A/N: Hey guys! Super excited to finally share the first part of this three part story with you. It will follow Jake and Y/N as they reconnect after years apart, during Thanksgiving, Christmas, and finally New Years Eve. I hope it will bring you a few surprises, a little nostalgia, and of course, some heat. I can't wait for you to see how this all unfolds, and as always thanks for every like, comment and reblog. It means the world to me to have readers like you! Happy Thanksgiving! - N
You grab your coat from the hotel closet, the empty hanger swinging freely now in the half empty space. Your hotel room feels too quiet, too small, and you can't stop thinking about what's waiting outside. Frankenmuth hasn't changed much. The streets are still alive and humming with tourists, and the air is still filled with the smell of roasted nuts and fresh winter air. But it feels different this time. Or maybe you’re different.
It's been too long since you've seen your friends. The ones who knew you before your life started pulling you in a hundred different directions. You can feel the flutter in your chest, the one that comes as you find yourself on familiar streets, remembering high school dances and nights spent telling secrets behind the bleachers at football games.
As you drive through the quiet streets of Frankenmuth, your mind drifts to Jillian’s text last week that started all of this.
Jilly: Y/N! Henry and I are hosting Friendsgiving the day before Turkey Day. Pretty sure the whole gang is coming. I hope you can make it! 7:00, same house!
You remember reading it, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling up all at once. It feels like a lifetime since you’ve seen everyone. You smile to yourself, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. You’re coming back, not just to your hometown, but to a piece of yourself you’d almost forgotten.
You’ve grabbed a bottle of your favorite red, the St. Julian that you can only get at the wine shop on Main Street. It’s always been your favorite when you visit home, and you know it’s perfect to share at a gathering like this one.
As you step out of your rental car into the cold November air, your mind plays through vivid memories. Running through the first snow of Winter in the park with your friends, the smell in the air as the leaves begin to change color, and all the small quiet corners in this town you once called home. Every detail of home presses in on you, warm and familiar, reminding you how much you’ve missed this.
You pull your coat tight around you, taking a deep breath. Tonight isn’t just another night, it’s a bridge between the past and the present, a chance to slip back in time, to see who everyone has become.
And as you walk toward the familiar house, a smile tugs at your lips. For the first time in a long time, you feel that simple, exhilarating feeling of being exactly where you’re supposed to be.
You press the doorbell and wait, the chime echoing like a note from the past. The door swings open before you can knock, and a wave of warmth and chatter spills out. Laughter, the clinking of glasses, the faint smell of roasted turkey and pumpkin pie all hits you at once, a flood of comfort and memories.
“You made it!” Jillian shouts, pulling you into a hug before you can even set the wine bottle down. You can feel the energy of the room, the hum of voices catching up, stories spilling over one another. It’s chaotic, loud, and messy in the best possible way.
You start weaving through the small crowd of friends, exchanging hellos, kisses on cheeks, and quick hand squeezes. Everyone looks older, somehow, but not too different. The kids you knew are still there somewhere, and there’s comfort in that. Proof that while life pulls you all in separate directions, this is still home.
Jillian bustles past, her apron dusted with flour, laughing at a story someone is retelling from high school. You feel the corner of your mouth tug into a smile, your nerves now settling into excitement. You pull the bottle of wine from your bag and set it on the kitchen counter, ready to join the swirl of chatter and warmth.
Your friend Sarah catches your eye, and you’re pulled back to the countless nights you two spent running from one adventure to the next, chasing after boys and midnight dares, and for a moment, it’s like no time has passed at all.
You grab an empty wine glass from the counter, filling it with the red you brought, and take a slow sip, letting the familiar taste ground you. Laughter rings out from the living room, stories overlapping in a happy, chaotic blur. Someone nudges you gently, and you turn to see Ashlyn, her face lighting up with recognition.
“Y/N! I can’t believe you’re here! Look at you! You’re a vision!” she says, tugging you into a hug. You laugh, the sound spilling out of you easily, and suddenly all the years apart melt away.
You drift out of the kitchen, passing an old photo on the wall of you all in high school, arms slung around one another, grinning like nothing in the world could touch you. You feel a pang of longing, not sad exactly, but wistful, that familiar ache of knowing how far you’ve all come, and how much has changed.
The clatter of plates being set, the smell of roasted turkey, and the warm hum of conversation fills the space, and you let yourself relax, letting the comfort of it all wash over you. Tonight is about laughter, memories, catching up, and sharing pieces of yourselves you’ve kept tucked away during the months and years apart from each other.
You raise your glass to a passing friend, clinking lightly before taking another sip, the warmth spreading through you. For the first time in a long time, it feels effortless to belong, to slip back into the rhythm of this group that’s been part of you for so long.
You turn slightly as Henry, Jillian’s husband, sidles up with a warm grin. “Y/N! There you are!” He claps you lightly on the shoulder. “It’s been too long. How have you been? What’s life like in Cleveland?”
You smile, feeling yourself relax into his easy company. “It’s been good,” you say, setting your wine glass down for a moment. “Busy, you know. Work’s been… well, work, but I love it. Keeps me on my toes.”
He raises an eyebrow, “Ah, the ever famous wordsmith, always keeping busy. And what about the personal life? Still seeing that guy you were dating back in what, April? Barney?”
You laugh, shaking your head, a little embarrassed at how easily the question slips into conversation. “No. No, um, Barrett…That’s… definitely over. Long story, but I’m okay with it.”
Henry chuckles, a deep, warm sound that makes you smile. “For the best,” he says firmly, giving you a knowing look. “Trust me. Sometimes things end so something better can come along. You just have to be patient.”
You nod, sipping your wine again. “Yeah. I suppose that’s true, though you and Jilly never had to figure that out.” you laugh.
He grins, clapping his hands together. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Well…that’s enough serious talk. Go enjoy the party, catch up, make some new memories. You’re home, Y/N. And you're with people that love you, that’s what matters.”
You smile, letting his words settle in, feeling the comforting weight of old friendships and the familiar warmth of this space. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it here. How much you’d missed them.
The front door opens again, though this time there is no knock, no doorbell, just entry, the cold air sweeping through the front hallway suddenly. You don’t realize who it is at first, just a man dressed in dark clothes and a coat. But it’s when that coat comes off, and the hall light hits his face you realize just who you’re looking at.
Your chest lurches before your brain even catches up. He’s different than you remember, shoulders broader, slightly taller, and with that same easy confidence that always seemed to fill a room. His hair falls to his shoulders now, and for a second, you think you might be imagining his presence all together.
But no. It’s real. He’s real.
Your eyes meet briefly across the crowded room, and something inside you flips. A spark of recognition, a flash of memory from years ago, and a current that feels impossibly strong. He pauses, scanning the room, until his gaze lands on you again. That half smile, the one that haunted your dreams and lingered in your memory, tugs at the corner of his mouth.
You freeze midstep, glass halfway to your lips as your heart hammers in your chest. The laughter, the chatter, the cozy familiarity of the party, all of it fades into the background and suddenly all that exists is him.
For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves, neither of you speaks. It’s like the world has shrunk to just the two of you, suspended in that quiet, impossible moment.
And then, just as quickly, the spell breaks and the room begins to move again, the voices rise, but your mind is already racing. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to act nonchalant. No sudden movements, no obvious staring. Just… blend in.
With your now empty glass in hand, you weave through the room, nodding and smiling at a few friends, letting your laughter sound natural even as your chest hammers against your ribs. Every step toward the kitchen feels measured and deliberate, like you’re performing some delicate balancing act between composure and the chaos of your thoughts.
You tell yourself he probably doesn’t even remember you. Probably doesn’t even notice you. And yet, with every step, you can feel the pull, magnetic and undeniable, drawing him closer.
The chatter fades slightly as you enter the kitchen, a quieter corner of the house at the moment, away from the main cluster of voices. You set your wine glass down on the counter and straighten your posture, trying to look casual. You glance around, pretending to be occupied with arranging dinner glasses and napkins, but your eyes flick toward the doorway out of habit and there he is. Not moving, not speaking, just standing there, like he’s always been part of your memory, a perfect, impossible fixture.
Your stomach flips. You clear your throat softly, forcing a small, almost casual smile. “Jake,” you say, trying to sound like you weren’t just caught off guard by the last twenty seconds of your life.
He steps fully into the kitchen, the floorboard creaking softly beneath his boots. He looks different and exactly the same all at once. Older, sharper around the jaw, his hair long and wavy in a way that somehow suits him too well. But his eyes… Those are still unmistakably the same. Still his.
“Hey,” he says, and it's low and a little rough, like he hasn't done much talking today.
