she did, slinging an arm around your shoulder and tugging you in the direction she wanted.
"Come on," she sing-songed, leaning heavily into you. "You're really not interested in the Engineering booths? That's wild." She grinned, nuzzling her nose against your cheek in that infuriatingly intimate way she had. "I saw your cute little roommate earlier, you know. Passing papers to the Grade 12 students. He looked all serious and responsible. Wanna say hi? Let's go say hi."
You huffed through the banana cue still in your mouth, your cheeks hollowing as you chewed. Three days had passed since the finals, three days of rest and light training, but your mind was still a battlefield. Thoughts of him kept creeping in, and the more you tried to ignore them, the louder they became. You wanted to avoid himâyes, goddamn yesâbut at the same time, every fiber of you ached to see him, to be near him, to steal a moment that wasn't really yours.
Karina jabbed your side playfully again, practically dragging you forward, and you let yourself be led, cheeks flaming hotter with each step. Your stomach was twisting like a knot of nerves and excitement as she maneuvered you through the rain-slicked paths, past other tents, right to the Engineering booth where Jake was standing. Flyers were scattered across the table, little models of buildings precariously balanced on top, and he was carefully carrying one in his hands.
"O-Oh, hi," he stammered when his gaze landed on you. You forced a small, awkward smile and waved, trying to look casual, though your knees threatened to buckle under the intensity of your own heartbeat. His eyes flicked to Karina, who was grinning and waving energetically at him, and you could feel her elbows nudging you forward with impatience.
"Hi! I'm Karina, her friend!" she chirped, pointing at you. She looped her arms around yours in a sort of gesture, pressing her hip gently against yours, signaling you to do somethingâanythingâso you wouldn't freeze completely.
"Hi, I'm Jake..." he said, his words catching slightly as he placed the tiny building models on the table with deliberate care, his gaze snapping back to you immediately. Karina squealed again, poking your side for emphasis, and you could barely focus on anything except the way his eyes met yours.
The past three days, he had been almost invisible in the apartment, buried in whatever work the booth had demanded. You had tried to cook dinner once, thinking maybe it would be a way to reach out, but you burned the rice, cursing yourself under your breath. After that, you'd stuck to ordering takeout, leaving it neatly on the table for him, only to be met with his quiet thanks and a promise to sleep early because of his busy schedule. Talking to him directly had always been this impossible thing, a wall of nerves and hesitation that you could never figure out how to scale.
"Uh..." you said finally. "What's around your booth?" You felt Karina pinch your back sharply, a mischievous jab reminding you to ask more, not less.
"M-Mostly, just models and blueprints of b-buildings. N-nothing special, sorryâour plan was to encourage the Grade 12 students to enroll in our c-courses... that's why..."
You nodded, staring at the mini-building he had just placed down, but your gaze inevitably wandered to his hands. White, slender, pale hands, veiny in the softest, most perfect way. Hands that looked like they could build worlds or crush them, delicate and capable at the same time. You swallowed hard, blinking, your mind wandering to impossible thoughtsâholding those hands, wrapping yours around them. It was infuriating how unfairly perfect he was in every little way, how nothing about him seemed flawed, nothing you could grasp onto to stop yourself from melting quietly inside.
"The fuck are you doing? Ask him more!" Karina hissed into your ear, breaking through your daze and making you jump slightly.
"Uh... you want some food?" you blurted, holding up the banana cue you still had, dipping it in chocolate sauce with trembling hands. Your fingers shook as you offered it to him, locking eyes with his as if your courage depended on it. You could see the sudden widening of his eyes behind his glasses, a tiny flare of surprise that made your stomach twist. "It's a banana with sugar... I roamed around the area and ate all of their food. Haha..." You tried to laugh lightly, hoping it sounded casual instead of awkward.
Jake's hands were still slightly dusty from handling the models, and he rubbed them awkwardly on his pants. "Uh... D-Do you have alcohol wipes orâ"
"It's okay, just take a bite. I'll hold it for you," you said quickly, forcing your voice calm even though your heart was hammering. Your feet tapped nervously against the ground as you leaned slightly forward, the tiniest tremor of excitement running up your spine.
Then he leaned forward, slowly, cautiously, and took a bite. Your fingers tightened around the stick as you watched him, the small tunnel of the booth around you fading until all you could see was him. Karina's muffled clap from the side snapped you briefly back, and you caught her giving you a sly thumbs-up, eyes closed in encouragement as if saying, Finally, you're doing it.
God, Jake is so handsome it knocks the air clean out of you. Your brain short-circuits in the dumbest way possible, every thought evaporating until there's nothing left but himâstanding there, biting into your food. You watch his lips close around the banana, the faint shine of chocolate at the corner of his mouth, the way his jaw moves when he chews. He nods softly, murmuring a quiet thanks, his palm hovering over his mouth as if he's embarrassed to be seen enjoying it too much.
You don't move. You barely breathe. It's humiliating how sensitive you suddenly feel to everythingâhow close he is, how warm the air feels between you, how one small movement from him makes your stomach flip. Seconds pass, maybe minutes, you're not sure. Then Jake looks up and catches you staring, really staring, and your chest tightens painfully because fuck, you didn't even try to hide it.
Karina, bless her soul, steps in before you can combust on the spot. "Jake? Right?" she says brightly, already reaching out to clap a hand on his shoulder. He jumps a little at the contact, stiff as a board. "Actually, my friend Sangwonâyou know Sangwon? Yeah? He's an engineer. He's gonna take over the booth with Leo in a bit." She gestures wildly behind her, where Sangwon and Leo are walking past with drinks in their hands. "What if you two just roam around the area? My friend here is a loner," she adds, squeezing your arm hard, "and it might be nice for you to walk instead of being stuck here all day, hmm?"
Jake freezes completely, eyes darting between Karina and you. Sangwon and Leo stop mid-step, staring at Karina. "Are you fucking with me?" Sangwon mutters, incredulous. Leo just blinks, mouth open.
"Shut up," Karina snaps without looking at them.
"Actuallyâ" you finally manage to speak, like you just woke up from a dream. You clear your throat and glance at Jake, trying not to melt under the way his attention snaps back to you instantly. "I saw at the other booth... the sponsored one... they were selling Hot Wheels."
"Really?!" Jake's eyes widen so much they practically light up behind his glasses. The shift is immediate and endearing as hell, all his stiffness melting into pure, unfiltered excitement. "Like... the die-cast ones? Or the limited editionâ" He cuts himself off, realizing he's rambling.
You smile before you can stop yourself. You don't even know what are the die cast or the limited editions butâ "I think I saw some limited ones," you say. "Near the food stalls."
Karina grins, "see?" she declares. "Go. Walk. Talk. I'll handle the booth." She physically pushes Jake a step away from the table, then nudges you forward too.
Jake hesitates, fingers twitching at his sides, then looks at you like he's asking permission without saying it. "I-If... if you don't mind," he says quietly.
You shrug, pretending your heart isn't slamming against your ribs. "Yeah. I don't mind."
And just like that, you're walking side by side, away from the booth. Your shoulders almost brush, close enough that you're hyper-aware of it, but neither of you moves away.
"How do you know I like Hot Wheels?" Jake asks after a moment.
You shrug, like it's nothing, like it didn't take weeks of quiet observation to notice. "Dunno," you say casually. "Every time I talk about rent or bills and you open your door, I just... notice the tiny cars." You glance at him, then gesture vaguely behind you. "They're lined up. Organized. Very... you."
He lets out a small, embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You continue before you can second-guess yourself. "But you kinda like everything, right? Stars. Oceans. Dinosaurs. All that science stuff." You pause, then add, "There's a lot of booths here that reminded me of you." The moment the words leave your mouth, you bite your lip.
"Really?" he says, stopping for half a second just to look at you properly. Not a quick glanceâan actual look. His eyes search your face like he's checking if you're joking, if this is some kind of tease. When he realizes you're not, his ears turn red almost instantly. "Let's take a look then," he adds, a little brighter.
You nod, grateful for the excuse to look away, and guide him toward the booth you spotted earlier. The Hot Wheels stand is crowded with students leaning over glass cases, bright lights reflecting off tiny polished cars. Rows and rows of themâlimited editions, old-school designs, racing models, cartoonish ones.
"Oh my God," Jake breathes. The words slip out before he can stop them, and you swear you've never seen him look so openly excited. He leans closer to the glass, hands clasped behind his back like a kid trying not to press his face against a window. "Th-This isâ I've never seen this many in one place."
You watch him instead of the cars. The way his eyes light up, the way he rocks slightly on his heels, trying to contain himself. It hits you thenâthis is what it looks like when someone feels safe enough to be fully themselves.
"These ones are rare," you say, pointing at a row near the back, pretending you know more than you do. "I heard people were lining up early for them."
Jake leans in closer, his arm brushing yours accidentally. "Y-Yeah," he says, "I've only seen pictures of these online."
You're not even really looking at the cars anymore. You're watching himâhow his focus sharpens, how his shoulders loosen, how this small joy pulls him out of his shell. Then, without thinking too much about it, he reaches out and lightly wraps his fingers around your forearm. "C-Come here," he murmurs, already tugging you a step to the side. "Take a look at this."
He points at a single car nestled among the others. "That one," he says, "It's a Super Treasure Hunt. See the 'TH' logo?" He leans closer to the glass, his grip on you tightening just a fraction. "They don't make a lot of them. People s-search for years sometimes."
