summary; Jake is completely bewitched by the calmest four-year-old and her single mother in a four hour flight from New York to Texas.
word count; 3.3k
warnings; FLUFF FEST
a/n; this one came to me in my sleep, i love girl dad jake in any way i can get it honestly, let me know what you think! read part two here
masterlist
Jake Seresin really should’ve booked the later flight.
He’s still a little hungover, the kind that hums behind his eyes and makes his stomach tilt every time the plane jerks with another passenger shoving a bag into the overhead bins. His back aches from the too-soft hotel mattress, and the starched collar of his shirt itches against his neck.
He runs a hand down his face as he steps into the narrow aisle, the low hum of pre-flight chaos buzzing around him. The air smells like coffee, recycled air, and too many people in too small a space.
He’d spent the weekend in New York for a buddy’s wedding — a good time, sure, but too much whiskey, too many late nights, and way too much small talk. He’s ready to go home. Ready for quiet.
“Eighteen C,” he mutters under his breath, glancing at the numbers overhead as he lugs his carry-on down the aisle.
He’s one of the last to board, so everyone’s already settled in — headphones on, blankets pulled up, the lucky ones already half asleep. His luck? Historically bad.
He spots his row halfway down the cabin and feels that familiar pinch of dread in his gut.
Window seat’s taken.
Middle seat too — by a tiny girl in pigtails, her legs swinging as she hums softly to herself.
Jake exhales through his nose, amusement and exasperation battling somewhere behind his tired eyes. “Of course,” he mutters under his breath.
A four-year-old. For a three-and-a-half-hour flight. Fantastic.
She’s got a white tracksuit on, the hood shaped like little bunny ears. Her pink backpack is open on her lap, stuffed with crayons and snacks, and she’s so focused on her coloring book she doesn’t notice him right away.
He shifts his bag on his shoulder, preparing himself for the inevitable chorus of “I’m bored” and “Are we there yet?”
Then the girl looks up.
Her eyes are big and bright, her expression open — the sort of kid who’s been raised to look people in the eye. “Hi, sir! Are you sitting here?”
Jake blinks, momentarily thrown. “Uh… yeah. Looks like it.”
She nods solemnly, like this is an official transaction. “That’s okay. I don’t mind.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh despite himself. “Glad to hear it, sweetheart.”
The girl beams, turning a little to point toward the woman in the window seat. “Mommy, he’s here.”
Jake follows her gesture — and for the first time, really sees you.
You’re half-turned toward the aisle, hair loosely pulled back, one hand resting protectively on your daughter’s knee. There’s a softness to you that stops him for a second — not flashy, not showy, just… gentle. A quiet kind of pretty that sneaks up on him.
“Sorry,” you murmur, offering him an apologetic smile. “We were trying to keep her things out of the way.”
Jake shakes his head, suddenly more awake than he’s felt all morning. “You’re good. No trouble at all.”
He slides into his seat, careful not to bump either of you, his arm brushing the side of the little girl’s chair for just a moment. The contact is barely there — but he feels it.
And the kid’s not shy, that’s for sure.
As soon as Jake clicks his seatbelt, she turns toward him again, tiny legs still swinging. “Are you going home or going somewhere new?” she asks, bright and curious, like they’ve known each other for years.
He blinks, startled by the directness, then chuckles. “Uh… home, I guess. What about you?”
“I live in Texas,” she announces proudly, “but we went to New York for Mommy’s work. I got to see tall buildings and ride in a taxi and eat a pretzel as big as my face.”
Jake grins despite himself. “That so? Sounds like a good trip.”
“It was!” she says, emphatically. “Except the taxi smelled like feet.”
“Ivy,” you murmur softly, a quiet warning.
She glances up at you, guiltless and sweet. “It did, Mommy.”
Jake’s shoulders shake with a suppressed laugh. You catch it, and your eyes flick toward him — that shy little smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. He feels the back of his neck warm.
You lean slightly forward, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry, sir. She can get a little talkative.”
He waves it off easily, shaking his head. “She’s fine. Really. I’ve had worse seatmates.” He smiles down at Ivy. “You’re not bothering me, sweetheart.”
That earns him a delighted grin and a small, “Thank you, sir.”
You mouth another quiet sorry as the flight attendants start their pre-takeoff checks. Jake only smiles back, settling into his seat as Ivy obediently faces forward.