You force yourself to stay grounded, your fingers curling against the edge of the counter behind you. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” you say, letting the truth slip out.
His mouth curves, “Yeah, I uh– got a flight last minute to come see my family. Figured I couldn’t turn down Henry’s invitation,” he says, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back in a motion so familiar it nearly knocks you over. “Been a while since I’ve seen everybody.”
You nod, “Yeah. Me too.”
He steps closer, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can smell whatever cologne he put on this morning. He looks at you like he's trying to line up the person in front of him with the girl he knew in highschool.
“So…” he says, “How uh– how’ve you been since—”
You release a breathy laugh, the question suddenly feeling huge. “Since high school? Good. Busy mostly. Cleveland’s… alot. But good. What about you?”
He tilts his head in a familiar way, like he's reading between the lines of your answer. Like he always did. “Great actually. Tired, exhausted really,” he admits. “But I think being home will help with that.”
You nod, clutching your wine glass tighter. “Yeah, I get that.”
The house hums with conversation pouring out of the living room. Jake’s eyes seem to linger on you and you see something flicker within them. Recognition for sure but memory, maybe?
He clears his throat then looks away.
“You, uh, come in here to hide from everybody? Look busy so you don’t have to socialize?”
You grin, “Maybe.”
His smile is crooked now, “Figured.”
And just when the moment feels too intimate, when you’re dangerously close to being pulled straight back to who you were when you were eighteen, Jillian’s voice cuts through the air.
“Time to eat!”
You both jump but then he steps aside, holding an arm out for you to go first, “Ladies first.”
—
Dinner is loud in the way only old friends can be. Layers of overlapping conversations, silverware clinking, someone laughing loudly at the end of the table while Jillian tells Henry he didn’t cook the rolls long enough.
You settle into your seat, trying not to be hyper aware of the fact that Jake ended up directly across from you. Which means every time you look up, there he is. Sometimes smiling, sometimes listening, sometimes looking at you before pretending he wasn’t.
You’re halfway through your roll when Jake reaches across the table and plucks your empty glass from in front of you.
“Here,” he says, already rising from his chair, “I’ve got it.”
You blink. “Oh. You don’t have to—”
He just sends you that one sided smile, “I know.”
He disappears into the kitchen, and you try to act like your heart isn’t doing absolutely stupid things in his absence. Jillian elbows you lightly.
“He looks good,” she whispers, wiggling her eyebrows and grinning.
You nearly choke on air. “Jillian.”
“What? I’m just saying.”
You make a face at her, but heat still creeps up your chest.
Seconds later, Jake comes back with your refilled glass and sets it gently in front of you. You thank him, bringing it up for a sip, but pausing, frowning slightly as you study the bottle he places on the table in front of you.
“Wait,” you murmur, leaning in a little. “I thought mine was gone.”
He glances at you, confused for a second, then shakes his head, motioning to the bottle. “Oh—this one’s mine. I brought it. Hope that’s okay?”
Your eyes widen when you spot the label. “You brought St. Julian?”
Jake’s mouth curves into a smile, “Yeah. It’s my favorite when I’m back home.”
You blink. The coincidence lands like a small, quiet shock.
“Oh,” you say, softer than you mean to. “I um– Me too.”
“Guess some things haven’t changed that much,” he says lightly, but there’s weight beneath it.
You lift your glass again, the rim barely brushing your lip as you meet his eyes over the top.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “I guess not.”
He raises his own glass, just a few inches off the table, his gaze still locked on yours.
A silent cheers.
No clink. No words. Just the two of you, glasses tilted toward each other in the softest, most loaded acknowledgment of the night so far.
You both take a slow sip, still watching each other over the rims. You lower your glass first, pulse steady but impossible to ignore, and Jake follows a beat later, his eyes lingering in a way that makes it clear you’re not the only one feeling something.
—
Dinner is in full swing now, with plates half empty, wine glasses half full, and everyone talking over each other like no time has passed. You’re mid laugh at something Sarah said when you hear Cora speak up from the other side of Jake.
“So, Jake,” she says, tapping the stem of her Martini glass, “You must have some wild stories from the road. I mean, you’ve been like all over the place, right?”
Jake looks up, offering her a small smile, “Yeah, I’ve been around a little bit.”
“A little?” Cora laughs. “Come on, you’ve been overseas, like ten times right? Touring and… whatever else you guys get up to. There has to be something exciting.”
Jake shakes his head with a soft breath of a laugh. “Nothing as exciting as people think. Mostly travel, soundchecks, shows, hotel rooms, repeat… not that thrilling if I’m honest.”
Cora tilts her head. “I’d love to hear about it sometime. Maybe fill me in on what it’s really like.”
Jake hums noncommittally. “If I can remember anything worth telling,” he says, taking a slow sip of wine.
She leans in slightly. “Well, maybe I could jog your memory later.”
Jake’s smile tightens, still polite. “I appreciate that,” he says gently, “but honestly, it’s all pretty boring compared to this.”
“This?” Cora echoes, confused.
He gestures lightly to the whole table. “Being home. Seeing everyone again. Feels… nicer than talking about work.”
“Oh.” Cora blinks, thrown off but trying to play it cool. “Right, yeah. Of course.”
Jake nods once, warm but distant. “But thank you.”
And just like that, he turns his attention back to the table. Back to Henry asking about a guitar, back to Sarah laughing about a junior year disaster, back to the conversation that includes everyone.
Cora sits back, swirling the olives in her glass, her smile fixed but tight.
Across the table, you feel that same warm flutter again. He wasn’t rude. He wasn’t cold. He just… didn’t bite. He didn’t give her anything to cling to. Didn’t engage and didn’t flirt back. And without looking directly at you, he somehow makes it very, very clear, he’s not interested in her.
Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
—
The rest of dinner ends up being louder and messier than it has any right to be. Everyone passes dishes over each other’s heads, Jillian shouting for someone to “please, for the love of God, stop double dipping into the sweet potatoes,” and Henry insisting the turkey is dry even though it absolutely isn’t.
Eventually Sarah leans back in her chair and claps her hands together dramatically.
“Okay,” she announces. “Does everyone remember senior year, the football game against Birch Run, when Jake, Henry, and Josh decided they were going to, quote, ‘fix the scoreboard themselves’? Because I think about it at least once a week.”
Henry groans immediately and Jake drops his fork.
“Oh my god,” Henry mutters. “Don’t start.”
Sarah is already laughing. “No, I’m absolutely starting.”
Jake runs a hand down his face but he’s smiling, shoulders shaking. “This is slanderous,” he says, looking around the table for backup. But no one gives him any. They’re all too busy trying not to laugh.
“You three idiots,” Sarah continues, “climbed up onto the roof of the press box with a wrench you stole from Coach Dan’s truck—”
“We did not steal it,” Jake argues, pointing his fork at her. “We were borrowing it. Big difference.”
“It was 9:30 at night!” Sarah cries. “You didn’t even tell anyone what you were doing! The announcer kept saying the score was wrong, and the crowd was booing, and meanwhile you guys are up there in the dark with tools!”
The whole table erupts in laughter.
Jake is laughing so hard he’s gone a little red, head tipped back, hand covering his mouth. It’s so unguarded. So familiar. So infuriatingly attractive.
Henry shakes his head and points at Jake. “And who dropped the wrench that landed on Jessica Fortune's Tuba?”
Jake slams his hands on the table. “I’ll never tell.”
The table dissolves into hysterics.
You can’t look away from him. You didn’t expect to hear that laugh again, not like this, not across a table, not with ten years of space filling up the room and somehow not mattering at all.
And when he finally glances over at you, still grinning, still breathless from laughing, you feel it land in your chest like a memory snapping back into place.
Something warm and frightening. Something you didn’t realize you’d missed until now.
“Oh my god…speaking of that night,” she says, swirling her wine dramatically, “does anyone remember what Y/N was doing behind the bleachers while you boys were up on the roof?”
Fork halfway to your mouth, you freeze. “Sarah,” you warn lightly, giving her a look. She ignores it completely. Of course she does.
“Because if I recall correctly,” she continues, eyes sparkling with mischief, “you and Greg Thompson were getting very cozy back there.”
Your stomach drops straight through your chair.
“Oh my god, no we weren’t!” you blurt, practically choking on air. “Nothing happened! Nothing! He tried to kiss me and I literally shoved him into a football tackling dummy.”
The table laughs again, but now it’s at your expense.
Cora waves a hand,“Yeah right! You were back there for, like, half an hour!”