"And... what about it?" you ask, heat creeps up your neck. Your cheeks flush, not just from the closeness, but from the way he's still holding youâthumb resting against your skin. You don't pull away. You don't want to.
Jake finally realizes what he's doing and stiffens slightly, his fingers twitching like he's about to let go. "S-Sorry," he starts, panicking, "I didn't mean toâ"
"It's okay," you cut in quickly, turning your arm just enough that his hand stays where it is. You meet his eyes. "You're excited. I get it."
His mouth opens, then closes, then he lets out a small, breathy laugh. "I, uh... I justâ" He swallows. "I think it's c-cool. When something small means that much."
You smile without thinking, slow and soft, nodding along. Yeah. Totally relatable. Your life has been built on small things that meant everything.
You and him end up roaming around the booths despite the shit weather, rain misting the air and soaking the edges of banners and tents. For once, you don't care. For once, you're not rushing, not counting time, not worrying about training schedules or what comes next. And reallyâthis is the first time you see him like this. Not just Jake-the-roommate, or Jake-the-awkward-genius, but Jake letting himself exist out loud.
"It's my first time roaming around this much," he says, eyes wide as he takes everything in. His hand is still loosely wrapped around your arm. "Wow... I think there's a lot more compared to last year." His other hand is full of paper bags from the Hot Wheels booth.
You hum, letting him talk, letting him lead, and he really does. He points things out with this quiet excitement that sneaks up on you. The biology booth makes him stop dead in his tracks. "And that oneâ" he says, tugging you closer, voice lifting despite himself. "They're doing dissections. Look, that's a scorpionâsee how detailed it is? And they patched it up themselves. That's so cool." His words tumble over each other, hands moving.
Then he's already dragging you again, apologizing under his breath but smiling all the same, pulling you toward a booth filled with wires, blinking LEDs, half-built machines. You figure it's IT or roboticsâsomething adjacent to his world. His eyes light up immediately, pupils blown wide.
"This oneâ" he says, pointing at a small rectangular robot with tiny arms and legs. "It's an emo robot. Originally meant to sit on desks." He wiggles his finger in front of it, and the robot mirrors the motion, its digital eyes shifting expressions. Jake laughs under his breath, soft and fond. "I wanted one before, but it was expensive. So maybe Bumble can be an improvisation." He glances at you. "Someday... what do you think?"
You look at the robot, then back at him, then shake your head lightly. "I think I like Bumble more," you say honestly. "She greets me. Judges me silently."
He snorts before he can stop himself, clapping a hand over his mouth. And Godâthere it is again. That sound. That real laugh. It makes something warm bloom in your chest.
"Y-Yeah," he says, smiling openly now. "She does that."
And somehow, after that, everything loosens. The tension you didn't even realize you were carrying melts into the background as the two of you keep walking, drifting from booth to booth, laughing more than you expect to. It's awkward, yeahâthere are pauses, stutters, moments where you both talk at once and then stopâbut it's the good kind. He points at everything like a kid seeing the world for the first time, rambling about random facts, half-formed theories, things he read once and never forgot. And you listen. Really listen. Not because you feel like you have to, but because hearing him talk like this feels... comforting.
You catch yourself smiling for no damn reason, nodding along while he explains why certain materials work better in buildings or why he likes models more than finished structures. He talks with his hands, fingers fidgeting when he gets excited, eyes lighting up in a way that makes your chest ache a little.
"They said after this," you say eventually, glancing up at the sky, "judging by the weather, the government might suspend classes." The clouds above are heavy and gray, the wind sharp enough to bite through your clothes.
You're halfway through the walk back when the sky finally gives up pretending. Rain pours down all at once, soaking you in seconds. You both stop, startled, then look at each other like idiots before breaking into a run. Jake hugs the paper bags to his chest, tryingâand failingâto shield them with his body.
"Oh noâ!" he yelps, slipping slightly, and you grab his arm without thinking, dragging him forward.
You fumble with your keys at the door, hands slick and shaking, rain blurring your vision as you finally get it open. The two of you stumble inside, slamming the door shut behind you, breathing hard. For a second there's just the sound of rain pounding against the walls and your own uneven breaths.
Then you look at each other.
And you both lose it.
Laughter bursts out of you, echoing through the apartment. Water drips from your hair, down your face, soaking your clothes. Jake's curls are plastered to his forehead, his glasses fogged, his braces flashing as he grins and pushes his wet hair back with his palm.
God. He looks ridiculous. And beautiful.
Your chest feels warm, too full, as you watch him walk over and carefully set the bags on the couch like he's still worried about them, even now. He glances back at you, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, still smiling like this moment.
"We should immediately shower and change our clothes," he said, voice still a little breathless from laughing.
By the time you wrapped yourself in a towel and crawled into bed, your body finally gave in. The government suspension announcement came not long after. Continuous heavy rainfall. Classes canceled. City on standby. You stared at the window instead, watching water race down the glass in uneven lines, your mind is finally quiet. Just an unfamiliar sense of peace.
You didn't even realize how long you'd been lying there until a soft knock pulled you out of it.
It was too early for you to feel human again, too early to leave the bedâbut of course, it was Jake. Standing at your door, holding a bowl with both hands. "Uh... I made b-breakfast," he said. "Porridge. With egg." He hesitated, then added, "If you're hungry."
God. You could live like this forever.
After washing the dishes togetherâyour hands bumping once, both of you apologizing at the same timeâyou leaned against the counter, watching him wipe the table with careful strokes.
"Do you think it'll take weeks?" you asked, glancing at your phone. "Another typhoon's coming, right? Friday, I think."
He shrugged, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Dunno. Our profs already sent some online activities." He paused, then added, almost apologetic, "I still have to study."
"Sucks to be you," you said, grinning. "I just wanna be lazy all day. But also... being lazy gets boring fast."
He lifted his head then, eyes flicking up to meet yours. There was a brief pause, like he was debating with himself, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "Wanna b-build a Lego with me?"
Oh fuck. Your heart did that stupid thing againâjumping, twisting. You nodded anyway, too fast, too eager. "Yeah," you said. "Sure. Why not."
That was how you ended up on the living room floor, legs folded awkwardly, backs against the couch, Lego pieces scattered everywhere. Jake sat closeâbut not too closeâcareful in the way he always was, knees tucked in, sleeves pushed up as his fingers worked with quiet focus. He explained things as he went, apologizing every time he thought he was talking too much, which only made you want to hear more. You kept stealing glances at him, the way his brow furrowed when a piece didn't fit, the little hum he made under his breath when he figured it out.
And it didn't stop there.
The next morning, the rain was still relentless, hammering against the windows with no mercy, wind howling. You were half-awake, wrapped in a blanket, when Jake hovered near the couch, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Uh... do you wanna watch a series?" he asked, holding his tablet. "IâI started it last week. It's... kinda long."
You agreed before your brain could catch up, again.
That's how you ended up watching a chess series together, bodies sunk into the couch, knees occasionally brushing. You didn't understand half of it, but you liked the way he watchedâleaning forward, eyes sharp, fully absorbed. You pointed at the screen when the female lead pulled off some insane move, eyebrows raised. "I don't get how it works," you said honestly, "but she's cool as hell."
He smiled at that, a real one, eyes lighting up. "Y-Yeah. She is." He hesitated, then added, softer, "She's really smart."
Hours slipped by without either of you noticing. Episodes blurred together. You asked questions, most of them are dumb ones, sometimes ones that made him pause and think. When the character lost a crucial match, you frowned at the screen. "Why did she lose?"
Jake straightened a bit. "B-Because she got checkmated," he said gently. "There's... rules. A lot of patterns. Math, too." He leaned forward, pointing at the paused screen. "Her queen is trapped here. If she moves it, her king's exposed. No safe squares left."
You nodded slowly, pretending you understood more than you did, eyes flicking between the screen and him. He kept explaining anyway, hands moving as he talked, sketching invisible boards in the air.
Night fell without ceremony. The rain didn't let up. At some point, you realized your head had tipped onto his shoulder, your body was warm and heavy against his side. He stiffened for half a second, then relaxed, breathing evening. Neither of you said anything. The show kept playing. Your eyes drifted shut.
Another morning arrived with rain slamming against the windows like it was angry at the city itself. The wind howled, rattling the glass hard enough that it felt alive. Your phone buzzed with the announcement before you even checked the time: University Suspension â Classes Cancelled Until Further Notice. You stared at the screen for a second, then let yourself fall back against the couch with a breathy laugh. Trapped. Stuck. Whatever word people wanted to use. You didn't mind it. Not when being stuck meant him.
What surprised you most was him. Jake, who used to barely look at you without stuttering himself into knots, was the one filling the space now. He suggested things quietly but confidentlyâmovies, games, stupid little activities that somehow filled the hours without feeling forced. He brought out board games you didn't even know he owned, set up playlists that hummed softly in the background. It was like once the outside world paused, he stepped forward like this was where he belonged.
"Wow," you said, staring down at the chessboard. "I can't believe we were just watching a chess series, and now we're actually playing." You picked up a random pieceâno idea what it wasâand shoved it forward. "This is unfair. I couldn't even comprehend a single rule."
You glanced up at Jake, expecting a laugh or at least a smug look, but he was focusedâelbows on his knees, chin tilted down, eyes fixed on the board and cute as hell.
"You can't place it there," he said calmly, reaching out before you could protest. His fingers brushed yours as he lifted the piece you'd just moved, the contact brief but electric, like your skin had suddenly woken up. He shifted it to another square, "I can eat you."
