Trope: Jake house husband?!! X readerbread winner!??
Summary- After a rough dinner with her judgmental family, you and your husband Jake return home for a cozy weekend together—full of healing, cuddles, and cheesy romance. As a house husband, Jake showers you with affection, late-night kisses, and pancakes, while your dog Layla does her best to keep you both humble. Between laughter, a little spice, and messy baking, you find peace in the life you've built after heartbreak. A soft domestic slice-of-life with love, healing, and lots of whipped cream../づ~ 🍓
Warming: if you don't like it not my problem, just whine and sulk idc but not in my comments love 💓 byeeee!!!𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 shit here guys hahahaaa....
Ummm just so you know this fanfiction is kinda messy idk why i feel like that but please message me if something it wrong
🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐🫧𓇼𓏲*
Morning light spills through the curtains, golden and warm, as the world outside slowly begins to stir.
But in here, wrapped up in soft sheets and the comfort of a familiar heartbeat, the world feels quiet. Safe.
You blink your eyes open, greeted by the sight of messy dark hair and a sleepy smile. Jake’s arm is already around you, pulling you close before you can even roll over.
“You always wake up before the alarm,” you mumble, voice raspy with sleep.
“Only when I get to see this pretty face first,” he says, grinning. His voice is low, teasing, a little too cheesy for six in the morning—but it makes you smile anyway.
He leans in, peppering your face with soft kisses—your forehead, your cheek, your nose—before finally landing on your lips. You let out a soft giggle, pushing lightly at his chest.
“Okay, okay—calm down, Mr. House Husband.”
He gasps, hand to his heart. “Is that how you see me? Just a hot man in an apron?”
“Well, you do make good pancakes.”
Jake sits up and stretches, the sheet falling off his toned chest as he yawns. “Speaking of pancakes… I already started breakfast. You’ve got an early shift, right?”
You nod, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Double shift today. Emergency ward. I won’t be back until late.”
“Then you’re getting the works. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, and coffee exactly how you like it. Doctor’s orders.”
You hear a bark and turn your head just in time to see Layla trot into the room, tail wagging excitedly. She leaps onto the bed like it’s her kingdom, crawling straight into your lap.
“She missed you,” Jake says, standing to head toward the kitchen. “And so did I.”
You lean down to cuddle Layla, pressing a kiss to her soft fur. “Aww, well I missed you both my babies.”
Back then, things weren’t this soft. This easy.
It started in college—well, it almost started there. You met Jake during your second year, when you were overworked, burned out, and trying to survive med school with no sleep and too many expectations.
He was the campus barista. And a college dropout.
“I’m not a failure,” he’d said once when you were studying at the coffee shop late at night. “I just didn’t belong in a place that made me feel like one.”
You didn’t know what drew you in at first—his quiet confidence, his warmth, his silly jokes that somehow made your long nights bearable. It started as casual conversations. Then weekend study breaks. Then you started waking up in his hoodie.
Your parents found out when you brought him home for your birthday dinner. They didn’t say much at first—but their looks said enough.
“He’s not on your level.”
“He doesn’t have a future.”
Still, you stayed. Through the whispers. Through the tension. Through the storm.
And then… the two lines on the pregnancy test.
You were scared. So was he.
But he didn’t run. He didn’t even hesitate. He held you and said, “We’ll figure it out. You don’t have to do this alone.”
Marriage wasn’t your parents’ idea of a solution. But after seeing you stand your ground, with Jake at your side and a fire in your eyes, they backed off. And you guys got married
The miscarriage came quietly. A bleeding that wouldn’t stop. A room full of doctors where you were the patient this time. Jake held your hand the entire time. He didn’t cry—not until you were asleep and he thought you wouldn’t hear.
You both grieved differently. But you grieved together.
Now, months later, your apartment smells like pancakes and coffee. There’s a dog snuggled in your lap, and a man in the kitchen who looks at you like you’re his entire world.
You’re not whole yet. But you’re healing.
You hear the sizzle of something on the pan and the occasional hum of Jake singing to Layla, who’s now curled at the foot of the bed. You smile to yourself. This—these mornings, this peace—it almost doesn’t feel real sometimes.