“I was hiding!” you protest. “From him! And from that stupid spirit week eagle mascot costume. And from you, because you dared me to streak around the track.”
Jake’s eyebrows lift, amused. “Wait—you almost streaked at the game?”
“Absolutley not,” you say quickly. “I was being bullied.”
“You were being dramatic,” Sarah teases.
“I was being normal,” you counter, pointing at her with your fork. “I was cold, sober, and Greg Thompson smelled like BO and hot chocolate.”
Henry snorts wine up his nose.
But Jake… Jake isn’t laughing as loudly as the others.
He’s definitely amused, but watching you with this quiet, fascinated expression. Like this version of you is new to him, but familiar, too.
“And just for the record,” you add, cheeks burning, “I did not hook up with Greg Thompson. Ever. Not even a little.”
Cora wiggles her eyebrows. “So you say.”
“So I know,” you shoot back, burying your hot face in your hands. And over the rim of your fingers, you catch Jake still looking at you, like that little slice of your past just peeled back something he never got to see.
Before Sarah can dig herself in any deeper, Jillian suddenly claps her hands together from the kitchen doorway.
“Okay! Enough humiliation for one night,” she announces, grinning as everyone laughs. “Who wants pie?”
There’s a chorus of enthusiastic yeses, forks tapping against plates, and Henry already lifting his hand like a kid.
Jillian points at him. “You don’t even know what kind I made and you live here.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Henry says. “Pie is pie.”
You laugh, grateful for the interruption, your heartbeat finally starting to settle. Jillian catches your eye across the table and gives you a wink, as if to say sorry.
She stands and begins to make her way to the kitchen. “Apple and pumpkin.”
Chairs scrape the floor as everyone stands and flocks toward the kitchen, the room filling with the smell of cinnamon and butter. Jake rises slowly from across the table, eyes flicking to yours for the briefest second before he follows the group.
Your embarrassment fades into something else. Pie is happening. And so is whatever this thing is between you and Jake.
—
Everyone drifts back into the living room with plates piled high, forks already carving into the flaky crust. The lights feel softer now, the wine warmer, the air looser with the easy buzz of people reverting to who they used to be.
You settle into a chair with your pumpkin pie, tucking your feet beneath you as you watch Henry start gesturing wildly mid story. Jake sits across the room, relaxed into the couch with his legs stretched out, his plate balanced on his knee. Every so often, your eyes meet for a blink too long and you both look away like teenagers.
“Okay,” Cora says through a mouthful of apple pie, “do you guys remember senior prom?”
A collective groan ripples through the group.
“Oh God,” Sarah laughs, setting her pie down. “Why are we going there?”
“Because,” Cora smirks, “it’s hilarious.”
Jake lifts a brow, half amused, “I feel like this is gonna be at my expense. Again.”
“Oh, it totally is,” Henry says, pointing at him with his fork. “You and Lacey Turner. Man. What a disaster.”
You perk up a little, even though you try to keep your expression neutral. You remember Lacey. Perfect hair, perfect shoes, perfect everything. You never dared to think Jake would ask you to prom, but you remembered who he went with.
“What happened?” you ask, pretending you don’t remember every single detail of that night.
Cora laughs, delighted. “You don’t remember? Oh my God, you’re in for a treat.”
Jake closes his eyes like he’s bracing for impact. “Please embellish as little as possible.”
Henry ignores him, already launching in. “So Jake shows up in this suit that was like way too big. Like, drowning him big—”
“It wasn’t that big,” Jake mutters.
“It was gigantic,” Sarah insists. “You looked like a 1940’s jazz pianist.”
You snort into your pie, and Jake looks at you with a quick flash of a smile, just for you, before shaking his head.
“And Lacey shows up,” Henry continues, “looking like she walked straight off a bridal magazine cover. Like she was getting married, not going to prom. And she—what was it? She kept complaining about the music?”
“Oh my God yes,” Cora says. “She said the DJ ‘wasn’t playing any sick beats.’”
Jake looks pained. Everyone bursts out laughing and Jake can’t help but laugh too, heat rising in his cheeks but in a cute, self aware way. He shakes his head again, running a hand through his hair.
Henry slaps his knee. “Best part? She left early. Just completely ditched him.”
Jake shrugs. “I wasn’t devastated.”
“No, because—” Cora starts, grinning wickedly, “he came and sat with us the rest of the night. Remember? You, me, Sarah, and—”
She flicks her gaze toward you, smiling. “You. He sat with you guys until the lights came on.”
Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth.
Jake’s eyes shift to you again. Not teasing this time. Almost remembering something he hasn’t let himself think about in years.
“Oh yeah,” Sarah adds, nostalgic and oblivious. “We all slow danced in that stupid circle at the end. Remember? Jake, you danced with Y/N.”
Everyone looks at Jake. And then at you. Your stomach flips so hard you swear you feel it in your throat.
You remember that night. You remember the song. Perfect by Ed Sheeran. You remember his hands, awkward and gentle, at your waist. You remember not sleeping for two days afterward.
Jake clears his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I remember,” he says quietly.
And for a moment, the room feels too small. And too loud. And not loud enough all at once.
The conversation keeps rolling, everyone laughing and adding details you half remember, and half wish you didn’t. The room feels warmer, louder, and fuzzier around the edges. The wine is catching up to you, and the embarrassment burns beneath your skin.
You laugh along, but you can’t shake the way Jake said I remember, soft and earnest and too much for one crowded living room. You need a minute. You need something to do.
So you stand up from your chair, brushing your hands on your skirt. “I’m just gonna—uh—start grabbing plates,” you say, already collecting empty dessert dishes and abandoned wine glasses from the coffee table.
Jillian waves you off from her spot on the couch. “You don’t have to do that, babe—”
“I know,” you insist lightly, “but you guys cooked. Let me help.”
It’s the kind of excuse no one questions. A built in getaway. You move into the dining room, stacking plates in your arms, balancing utensils so they don’t slide off. The sounds of laughter fade just a little behind you, replaced by the steady thrum of your pulse in your ears. You’re halfway through rearranging the stack when you sense someone behind you.
“Here,” a familiar voice says. “Let me take some of those from you.”
Jake.
You freeze for only a second before forcing your grip to relax, letting him take the glasses from your hands. He smells like cologne and your favorite red wine and something uniquely him. He stands close, but neither of you steps back.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says quietly, eyes flicking to yours. “Just figured you could use a hand in here.
“Yeah, um sure,” you say, clearing your throat. “Thanks.”
Things feel awkward. You are positive that both of you are feeling the weight of what was just said in the other room. And what wasn’t.
You shift your arm to grab one last salad plate, just as Jake moves to reach for the same one. Your wrists bump, the glasses tilt and a half full wine glass tips over the edge of the plate stack.
The splash is instant. A bright, growing red stain hits Jillian’s cream colored rug.
“Oh—shit,” you gasp, stepping back.
Jake crouches down automatically, guilt sweeping across his face even though it wasn’t really either of your fault.
“That was—yep. That was me. Totally me. Shit.”
You try to kneel beside him. “No, I—”
“No,” he insists gently, looking up at you. “Let me take the blame for this one.”
Jillian’s voice calls out from the living room. “Everything okay in there?”
You open your mouth, ready to take responsibility for the small puddle of red wine blooming across her rug but Jake beats you to it.
“My fault, Jilly,” he calls back immediately, stepping forward like he’s shielding you from gunfire. “Totally my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going. I’ll clean it up, just tell me where the… uh… supplies are.”
Jillian appears in the doorway, takes one look at the stain, and sighs. “Oh, for God’s sake.” She scans the mess and then Jake. “Hang on.”
She disappears and returns with a small carpet cleaner.
Jake blinks at it. “What—what is that?”
You can’t help the little laugh that escapes you. “It’s a Bissell, Jake.”
“That tells me nothing,” he mutters, staring at it like she just handed him a piece of alien machinery. “Where’s the spray? Or the paper towels? Or—I dunno—salt?”
“Salt? You don’t need any of that,” Jillian says, pressing the Bissell into your hands. “Y/N clearly knows how to use it. So you two can handle it. I put the water in, just add the solution.” And with a suspicious little smirk that feels like it might be intentional, she leaves the room.
You're kneeling beside the stain before you even realize it, flipping open the water tank. “It’s fine. You just fill this up, add a little solution, and—”
Jake crouches next to you, knees brushing yours. “You’re really calm about this.”
“Well… it’s not my rug,” you say with a small laugh.
“Still. You’re cool under pressure.” His voice drops a little. “Always were. I remember that.”
You freeze with the tank half filled. “…Always were?”
He watches your hands, your wrists, the way your fingers move. “Yeah.”