You froze. He froze too. Then his eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he realized what he'd just said. "YâYour piece," he corrected quickly, voice dropping, ears turning red. "I mean. The piece. I'll take it."
You stared at him for a second. And then you laughed, leaning back on your hands as the sound spilled out of you. "Holy shit," you said, grinning. "Buy me dinner first, nerd."
He let out a strangled sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand as his shoulders shook. "IâI didn't mean it like that," he muttered, mortified.
"I know," you said, still smiling. You leaned forward again, elbows resting on your knees, eyes dropping to the board like you were suddenly very invested in this stupid little war of wooden pieces. Your fingers traced the edge of a pawn absentmindedly. "But I don't mind..."
"Mind... what?" he asked, tentative, eyes flicking up to you and then away again like he was afraid of what he might see on your face.
You didn't even give yourself time to overthink it, you were just done pretending you didn't feel this pull. "You eating me." âand your mouth moved before your brain could chicken out. Fuck. You were flirting. You were actually, openly flirting.
Jake froze like you'd hit a pause button on him. His hand hovered over one of his pieces, then he snapped back to life and shoved it forward a little too fast, the wood clacking loudly against the board. You leaned forward too, mirroring him, reaching for one of your pieces and sliding it closer to his side of the board, deliberately slow, deliberately close. You lifted your eyes to his face, watching the way his blush deepened, spreading from his ears down his neck.
"My piece," you added quickly, lips twitching. "I mean." You pulled it back with a grin that told him you absolutely did not mean just that.
He swallowed hard as he moved again, taking your piece this time, fingers trembling just slightly. You caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he gulped, the way his jaw tightened like he was trying very hard to keep it together. God, he was cute like thisâunraveled but trying, flustered but still playing, still sitting there with you instead of running for his room.
"IâI..." he started, then stopped, exhaling through his nose. "I know," he said finally, like he was bracing himself. "Your turn."
You didn't move right away. You just looked at the board, then at him, heart thudding harder than it had any right to over a chess game and a few words loaded with way too much meaning. Slowly, you picked up a piece and nudged it forward, smiling faintly to yourself as if you were enjoying how this felt far more than you should.
"Okie," you said lightly, thenâjust to be an assholeâyou shoved another random chess piece forward. Jake scratched his head, blinking at the board.
"You can't move it from the back to the front, it's the Queen. You're exposing it," he said, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. You almost laughed at how serious he was, brows furrowed, already reaching out to fix your mistake.
The next few hours blurred into him lecturing you about chess pieces, strategies, positioning, endgames, openingsâthings you half-listened to while watching the way his hands moved.
It didn't shock you at all that most of your pieces were eaten, one by one, until the board looked pitiful on your side. He leaned back slightly, studying it, then glanced up at you. "You're cornered," he said, almost apologetic.
"Sucks," you muttered, staring at your lonely queen. You tilted your head, eyes flicking up to his. "But I'm facing your queen. Is it not a checkmate?"
Jake blinked. Once. Twice. Then he leaned forward again, squinting at the board, lips parted in concentration. You watched him closely, the way his shoulders tensed, the way he bit his lower lip without realizing it. After a long moment, he froze, realization dawning on his face. "...Shit," he breathed.
You grinned, resting your chin on your palm. "Guess I win."
"Y-You didn't even know what you were doing!" he said.
"Nah!" You clapped your hands loudly, then you pointed straight at him like you'd just defeated a final boss. "You lose, loser!" You stuck your tongue out without shame, leaning into the childish victory.Â
You pushed yourself up from the floor and climbed onto the couch, ignoring the scattered chess pieces. You did a slow spin, arms swaying dramatically, hips moving just enough to be obnoxious. "Bow to your champion!" you declared, laughing at your own stupidity as you were trying to annoy him. But you stopped mid-twirl.Â
Jake wasn't annoyed, he wasn't scrambling to defend himself. He was just staring at you. A wide smile stretched across his face, braces flashing. His eyes were bright, crinkled at the corners, completely unguarded. He looked at you like you were something entertaining and precious at the same time.
Your stomach flipped. The teasing energy drained out of you in an instant. You stepped down from the couch and sat back on the floor across from him, suddenly more aware of the space between you. The chessboard sat abandoned, pieces knocked over like the game didn't matter anymore.Â
"So," you said, clearing your throat as you folded your legs under you. You tilted your head slightly, trying to keep the playful tone even though your pulse had started racing. "Do winners have a prize?"
Jake's smile softened immediately. He looked down at his hands, then rubbed the back of his ear, and right on cue, the tips turned red. He pressed his lips together, then bit the lower one gently like he was thinking too hard. His feet shuffled against the floor, restless, nervous energy buzzing off him.
At first, you weren't sure what he was thinking. Maybe he thought you meant snacks. Maybe he was calculating some logical reward system in his head. But the longer he stayed quiet, the more your mind spiraled. Is he thinking what you're thinking? Or are you just being delusional? Your heart pounded louder, drowning out the rain for a second. He kept biting his lip, glancing up at you and then away again. His fingers curled into the fabric of his sweatpants.
"Iâ" he started, then stopped. He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. "What kind of prize?" he asked.
You leaned forward just slightly, enough that your knees were only inches away from his. "I don't know," you said, watching his face carefully. "You're the one who lost."
His eyes lifted to yours, and this time, he didn't look away. The storm outside continued raging, wind howling, rain pounding relentlessly, but inside, everything was suspended in this quiet, dangerous pause. You could see the conflict in his expressionâthe nervousness, the want, the restraint. He swallowed again. "I can... cook?" he offered, almost shyly. "Or... d-do the dishes for a week?"
You stared at him for a second. And then you laughed softly, shaking your head. Of course he would offer something practical. Of course he'd default to taking care of you in the safest way possible. "You're such a nerd," you murmured.
He smiled again, uncertain. "Is that... not okay?"
You looked up at the ceiling, pretending to think about it. Your teeth caught your lower lip as your mind spiraled. If you say this, you're crossing the line. If you say this, you're not just flirting anymoreâyou're stepping over that invisible boundary that kept things safe. If you say this, you might lose the easy mornings, the quiet dinners â But then again... what the hell were you so scared of?
"What about a kiss?" you asked, finally looking back at him, forcing your voice to stay steady. You watched it happen in real timeâthe shift in his face. His eyes widened just slightly, then softened, then panicked. Color bloomed across his cheeks, spreading down his neck in a slow, undeniable flush. His lips parted like he was about to speak, but no sound came out. For a second, you regretted it.
"Forget it," you said quickly, nerves snapping at you. You moved to stand, heart racing, ready to laugh it off, ready to run before you saw rejection in his eyes. But you didn't get far when a firm hand wrapped around your wrist. It wasn't rough, but it wasn't hesitant either. It caught you mid-motion and pulled you back down with enough strength to surprise you. A small yelp escaped your throat, cut short when you felt his lips against yours.
Your eyes flew open. Jake's were closed, brows slightly furrowed like he was concentrating too hard. His lips were softâwarmer than you expected. He kissed you like he did everything else: carefully at first, uncertain. You could feel the inexperience in the way he tilted his head a little too abruptly, the way his mouth moved like he wasn't sure what rhythm to follow.
Your shock melted fast. You closed your eyes and leaned in properly this time, pushing the chessboard out of the way with a clatter of wooden pieces hitting the floor. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping them, feeling the solid warmth beneath his shirt. He let out the smallest, breathy sound against your mouth, half a whine, half a gasp.
The cold wind outside rattled the windows, but the room felt like it was closing in, warm with the sound of your breathing mixing together. You moved your lips more deliberately, guiding the kiss, pressing closer. When you brushed your tongue lightly against his bottom lipâslow, askingâhe froze for a split second before he opened up. A quiet, shaky moan slipped from him as you deepened it, tasting him, feeling the way his hands tightened around your waist. His fingers dug in just enough to make you aware of them.
Still kissing him, you shifted your weight and swung a leg over, settling onto his lap without breaking contact. He inhaled sharply into your mouth at the movement, his grip adjusting to keep you steady. You could feel how tense he was beneath you, how his whole body seemed lit up by every point of contact. Your hands slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair. You pulled him closer, and this time, he responded without pauseâkissing you back with more confidence. A sharp gasp escaped you when his grip on your waist tightened suddenly, pulling your body flush against his. The pressure of him beneath the thin fabric of his pajama pants was obvious. Your head spun so fast you didn't even think about pulling away for air. It felt like your bodies had turned into magnets, stuck together with a force neither of you had the will to fight.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck.
Your hips shifted slowly, a roll meant to test him. You refused to break the kiss, and when the heat between your legs pressed directly against the tense outline beneath you, a quiet moan slipped from your throat before you could stop it. The sound vibrated between your mouths. That was when Jake broke the kiss.
Your lips chased his, catching his bottom lip between your teeth before he could pull too far away. The separation was reluctant, both of you breathing hard like you'd just sprinted a mile. Your chest rose and fell rapidly while you stayed seated on his lap, fingers still tangled in his hair like you might drag him back if he dared move too far.
"Whatâ why?" you asked, your voice still shaky and breathless.
Jake's face was flushed a deep red, spreading from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. His glasses had fogged slightly from the heat between you. For a second he just stared at you, then he shook his head once, almost frustrated, and pulled his glasses off. Without much care he tossed them somewhere toward the floor beside the couch where they landed with a faint clatter. Before you could even react, his hands returned to you and he leaned forward again, capturing your mouth in another kiss.