“Breakfast is served, m’lady,” Jake announces, reappearing with a tray in hand. Pancakes stacked like a tower, eggs fluffed to perfection, and a perfectly brewed cup of coffee that smells like home. He sets it down beside you, then leans in with a soft kiss to your temple.
“Eat before it gets cold,” he says, ruffling Layla’s ears. “You need energy to go save lives today.”
You try not to laugh with a mouth full of syrupy pancake. “You act like I’m some kind of superhero.”
Jake looks at you with eyes that leave no room for doubt. “You are.”
There’s a pause—warm, but heavy with something unspoken. You don’t have to say it. He already knows. Some mornings still ache with the weight of what could’ve been. Some mornings you wake up and your hands drift to your belly, like they remember before your mind does.
Jake gently brushes a crumb from your lips, then slides next to you on the bed, pulling you into his arms.
“I know you’re tired baby,” he murmurs. “I know it still hurts. But I want you to know… you never have to carry it alone.”
You nod against his chest. His hoodie smells like fabric softener and safety.
And for a moment, the world stops spinning.
The bathroom floor was cold. You sat with your back against the wall, the test still clutched in your shaking hands.
Your fingers trembled. You weren’t ready. You didn’t even know how Jake would react. All the voices in your head—your parents’, society’s, even your own—screamed doubt.
He showed up in ten minutes, hair messy, shirt half-buttoned, panic in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asked the moment he walked in.
You didn’t speak. You just handed him the test.
Not big. Not loud. Just soft. Steady. Reassuring.
“Ohh my love, it's okay,” he said, kneeling in front of you. “We’ll figure this out. I’ve got you.”
You broke then—right into his arms.
You didn’t know it then, but that was the first time you realized: love isn’t always about grand gestures or perfect plans. Sometimes, it’s about the person who kneels on a cold floor beside you and whispers, you’re not alone.
You’re halfway through your commute, coffee thermos in hand, when your phone buzzes. The early sunlight streaks across the dashboard as you reach for it during a red light.
Jake [7:42 AM]: “Don’t forget you’re amazing. Also Layla misses you already.”
You smile despite the tired in your bones.
You [7:44 AM]: “She probably just wants my toast crumbs.” “Also thank you, cheesy man. I love you.”
Jake [7:45 AM]: “I love you more. Come home safe, Doctor Hot Stuff.”
You laugh quietly and tuck the phone away as the light turns green. Your heart feels lighter—even if the day ahead promises to be long.
The hospital is already buzzing by the time you walk in—nurses moving with purpose, pages beeping, and the thick air of urgency hanging everywhere. You change quickly into your scrubs, tie your hair up, and get to work.
But between rounds, somewhere between chart updates and check-ins, your thoughts always drift.....
You’d brushed it off at first—probably something you ate. But by the time Jake got home from grocery shopping, you were curled up on the bathroom floor again. This time, it wasn’t a pregnancy test in your hands. This time, there was blood.
“Y/N?” His voice was sharp, full of panic the second he saw you. He dropped the bags, rushed over, scooping you into his arms without a second thought. “We’re going to the hospital. Right now.”
You barely remember the car ride, only the sound of your name being called through waves of pain and the trembling in Jake’s hands as he held yours the entire time.
At the hospital, the world became a blur—bright lights, cold walls, hushed voices. You were wheeled into a room, and Jake was told to wait outside.
He paced the hallway like he couldn’t breathe.
His hands shook as he called your father’s number—despite everything, despite the coldness and judgment—because in that moment, nothing else mattered but you.
“Mr. Y/L/N,” he said, voice rough, barely steady. “It’s Y/N. She’s in the hospital. We—we lost the baby.”
There was silence on the other end.
Then your father’s voice, quiet. “What hospital?”
They arrived forty minutes later. Your mother in pearls and panic, your father in a coat he clearly grabbed without thinking, no matter what he still loved you a lot. Jake stood when they entered the waiting room, unsure if he should speak first. He hadn’t seen them since the wedding.
Your father’s eyes were red-rimmed, and your mother’s lips trembled when she looked at him.
“Where is she?” she asked, voice tight.
“They’re keeping her for observation,” Jake answered. “She’s asleep.”
Your mother sat down slowly, as if her knees were about to give out. For a moment, nobody said anything.
Then your father looked at Jake—really looked at him. The bags under his eyes, the blood on his shirt from when he caught you, the way his hands clenched into fists like he was holding himself together.