Something inside your chest tightens. You snap the tank back in place and hand him the sprayer. “Okay. Pull this to release the solution as you spray it over the stain.”
Jake takes it carefully. “Got it.”
You both lean over the rug at the same time, shoulders bumping. The sprayer sputters, then releases a thin line of the cleaner. Jake moves it too fast, smearing the wine outward.
“Whoa, okay. Slow,” you laugh, guiding his hand. “You’ll spread it.”
He makes a low, embarrassed sound. “God, sorry. I’m making it worse I think.”
“No, you’re not. Just—here.” You set your hand over his, fingers sliding lightly across the back of his knuckles as you slow his movements.
Jake stills completely.
“Like that,” you whisper.
His eyes flick to your face, “Yeah. Okay.”
You shouldn’t hold on as long as you do. He shouldn’t let you. But neither of you moves. And the moment your palms part, you feel the spark under the skin, the same one that used to catch you off guard at eighteen.
Your mind flashes without your permission.
Cherry Coke exploding across the lunch table. Jake’s startled laugh. His hands fumbling with napkins. Your fingers brushing his as you helped clean up the sticky red mess. The look he gave you then.
You swallow. Hard.
“Y’know,” Jake says quietly, breaking the silence, “this isn’t the first time I’ve spilled something around you.”
You give a tense laugh. “My hands were sticky for hours,” you tease, aiming for light and falling short.
“I remember your hands,” he says softly.
You freeze again.
He seems to catch himself, clearing his throat and shifting back a few inches. “Uh—your hands were always… fast. Efficient. I meant—like—you were good at helping.”
“Uh huh,” you say, trying not to smirk. “That’s what you meant.”
He scrubs a hand through his hair, flustered. “Listen, I’m having a crisis over here.”
You laugh, and the tension softens just enough that you can both breathe again.
Together, slowly, you work at the stain. You guide his hand once more, accidentally on purpose this time. His shoulder brushes yours every few seconds, close enough that you feel the heat of him even when he pulls away.
After a minute, he leans closer, voice dropping into a whisper. “So… how’re we doing? Think Jillian’s gonna murder me?”
You lean in too, your lips brushing the curve of his shoulder before you realize how close you are. “I think you’re safe. Mostly.”
He doesn’t move away. Not even a little.
“I like when you whisper,” he murmurs.
You shouldn’t feel that in your spine. But you do.
You’re still kneeling over the rug, the carpet cleaner humming softly in the quiet room, hands nearly touching again, and neither of you is pretending it’s an accident anymore.
—
When you rejoin the group, the mood is even looser, full from dinner, soft with wine. Everyone’s on couches or the floor with mismatched throw blankets and pillows.
Someone is retelling a story about the senior year powderpuff game, and laughter fills the room like a heartbeat.
Jake drops onto the arm of the couch near you, his thigh brushing your shoulder in a way he definitely doesn’t apologize for. You curl up with your new glass of wine, cheeks still a little warm from the heat in the dining room.
Sarah pipes up. “Okay okay, do you guys remember the bonfire after homecoming? When Henry fell into the lake?”
Henry groans loudly from across the room. “Don’t bring that up.”
Jake laughs, a real, easy laugh that hits you right under the ribs. “Man, you were soaked. Like…completely. I thought you were gonna cry.”
“I did cry, it was fucking freezing.” Henry mutters, making everyone crack up harder.
You can’t help smiling, warmth blossoming in your chest. Nostalgia settles over the room like a blanket. Jake runs his fingers over his chin, feeling the stubble starting to grow there. He glances sideways at you, grinning.
“Hey,” he says under the chatter, nudging your knee lightly with his knuckles. “You remember that night?”
You swallow, surprised by how quickly the past blooms in your mind, the dark field, laughter in the air, all of you young and reckless and full of possibility.
You nod. “Yeah. I remember.”
Jake’s smile deepens. “Hard to forget.”
The conversation moves on around you, but you feel the weight of that moment, that quiet acknowledgment of your shared history, settle between you like something fragile and important.
“Y/N,” he says quietly. Like he’s starting something. Like he’s sure you won’t stop him. And that’s exactly why you have to.
Your heart thuds once, painful and loud, and your brain snaps back to reality so hard you almost flinch.
No. No, no, no. You know better. This can’t happen. Not like this. Not now.
You push a breath out, stand too fast, nearly tripping over a blanket. “I—um.” Your voice cracks. Perfect. “I should actually head out.”
Jillian whines, “What? Now?”
“Yeah.” You force a smile, waving a hand vaguely. “I just remembered I have to be up really early. My mom needs help cooking for Thanksgiving dinner and she’ll freak out if I'm not on time. And if I drink any more I won't be able to drive.”
Jake’s face shifts, a shadow of disappointment flickering across his features before he can hide it. He clears his throat. “Yeah, no, sure. That makes sense.”
You grab your bag and coat as every begins to stir, avoiding the temptation to look at Jake again, because you know if you do, that resolve will crack right down the middle.
“Goodnight everyone, I had a great time!”
“Goodnight, Y/N,” they all say in unison. “We love you! Call us soon! Don’t be a stranger!”
You don’t turn around. You can’t. You force your feet forward, past the now clean rug, past the lingering scent of wine, through the hallway where Jillian eyes you knowingly, and out the door into the cold, because staying one minute longer feels impossible.
And because if you stay, you know exactly what’ll happen.
—
The moment you step out of Jillian and Henry’s house, the cold night air hits you like a reset button. Your lungs seize around it, sharp and bracing, the bite of late November sinking into your bones. You stand on the porch for a second longer than necessary, letting the door close behind you with a soft click.
The sky above Frankenmuth is clear, stars faint behind the glow of the downtown lights, the moon hanging low and cold. You take a deep breath as you walk toward your car, but it’s useless. Your chest is still tight. Jake’s voice is still in your head.
You grip the steering wheel before you’re even fully seated, fingers curling hard into the leather. Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs.
“Why now,” you whisper into the empty car, your breath fogging in the cold.
The drive into town shouldn’t feel like this. You’ve driven these same roads since you were sixteen. The same winding turns, the same bridges over the same quiet water, the same shops lit up like a real life snow globe. But nothing looks familiar tonight because your mind won’t stay with you. It keeps drifting back to kneeling on that rug. Jake’s shoulder brushing yours, your hand on top of his, his breath grazing the side of your face like an accident that definitely wasn’t one.
Your pulse beats wildly.
This is why you left. Why you didn’t come home much. Why you put every crush and spark and almost history between you and Jake in a box with a heavy lid and never dared to peek inside.
Because the second you do, it still burns.
You hit a stoplight at the edge of town and rest your forehead against the steering wheel. The glow of the red reflects across the dashboard, soft and ominous.
“He looks at me like…” You can’t even finish the sentence. You shake your head. “Nope. No. No more of that.”
You’re being ridiculous. It’s the wine. The nostalgia. The crowd, the laughter, the memories flying around the table. Jake being… Jake, but older, more refined, somehow sharper at the same time.
It’s everything. Too much of everything.
You pull into the hotel parking lot, your headlights sweeping across all of the festive decorations. Giant toy soldiers stand guard at the entrance, wreaths wrapped in red velvet ribbon, twinkle lights dripping from the roofline. Frankenmuth really is the Christmas town people claim it to be. Tourists crowd the walkways, bundled in scarves, carrying shopping bags, taking pictures under glowing streetlights. It’s charming and cheerful. But it feels like static in your brain.
You grab your bag from the passenger seat and head inside. The lobby is warm, smelling like cinnamon and pine. A roaring fireplace crackles beside the front desk. Families check in with armfuls of luggage, kids dragging bright red balloons behind them. Couples take selfie after selfie in front of the twelve foot Christmas tree, pretending not to argue. Normally, this would make you smile. Tonight, it’s just noise.
You punch the elevator button and ride up to your floor with two strangers who keep their heads down, murmuring quietly about making dinner reservations. When the doors slide open, you step into the hallway, the carpet muffling your footsteps.
Inside your room, you toss your bag on the bed and go straight to the minibar. You crouch down, open the little fridge, and scan the shelves.
Liquor. More liquor. Even more liquor. Not a single mini wine bottle.
“Of course not,” you mutter, shutting it with your hip.
You stand there in the silence of your room, hands on your hips, staring at your own reflection in the dark television screen. Your hair is a little messy, your cheeks a little flushed, your mascara smudged just slightly at the corners.
Jake’s face flashes in your mind again.
You need something to shut that down for the night.