This one was different. There was nothing hesitant about it anymore. His grip on your waist was firmer, fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. A small squeal escaped you when he suddenly stood, lifting you effortlessly like you weighed nothing. The sudden movement made your arms tighten around his neck while your legs wrapped around his waist, locking you against him. The new position pressed your bodies together even closer, heat building fast between you as he carried you across the room without breaking the kiss for more than a second.
Your mind tried to catch up, tried to ask what the hell was about to happen next, but the thought dissolved the moment his mouth found yours again. Overthinking felt impossible now. The only thing that mattered was the feeling of his lips, the warmth of his hands, the way your pulse pounded in your ears. You had spent too long ignoring the tension between you, pretending it wasn't there.
Right now you didn't care about tomorrow, or consequences, or whatever awkwardness might follow.
Right now you just wanted him.
Jake's breathing had turned uneven by the time your mouth drifted away from his lips. Your kisses trailed along the corner of his mouth, brushing his cheek before moving down to his jaw. You nipped lightly at the warm skin there, feeling the way his body tensed beneath your hold. One of his hands slid up your back while the other steadied you against him, fingers flexing slightly like he wasn't entirely sure where to touch first. "Where?" he whispered.
The word barely made it out before your teeth grazed his skin again. You could feel his pulse under your lips. You didn't answer, instead, you dragged your mouth slowly along his jaw toward his ear, letting the silence stretch while his grip on you tightened almost unconsciously. Your fingers brushed through the hair at the back of his neck again, tugging making him inhale sharply.
Then you finally murmured your answer against his ear. "Your room"
Your cunt fluttered at the sound of your own words, heat pooling wet as a low, long whine escaped him. You barely had time to register the sensation before you were being carried again, the familiar weightless surge of being lifted making your stomach knot with anticipation and arousal. The world blurred around you, furniture and light flashing past as he moved. You tried to hold onto something, but there was nothing to hold onto except him. Every nerve ending in your body was awake, every touch of his hand, every movement of his body against yours, sending sparks you didn't even know you could feel.
When he finally lowered you onto the bed, it was gentle despite the desperation in his hold. His hands guided you, careful, cradling your head like you were made of something fragile he didn't want to break. The bed beneath you was soft, yielding under your weight, but somehow it didn't lessen the intimacy of the momentâthe way he leaned over you, holding you steady, letting you both pause before the next wave hit. You froze for a heartbeat, just staring at him.
Seeing Jake without his glasses was like seeing him stripped bare in a way you hadn't noticed before. His eyes were glossy and brilliant, gleaming with something almost otherworldly. There was a kind of intensity in them, like the stars he loved to watch in those documentaries he'd obsess over, but alive, raw, and focused entirely on you. You could see a storm of desire and confusion, clarity and hesitation all tangled up behind those shining orbs, and even though you didn't understand all of it, it made something coil tight in your chest.Â
You just leaned in, pressing your lips against him, trailing soft, hungry kisses across his nose, the tip of his chin, the curve of his cheeks, letting your hands wander freely over the hard lines of his triceps, feeling the muscle tense and flex under your touch.
"Still with me?" you whispered, your teeth grazing his jaw as you tugged lightly, testing him, teasing him, feeling the shiver roll down his spine. Your hands drifted to his, guiding them up your body, threading his fingers through the fabric of your shirt, pressing them to your chest. "Is this okay?" you asked, your eyes locked on his, searching, and needing him to answer without words.
Jake gasped sharply, chest rising and falling, his eyes wide, pupils blown, and the flush spreading across his face so deep it looked almost painful. His cock twitched insistently beneath his pajama pants. Every nerve in his body screamed for more, as if your hands on him had awakened something he had been holding back. You moved slowly, coaxing him, rubbing him through the fabric, kneading the hard length of him in small, teasing motions while letting your fingers drift over the edges of his hips and down the side of his thighs. At first, his hands hovered uncertainly, until he finally mirrored you, sliding over your chest, kneading your breasts softly, fingers gentle yet unsteady.
A shared whine broke through your lips almost without thought. You couldn't bear the waiting any longer. Your hands fumbled at your top, ripping it free along with the bra in one shameless movement. The sudden freedom of your bare skin against the cool air made you shiver, and you felt him lean closer immediately, drawing in your scent as if it intoxicated him. He found the confidence to follow your earlier movements, pressing his mouth to your jaw, nibbling in small, sharp bites that made you wince, pulling a low moan from your chest despite the sting.
"Pretty," he whispered in a way that made you question if you'd imagined it. "So... so, pretty." He repeated it, a breathless chant, before diving back into your lips with renewed hunger.
You lost track of time, swallowed whole by the rhythm of his mouth and the press of his body against yours. His arms wrapped tighter around you, fingers pressing against your back and shoulders. Your bare breasts brushed against the fabric of his shirt, and the friction made your stomach coil tight with heat. You wanted moreâyou wanted all of itâbut you were afraid to ask, afraid that if you broke the kiss to say so, he would retreat into awkwardness and the fragile tension you'd built would shatter. So instead, you cut the kiss abruptly, pressing the back of his head against your chest, guiding him where you wanted without speaking.
"Nghh," you moaned, tilting your head back, arching your back, letting him explore freely. His lips closed around your nipple, sucking with the inexperience of someone trying to mimic what they thought they should do. It was awkward but it sent shocks through your body. You felt him adapt, he swirled his tongue over your areola, teasing, learning, feeling. You guided one of his hands into your other breast, holding the back of his palm against your skin as he kneaded gently, and your eyes closed, lost in sensation.
He seemed to catch every nuance in your reactions, every small gasp that slipped out of your mouth, every tremor that ran through your body when he touched the right spot. His tongue flicked slowly between your nipples while his thumbs moved in steady circles around them, rough pads grazing the sensitive skin again and again. The sensation made your breath hitch sharply, another helpless gasp leaving your throat as your fingers curled into his hair. Jake stayed there for a long moment, almost stubborn about it, alternating between sucking, licking, and pressing soft kisses against your chest.
Eventually he pulled away, his lips lingering for a second before he leaned back up to capture your mouth again.
Oh boy, Jake must really love kissing.
You dragged him closer, one hand gripping the back of his neck while your body shifted beneath him. Your hips rolled upward without thinking, pressing into him, searching for friction. The kiss quickly turned messy as both of you started moving at the same time, your bodies grinding together clumsily on the bed. Each time your hips pushed up you felt the hard pressure of him through the fabric between you, and the contact made a low sound rumble from his chest.
"Re... move," you muttered between kisses, the word breaking apart as your lips kept bumping into his. Your fingers tugged impatiently at his shirt, pulling at the fabric.
Jake let out another strained whine before pulling away. He fumbled with his clothes quickly, clearly not thinking about grace or neatness. His shirt disappeared first, tossed somewhere beside the bed, and then his hands went straight for the waistband of his pajama pants. In his rush he dragged them down together with his boxers, pushing the fabric down his hips in one impatient motion.
"Oh..." you whispered before you could stop yourself, your body shifting backward slightly against the mattress.
Jake stood there for a second, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling while he looked at you, trying to read your reaction. But your attention had already dropped lower. Your gaze locked on him, on the obvious heat and color of his cock, the flushed pink that leaned almost red under the soft light in the room. You could see the veins along the base, the damp shine at the tip where precum had already gathered. It looked almost angry, twitching slightly with each breath he took.
How the hell had Jakeâyour awkward, nerdy, always-overthinking roommateâbeen hiding something like that?
Jake noticed where you were looking. His shoulders shifted awkwardly and his hand moved as if he wanted to cover himself, the embarrassment creeping back onto his face. But before he could actually hide anything, you moved. You pushed yourself up onto your knees on the mattress and reached forward, catching his wrist and pulling it aside. Your other hand slid forward immediately after, your palm wrapping around his cock.
"Noâ ahhâ" Jake's head tipped back the moment your hand closed around him.
You felt the warmth of it against your palm, and your fingers tightened slightly without thinking. His reaction made you reach up with your free hand, grabbing lightly at the back of his neck and pulling him down toward you again. Your lips crashed back into his before he could say anything else. The angle was awkward now, with him half leaning over you and most of his weight pressing down onto the mattress while your hand stayed wrapped around him. His hips kept shifting forward, brushing against your palm. You deepened the kiss, your mouth moving slowly against his while your hand finally started to move. Your grip circled him carefully at first, sliding upward and then back down in a slow motion as you tested the rhythm.
Jake's moan burst straight into your mouth. His entire body jerked in response, hips twitching sharply against your hand. His legs tensed, muscles tightening as if he'd been hit with a sudden wave of sensation he wasn't prepared for. The sound he made this time was even more desperate, muffled by the kiss.
And then you felt the sudden spurt against your hand, the unmistakable wetness as his body reacted faster than either of you expected. Your movement slowed automatically, your mind catching up with what had just happened.
Oh... Oh.
Jake pulled away from your mouth so suddenly, his breath ragged and uneven as he immediately buried his face into the crook of your neck. The movement was clumsy like he was trying to disappear somewhere inside you. His entire body collapsed forward, and you swore the air left your lungs for a second under the full weight of him. He wasn't holding himself up anymoreâhe was just draped over you, chest pressed to yours, arms braced awkwardly on either side of your shoulders. You could feel how hot his skin was, how fast his heart was pounding against you. One of his hands quickly grabbed your wrist and gently pulled your hand away from him. He didn't say anything. He just breathed hard against your neck, warm bursts of air brushing your skin while his body stayed tense.