The hum of the engines deepens. The usual rustle of belts and bags, the clipped voices over the intercom — all of it routine. He glances sideways, expecting at least a little squirming or noise from the kid, but Ivy’s sitting calmly, hands folded in her lap, expression serious.
You lean over her, gentle and practiced, slipping tiny pink earplugs into her ears. “There,” you murmur. “All set, baby.”
Jake watches the whole thing — the ease of it, the quiet assurance in the way you move. Ivy doesn’t fuss, doesn’t whine. Just blinks, takes your hand, and squeezes once. Like she’s done this a thousand times.
He’s… kind of impressed.
Most adults he knows get twitchy the second a plane door closes. But this four-year-old? Cool as can be.
When the plane starts to lift, Ivy presses back into her seat, clutching her little stuffed rabbit — a floppy-eared thing wearing a bow — and hums under her breath again. The sound’s soft, soothing somehow.
Jake finds himself smiling, eyes flicking to you when the seatbelt light finally dings off.
You exhale quietly, relaxing into the seat, and reach for the tote bag at your feet. “Good job, honey,” you tell Ivy, fishing something out. “You can play for a little while now.”
She perks right up, accepting the thin booklet with reverence. Jake catches a glimpse — it’s one of those sticker books, with pages like empty rooms and little sheets of people and furniture to decorate them.
“Which one’s that?” you ask her, smoothing the page open.
“The coffee shop,” Ivy says. “I’m gonna make it fancy.”
You hum approvingly. “Good choice.”
It’s then that you notice him watching, elbow resting on the armrest, that small, crooked smile on his face. You tilt your head, half-apologetic again. “She loves those. I think I’ve bought a dozen at this point.”
“Yeah?” Jake says softly. “She looks like she’s got it down to a science.”
You glance at Ivy, who’s busily arranging tiny sticker croissants in a display case, tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration. “She could play for hours,” you admit. “It keeps her happy when we travel.”
Jake hums, still looking — but not at the sticker book. At you. The way you talk about your daughter, the warmth in your voice, that mix of exhaustion and affection. He feels that unfamiliar tug again — not lust, not quite — something gentler. Something that makes him want to keep watching.
They’ve been in the air maybe half an hour when Ivy suddenly looks up from her sticker-covered page, expression bright and decisive.
“Mommy,” she says, “can I have another book from the bag?”
You glance up from your Kindle, a faint smile already forming. “Another one? You’re not done with your coffee shop yet.”
“I want to make one with…” Ivy pauses, looking straight at Jake. “With him.”
Jake blinks. “Me?”
She nods, serious. “Yes. So we can have a competition.”
You glance between them, torn between amusement and embarrassment. “Sweetheart, I don’t think the nice man wants to—”
But Jake’s already chuckling, leaning forward to grab the tote from under the seat. “You kidding? I never turn down a good competition.”
You freeze for a second, surprised, as he pulls out another sticker booklet and passes it to Ivy. His grin’s a little lopsided, charming in that lazy way he probably doesn’t even realize.
“What’s the game?” he asks, flipping open the first page.
Ivy’s thrilled. “We both make our coffee shops, and Mommy’s the judge. You can’t copy me, though. That’s cheating.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says solemnly.
You can’t help laughing, soft and breathy. “You really don’t have to—”
But he looks over at you then, eyes glinting, voice dipping lower. “Trust me, darlin’, I’ve survived Navy flight school. I can handle a four-year-old with stickers.”
Your face goes warm instantly. You look away, shaking your head, pretending to be exasperated — but you’re smiling.
So they start.
Ivy’s methodical — she narrates every choice: where the counter goes, what kind of muffins she’s “selling,” the people waiting in line. Jake, meanwhile, takes it as seriously as any mission he’s ever flown. He turns his page sideways for “better layout options” and mutters to himself about the placement of the espresso machine.
Every few minutes, Ivy leans over to inspect his work and announces, “That’s actually pretty good.”
Jake grins at that, his heart doing a strange little flip at her approval. “Thanks, partner. You’re a tough critic.”
You’re watching from beside them, one arm draped protectively over Ivy’s seat, your lips curved in a quiet smile you probably don’t even realize you’re wearing. There’s something in the way you look at them — at him — that hits him right in the chest.
He wasn’t expecting this flight to feel… like this.
Not when his head still throbs faintly from last night’s whiskey, and his back’s sore, and he’d been fully prepared to endure four hours of crying or chaos.