Then you remember that this hotel has a bar. All you need is just one more glass of wine. One quiet moment to drown out the buzz in your head.
You peel off your sweater and change into a soft long sleeve shirt. Joggers are next. You tie your hair into a messy ponytail with quick fingers. You leave your makeup on, though. You can’t bring yourself to scrub your face in the state you’re in.
You slip into your shoes, grab your room key, and head out again.
The elevator ride down is slower this time. Every floor feels like it stops just long enough to let your thoughts catch up, which is exactly what you don’t want. By the time you hit the lobby, your heart is thudding again.
The bar is small, maybe fifteen seats total. Warm amber light glows above rows of liquor bottles. A Christmas garland wraps around the counter with little gold bells that jingle every time someone shifts. Only a handful of people sit scattered around the room.
You slide onto the far end stool, grateful for the quiet.
The bartender approaches, drying a glass with a white towel. “What can I get you?”
“Red wine,” you say. “Anything dry.”
He nods and turns away, uncorking a bottle. The clink of glass against wood already has you feeling better.
You sigh and let your shoulders drop for the first time all night. You can almost feel the tension unwinding from your spine, the smallest bit of relief creeping in at the idea of being alone for a few minutes.
You tap your nails softly against the bar, trying to ground yourself. Trying not to think about Jake’s whisper by your ear. The way your hand lingered on his. The scandalous, traitorous thought that maybe—
No. Absolutely not. That door is locked. Triple deadbolted.
The bartender sets a glass in front of you just as a faint scuff of footsteps approaches from behind. You’re about to lift your wine when a voice speaks, low and warm and too close.
“Is this seat taken?”
Your stomach free falls. The world around you goes silent. The air leaves your lungs and your fingers tremble around the stem of your glass. Because you know that voice. You shouldn’t. You wish you didn’t. But you do.
You’re praying you’re wrong, but know you aren’t. Your breath catches hard in your chest. You turn in your barstool, heart beating against your ribs, and there he is.
Jake stands just behind the chair next to you. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, or maybe the alcohol at the party. His waves are a little wind swept, as if he ran a hand through them a dozen times on his walk inside. There’s a faint pinkness on the tip of his nose, a soft contrast to the dark coat he shrugs out of.
He looks… unreal in this light. Golden and warm. A little out of place in the best way.
You somehow swallow. “Uh… no. It’s not taken.”
His lips curve, slow and boyish, and he slides into the stool beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He nods at the bartender. “Bourbon, neat please sir.”
God. His voice. Even lower than earlier. Maybe it’s the room, maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting, your knees almost touching, and his coat brushing your stool when he shifts.
You grip your wine glass a little tighter. “Wha–what are you doing here?”
He huffs a laugh under his breath, turning slightly toward you. “Same as you, I suppose.”
“What, drowning out memories in alcohol?”
Jake smiles, “Pretty much, yeah.”
You bite back a nervous laugh. The bartender sets his bourbon down, and when he reaches for it, his fingers brush yours on the bar. Just barely. He glances at you, and his eyes soften in a way that steals all the air from your lungs.
“You changed,” he says. “Clothes, I mean. I–I liked the skirt, but… I like this too.” His gaze lingers on you.“And your hair. It…looks good up.”
Heat hits your cheeks so fast it’s humiliating. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”
“Didn’t know you were staying here,” he adds, lifting the bourbon to his lips.
“My parents are renovating my bedroom, I think they are turning it into a home gym,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Surprise gift for themselves, I guess. Guest room is full of boxes of my stuff. They booked me a room here for the weekend.”
Jake nods in understanding, his expression softening. “My parents place is… loud right now. Everyone’s home, with guests, my parents are hosting, and everyone’s sleeping over. I figured I’d just stay in town instead, sleeping bags aren’t really my thing.”
“That tracks,” you say, smiling. “You always did try to avoid chaos.”
“Which is ironic, considering my career choice,” he mutters.
You both sip your drinks, the silence between you full but not uncomfortable.
“So,” you finally say, “Friendsgiving.”
Jake groans. “God.”
You laugh. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It wasn’t,” he agrees. “Just… unexpected.”
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Definitely unexpected.”
He looks at you over the rim of his glass. “Didn’t know you would be there.”
“Same. Jillian just… texted me last week actually.”
“Yeah, Henry too,” he says. “Said the group hasn’t been all together in a long time. Almost didn’t come, but.”
You nod, twirling your glass. “It was nice. Mostly.”
“Mostly,” Jake echoes, chuckling.
Your shoulders relax. You didn’t expect to feel this comfortable with him. Not again. Not after all these years. But there’s something familiar in sitting next to him like this, like slipping into an old rhythm you didn’t forget as well as you thought.
“High school sure feels like a different lifetime,” you say quietly, surprising yourself.
Jake’s brow lifts. “You still think about it?”
“Sometimes,” you admit. “Random little things. But I try not to get sentimental.”
He smirks faintly. “I remember you said once that nostalgia is a ‘dangerous little liar.’”
“You remember that?”
“I remember a lot.” He sets his bourbon down, turning fully toward you. “Mostly about…you.”
Your heart stops. Literally stops. You blink at him, your lungs trying to remember how to work. “What?”
He shrugs. “It’s true…You know, I just never really made a move because… well, because if I remember correctly, someone told me you weren’t into me like that. That you just wanted to be friends.”
You nearly choke on your wine, “What? No. No way. I thought– I was told you only liked me as a friend.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Who the hell said that?”
“Um– Justin Boswell?”
He sits back, “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Junior year prom after party at Kelsey Winston’s house to be specific."
“That’s—” he shakes his head, laughing in disbelief “—that’s not true. Never was.”
He reaches out and puts his hand on top of yours. The contact is light but solid. Your breath stumbles in your throat.
His voice drops enough that you notice. “I never thought of you as just a friend, Y/N.”
You can’t look away from him. You don’t want to. Maybe it’s the wine, or the way his thumb moves against your skin.
“Well, I’m sure you have women falling all over you now. Cora sure did tonight.”
Jake’s expression deadpans instantly. “Oh my God.”
You laugh, “She was acting pretty thirsty,” you add teasingly.
“Desperate,” he corrects.
“Interested.”
“Relentless.”
“Persistent.”
He groans, covering his face for a second. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
He drops his hand, his eyes fixing on yours again. “I know it probably seems like I deal with that all the time. But I don’t typically go for that type of thing.”
“No?”
“No.” He leans in a bit, voice lower. “Never have. I need… more substance than that.”
You swallow. “Oh.”
His gaze dips briefly to your mouth before rising again. “And before you say that you don’t…yes. You have that. Always have.”
Your pulse kicks into overdrive. Your voice is barely a whisper. “How about now? Do you still feel that way?”
Jake’s answer is immediate.
“Do you think I would’ve left the party if I didn’t?”
The air between you sharpens, and neither of you looks away. His eyes are still locked on yours when he shifts, just slightly, but enough that his knee brushes your thigh.
Your heart pounds hard enough to feel it in your wrists.
Jake notices everything, your uneven breath, the way you’re staring at his mouth instead of his eyes, the way your fingers curl and uncurl against the bar as if you’re trying to keep yourself from touching him.
“Y/N…” he murmurs, softer than before. “You alright?”
No. Absolutely not.
You nod anyway.
He smirks, not cocky, but like he knows exactly what’s happening between you both. Exactly what you’re pretending not to feel.
His voice drops. “You’re lying.”
Your stomach flips so violently you have to grip the bar’s edge.
“Why would I lie?” you whisper.
Jake’s gaze dips to your mouth again, and when he lifts it back to your eyes, there’s something almost hungry there.
“Maybe,” he says, his voice low and warm, “because you feel the same thing I do.”
You don’t breathe. You don’t speak. You don’t even blink. But out of the corner of your eye, you notice a woman at a nearby table is blatantly watching the two of you. Listening, but pretending not to.
Jake notices her a moment later. His jaw tics. His hand slides off yours like he’s trying not to make a scene… but he stays close. He leans in, voice barely above a whisper, meant only for you.
“She’s listening.”
You flick your eyes toward the woman, then back at him. He gives a quiet, humorless exhale.
“I don’t want her assuming anything,” he murmurs. “Not about you. Or me. Or us.”
Us. Your body tightens at the word.
He watches your reaction, then continues. “I can walk you up to your room if you want to keep talking.” he offers, “Or you can call it a night. Up to you.”
Your heart is pounding against your ribs. You look at his hand on the bar. Long fingers, rings catching the warm light. You imagine them on you. You imagine exactly what you shouldn’t.
“I… want to keep talking,” you say, your breath a little unsteady.