A small patch of warmth spreading slowly against your neck. At first you thought it was just his breath, or sweat from how heated everything had gotten but â "Are you..." you paused, confused, one hand coming up to touch his back carefully, fingers brushing along his spine. "Crying?"
"Sorry I cum too fast," he whimpered into your neck, his voice muffled and shaking as he buried his face deeper against your skin. His head shook slightly as he said it, the motion rubbing his cheek against you.
Your eyes widened immediately. "Heyâno, it's okay, shhh, stopâ" You started patting his back quickly, almost awkwardly, because the sudden shift in mood caught you completely off guard. His shoulders trembled under your hands as his quiet crying turned louder, broken breaths hitching against your skin. You didn't even understand what exactly had upset him so much â like, he was still hard, twitching against your thigh.
"Shhh, stop crying," you said again, your palm moving slowly up and down his back in an attempt to calm him. Your fingers traced small circles between his shoulder blades, trying to soothe him.
"Soâsorry," he hiccupped, the word breaking apart in his throat. His arms slid fully around your back now, hugging you tightly.
"I told you, it's fine," you murmured, your voice gentler now. You kept rubbing his back while staring up at the ceiling, trying to piece together what the hell had just happened in the last few minutes. "It's really fine. You don't have to freak out about it." After a moment you hesitated before asking carefully, "Do you want to stopâ"
"No."
The answer came out as a strained whine before you could even finish the question. His voice cracked around the word, his hips shifted again against yours, the movement dragging his still-hard cock against your thigh through the mess he'd already made. The mattress creaked softly beneath both of you as his weight shifted forward, his body clinging to yours. He held onto you tighter, arms wrapped around your back, face still buried deep in your neck like he couldn't bear the embarrassment of looking at you.
You stared at the ceiling for a second, processing the situation, then exhaled sharply and shoved at his shoulders. "Okayâ move."
With more strength than he expected, you pushed him back, forcing him to roll off you so you could sit up. The sudden shift made him blink in confusion, his hair messy and his face still flushed as he stared at you. You tossed your hair back over your shoulder, chest rising and falling as you quickly reached down and tugged your bottoms off your hips. The fabric peeled away easily, damp where your arousal had soaked through, and you didn't even bother hiding it. Jake watched the entire thing, his chest still heaving as his eyes dragged over your body.
Swinging your leg over him, you straddled his hips and settled directly over his shaft. The moment your weight pressed down, he sucked in a sharp breath and shut his eyes tight, his head tipping back against the pillow. Your panties were still clinging to you, the wet patch obvious against the thin fabric as you slowly started grinding your hips down against him. The friction made your stomach tighten immediately, your clit dragging over his cock with every slow roll of your hips.
"First time?" you asked, like you weren't currently rubbing your soaked panties all over his cock. Your hands braced on the mattress on either side of his shoulders as you leaned forward slightly, adjusting your rhythm. You rolled your hips in small circles, testing different angles, letting the pressure build while watching his reactions closely.
Jake nodded quickly, eyes still shut. His hands moved to your hips automatically, gripping them tight.
Your movements sped up a little and the change in pace made him whine louder, the sound escaping his throat in a helpless, high note that made your stomach flutter. His fingers dug into your skin, nails pressing hard into the soft flesh of your hips, and you actually winced at the pressure. His entire body tensed beneath you, thighs tightening, his breathing breaking into uneven gasps.
And then it happened again. His hips jerked sharply upward with another loud whine, the movement uncontrolled as he came.
"Ahhâ sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Please, please, pleaseâ" he panicked immediately, his eyes snapping open wide. Fresh tears were already shining in them again as his body trembled beneath you. His cock twitched visibly between your thighs, another small spurt of cum leaking from the flushed tip as he tried to catch his breath. The poor guy looked like he was having a full crisis.
Meanwhile, you just moaned. The friction hadn't stopped for you. Your hips had kept moving through his entire meltdown, chasing the pressure building between your legs.Â
Your hands moved to push his hand away from your hips so you could pull back, assuming his frantic "please" meant he was getting overwhelmed.
But his hands didn't let go. Not even a little. Instead, his grip tightened. You blinked in confusion as he actively tried to guide your hips again, pulling you forward so your soaked panties slid against his cock once more. The thing was still hardâstill angry and flushed and twitching despite the fact that he had already finished twice in less than a few minutes.
What the hell? How can this man cum so fast yet still not go soft?
"Please, please, please," he whined again, his voice breaking as he suddenly sat up. His arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling your body flush against his chest as he started guiding your hips with both hands. The motion forced your grinding to continue, your soaked panties dragging over the sensitive head of his cock again and again. Each pass made him shudder violently. His breath kept catching in his throat, little helpless sounds escaping him every time your hips rolled forward. The mattress creaked beneath you with every movement, the room filled with the mix of his shaky whining and your heavier breathing.
Still wrapped in his arms, you shifted slightly in his lap. One hand slid down between your bodies and hooked into the side of your panties, dragging the damp fabric aside.
The moment your bare cunt brushed against his cock, Jake's reaction was loud, a broken moan tearing out of him, you leaned forward quickly and kissed him hard to shut him up, swallowing the noise before it could get any louder.
If he kept whining like thatâface flushed, voice tremblingâyou were pretty sure you'd lose control just from hearing him. Fuck. His mouth was warm and messy against yours, his breathing still shaking as your hips kept moving slowly against him.
Your hand slipped down to his cock, fingers wrapping around it again. He wasn't fully soft, not even close, but there was still a slight give to him under your palm. You pulled back from the kiss just enough for both of you to breathe, your foreheads almost touching while your breaths mixed together. Your eyes stayed locked on his as you guided him between your legs.
Slowly, deliberately, you started rubbing the length of him against your cunt, dragging the tip along your slick folds. Your hand moved with controlled rhythm, sliding him up and down, occasionally letting the head bump against your entrance before pulling him away again.
"Lay down for me," you murmured. You guided him backward onto the mattress, one hand pressing lightly against his chest until he sank into the pillows. Your own body hovered above him as you stayed straddled over his hips. You were painfully wet by now, your stomach tight with the need for friction that grinding alone hadn't been able to satisfy. Even so, you stayed patient with him. Your fingers brushed over his face, pushing some messy strands of hair away from his forehead before trailing down his cheek. You kept eye contact the whole time, your hand gliding over his chest.
Slowly, you lowered yourself. The first contact made your mouth fall open slightly. The tip of him pressed against you, and you paused there for a moment just to breathe. Your legs trembled faintly as you started easing yourself down inch by inch. Jake's whining came back louder than before, almost helpless as his hands shot up to grip your hips. His head spun with the sensation, ears ringing as the tight heat of your pussy slowly took him in. Meanwhile your breathing grew heavier the further you sank down, your body adjusting to the stretch.
By the time you were fully seated on him, he was hard again, completely, filling you while your thighs trembled on either side of his hips.
"Fâfuck," you muttered under your breath, biting down on your lower lip as you braced your hands against his chest. You lifted your hips slightly, letting a little of him slide out before lowering yourself again in a slow, controlled motion. The stretch made your face tighten, your brows pulling together as you focused more on the building pleasure than the sharp edge of discomfort from his size. "Fuck... fuck, fuck!"
Jake looked like he was barely holding himself together beneath you. A faint vein stood out along his forehead, his teeth pressing into his lip as he tried to keep quiet. He was clearly trying to control himself, trying not to lose it too fast again. But your hips told a different story. The way you moved, the sight of your body rising and lowering on top of him, the expression on your face as you adjusted to the feelingâit all dragged him closer to the edge again.
"Waitâ wait... ahh," he groaned suddenly. Your hands slid from his chest down toward his knees as you shifted your weight, adjusting your position slightly. The new angle changed the way he felt inside you, and Jake let out another broken sound the moment you started moving again. You rolled your hips carefully at first, searching for the spot that felt right, letting your body experiment with the motion until the pressure finally lined up the way you needed.
A loud moan tore out of you as your hips sped up without thinking, your body chasing the sensation as you kept hitting the same spot again and again. Jake reacted just as quickly, sitting up to distract himself, his mouth finding your chest as he pressed against you. His arms wrapped around your back while his tongue dragged over your nipples, the contact making your whining grow louder with every movement.
Your vision blurred slightly as the sensation kept building, the pressure inside your body tightening in slow, relentless waves that refused to ease up. It felt like sparks were going off behind your eyes, tiny bursts of light flickering every time your hips dropped back down onto him. You were riding him harder now without even realizing it. The bed creaked beneath both of you with every movement, your thighs burning as they worked to keep you balanced while your body chased the pressure building deep in your stomach. Each roll of your hips dragged another broken breath from your lungs, your fingers tightening against his shoulders as the heat between your legs kept climbing higher.
Jake suddenly bit down on your breast. The sharp sting hit at the same moment his body jerked beneath you. His cock throbbed hard inside you as he came again, another hot pulse spilling deep while his hips twitched helplessly under your weight.
"Shit!" you cried out, the sudden jolt of sensation ripping straight through your body.
Jake only answered with a muffled whine against your chest, his mouth still pressed to your skin, hot bursts of air hitting your breast while his teeth loosened and his lips dragged weakly over the spot he'd bitten. His shoulders trembled under your hands, and you could feel the way his body struggled to handle the sensation as it moved through him.
Your hips didn't stop moving even with his body shaking under you, you kept rocking against him, your body chasing the last stretch of the high that hadn't quite broken yet. The movement forced more small sounds out of him, soft whines and broken breaths that vibrated directly into your chest where his face stayed buried. The heat between you felt overwhelming, your bodies still pressed close together while the tension inside you continued to wind tighter and tighter.