Instead, there’s this — the soft hum of the cabin, a kid’s laughter, your eyes meeting his over the aisle armrest.
He clears his throat when Ivy declares she’s finished and spins her page toward you. “Mommy, we’re ready!”
You play along beautifully, taking the role of judge with exaggerated seriousness. “Alright,” you say, folding your hands. “Let’s see what we have here.”
Ivy goes first, pointing out every detail. Jake listens like it’s the most important briefing of his life, nodding solemnly at mentions of pastries and tables.
Then it’s his turn. “Mine,” he says, flipping his book around, “is less about efficiency and more about atmosphere.”
Ivy gasps. “You put a piano!”
“Sure did. Live music every night.”
She narrows her eyes, impressed but determined. “Mommy, who wins?”
You take a long, thoughtful pause — partly for effect, partly because both are honestly adorable. “I think…” you say slowly, “…it’s a tie.”
Ivy lets out a triumphant laugh. “A tie!”
Jake puts his hand over his heart, mock-relieved. “Fair call, judge.”
When you glance at him, there’s a spark of something in your expression — warmth, amusement… maybe a hint of curiosity.
He gives you that soft, easy smile again. “Told you I could handle her.”
You smile back, cheeks pink. “You did more than handle her.”
For a second, neither of you looks away.
Then Ivy breaks the spell with a small yawn, curling sideways in her seat and resting her head on your arm.
Jake leans back, watching as you brush a few strands of hair from her forehead, your hand lingering there. The way you look at your daughter — soft, full of love — tugs at something deep in him.
He doesn’t even notice he’s still smiling.
When Ivy starts rubbing her eyes and fidgeting, you pull a pink iPad out of your tote bag and queue up Tangled. She’s practically giddy as you slip the comically large headphones over her head — they look like they belong to someone twice her size.
Jake grins at the sight. The headphones tilt slightly to one side, almost slipping off, but Ivy doesn’t seem to mind. Within minutes she’s completely engrossed, mouthing along to the songs like this is a regular ritual.
“She’s got taste,” Jake murmurs. “Tangled’s the best one.”
You glance at him, smiling. “We’ve seen it… I don’t know, a hundred times?”
“I can see why,” he says, settling back. “Pascal really carries the movie.”
You laugh softly, and he feels that sound bloom somewhere in his chest — like a small, unexpected spark of sunlight through the window.
He thinks that’ll be the end of it, that you’ll dive into a book or close your eyes for the rest of the flight. But you don’t. You’re quiet, your focus half on your daughter, half on the screen ahead — and Jake finds himself wanting to know more.
“So,” he starts, voice casual, “what do you do, when you’re not running coffee shop competitions at thirty thousand feet?”
You smile at that, the kind that’s half shy, half amused. “I’m an architect. I do mostly residential projects — smaller firms, family houses.”
He whistles low under his breath. “That’s impressive. You the creative type, then?”
You shrug, a little bashful. “I guess. I like the process. Turning something that’s just lines on a screen into someone’s home.”
“Home,” he repeats softly, like he’s tasting the word. “That’s a nice way to put it.”
Your gaze flickers to him, just briefly, and then you look back to Ivy, as if to ground yourself. “What about you?”
He smiles, a little lopsided. “Fighter pilot. USA Navy.”
You blink. “Oh. Wow. That sounds… intense.”
“Sometimes,” he admits. “But not as intense as three hours next to a four-year-old with stickers.”
You roll your eyes, trying not to laugh. “You handled that very well.”
“I’ve had tougher cases,” he says, deadpan, and that earns him another small laugh — the kind that makes him want to keep going, just to hear it again.
Then, after a moment, he nods toward Ivy. “She’s great, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a kid that age sit still for this long.”
You glance down at your daughter, her tiny legs tucked under her, the light from the tablet washing her face in soft color. “She’s… she’s my calm in the storm,” you admit. “I lucked out with her. My mom helps a lot too, so I get to breathe sometimes.”
Jake hums quietly. “You doin’ this on your own?”
You hesitate for just a second — barely noticeable, but he catches it. “Yeah,” you say finally, soft but certain. “It’s just us.”
He nods, not prying further. There’s something he admires in your tone — not defensiveness, not self-pity, just quiet strength.
He should leave it there, but the way the sunlight cuts through the small window, landing on your cheek, makes it hard to stop himself.
“You know,” he says, voice dropping just slightly lower, “you’ve got a really pretty smile.”
You turn to him, startled. “What?”