Jake nods slowly, like he was hoping you’d say that.
He stands, pulling out his wallet and tossing a one hundred dollar bill on the bar. He pulls on his coat and settles a hand lightly at the small of your back, guiding you through the bar with a protectiveness that sends heat rolling low in your belly. The hallway to the elevators is quieter, hardly anyone sharing the space with you, but still you can hear your pulse pounding between your ears.
Inside the elevator, the doors slide closed and the two of you are alone. Jake’s breathing shifts. His eyes stay fixed on you, but not on your face…Your mouth. Then your throat. Then lower.
He swallows. “You know,” he says, voice low as the elevator hums upward, “I keep wondering what would’ve happened if we’d told each other the truth back then.”
Your breath catches. “What do you mean?”
He turns fully toward you, the space between your bodies barely a hand’s width.
“I mean…” His eyes drag over you, slow, reverent, hungry. “If I’d known you wanted me.” he pauses, “If you’d known I wanted you.”
It feels like you might melt.
Then, the elevator dings.
The doors slide open, but neither of you moves for a second. Jake finally steps aside, letting you exit first, following close behind. His hand finds your lower back again, gentle and guiding, but intimate. Too intimate for old friends, but not enough for what’s humming between you now.
Your room is halfway down the carpeted hallway and as the two of you finally stop at your door, your fingers start trembling slightly as you slide the keycard into the lock.
The green light flashes and the lock clicks as you nervously open the door.
Jake stands just behind you, hands in his coat pockets like he’s trying to keep them there. He looks at you with an expression that feels loaded.
“See you around?” he asks.
“Stay.” you answer.
“You sure?” he asks, his voice thick.
And without second guessing it, you grab his hand and pull him inside the room with you.
He stumbles forward, catching himself on the wall. The door swings shut behind you with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through your hotel room.
His breath hitches and the look he gives you is nothing short of starved. He stands in the dimness of your hotel room, his chest rising and falling a little faster than before, the soft light from the lamp brushing over his cheekbones.
He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t crowd you. He just watches you like he’s trying to memorize what you look like right now.
“What’re you thinking?” you whisper, your voice stuck somewhere in your throat.
He licks his lips slowly, so slowly you feel the sweep of his tongue in your stomach.
“I’m thinking,” he murmurs, “That I should’ve told you a long time ago.”
“Yeah?”
He steps closer. One step. Only one. His boots barely make a sound on the carpet.
“Yeah.” he says simply. “Because I wanted you. Every damn day. And now I feel like a fucking fool for letting you believe otherwise for all this time.”
Your breath stutters. “Jake…”
“But I’m also thinking,” he continues, voice lower now, “that I don’t want to do anything you’ll regret tomorrow.”
Your fingers flex at your sides. “And if I don’t regret it?”
His eyes flash up at you. “Then you need to tell me,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Because I’m hanging on by a single thread right now.”
You step closer. It’s instinctive, almost unconscious, completely drawn to the heat of him.
“Jake,” you breathe, “I…want you.”
He closes his eyes. Just for a second. Like the words physically hit him. His hand twitches at his side as if he wants to grab you but promised himself he wouldn’t.
When he opens his eyes again, they’re darker. Hungrier.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
You swallow. “I want you. I would never regret this.”
His jaw flexes, and he takes another step until you’re standing close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. His restraint is now a living thing between you.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”
You lift your chin. “Then kiss me.”
His breath catches and one hand finally comes up, fingers brushing your jaw with tenderness. His thumb traces your cheekbone like he’s terrified you’ll disappear.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers.
“So are you.”
He lets out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. I am, aren’t I?”
You lean into his touch, and something in him snaps. His other hand rises to the back of your neck, warm and sure, and he pulls your forehead to his. Not kissing. Just breathing each other in.
“You sure?” he murmurs again, voice raw.
“Jake,” you breathe, “kiss me, damnit.”
He exhales like he’s been starved for air. His thumb drags across your bottom lip, slow and soft and devastating. And then finally he leans in. It's just a whisper soft brush of his mouth against yours, testing the edges of a moment neither of you can undo.
Your breath catches and he pulls back a fraction, just enough to look at you. Just enough to give you an out. You grab his coat lapels and pull him in again.
This time, he kisses you.
Fully. Deeply, and slowly. His lips are warm and patient, his hand sliding from your face to your waist, drawing you closer until your bodies meet in a flush of heat.
His breath mixes with yours. His chest is solid against you. His fingers settle at your hip, squeezing, and kissing you like he has waited years for this exact moment.
You drag your fingers through his hair, and he shudders against you. His mouth parts, deepening the kiss with a low, hungry sound you feel everywhere.
Your back meets the wall, and he braces one hand beside your head, not trapping you, just… keeping himself upright.
“God,” he whispers against your mouth, “you taste exactly like I thought you would.”
Your knees nearly buckle at the confession. His lips trail to the side of your jaw, warm and slow, lingering for a second too long. His breath stirs against your skin.
“You have no idea,” he pauses, “how hard it is not to pick you up and throw you onto that bed right fucking now.”
“Then don’t hold back,” you whisper.
He laughs, low and disbelieving, resting his forehead against your temple.
“Y/N,” he says softly, “if I start… I won’t stop.”
You slide your hands down his chest, fingers curling in his denim shirt.
“That’s the point.”
His breath hitches and then he pulls back, eyes burning into yours, his pupils blown with lust. His mouth meets yours again, this time however, it feels more desperate. His mouth is warm and insistent, lips moving over yours with a kind of controlled urgency, like he’s trying not to devour you too fast. You taste the bourbon on his tongue when he licks into your mouth, slow but greedy, and your knees nearly give out.
He groans and pulls you even closer, one hand sliding down to palm your ass through the soft fabric of your joggers.
“F—fuck, come here,” he mutters against your lips, like you aren’t already pressed against him. He kisses you harder, deeper, the kind of kiss that steals your thoughts and replaces them with instinct.
Your fingers push into his hair again, your nails raking against his scalp.
“Don’t do that unless you want me to lose it,” he says, voice rough against your mouth.
“Maybe I do,” you whisper.
He laughs, his breath hot against your lips, and then he’s walking you backwards with slow, purposeful steps until your thighs hit the edge of the bed.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling fast. His eyes drag over your face, your lips, your neck, your shirt. All of you.
“Tell me you’re sure you want this,” Jake murmurs. His thumb strokes your jaw, soft in contrast to the tension coiled in his whole body.
“I want this,” you breathe. “I want you, Jake.”
He pulls the curtains closed with one sweep of his arm, the room dimming into soft lamplight. Then he turns back to you, and there’s nothing hesitant left in him.
He steps between your legs, hands sliding beneath your shirt, fingertips grazing your waist. His palms are warm, almost hot, and the simple touch sends a shock through you. He lifts your shirt slowly, watching your face the entire time like he’s memorizing every second of this. When the fabric clears your head, he drops it on the floor and inhales sharply.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, taking you in. “You’re… God, you’re fucking beautiful.”
He runs his hands down your bare sides and then he pushes you back onto the bed. Your body sinks into the mattress, your hair spreading around you, and he follows, bracing a knee on the bed between your legs.
His mouth trails down your neck, soft at first, then hotter, his lips pressing open mouthed kisses along your collarbone and down your chest. He unclasps your bra with one practiced flick before he eases the straps down your shoulders. His knuckles drag lightly over your arms, and when he finally pulls the fabric free, he goes still. Not because he’s hesitating but because he’s looking.
“Jesus Christ…” he exhales, his voice dropping into something rougher. His eyes lift to yours for a second, like he needs to make sure you understand he means every word. “You have… unbelievably perfect tits.”
Heat floods your face, but he’s already lowering his mouth, tracing the slope of one with his palm, almost like he’s afraid to blink and lose the vision lying beneath him.
“I mean it,” he says, thumb circling your nipple lazily, watching it tighten under his touch. “The shape… the size…” His mouth brushes the underside of your breast, warm and wet, and your breath catches in your throat. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
He seals his lips around your nipple and you arch up into him. Your hand flies to his hair, fingers tangling into the brown locks as his tongue teases you, drawing slow circles around the peak before sucking it into his mouth with a low groan.
You whine as his teeth make contact with the sensitive skin.
“Oh–That sound you just made,” he mutters against your skin, shifting to your other breast. “Do it again.”
He takes more of you into his mouth this time, sucking harder, like he’s claiming you. His free hand cups the other breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in the same rhythm as his tongue, and the sensation goes straight to your core, sharp and low and desperate.
Your thighs clench around his hips instinctively and he feels it.