"Little more... little moreâ please," you breathed out as the pressure finally climbed to the edge.
Your legs trembled where they were wrapped around his hips, muscles tightening as the feeling crested higher. Your arms slid up around his shoulders, pulling him closer into you while your body reacted, tightening around him as the sensation finally tipped over. Your hips stuttered slightly but didn't stop, still rocking against him as the wave rolled through your body.
For a moment everything felt hot and heavy and loud in your head. What almost made you laugh, though, was the fact that Jake still hadn't stopped. His cock was still twitching inside you while your body clenched around him, another weak pulse followed the last. It felt like you were still milking him dry while your body finished riding out the tail end of your own high.
"Hah..." you breathed out shakily, your hips slowed, your body still moving slightly while you tried to steady yourself. Your chest rose and fell unevenly, lungs dragging in deep breaths as the tension slowly drained from your muscles. The moment stretched out quietly around you, the room filled only with the sound of both of you breathing and the faint rustle of sheets under your shifting weight.
Eventually your strength gave out. Your body leaned forward, pressing closer to him as the last of the tension faded from your limbs. You tilted your head down and brushed a soft kiss against his lips. It lingered there for a second, both of you still catching your breath as his mouth responded weakly beneath yours.
As your body finally relaxed, you let yourself slump forward and collapse gently against his shoulder, your cheek resting against his skin while your chest rose and fell heavily. Jake stayed still beneath you, arms loose around your back as you feel the world around you collapsed.
Sometimes, the universe had a sick sense of humor. It let you taste something so perfect just long enough for you to believe in it, only to remind you the next morning that happiness wasn't something you were allowed to hold on to without consequences. Maybe that was the lesson life kept trying to shove down your throat. Not every good moment turns into a good life.
Luck was temporary, a fleeting thing people grabbed with desperate hands. It felt real when it happenedâbright and full and intoxicatingâbut it never stayed long. Because every time the universe handed you something good, there was always that lurking feeling in the back of your head that a disaster was waiting right around the corner, ready to collect the price.
You woke up to the sound of wind slamming violently against the windows. The glass rattled in its frame, branches scraping somewhere outside like fingers clawing at the walls. You groaned under your breath and rolled onto your back, one hand dragging lazily across your face before scratching the back of your head. Your body felt heavy, muscles loose from sleep, your brain foggy as hell. For a moment everything felt blurryâyour surroundings, your thoughts, the slow realization creeping in that something wasn't quite right. Then you stretched your arms above your head, arching your back slightly, and your eyes opened fully.
You weren't in your room. The ceiling looked different. Your stomach flipped when the memory from last night flickered somewhere in the back of your mind... And Jake wasn't beside you.
"Huh?" you muttered to yourself, the confusion hitting you all at once. You sat up quickly, the blanket sliding down to your lap as you scanned the room. His desk lamp was off, the room dim except for the gray light leaking through the curtains from the storm outside. That was when you noticed the small pill sitting neatly on the bedside table beside a glass of water.
You reached for it slowly, fingers curling around the foil packet as your eyes squinted to read the label. Plan B. You stared at it for a long moment, turning it between your fingers. You were still dressed in your own clothesâsame shirt, same shorts from yesterday. The apartment was quiet except for the storm raging outside, and when you glanced toward the corner of the room, you noticed the power strip lights were dead.
No electricity. Ah...right. The storm. You rubbed your face with one hand and slid out of the bed, walking over to the window to push it shut more firmly. The wind was forcing cold air through the cracks, when you finished, you stepped into the hallway and padded slowly toward the living room.
"Hey," you sighed in relief the moment you saw him.
Jake stood near the kitchen counter, quietly cleaning up the snack wrappers and empty cups left behind from earlier.
Your shoulders relaxed instantly at the sight of him. You walked closer. "Just clean it in the morning. It's really dark in here. You could trip on something." Your hand reached out automatically, fingers brushing his shoulder in a familiar, comfortable gesture. "I mean it's likeâwhatâ11:45 PM? Let's just go back to bedâ"
"Uh." He cut you off. Your smile faded immediately when he gently removed your hand from his shoulder without even looking at you. He tossed the trash bag into the bin, his back stiff as he turned slightly away. It felt like someone had flipped a switch.
No, worse. It felt like everything had reset back to the beginning.
"Jake?" you said carefully. You stepped toward him, but before you could say anything else, he brushed past you and walked straight down the hallway. The door to his room shut with a quiet click, and you were left standing there in the middle of the living room. Confused. Frozen.
"Jake?" you called again, your voice smaller now as you walked toward his door. Your chest tightened, questions crashing into your head all at once.
What did you do? Everything had felt fine. More than fine. You were laughing, he looked happy. You were happy. So what the hell changed?
Maybe he was just overwhelmed. Maybe this was new to him. Jake wasn't the type of guy who would just shut someone out after something that intimate... right? Right?
You rested your hand lightly against the door, staring at the wood like you could see through it. "I'll give you time," you said quietly through the door. "Just... talk to me, okay?"
But he never did. The next morning came, then the day after that, and then the days kept piling on top of each other. Every time you knocked on his door, there was no answer. Sometimes you tried the doorknob just in case, hoping maybe it had been left unlocked by accident, but it never was. Always locked. Always shut. You would linger in the living room longer than usual, pretending to scroll through your phone or watch something, just waiting for the sound of his door opening. It never happened.
When classes started again, the pattern became obvious. Jake would leave ridiculously early, long before you even woke up. His shoes would be gone from the rack by the door, his bag missing from the chair. Sometimes the only proof he'd even been home was the faint smell of his almond milk lingering in the kitchen or the clean plate drying on the rack. And SundaysâGod, Sundays were the worst. That used to be the one day he was always around, fixing something in the apartment, tinkering with his stupid robots or cooking meals. Now you would wake up, step into the living room, and the place would feel hollow.
You never found him there anymore. And every night before eight, the same thing happened. His room stayed dark and empty. Is he avoiding you? Dumbass. Of course he is. How naive could you be to pretend you hadn't noticed already? The signs were right there! He wasn't busy. He wasn't overwhelmed. He was avoiding you.
You didn't fucking understand. That was the worst part. If he had said somethingâanythingâyou could've dealt with it. You could've argued with him, yelled at him, laughed it off if it turned out to be something stupid. But this silence? This cowardly disappearing act? It drove you insane.
You wanted to talk to him.
Hell, you wanted to curse him out.
After you had sex, that's it? That's fucking it? What the hell was going on inside his head? You kept replaying that night over and over in your mind, trying to find the moment where everything went wrong. The chess game. The teasing. The kiss. The way he had looked at you like he wanted you just as much as you wanted him.
You're n0t dumb, you refuse to be dumb. You are fucking sure he felt that pull too. You are not delusional, right? You felt it! You fucking felt it in your hands, in your body, in your soul.
"I had sex," you said flatly, staring into nothing.
Ryujin barely reacted at first, just giving you a quick side glance as she continued bouncing the against the wall. It was the start of regional training, but your head was somewhere else entirely. Karina was off in Japan, living her best life, leaving you here dealing with whatever the hell this was. Figures. Of course she'd disappear right when you actually needed someone to scream at.
"Congrats?" Ryujin finally said, catching the ball and tossing it lightly in her hands. "What's with the long face?"
You watched the ball leave her hand again, hit the wall, bounce back in the same rhythm. You shrugged, forcing your shoulders to move like it didn't matter. "I don't know. He's not talking to me."
Ryujin's lips pressed into a thin line as she caught the ball again, this time pausing for a second before throwing it harder. "He?" she repeated, tone already shifting into something judgmental. "As usual. Men are usually like that. Don't expect anything from them, reallyâ"
"Heâ" you cut her off. You exhaled hard, running your hand through your hair as your irritation flared up. "He is not like those other men." And the way you said it was defensive. You weren't letting her lump him into that category. Not him.
"I'm his first," you added, like you were trying to convince both her and yourself at the same time. "It must've been... awkward for him. I don't know. Maybe he didn't like it, maybe that's why he's avoiding me. I'm sureâ"
Your hand pressed against your chest, fingers gripping your shirt like you could physically hold onto the feeling buried there. You turned to look at her fully now, your expression tighter, more serious than before.
"I'm sure he likes me," you said, voice lower, more vulnerable than you wanted it to be. "But... why won't he talk to me?"
Ryujin stared at you for a long second, like she was trying to figure out how deep you were already in before deciding how hard she needed to hit you with reality. Then she let out a sharp sigh. She crouched down in front of you, dropping the ball to the floor where it rolled a little before settling between her feet, forgotten.
"Look," she started, hands lifting and gesturing in the air like she was trying to physically piece her thoughts together. "IâI'm not good at this shit, okay? I don't do... whatever the hell this is." She paused, sucking in a breath before pointing straight at you. "I like girls. I don't deal with men and their bullshit. But youâ" her finger jabbed lightly toward your chest again. "Did you seriously just let your guard down with a man because you think he's not like the rest of those fuckers?"
"You don't get itâ" you tried to cut in, frustration rising immediately, your brows pulling together as your hands clenched at your sides, you had to defend Jake.
"I do not," she shot back just as fast, her voice is sharp as her words, it was cutting right through you. She straightened slightly but stayed crouched in front of you, her eyes locked onto yours. "I'm not the one who got fucked and then ghosted. That's you."
For a second you couldn't even respond. Your jaw tightened, your throat going dry, but she didn't stop.