He grins, unbothered. “Just sayin’. I’ve been on a lot of flights, but this one’s got the best company I’ve had in a while.”
Your cheeks go pink instantly. You try to busy yourself with Ivy’s tablet, adjusting the volume even though she’s fine, mumbling something about how kind that is.
Jake bites back a chuckle. He’s always liked flustering people — but with you, it feels less like a game and more like gravity pulling him in.
He angles his seat a little closer, his knee just barely brushing Ivy’s kicking feet. “You blushing, sweetheart?”
You exhale a small, nervous laugh. “You’re flirting with me?”
“Maybe,” he says, grin widening. “But you’re smiling again.”
You are — and it’s soft and unguarded, the kind that makes him want to lean in, to keep you talking for the rest of the flight.
So he does.
You talk about nothing and everything: Ivy’s favorite movies, his favorite cities, how you hate small talk but somehow this doesn’t feel like that. Every time he says something teasing or calls you darlin’, your pulse stutters — and every time you look up at him through your lashes, Jake feels it too.
By the time the captain announces the descent into Dallas, he realizes he hasn’t thought about his hangover or his aching back in hours.
Just you. And the tiny, headphone-wearing four-year-old between you who, unknowingly, might’ve just introduced him to his favorite person on a plane.
The moment the wheels hit the runway, Ivy claps her little hands like they just landed on the moon. Jake can’t help but laugh — she’s so effortlessly joyful that even the people in the row ahead turn to smile at her.
You thank him again for helping with the overhead bag, but he waves it off, brushing a hand through his blond hair. “Please. I’ve faced worse challenges than a carry-on and a four-year-old.”
“I’m sure,” you tease lightly, hoisting your tote over your shoulder as people start filing out.
It takes a few minutes to deplane, and Ivy keeps glancing up at him like she’s thinking something very serious through. Then, right before they step into the jet bridge, she tugs on his sleeve.
She unzips her tiny backpack with great ceremony, digs through it, and pulls out a small sheet of stickers. “This one’s for you,” she says, peeling off a sparkly golden star and sticking it on his hand.
Jake stares at it for a second — the little glimmer of foil shining under the airport lights — and feels a ridiculous warmth spread in his chest. “A gold star, huh? That’s high praise.”
“You were a very good passenger,” she informs him with complete seriousness. “And you helped Mommy.”
You’re instantly flustered. “Ivy—”
But Jake’s already smiling. “Well, thank you, ma’am. I’ll wear it with pride.”
They reach the baggage claim, and he waits with you — partly because he’s a gentleman, but mostly because he doesn’t want to walk away just yet. You make small talk about Texas heat, and Ivy tries to stand on the luggage carousel (“absolutely not,” you say, gently yanking her back).
When your suitcase finally comes around, Jake grabs it before you can move, setting it upright beside you. Then he hesitates, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“So… listen,” he starts, a little awkward now that there’s no plane seat holding him there. “Would it be crazy if I said I wanted to see you two again?”
You blink, startled — and blushing, of course. “Oh. Um. I don’t—”
“I mean it,” he says, soft but steady. “You don’t have to decide right now, but… maybe coffee sometime? No stickers required.”
That makes you laugh, the sound easing the nerves from your shoulders. “Coffee sounds… nice.”
He hands you his phone, open to a new contact. You type your number quickly before you can overthink it.
Jake’s grin is slow and genuine. “Guess I’ll call you then.”
He takes a few steps back, blending into the stream of people heading for the exits, and you turn to lift Ivy onto your suitcase handle, her little legs swinging.
But then it hits you — you don’t even know his name.
“Wait!” you call, and your voice echoes lightly through the hall.
Jake turns, that same easy smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah?”
“I don’t even know your name!” you say, half-laughing, half-mortified.
He chuckles, taking a few steps backward but keeping his eyes on you. “It’s Jake,” he calls out. “But you can call me anything you’d like, sweetheart.”
Ivy giggles, perched on your suitcase, her small hand waving wildly as Jake lifts his in return.