He smirks against your breast, lips still wrapped around you. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nipping lightly. “That’s what I thought.”
His hand slides down your stomach again, slower than before. Teasing and measuring. He meets your eyes as his fingers hook in your waistband.
“You’re shaking for me,” he says softly.
“I—yeah,” you breathe. “I want—”
“Good,” he interrupts gently, tugging your joggers down over your hips. “Because I want it too.”
He kisses down your sternum, your belly button, the edge of your hipbone, leaving warm trails everywhere his mouth lands. By the time he reaches the hem of your panties, you’re already lifting your hips for him.
He doesn’t pull them off right away. Instead, he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh… then another… then another, working higher until his breath is warm and slow right over where you ache for him.
“Take them off,” you whisper, trembling.
He looks up at you from between your legs, pupils blown wide, hair falling into his eyes. He slides his hands under the backs of your thighs, spreading you open just a little more.
“Tell me you want my mouth first,” he murmurs. “I wanna hear it.”
He doesn’t move yet, not toward your panties, not toward your skin. He just looks at you from between your thighs like he’s deciding exactly how he wants to ruin you first. Then he pushes up onto his knees with a quiet, determined sound in his throat.
“Hang on,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it carelessly toward the chair. “If I’m doing this…” He pulls his shirt over his head in a single fluid motion, muscles shifting under warm lamplight. A cluster of silver necklaces hanging against his chest, “…I’m not doing it half assed. I want to get messy.”
The sight of his bare chest, all lean lines, and a light trail of hair leading down, the flush across his collarbones, hits you hard enough to steal your breath away. You didn’t realize how bad you wanted to see him like this. Wanted him on you like this.
He crawls back down between your legs, slower this time. His hands glide up your thighs, spreading them just a little wider.
“Now,” he murmurs, exhaling warm air over the thin cotton covering your core. “Say it.”
You swallow harshly. “I want your mouth, Jake.”
He grins, “That’s my good girl.”
He hooks his fingers into your panties, finally dragging them down your legs, and his breath catches the second he sees you.
“Oh… sweet thing...” His voice breaks into something raw. “Look how wet you are.”
He slides his hands under your thighs again and pulls you down the bed in one firm tug, settling your hips right at the edge of the mattress. Your legs drape over his shoulders naturally, like his body is made to hold them there.
He kisses the inside of your thigh first, soft and slow. Then higher…and higher.
“You are incredible,” he says against your skin, his nose brushing dangerously close. “I’ve imagined this more times than I should admit out loud.”
Before you can respond, his tongue presses flat against you, dragging a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.
Your whole body jolts.
He groans against you, “Oh, fuck… yeah. That’s it.”
He settles deeper between your legs, mouth sealing over your clit while his hands massage your thighs, holding you open for him. His tongue moves in small circles at first, teasing and patient, savoring you like he’s got all night.
You thread your fingers into his hair, pulling without meaning to. “Jake—”
He hums against you, the vibration shooting straight through your spine.
“Let me,” he murmurs, slurping against your skin. “Let me take my time.”
He slides one hand down, fingers slicking through your arousal. He moans softly at the feel of it before sliding a finger inside you, slow and smooth.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, hips lifting.
He pulls back just enough to speak against your thigh. “Look how you take my fingers, baby. Fuck, I can’t wait to see you take my cock.”
Then his mouth is on you again, sucking and licking, working your clit in steady, rhythmic strokes while his fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes your breath stutter.
You feel the heat coil low and sharp and impossible to ignore.
“Jake—please—don’t stop—”
“Look at me,” he orders softly, lifting his eyes while his mouth stays exactly where you need it. The sight nearly undoes you. “Come for me. Right on my tongue, beautiful.”
The pressure snaps, hot and overwhelming as your orgasm breaks over you, hips bucking into his mouth. He holds you through every shudder, sucking you through it, licking you like he wants every drop. Only when your thighs start to tremble does he finally pull his mouth from you, lips shiny, chin wet, and pupils blown completely wide.
“Messy enough for you?” he teases, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaning forward to kiss your inner thigh again, like he can’t help himself.
You’re still catching your breath when he rises to his feet, unbuckling his belt with slow, deliberate movements. He drops his pants, steps out of them, and then he’s kneeling between your legs, hard and thick, his tip flushed and already dripping for you. He strokes himself once, slowly, curling his fist around his tip while watching the way your eyes fix on him.
“You want me to fuck you, pretty thing?” he asks, voice low and rough.
You swallow, your throat dry and your body still trembling from the high he just dragged out of you. Your voice comes out softer than you expect, but certain.
“Y-yes…” you breathe. “I want you to fuck me, Jake.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, taking in your words. His jaw flexes as he exhales through his nose, steadying himself.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, sweetheart… that’s what I needed to hear from that mouth.”
He leans forward, bracing one hand beside your head while the other guides the thick head of his cock through your slick folds. The first glide makes both of you gasp.
“Oh—fuck,” he whispers, eyes squeezing shut again. “You’re so fucking warm. So wet…”
Your hips tilt up instinctively, searching for him. He groans, a deep, desperate sound.
“Please,” you whisper. “Please, Jake, just—”
“I know,” he soothes, kissing you once, slow and warm. “I know, baby… I’ve got you.”
Then he freezes. His breathing is uneven, chest rising and falling hard. He swallows, his eyes locked on where your bodies almost meet.
“Baby…” His voice is rough. “Do you—do you want me to grab a condom?”
It’s not hesitation, just care. A check. A moment of restraint when everything in his body is begging to be inside you.
You shake your head instantly, breathless. “No.”
His eyes snap to yours. “No?” he repeats, voice lower.
“I–I want you,” you whisper. “Just you. I want to feel all of you.”
His jaw flexes, something raw and reverent flickering across his face. He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, exhaling shakily like your answer wrecked him.
“Shit,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Okay… okay, sweetheart. Only you. Only fucking you.”
He pushes in a little, just enough to part you, and your gasp echoes his.
His voice drops to a growl, “Jesus Christ… you’re tight.”
You dig your nails into his shoulders. “More.”
He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your throat, whispering between each press of his mouth.
“Relax for me, baby… let me in…”
You exhale shakily, and he presses forward again, filling you inch by inch. The stretch is overwhelming in the best way, a deep burn that steals your breath. When he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, he chokes on a sound that’s half a moan and half disbelief.
“Fuck.” His voice breaks. “You feel unreal. I’m not—baby, I’m not gonna last long. Not like this. Not with you.”
“I don’t care,” you whisper, clinging to him. “Move. Jake, move.”
He pulls out an inch, then sinks back into you with a slow, deliberate rock of his hips. The low growl he lets out at the feel of you makes your whole body tighten.
“There you go…” he whispers. “You take me so fucking well, baby. The best.”
Your legs wrap around him on instinct, hooking at his lower back. He groans at the shift, allowing him to get deeper.
“Yeah—keep me there,” he pants. “God, that’s perfect. That’s perfect. Right fucking there.”
He thrusts again, slow, steady, and deep. Every roll of his hips drags against the spot inside you that makes your vision blur and your body feel numb.
Your breath catches on a moan. “Jake… oh my god…”
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your throat. “Let me hear all of it.”
You tilt your hips to meet him and he hisses, grabbing your thigh and pinning it higher on his hip.
“Fuck—don’t do that unless you want me to embarrass myself.”
You gasp out a breathless laugh, nails grazing down his spine. “You feel so good… I can’t—”
“Look at me, Y/N.”
Your eyes snap to him.
“This,” he says softly, thrusting deeper. “This is exactly how I always imagined you… underneath me… wanting me…”
Your breath catches. “You thought about this?”
He groans into your ear. “Shit…You have no idea.”
His rhythm stays torturously slow, slow enough to feel every inch of him.
“Jake—please—I need—”
“I know what you need, baby.” he rasps, lifting himself onto his forearms so he can watch the way your body takes him.
He pulls out almost all the way before sliding back in with one deep, perfect thrust, the sound of your wetness echoing through the room.
“Oh god Jake—”
“That’s it,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you.”
Your back arches, pleasure building fast. He feels it, your tightening, your trembling, and his breath stutters against your chest.
“You’re close.” It’s not a question.
You nod, desperate.
“Come for me,” he murmurs, thrusts going just slightly faster, hips angling to hit you exactly right. “Come on my cock, baby girl.”
You fall apart with a broken moan, your back arching as your body clenches around him so tightly he groans loud and unrestrained.
“Oh—fuck Y/N, baby–don’t—fuck—don’t do that—”
You can feel him losing rhythm, feel the tension rip through him as he pulls out quickly, his hand wrapping around himself to finish.