"You're the one who knows him," she continued. "You're the one who keeps telling me all this shit about how he's different, how he's nice or whag." She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly. "So yeah, I'm gonna say whatever the hell I want because you're the one feeding me all of that, and now you're sitting here confused like this came out of nowhere."
You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as her words started sinking in deeper than you wanted them to. Because she wasn't entirely wrong. Even Karina would say that to your face even though she started this all. Because,look at you. What the hell happen to you?
"But he's not like that," you insisted again, though your voice wasn't as strong this time. "He wouldn't just... use me and leave. That's not him."
Ryujin tilted her head slightly, studying your face like she was trying to decide if you actually believed that or if you were just desperately clinging to it.
"Then what is it?" she asked. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly like that."
You opened your mouth, ready to argue, ready to defend him againâbut nothing came out. Because you didn't know.
Your mind scrambled for an explanation, something that made sense, something that fit the version of Jake you had built in your head. The quiet guy who cooked for you, who stayed up to watch your games, who held you gently like you mattered.
That Jake wouldn't just disappear. Right?
"He's not... confident," you said finally, grasping at something, anything. "He overthinks. He gets overwhelmed. Maybe he just doesn't know what to do after... after everything."
Ryujin didn't immediately respond. She just watched you. "Okay," she said after a moment, nodding slowly. "Let's say you're right. Let's say he's just overwhelmed or confused or whatever the hell excuse you want to give him." She leaned forward a little, her gaze narrowing. "Then why isn't he talking to you?"
Right...
"Because if he actually liked you the way you think he does," she continued, "he wouldn't just leave you hanging like this. He'd at least try. Even if he's awkward. Even if he's bad at it. He'd try."
Your chest tightened again, your fingers curling into your shirt as you looked away from her, your thoughts spiraling.
You hated how that made sense.
"I'm not saying he doesn't like you," Ryujin added, exhaling as she picked the ball back up and held it loosely in her hands. "But liking someone and actually doing something about it? Two very different things."
Then she tossed the ball lightly toward you, snapping you out of your thoughts.
"Talk to him," she said simply.
You blinked, catching it automatically.
"He's avoiding me," you muttered, the frustration creeping back in.
"Then corner him," she shot back without hesitation. "You're telling me you can chase down a ball flying out of bounds but you can't corner that one?"
Ryujin stood up fully now, rolling her shoulders before glancing down at you one last time.
"Stop overthinking what he feels," she added,"You're already doing enough of that for the both of you. Just get your answer straight from him."
She paused, then addedâ "And if he still runs? Then you'll know exactly what kind of guy he is."
Your steps were sharp and fast as you made your way back to the apartment. The towel hung loosely over your shoulder, damp from training, your hair still slightly wet from sweat, as your mind was too busy running in circles, replaying his silence, replaying that night over and over until it made your chest feel tight.
You weren't going to let this drag on anymore.
Your grip tightened around the plastic bag in your hand, the thin material crinkling loudly as your fingers dug into it. You inhaled deeply like you were preparing yourself for something bigger than just a conversation. Maybe this was itâthe point where everything either made sense or completely fell apart.
You weren't even sure which one you were more afraid of.
You exhaled sharply and stopped in front of your door, staring at it for a second longer. You didn't believe in fate. But right now, you found yourself hopingâjust a littleâthat whatever the hell this was would finally lead somewhere. That all this confusion, all this frustration, wouldn't just end in nothing.
You pushed the door open with another exhale and there he was.
Jake stood in the living room, slightly hunched over as he turned on the robots one by one. Whitey buzzed to life first, then Pinky, while Bumble sat near the TV, its faint light flickering on. The scene looked so normal, so painfully familiar, like nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
He froze the second he saw you. His eyes widened behind his glasses, his whole body going stiff. Your jaw tightened. Of course he looked shocked. You weren't supposed to be here this early. You were supposed to be at training, sweating it out, you had just ran away from your training when it was supposed to be a short fucking break.
Your gaze didn't leave him, watching every small movement as he scrambled slightly. His hand hovered awkwardly near the table, his body already shifting like he was about to moveâprobably toward his room, probably to shut the door again, probably to run.
Not this time. Before he could even take a full step, you moved.
Your feet carried you across the room in seconds, your hand shooting out to grab his shoulder and shove him back before he could react. His back hit the wall, the impact making him wince, a strained sound slipping past his lips as his body tensed. "H-Hurts..." he muttered, teeth clenching as his eyes squeezed shut for a second.
And yeah, for a split second, you felt itâthat flicker of guilt in your chest. But it didn't last. Your hands pressed harder against his shoulders, keeping him there, pinning him in place before he could even think about slipping away again. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he stiffened under your touch, but he didn't push you off. He didn't try to fight back.
"Let's talk, Jake." Your voice came out firm, leaving no room for excuses this time.
His eyes opened slowly, meeting yours, and you saw it again. That same look. Conflicted. Overwhelmed.
"Iâ" he started, his voice catching immediately, like the words got stuck somewhere in his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure, restless, like he didn't know where to put them or what to do with them.
You leaned in just slightly. "No," you cut him off, shaking your head. "You don't get to 'Iâ' your way out of this again."Your grip on his shoulders tightened just a bit. "You've been avoiding me for days," you continued. "Locked doors, leaving early, disappearing on weekendsâwhat the hell is that, Jake?"
He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering away from yours for a second before snapping back, like he couldn't decide where to look. "I wasn'tâ" he tried again, weaker this time.
"You were," you cut in immediately, your expression is pained. "Don't lie to me. Not now."
Silence fell between you for a moment, filled only by the faint whirring of the robots moving around the floor like nothing was happening.
Your chest rose and fell with a deep breath before you forced the words out. "Was it a mistake?" you asked, eyes locked on him, searching for anythingâany reaction, any sign that this wasn't all in your head.
The silence stretched for a second too long, and you pushed again, your voice tightening despite yourself. "Because if it was," you continued, "then just say it. Don't do this shit where you pretend I don't exist."
Jake didn't answer. He didn't even look at you.
His head stayed slightly turned away, his gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder like you weren't even there. You watched his lips press together, then part slightly as he bit down on the inside of it, nervous and restless. His fingers twitched at his sides, fidgeting in that familiar way you used to find endearingâtapping against his thigh, curling and uncurling like he didn't know what to do with them.
Now it just pissed you off.
"Jake," you whispered, your voice dropping. Your hand moved without thinking, fingers brushing against his cheek, turning his face toward you despite the resistance. His skin was warm under your touch, his jaw tense, and when his eyes finally met yours, it only made your chest ache more. "Those things we did... was it just a mistake?" you asked again. "Talk to me. Iâ I thought we... we were going somewhere." Your voice faltered, breaking in the middle of your sentence. "Is it... just me?"
You hated how the quetion made you sound so small.
You didn't even realize you were crying until a tear slipped down your cheek, warm against your skin.
"I like you too much," you admitted, your voice trembling now, barely holding together. "Is that wrong?" You sniffed, your lips shaking as you tried to keep yourself from completely falling apart in front of him. But Jakeâhe still wasn't saying anything. He wasn't moving. He wasn't even looking at you properly anymore, his gaze dropping again like he couldn't handle it.
Like he couldn't handle you.
"Talk to me, please," you said again, more desperate this time. Your fingers tapped lightly against his cheek, not harsh, just enough to get his attention, to pull him back to you. You leaned forward until your forehead pressed against his, your eyes closing as your tears kept falling, your grip on his face tightening just a little like you were afraid he'd slip away if you let go. "Just... say something," you whispered, your breath uneven, your whole body tense with the wait.
Maybe he just needed time.
Maybe he wasn't good with words.
Maybe he just needed a push.
But how long were you supposed to wait?
"Talk to me, fuck it!" you suddenly snapped, your voice breaking as it rose, the frustration and hurt finally spilling over. Your hands dropped from his face back to his shoulders, gripping him again, harder this time. You felt him flinch under your touch, his body trembling slightly as he shook his head.
"Sorry... Jake... please," you muttered again, your voice dropping back down, almost pleading now. Your grip loosened without you realizing it, your fingers slipping from his shoulders as something cold settled in your chest. The moment his hands gently moved yours awayâcareful, hesitant, but firm enough to create distanceâit felt like everything just... stopped.
Like the world paused right there.
"I like you too much, is that wrong?" you repeated, but this time it came out emptier. Your arms fell to your sides, your gaze dropping to the floor because you couldn't keep looking at him anymore. "It's pathetic," you let out a weak, humorless breath. "And I'm still here, choosing to be open about it, getting fucking desperate over you." Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as you forced yourself to look up again, your eyes glassy but steady. "Tell me... do I really not mean anything to you?"
You lifted your hand slightly, pointing at his chest, right over his heart.Your throat felt tight, dry, like every word you were about to say had to claw its way out, and still, you forced it. You needed to hear it. Needed him to say it straight instead of hiding behind silence. Needed something solid, even if it fucking hurt.
"S-sorry." He shook his head, not even meeting your eyes, and that alone felt worse than anything he could've said. "IâI... I don't think I feel the same way, that's why I-I feel guilty... on what happen... Sorry." The words stumbled out of him, broken and unsure, but they landed heavy, each one hitting you like a punch you didn't even try to dodge.
You were the one who dropped your head this time, your gaze falling to the floor as your mouth parted slightly, like you were about to say somethingâbut nothing came out. Your ears started ringing loud, drowning out everything else. Everything blurred into this distant, muted noise while your mind tried to catch up, tried to process what the fuck he just said. It didn't make sense. It didn't line up with anything you felt, anything you thought you saw in him. Your chest tightened, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls like your body forgot how to do something as basic as breathing.