You’re still smiling when he disappears into the crowd — the kind of smile that lingers even as you step out into the Texas sun, a golden star still stuck to his hand somewhere in the airport.
summary: your ex is coming back to collect some things he left behind and you accidentally tell him that you have a new boyfriend, so hangman accepts the role of your new (fake) boyfriend
notes: did i spent the last three days writing for 8-10 hours a day? yes... am i going slightly insane? also yes... but guys!!! fake dating!!! i don't know how i vomited this fic up so quick, jake is just so easy for me to write (i think it's because i love him but not in a soul-crushing way like the way i love rooster?) anyway, PLEASE enjoy and please, please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, reader is shorter than hangman (just want to mention it), allusions to sex, and it's pretty horny so 18+ ONLY please! let me know if i’ve missed anything!
word count: 10937
“This weekend?” Your voice is unsteady, but you hope the crackling from the poor phone reception is enough to mask it. “I’m not sure if I can do this weekend.”
Spencer sighs, clearly frustrated by your repeated attempts to keep him away from San Diego. “Look, I know you don’t want to do this—and honestly, neither do I—but it has to be done. I’ll only be in town for a couple of days. I’ll grab some boxes, hire a van, and get them shipped straight to my condo. Don’t you want your spare room back?”
You gnaw nervously on your bottom lip as you glance out at the open-plan office space, hoping none of your coworkers are listening too closely to your phone conversation.
You broke up with Spencer six months ago, after dating for nearly four years, and he left in such a rush that almost an entire room of his stuff stayed behind. It isn't anything important—mostly old sports gear and college memorabilia—and it’s not like he’s needed any of it. The breakup hit him hard, and he spent the following four months backpacking around Europe to clear his head. He’s only been back at his condo in Upstate New York for two months, and during that time, he’s been relentlessly bugging you to let him come pick up his things.
It’s not like you want to hold on to anything that reminds you of him, but you desperately do not want to see him again. You offered a few times to pack up his things and ship them to him, but he flat-out refused. He even called it a violation of privacy now that you’re no longer together. So, about a month ago, you told him you’d find a free weekend for him to come by and collect the rest of his stuff—and you’ve done everything you can to avoid it since.
“Okay,” you mutter, turning away from the office to face the window overlooking North Island Naval Air Station. “But you can’t stay at the apartment.”
“What?” Spencer snaps. “Why? It’ll be so much easier. I’ll be in an out in three days, tops.”
“Three days?” you echo. “Spence, that’s my whole weekend gone.”
“There’s a lot of stuff,” he argues. “I could bring Harry with me, if-”
“You are not bringing your brother, Spencer.” You stomp your foot, despite the conversation being over the phone. “Look, if that’s how long it’ll take, then fine. But you are not staying at the apartment. You can’t. My boyfriend just moved in last week.” The last few words slip out before you can stop them.
Fuck.
There’s a beat of silence before Spencer speaks again, his voice wavering. “Boyfriend?”
You tip your head back and take a deep breath. “Yes, boyfriend.”
Another awkward stretch of silence.
“Okay... I’ll stay at the motel around the corner,” he says.
You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Good.”
“See you Friday, then.”
“See you Friday.”
You pull the phone away from your ear and tap the red button, watching Spencer’s caller ID photo flicker out before the screen goes black. With a sigh, your arms drop to your sides, and you lean forward until your forehead rests against the windowpane with a soft, dull thud.
What the fuck did you just do?
-
Gravel crunches beneath your tires as you swerve into the parking lot of The Hard Deck bar. You pull up beside a familiar Ford Bronco, yanking the parking brake just a little too hard before practically stumbling out of the car. Your feet carry you across the lot and through the front door before coming to a stop as you survey the room, searching for the familiar face you came here to find. Across the bar, tucked into the booth closest to the pool table, are your friends. They’re sipping beers and chatting happily, blissfully unaware that an electrical storm of stress and anxiety is headed right for them.
You weave through the tables and other patrons with determination, your breath coming and going in quick, anxious bursts. Your feet only stop when you reach your friends’ table, and their conversation quickly dies as they each turn to look at you.
Jake’s brows pinch. “Hey, are you okay?”
You suck your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down nervously, unsure how to reply.
Javy, who was sitting next to Jake, stands up and nods toward the bar. “I’m going to grab another drink. Want anything?”
You nod. “Whatever you’re having.”
He gives you a cheeky wink before striding off toward the bar. You watch him for a few seconds before turning back to the booth and sliding in beside Jake, leaning into him and letting your head fall on his shoulder.
Natasha sits across from you, her head tilted and a curious glint in her narrowed eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not yet, I haven’t,” you say, before letting out an exasperated sigh. “My ex is coming back this weekend.”
She rears back and sits up straight, her brows raised. “Coming back to stay?”
You lift your head from Jake’s shoulder and shake it softly. “Nah. He just wants to pick up everything he left behind.”