“Fuck, fuck…look at me Y/N—fucking look at me– watch me cum for you.”
Your eyes flick to his, taking him in, in his most vulnerable state, and that’s all it takes.
He groans, hoarse and guttural, as he cums across your chest. The long, hot ropes of his pearly cum landing on your tits, your collarbone, your stomach… your skin flushed and still trembling from your own orgasm. The sight alone nearly makes you start to shake again.
His breath is ragged and uneven, his hand still around himself as the last pulses leave him. His eyes stay fixed on you the whole time, fully admiring the mess he made.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, leaning back on his heels, chest heaving. “You’re… god, you’re stunning like this.”
He reaches out immediately, his touch gentle now, running two fingers through the warm slick on your tits, spreading it around reverently before leaning down to kiss the curve of one softly.
“Goddamn perfect,” he murmurs against your skin.
You blush as he cups one breast in his hand, his thumb brushing over your nipple.
“Jake…”
He looks up at you with that soft, post orgasm smile that feels sinful.
“Let me clean you up,” he says quietly, kissing your fingers.
You watch him rise from the bed, the quiet efficiency in his movements grounding you even as your chest still hammers. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment, returning with a towel. His hands are gentle as he wipes you down, careful not to rush, his touch lingering in all the right places. Every movement makes you feel cherished, wanted, and remembered.
He presses one last kiss to the center of your chest before lying back down, propped on an elbow, eyes never leaving yours. “Room’s locked up,” he murmurs, a soft, satisfied smile tugging at his lips.
You shiver at the sound of his voice, the warmth radiating from him so close to your skin. He shifts slightly, curling his body around yours. One arm snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the other brushing softly along your arm, his fingertips tracing invisible patterns over your skin.
“Stay,” you hear yourself whisper, breathless, almost afraid of what he might say.
He smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Always,” he answers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The bed is warm, the eternal Christmas lights outside dim and distant. Your back rests against his chest, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart, strong and certain. His hands move naturally, threading with yours, holding you tight.
“I can’t believe all of this,” you murmur, leaning back into him, feeling his chin rest lightly on your shoulder. “After all these years… it’s surreal.”
“I’ve wanted this,” he admits, voice low and husky, a hand curling around yours and squeezing gently. “I’ve thought about it… about you… more times than I can count. I–I want this Y/N. Not just tonight, either.”
You swallow hard, your chest rising and falling against his. “Jake… it’s not that easy. I mean… we hardly know each other now—I mean…we’re in different cities. That’s… a lot.”
He tightens his hold around you, chin brushing over your hair, warm breath fanning your ear. “So its the distance? That’s just a word, Y/N. I’ll go to every length to make this work with us. Every single fucking length.”
You shake your head, turning slightly to meet his gaze, fingers pressing into the crook of his arm. “I don’t know, Jake… I just– I don’t want to get hurt. I can’t just… uproot my life. I mean, you’re in Nashville…”
“I’m not asking you to uproot your life, baby,” he says softly, thumb brushing circles over your hand. “I’m saying we figure it out. Together. I’ll show up. Call. Facetime. Fly out. Fly you out. Be here when you need me. I’m… all in. For you.”
You let out a shaky laugh, eyes closing briefly as you bury your face in the curve of his shoulder. “You always were reckless with your heart, Jacob Kiszka. I’m just… not sure it’s a good idea.”
“Maybe,” he murmurs, lips brushing the side of your head. “But if it’s with you, it’s worth every risk. You’re worth it. Always have been, to me.”
You tense slightly, hesitating, then finally relax into him, letting your hand rest over his, thumb brushing against his knuckles. “And what about your career? Touring? You’re in two bands now, Jake.”
“So you have been keeping up with me…” he grins smugly.
You smack your arm against him playfully, a blush creeping up your body.
He chuckles softly, voice low and confident. “I can make the time. I will make the time. I’ll make it work. You’re too important to not try.” He shifts slightly, the weight of his chest pressing against your back as he snakes an arm around you tighter. “I’ve waited years for this. For something I never even thought could happen. For you. I’m not letting you slip away again.”
You sigh, leaning fully into him, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “I’ve missed you… more than I realized.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “I could feel it. Tonight, when I saw you… I knew.”
The room is quiet except for your slow breaths and the faint hum of the heater. He tilts his head, brushing his lips over the crown of your head. “Let's just sleep. No decisions, no pressure. Just… this.”
You nod, heart fluttering, letting his warmth envelop you. “Okay,” you whisper. “Just… for tonight.”
He presses a gentle kiss to the back of your neck, murmuring softly, “That’s all I need. You. Right here. Right now.”
You shift slightly in the sheets, tangled in the warmth of his body, the scent of him still lingering in the curve of the pillow. Jake’s arm drapes over your waist, fingers brushing your hip, and the room is silent.
After a long pause, you finally speak. “When do you go?”
“Saturday night. My flight leaves Detroit at six.”
You glance up at him, heart skipping a beat. “Saturday?”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the ceiling, as if trying to memorize this moment.
He tilts his head, lips brushing the top of your hair. “I’m sorry,” he says, a little heavier this time, “for… you know, not having the balls back then. When I saw you tonight…I couldn’t… I just couldn’t let you go. I waited all of five minutes before rushing out the door of that party. I talked myself out of it on the drive here, and then there you were, just sitting at the bar like a giant red flashing sign that said ‘don’t fuck this up again’…”
Your chest tightens at his words. “Jake…”
He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, letting the silence stretch for a moment before you speak again. “Will you be home again for Christmas?”
“If I can get away. I have a lot of press on the schedule the next few weeks. But if you’re going to be here, I’m going to try.” he murmurs, and already you feel the weight of the distance pressing on you.
“You’d better,” you tease softly.
“Would you… maybe wait for me until then?” he asks.
You sit up slightly, looking into his eyes, your pulse accelerating. “What? Jake, what are you asking me?”
“You know what I’m asking,” he says, voice dropping. “This isn’t just some fling, Y/N. Not to me.”
“No, I know…” you whisper, shaking your head. “Not for me either.”
He runs a hand down your arm, tracing gentle lines over your skin. “I have a few things to take care of at home,” he admits, “important things, but I won’t be able to focus unless I know you’ll be here at Christmas.”
“I’ll be here,” you say, conviction finally settling in your chest. “I may not be in a hotel then,” you murmur, a faint grin tugging at your lips, “but I’ll be here.”
He nods. “Y/N, you know this won’t be easy. But I swear I will make it worth it.”
“I know,” you say, leaning back against him, letting your fingers intertwine with his.
“Christmas… promise me, Y/N.”
“I promise, Jake,” you breathe, feeling the warmth of his hand over yours, and the press of his body against yours, the two of you sharing the quiet intimacy of knowing you’ve both decided to try.
You settle back against him, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, and the room grows quieter with each passing moment. His fingers rub gentle circles over your back, soothing and steady. The weight of him is heavy and comforting, like the world outside has momentarily disappeared. And slowly, inevitably, sleep claims you both.
—
When you wake, the room is quiet. The bed beside you is empty, the weight of him gone, but the sheets still carry the warmth of where he had been. A faint trace of his cologne drifts in the air, catching your senses and making your chest tighten.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it, heart thudding, and see a message from his number. The same number it had been all those years ago.
Jake K: Christmas. I promise. I’ll be there. Just… wait for me, Y/N.
Your fingers hover over the screen, trembling, caught in that tight place between wanting to answer him and wanting to protect whatever’s left of your heart. Sunlight spills across the tangled sheets, the world outside easing into its usual Thanksgiving chatter, but it all feels far away, muted behind the sound of your own pulse.
Because for the first time in years, the possibility of him, of you and him, isn’t some old daydream. It’s real. It’s here. And it shakes you to your core.
You set the phone back on the nightstand, but your hand doesn’t feel like your own. You breathe in, slow and shaky, staring at the window as if it might give you the answer. Christmas. He said Christmas. You picture it without meaning to…Jake stepping through the cold to find you, smiling like he means it, and reaching for you like he still wants more.
You hate how easily the thought unravels you.
The room is silent, but your heart is loud, thudding with a familiar ache, the one you never quite outran. And you already know what’s happening. You can feel it in the way your chest tightens, in the way your pulse jumps, in the way your mind tries and fails to pretend you’re not hoping.
You’re counting down the seconds.
Already.
Helplessly.
Counting them even as another part of you whispers that you’re a fool, that this is how heartbreak starts, that history has never been kind to you and Jake Kiszka.
But wanting him is a gravity you’ve never been able to fight.
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