“You did the right thing,” he said quietly. “Thank you… for calling.”
Jake just nodded, swallowing hard.
Later that night, when they were allowed into your room, your mother walked straight to your side. She smoothed your hair, tears slipping down her face. “My baby girl…”
Your father stood at the foot of the bed, silent but shaken. You were still asleep, unaware they had come. But Jake never left your side. He sat there, holding your hand, as if tethering you to the earth.
It was the first time your parents saw him not as the dropout or the disappointment, but as the man who loved their daughter enough to break, to beg, and to stay.
You stirred in your sleep, eyelids fluttering open slowly. The room was dim, quiet except for the rhythmic beep of the monitor and the faint rustle of someone shifting beside you.
Your head ached. Your body felt heavy. And then it hit you.
You gasped, sitting up suddenly, hands flying to your stomach. “Jake?”
He was already there, springing up from the chair and leaning over you in a heartbeat. “Hey, hey, it’s okay darling, I’m here. I’m right here.”
You looked into his eyes, and just like that, it all came crashing back.
“The baby…” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
Jake nodded slowly, his own eyes wet. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
You felt Jake’s grip tighten. He didn’t speak. Not even as you sobbed into his chest, not even as the machines beeped around you like a cruel reminder of everything slipping away.
You felt it again—that unbearable pressure in your chest. The grief, the guilt, the disbelief. But before the sobs could take over, you felt something else.
Your mother’s hand wrapped gently around yours. You turned your head and blinked in surprise.
“Mom?” your voice trembled.
She looked like she’d aged ten years since you last saw her—like her heart had cracked the same way yours had. “Sweetheart, we’re here.”
Your father stepped closer. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there quietly, his expression unreadable. Then he reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder.
“We’re sorry,” he said. “For everything.”
Your mother nodded, squeezing your hand. “We should’ve been there sooner. Not just today. For all of it.”
You didn’t know what to say. Part of you wanted to scream, to ask why it had taken so much pain for them to finally look at you like their daughter again. But the other part—the exhausted, broken, bleeding part—just needed the comfort. Even if it came late.
Jake stayed beside you the whole time, letting you lean on him, his thumb brushing small circles into your wrist.
That night, no one left the hospital. The four of you stayed in the room in silence—each processing the loss in your own way. And though nothing could undo what happened, the walls between you and your parents had begun to crack.
Grief had a way of doing that—stripping away pride and expectations, leaving only what mattered: love, even if bruised.
You blink back the sting in your eyes as a nurse hands you a chart.
“Doctor Y/N? Room 307—new patient just came in.”
You slip the chart under your arm, straighten your posture, and move.
But inside, a part of you still carries that night. A part of you always will.
Because love didn’t end with the loss. It stayed. It grew. In Jake’s arms. In your laughter with Layla. In the quiet mornings. In the healing.
You unlock the door with a tired sigh, shoulders heavy and feet aching. The house is dimly lit, golden light spilling from the living room, soft music humming in the background. Layla’s nails click excitedly against the floor as she rushes to greet you, her tail wagging like it’s been years instead of hours.
“Hi, baby,” you murmur, kneeling down to scratch behind her ears. “Did you miss me?”
“She waited by the door for like an hour,” Jake’s voice floats in from the kitchen.
You smile without lifting your head. “Sounds like someone I know.”
He appears a second later, drying his hands with a towel, his hair a little messy, apron still on. “Guilty.”
You stand, and in an instant, his arms are around you. Tight. Warm. Like he’s been holding his breath all day.
“You okay?” he asks, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes.
You nod, but your face gives you away. He sees it—the exhaustion in your bones, the sadness that still lingers under the surface. Without another word, Jake gently takes your bag and sets it aside, then guides you to the couch.
“I made dinner,” he says softly. “Nothing fancy. Just what I thought you’d crave after a day like this.”
You smile, a little shy. “You made kimchi fried rice?”
“And miso soup. And your weird obsession: cold sliced fruit.”
You let out a breath of laughter. “You really are trying to win ‘Husband of the Year,’ huh?”
He winks. “Nah, I already won the second I married you.”
You don’t reply. Instead, you press your face into his chest, letting him hold you in that quiet, safe way only he can. Layla hops up beside you both and curls into a ball.