Jake shifts beside you, his arm sliding around your lower back almost possessively—but you know he only means to comfort you. “Including you?” he asks, his tone playful but laced with a hint of uncertainty.
You snort and turn to face him, a little startled by how close those piercing green eyes are. “Of course not. Or at least, I hope not. I mean, I think I made it pretty damn clear he wasn’t getting me back, even if he was planning to try.” You trail off, turning away, unsure how to bring up the real reason you came here tonight—the question that’s been gnawing at you since your phone conversation with Spencer.
“Okay,” Nat says, “so, what’s the big deal?”
You suck in a deep breath, filling your lungs as you gather every shred of dignity you still have left. “I told him he couldn’t stay at the apartment because… my boyfriend just moved in.”
Natasha’s brows shoot up toward her hairline and her mouth pops open. Amusement dances behind her eyes, but she has the decency to hold it back as you drop your head into your hands and let out a groan. “I fucked up.”
Beside Natasha, Mickey leans forward. “But you don’t have a boyfriend?”
You look up at him and scowl. “No shit.”
“Oh.” He nods slowly, fighting the grin that tugs at his lips.
“So, what are you going to do?” Reuben pipes up from the other end of the table, looking just as amused as the rest of your friends.
“Well...” You lean back, pressing your shoulder blades into the vinyl of the booth as you twist your neck to glance at the man beside you. “I was going to ask Jake if he could help me... pretend.”
Jake’s smirk fades, and a flush creeps into his cheeks. His green eyes widen, the usual cocky confidence replaced by startled confusion. “What? Why me?”
You shrug, trying to act nonchalant about asking the man you regularly fantasise about to be your fake boyfriend. “It just makes the most sense. I’ve known you the longest.” Your eyes flick toward the other boys at the table. “No offense, but Jake and I just have better chemistry—and Spencer knew it. He was always a little threatened by our friendship.”
You shift your gaze back to Jake, who’s still looking stunned, his lips parted slightly.
“Plus, I only broke up with Spencer six months ago. I couldn’t have met someone new and asked them to move in that fast. It has to be someone I already knew.” You widen your eyes and bat your lashes dramatically. “Please, Jake. I’ll do anything.”
He blinks at you, cheeks still tinged pink. “Define anything,” he says, that cocky smirk slowly starting to return.
“Whatever you want,” you reply, planting both hands on his thigh closest to you—oblivious to the fact that it makes his dick twitch in his jeans. “You know I’m good for it.”
Jake coughs into his hand, shifting slightly, trying to hold onto his bravado while making sure your touch doesn’t creep any higher. “Alright,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. “I’ll do it.”
You raise a brow. “That easy?”
He lifts a finger. “On one condition.”
You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “Which is?”
He leans in, that cocky smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “I want a home-cooked dinner. Every night I’m there. Candles. Music. Maybe a little wine. You know... boyfriend perks.”
Natasha snorts across the table. “You mean domestic fantasy perks.”
Jake just shrugs, eyes still locked on yours. “Hey, if I’m going to play house, I want the full experience.”
You swallow hard, but your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Deal.”
He grins wider, and this time you’re pretty sure it’s not just cockiness—it’s anticipation.
-
You pace in circles around your kitchen island, one arm tucked under your breasts, holding your opposite elbow as you anxiously gnaw on your thumbnail. Jake is supposed to be here any minute, and the cork in the bottle of nerves rattling around in your stomach just won’t stay put.
You’ve known Jake for years. You met in college and, despite the distance with his deployments, have been metaphorically inseparable ever since. But physically? That was a little harder, obviously.
You’ve always had a soft spot for Jake—a bit of a crush, but you were never foolish enough to think anything could come of it. You’ve been perfectly content being his friend, never pushing for more. But every single one of your boyfriends? They hated him. You can’t blame them, really—Jake has that effect on people. That cocky, irresistible charm that makes it impossible for anyone else to ignore him.
Still, you can’t shake the guilt creeping in. Fooling Spencer into thinking you and Jake are together? After all those times you promised him there was nothing more than friendship between you and Jake? It feels wrong. Even if Spencer never really took your word for it.
A knock at the door pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you hurry to answer it. Jake is standing on the other side, looking even more irresistible than usual. There’s no uniform today, no flight suit or polished boots. Instead, he's wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans, and somehow that makes him look even better. His hair is messy, not gelled like it usually is, and the scruff on his jaw—a day’s worth of stubble—only adds to the allure. He looks... delicious in a way that’s totally different from the polished, put-together fighter pilot you’re used to.