"Sorry..." he said again, softer this time, like repeating it would somehow make it better, like it would fix anything. It didn't. It just made your vision blur more, tears spilling out faster than you could stop them, your face heating up with it as you stood there, stuck, unable to move forward or back.
"T-The things you d-did? T-The things w-we did?" Your voice cracked, stuttering over itself as you tried to piece together something that would make this make sense. But it didn't. None of it fucking did. Bullshit. This was bullshit. You were still denying it even as it was being shoved right in your face, because accepting it felt worse than anything else. What was he even saying? That it meant nothing? That you meant nothing? That all of thatâevery look, every touchâwas just... what? A mistake?
"I-I just want to be a g-good roommate b-because I-I can't b-be vocal like a normal person... Uh... I'm sorryâ" He kept going, stumbling through his explanation, but it only made your head spin more, your frustration bubbling up underneath the hurt. His words felt disconnected, like excuses that didn't match what actually happened between you.
"We had sex." You cut through it, your voice barely above a whisper, but it hit harder than anything else you said. Your eyes darted anywhere but at himâwalls, floor, the stupid edge of the tableâlike maybe one of them would give you an answer, something to hold onto. But there was nothing. Just that same suffocating silence pressing in around you.
"I-I'm s-sorry, really. P-Please." His foot tapped nervously against the floor, the sound sharp and repetitive, grating against your already fraying nerves.
You shook your head slowly, the motion weak, almost disbelieving, as the plastic bag slipped from your hand without you even noticing. It hit the floor with a soft crumple before spilling open, the Hot Wheels cars tumbling out and scattering across the tiles.
Jake's eyes dropped immediately, widening as he stared at the mess, his chest tightening visibly. But you didn't follow his gaze. You couldn't. Your focus stayed unfixed, your steps already moving backward as your fists clenched and unclenched at your sides, your body didn't know what to do with all the shit building up inside you.
"Sorry." The word left your mouth, not even sounding like it belonged to you. It wasn't clear what you were apologizing for anymoreâyour feelings, your assumptions, yourselfâbut it was the only thing you could manage before turning away.
You walked out, leaving everything behind. The hallway felt narrow, too suffocating, like the walls were closing in the longer you stayed there, so you kept moving, one step after another, not even caring where the hell you were going as long as it was away. Your breathing was uneven, chest rising too fast, like you couldn't get enough air no matter how hard you tried.
You sniffled harshly, dragging the back of your hand across your face, smearing tears you couldn't seem to fucking stop. It was frustratingâannoying as hellâbecause you hated crying like this.
"Stop," you muttered under your breath. "Just fucking stop." But it didn't listen. The tears kept coming, blurring your vision until everything in front of you looked warped and unstable.
By the time you reached the stairwell, your steps had already turned sloppy, careless. You barely held onto the railing, your grip loose, your focus shot. Your eyes stung, your nose clogged, your head pounding with everything you were tryingâand failingâto process. You took a step down, then another, too fast, too unsteadyâ
âand your foot slipped.
"Shit!" The curse tore out of you as your body lurched forward, your balance completely gone. You didn't even have time to catch yourself before you went down hard, your back hitting first, then your shoulder, then your face grazing against the edge of a step. The impact knocked the air out of you, an ugly sound leaving your throat as pain shot through your body.
For a moment, you just stayed there, sprawled awkwardly on the cold concrete, your body stunned. The pain registered slowlyâyour back aching, your limbs sore, your face throbbingâbut none of it hit as hard as what was already twisting inside your chest. It was dull compared to that. Almost nothing.
You pushed yourself up slowly, wincing as your body protested, your hand pressing against the floor for support. Warm liquid dripped down over your lips, and when you touched your nose, your fingers came away stained red. Blood. Of course. You let out a weak, humorless breath, almost a laugh but not quite, your shoulders shaking for all the wrong reasons.
You just... gave up.
You dragged yourself to the side, leaning heavily against the wall, your body curling in on itself like you were trying to make yourself smaller, less visible, less there. Your palm covered your face, but it didn't do shit to muffle the sound that came out of youâa broken, shaky whine that turned into full-on crying before you could stop it. Your chest hurt, your throat burned, your head spun, and everythingâeverythingâfelt like too much.
It fucking hurt.
Not just your body, not just the sting on your face or the soreness creeping into your muscles.
You were that lonely, weren't you? A pathetic loser crying in a stairwell because she got rejected. Because she let herself believe something that wasn't even real to begin with.
You let out a shaky breath, your hand tightening against your face as if you could press the thought away. "I told you so," you muttered to yourself. You sounded fucking ridiculous. Delusional, even. Thinking it meant something. Thinking he meant something.
Of course you were the one who initiated it. Of course you were the one who crossed the line first. Sex in college was normalâcasual, meaningless, easy to walk away from. People did it all the time!
You fucking hated it. Because you weren't built for that.
In the end, it all lined up, didn't it?
Unlucky with money. Unlucky with sex. Unlucky with love.
You let out a weak, broken laugh that dissolved immediately into another sob, your body curling tighter against the wall as if that would hold you together.
How do one learn tarot, or connect with the cards, I recently brought a deck and cleansed it accordingly but im struggling to connect with my deck. Thank you lovelyy
before i do any readings, i close my eyes and shuffle the cards and say some affirmations such as âi am connected with these cardsâ âthey will guide me to the answers for my questionsâ âi will use my intuition and energy to guide myself to my answersâ while playing some calming music in the background or sometimes subliminal music that you can find on youtube. sometimes i try to imagine a light circling around my body and making its way to my deck just get some energy flowing between the cards and i!
i also recommend watching some videos on tarot such as guides and buying some crystals. i recommend amethyst, labradorite, black tourmaline, smoky & clear quartz, and citrine!
all you said was you loved his hair. when he walked in the front door, you complimented how good the blonde looked. like any good girlfriend would do when their boyfriend doesnât end up with a fucked up haircut.
now, james has your legs in the air, nose deep in your pussy, tongue showing no mercy. one hand held your legs up while the other spread your lips further apart. the browns of his eyes rolling to the back of his head, at the taste of you on his tastebuds.
âoh my god!â
you squirmed deeper into the mattress, moaned louder as your own hand tangled in between the blonde strands, anchoring whatâs left of your sanity. his hand, that held your legs up snaked down to hold your hips in place so he could press his face closer and deeper into your soaked cunt.
whimpering helplessly, jamesâs tongue teased your throbbing clit with slow circles, flicking the sensitive bud up and down when he hears you call out his name.
âjjamiâ!â your voice died out with squeak as he plunged two fingers in you without warning. hands now clawing down his back, your pussy clenching at the intrusion, before the pleasure crept up your spine.
âyou taste so fucking good, baby.â he whispered lowly against your skin, like it was a forbidden rite. tongue still lapping at you mercilessly, now with the added pressure of his fingers, it was all too much.
the mattress shifted as james pushed his body forward, his free hand folding your body into a mating press. more porngraphic moans left your pretty lips at the new position. almost as if heâs getting off on how loud you can get, his fingers slipped in and out faster, his tongue licked with newfound determination.
âi canât! i canâtâjames!â
throughout all these, his eyes never left yours. he watched closely at how far back your eyes rolled, how your beautiful lips say his name over and over. you never looked so devastated in his hands, crying at every thrust of his fingers, he could see you were close.
under the mercy of his tongue and fingers, you reduced to a sobbing mess. blabbering incoherent pleas when james sucked harshly on your clit. you swore it was like you were struck by lightning, your hips jerked forward and the grip on his hair tightened.
thatâs it baby, come for me.
âmake a mess on me, baby. god pleaseâ he pleaded, tone laced with desperation before diving back in you.
you came with a silent scream, body jolted with the force of your orgasm, james moaned as you squirted all over your boyfriend. lapping at your remnants, his fingers still in you, helping you ride out the high. the sheets were soaked, with some dripping down jamesâs mouth.
though reluctant, he backed off once you pushed at his head, the waves of overstimulation creeping up slowly. he brought your legs back down on the mattress, massaging your thighs, the muscle tingling under his hands.
catching your breathe, you opened your eyes to look at your boyfriend. kneeled in between your thighs, his lips shined with your essence, with some dripping down his jawline. the smug on his face as he sucked his fingers clean, all while maintaining heavy eye contact. you watched closely at the veins on his hand, the way his mouth enclosed on each finger, leaving with a pop sound.
somehow the blonde accentuates more his features, makes him look a hundred times sexier than he already is. your eyes never leaving his even as he leaned forward, inching closer to your face. itâs like youâre seeing him for the first time, your breath hitched.
âyou look so pretty, jjami.â the compliment rolled off your tongue smoothly, and watched in real time, his ears turned a crimson red.
his head plopped into the crook of your neck, hiding his sudden shyness as his arms wrapped around you, his frame shrinking to mold with yours. sometimes you are baffled at how quick his demeanor changed.
he made a noise, something between a whimper and an embarassed groan.
âć€äșć§ăæäžæłććŹäșăâ
(âenough. i donât want to hear about it anymore.â)
you chuckled at that, caressing the soft strands of his new hair. james sighed softly, wholeheartedly content. just when you thought he had dozed off, a cheeky hand made its way to grip your ass.
âiâm not done with you, princess.â his voice below an octave, littering small kisses down the slope of your neck.
itâs staggering how fast his mood changes, not that youâre complaining though.
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