And just like that, you’re home. Really home.
You’re curled up on the couch, legs tangled with Jake’s under the blanket. Layla’s snoring softly at your feet, and the low hum of the TV fills the space. It’s peaceful—one of those rare quiet evenings where the world feels distant.
You glance at the screen and feel your stomach drop. Dad.
You exchange a quick look with Jake before answering. “Hello?”
“Y/N,” your father’s voice comes through, calm but with that usual formality, “there’s a family dinner this Friday. Your brother just signed a major deal, and we’re having a small celebration at the house.”
“Oh.” You hesitate. “That’s... nice. I’ll check with my schedule”
“Bring Jake,” he adds, cutting you off gently. “It’s important.”
Your eyes flick toward your husband. He raises a curious eyebrow but doesn’t ask anything yet.
“I’ll... let you know soon,” you say, and hang up before the silence stretches too long.
Jake tilts his head. “Family thing?”
You nod, rubbing your temple. “My brother closed a big deal. They’re having a dinner to celebrate.”
He says nothing at first. Then quietly, “Do you want to go?”
“I don’t know,” you admit. “They’re trying, I think. But I also know how it gets... especially when it comes to you.”
He doesn’t flinch, but you see the flicker in his eyes.
“Hey,” you reach for his hand. “You don’t have to go if it’s too much.”
He squeezes your fingers. “You’re my wife. That’s your family. I can handle a few snide comments.”
You smile, even though your heart’s heavy. “You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.” He leans over, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Let’s show up and remind them why you chose me.”
Jake stands in front of the mirror, fussing with the collar of his shirt like it’s personally offended him. “Do I look like a decent househusband or a desperate ex-boyband member?”
You stifle a laugh, walking over to fix the slightly crooked button. “Ohh no, my baby looks absolutely perfect.”
“I still think Layla would’ve been better company for this dinner.”
At the sound of her name, Layla trots over with her leash in her mouth, tail wagging hopefully.
Jake bends down and pets her head, voice full of mock drama. “Sorry, princess. It’s an invite-only event, and sadly, they didn’t include VIPs like you.”
Layla lets out a small whine, flopping dramatically onto the floor.
"She’s going to hold a grudge,” you murmur, grabbing your coat.
The house hasn’t changed—white pillars, manicured lawn, an air of constant formality. Jake steps beside you just before you reach the door.
You nod. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Your mother greets you with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re late.”
“Sorry traffic,” you reply simply.
Jake offers a polite nod. “Good evening, Mrs. Y/L/N.”
She gives him a once-over before stepping aside. “Dinner’s in the main hall.”
As you walk in, the murmurs begin. A few relatives smile at you with forced politeness. Others don’t bother pretending. Your brother stands near the fireplace, glowing with pride, surrounded by a cluster of uncles and family friends.
“Y/N!” he calls, genuine warmth in his voice. “You made it!”
You hug him. “Congrats. Heard the deal was huge.”
“Thanks. And Jake—glad you came too, man.”
Jake gives him a handshake, trying not to seem awkward. “Proud of you.”
The evening moves slowly—champagne glasses clink, dinner is served, and conversation circles around business, vacations, and children. You cling to Jake’s hand under the table.
“So, Jake,” your aunt says, eyes sharp and too interested, “what are you doing these days?”
Jake smiles patiently. “I take care of things at home.Cooking, errands. Layla’s got a lot of energy, so—”
“A househusband,” she interrupts, lips curving just slightly. “How modern.”
Someone laughs softly. You can’t tell who.
“I suppose it’s easy, not having to work while your wife plays doctor,” another uncle adds.
Jake opens his mouth, but you cut in sharply. “He runs our entire household better than half the companies represented in this room. Don’t mistake care for weakness.”
The table goes quiet for a beat.
But the silence is shattered when she speaks.
She’s always been jealous—of your career, your marriage, your spotlight. And she picks her moment with poison precision.
“I’m surprised you even showed up,” she says with a sugary smile. “After everything... I mean, some couples don’t recover from something as devastating as a miscarriage.”
The entire table freezes.
Your fork drops against your plate. Jake’s hand tightens in yours, jaw clenching.
You feel like the air’s been knocked from your lungs.