“Hey, girlfriend,” he says with a smirk, “sorry I’m late.”
Your brain and mouth have completely short-circuited, leaving you with no choice but to smile, nod, and step aside to let him in. He’s got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a box of random belongings in his arms—little odds and ends that someone might have lying around their apartment.
Jake drops the box onto the kitchen counter and turns back to you. “What time is Spencer the Snob getting here?”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “In about an hour. Do you think you can manage to be civilized?”
“Yes,” he replies, his voice sharp as he props his hands on his hips. “Can he be civilised?”
“Spencer is always civilized.”
You walk over to the box and start pulling out items, mentally sorting them. But Jake isn’t done.
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Spencer is not always civilized. He’s just really good at hiding what a complete dick he is.”
You turn and lean your hip against the countertop, raising one eyebrow. “You only don’t like him because he didn’t like you first. And let’s be honest, that’s because you bought me lingerie for the first birthday that I was with him. He didn’t get the joke and thought it was way too suggestive.”
Jake snorts, his jade eyes lighting up with mischief. “Yeah, that was a good one. I’ll never forget the look on his face.”
You resist the urge to laugh and roll your eyes again, turning back to the box. “I’ll admit, Spence is a little snobby. But that’s just how he was raised. It’s not his fault he’s got money.”
Jake’s expression darkens, and he narrows his eyes at the affectionate nickname. “Spence?”
“Sorry,” you say, your cheeks flushing pink. “Force of habit.”
The two of you move quietly around the apartment, slipping into an easy rhythm as you make space for Jake’s things. You tuck two framed photos of his family onto the bookshelf, nestled between your novels, and slide one of his official Navy portraits beside them—one you definitely wouldn’t mind keeping.
He hangs a jacket and a couple of worn caps on the hooks by the door and drops two pairs of his boots beside your own lineup of shoes. You clear off a bedside table for him to clutter with his things, and listen to the soft clink of bottles as he unpacks his toiletries in the bathroom.
Finally, you add a towel for him to the rack beside the shower. And for a moment, you let yourself imagine it: the two of you in there together. His hot, slick skin pressed to yours, the steam curling around your tangled limbs. His hands sliding soap across your body, rinsing you slow and thorough. He’d wash your hair too, fingers working into your scalp until your eyes fluttered closed—and then you’d return the favour, watching his mouth part in bliss beneath your touch.
“Hello?” Jake waves a hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?”
You blink rapidly and turn to face him, only to find him standing way too close with that maddening smirk tugging at his lips. Your eyes flick up to his, and the look he gives you is downright dangerous—curious, cocky, and just a little bit amused.
“You good, sweetheart?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’re lookin’ a little hot under the collar.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Instead, you let out a weird half-laugh, half-scoff and sidestep him like he’s radioactive. “I’m fine. It’s just warm in here. Is it warm in here?”
Jake leans back against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed and eyes glittering. “Could be. Or maybe you were just thinkin’ about something real steamy.”
You choke on air. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, all faux innocence. “Just sayin’... you’ve got that look. Like your brain wandered somewhere it probably shouldn’t have.”
You grab a towel—any towel—and smack him in the chest. “Shut up.”
Jake laughs, catching the towel with one hand like he knew it was coming. “Whatever it was, must’ve been good.”
When he finally steps aside, you scurry past like lingering too long might scorch your skin. Only once you’ve turned down the hall and reached the kitchen—putting a safe stretch of space between you and him—do you exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Okay,” you say, planting both palms against the cool, marble countertop. “Spencer is going to be here in half an hour, so we have exactly thirty minutes to practice being a couple.”
Jake smirks like this is nothing—like he’s been in this exact situation a hundred times before. “You tell me what you’re comfortable with, darlin’.” He steps up to the other side of the kitchen island and leans forward, mirroring your posture.
You tilt your head slightly, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you narrow your eyes at him. “We need to look convincing. No weirdness, no pulling faces. Just... act natural.”
Jake cocks an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Natural, huh? So, no kissing? Not even a little peck?”
You try to focus, but the way he’s leaning across the island—just far enough to make the space between you feel electrified—throws you off. “Uh, no. Nothing like that. We’ll start slow. Hold hands, sit close... you know, the easy stuff.”