“Minseo,” your father says sharply, but she only shrugs.
“I’m just saying, it must be hard—losing a baby and being the breadwinner.”
You stand up, slow and calm but shaking on the inside.
“Excuse us,” you say, taking Jake’s hand.
You don’t wait for their reactions. You walk straight out of the dining room, out of the house, out of their judgments—because tonight wasn’t about celebrating.
The door shuts behind you with a soft click. You don’t even take off your shoes. You just stand in the entryway, staring at nothing, your hand still wrapped tightly in Jake’s.
Jake sets the keys down and gently untangles your fingers from his. “Y/N,” he says softly, “come sit.”
You follow him wordlessly to the couch, where Layla perks up and whines softly, sensing something's off. She curls up by your feet, resting her chin on your ankle.
Jake kneels in front of you, his hands warm on your knees. “Talk to me.”
You shake your head, blinking fast. “I’m fine.”
He just stares at you, quiet and calm—like he’s learned not to push, but also not to let you slip too far.
“They always do this,” you whisper. “Every time they look at you like you’re not good enough… and now this.”
“They brought up our baby, Jake. Like it was gossip. Like it was some… some stain I’m supposed to cover up.”
You don’t even realize you’re crying until Jake’s thumb brushes your cheek, catching the tear before it falls too far.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” he says. “You never did.”
“I just wanted to be enough for them,” you breathe, “and I still couldn’t protect you from them. Or our baby.”
“Don’t,” he says, a little sharper now. “Don’t say that. You didn’t fail anyone. You loved with everything you had. You still do.”
He moves beside you on the couch, pulling you into his arms. You let your body fold into his chest, your fingers curling into his shirt.
“I hate that it still hurts,” you admit into the fabric.
“It’s supposed to,” he says softly. “Love like that doesn’t just… disappear. But we’re healing. Together. Day by day.”
You nod, tears wetting his shoulder. “I’m so tired, Jake.”
“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Let me carry it with you.”
Layla shifts closer, one paw resting on your leg as if she’s promising the same.
And in that small, quiet living room—with heartbreak behind you and healing ahead—you finally allow yourself to feel it all.
Grief. Anger. Love. Safety.
Because you were never alone in this.
The next morning. You wake up to the smell of something sweet—cinnamon, maybe vanilla—and the sound of a soft playlist humming from the kitchen.
The sunlight sneaks through the curtains in golden streaks. while the other side of the bed is warm but empty.
You sit up slowly, the ache from last night still sitting in your chest, but it’s… softer now.
A loud clatter from the kitchen followed by Jake’s panicked voice, “No! Layla, that’s not for you—drop the pancake! that's for my baby”
Layla barks at Jake kinda in an angry way, definitely trying to say, "Bruh, i was your baby before her"
"Oops, I mean you're my baby too but~"Jake said.....
You can’t help but laugh.
You swing your legs over the bed and shuffle toward the kitchen.
Jake is standing there in his cozy checkered pajama pants and one of his oversized hoodies, flour dusting his cheek and syrup on the counter. Layla’s sitting obediently nearby with the most innocent expression ever—even though there’s pancake batter on her nose.
“Oh good, you’re up,” Jake says, grinning when he sees you. “Don’t judge the chaos. This is all part of the master plan.”
He lifts a tray dramatically. “Weekend breakfast in bed for my wife. But the wife is now in the kitchen, ruining my big reveal.”
You giggle, heart already lighter. “I think the wife prefers breakfast with the chef anyway.”
He leans down to kiss your forehead. “I figured after last night… you deserved to start today with sweetness.”
You sit at the table, watching him plate everything. Cinnamon pancakes, fresh berries, hot coffee in your favorite mug, and a tiny vase with a single daisy.
“You really did all this?”
“I bribed Layla with peanut butter to stay out of the kitchen. Failed miserably.”
Layla wags her tail like she knows exactly what she did.
You both sit and eat, warm and quiet, like the outside world doesn’t exist. You don’t realize how much you missed feeling peace until it fills you again.
This, this was home, your home , your actually true fucking home and you wouldn't trade it for anything
Umm i hope you liked this, ahh it was definitely a very messy story i wrote idk if i personally like this so I hope it was good or at least okayish, but okayyy ahhh byee myyy babiesss MWAHHH..
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