Jake’s grin widens, his gaze flickering down to your lips before locking onto your eyes. “Hold hands, sit close. Got it. But what if I make you want to kiss me? I’m really good at that.”
You feel the heat spreading through your chest, but you refuse to let him see it. “You think you can make me want to kiss you?” You raise an eyebrow, trying to match his cockiness.
He leans even further toward you and drops his voice low, the teasing edge still there but with a smouldering intensity you’re having a hard time ignoring. “Oh, sweetheart. I know I can. All I need is the right moment.”
You can’t help but laugh nervously, your pulse quickening as he stays there, so close you can feel the heat of his presence even if the island bench is still separating you. “Well, we’ve got thirty minutes to see if you can keep your hands to yourself, Seresin,” you tease, but there’s an edge to it now—a hint of challenge.
Jake leans in a little more, his gaze fixed on you, like he’s seconds away from crossing the line. “Trust me, darlin’. I can keep my hands to myself... but only if you can keep your hands off me.”
Your chest rises and falls faster than usual, your head spinning slightly from all the extra oxygen surging through your blood. You part your lips, ready to fire back something just as cocky—something to keep the volley going—but the sharp chime of your phone slices through the tension, and both your gazes snap to where it buzzes on the countertop.
You settle back onto your heels, and reach for your phone, huffing out a small, frustrated sigh before sliding the answer button and pressing it to your ear. “Hey, Spencer.”
“Hey, how are you?”
Your eyes slide toward Jake, who is looking almost as frustrated as you feel. “Fine. How far out are you?”
Spencer chuckles, and something inside of you instinctively recoils, even though the sound itself isn’t particularly offensive. “I’m great, thanks for asking. The flight was fine, a little bumpy, but we made it. I’m just waiting at baggage claim, so I’ll be about twenty minutes.”
“No worries,” you say, “see you soon.”
You hang up before he even finishes saying goodbye, drop your phone face-down on the bench, and glance back at Jake. “Alright, let’s go over the details. We started dating three months after Spencer left. You asked me out, and I was a little surprised.”
Jake frowns, already halfway to an objection, but you cut him off with a raised hand. “Just go with it, okay? It keeps my integrity intact. You have no idea how many times I had to convince him I wasn’t into you.”
His frown fades fast, replaced by that maddeningly smug smirk. “Go on, then.”
You roll your eyes, but continue. “I was surprised, but everything just... clicked. Being best friends made the relationship feel natural. That’s why things have moved fast. You were already here most nights, your rent went up, so you moved in two weeks ago.”
Jake nods like he’s logging it all away. “Okay, but more importantly—how’s the sex?”
You stare, deadpan. “Seriously?”
He shrugs, hands raised like a saint. “What? It’s a legitimate question. Spencer might ask.”
“I highly fucking doubt it.”
Jake chuckles. “Yeah, fair. Still worth a shot.”
With a long, theatrical exhale, you walk around the kitchen island and stop in front of him. “Alright, let’s talk touching.”
His eyes light up, devilish. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
You ignore him. “I’m ticklish, so don’t touch my ribs or ghost over my arms—I will flinch.”
“I know.”
You pause. “Okay…” You shake your head, ignoring the question trying to form. “I’m not huge on PDA, but I like lingering touches. Just small things, to remind each other we’re there.”
“I know,” he says again, that smirk glued in place.
The question in your head itches a little louder, but you push it aside. “And if we go out—which I really hope we don’t—make sure you’re always sitting next to me. I hate it when couples sit across from each other. I don’t want to gaze into your eyes, I want to feel your warmth.”
Jake’s smirk splits into a wide, boyish grin. “I know.”
The floodgates crack. “How the fuck do you know everything?”
He leans in just slightly, voice soft but sure. “Because I know you. I’ve watched you with every guy you’ve dated. Just because I wasn’t the guy doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention.”
You blink, reeling from the quiet truth in his tone. It hits you like a gust of wind—real, unshakable. You actually have to take a step back to steady yourself. There’s no teasing in his voice, no smug edge. Just Jake, earnest and open in a way that’s rare.
And it almost wrecks you.
Jake might be cocky and insufferable ninety percent of the time—but when he loves, he does it fiercely. Deeply. Fully. And you’ve always known you were lucky to be one of the people he loves.
But for the first time, you let your mind wander somewhere dangerous. What would it be like to be loved by Jake Seresin—not just as a friend, but as his person? His everything?
“So,” Jake says, cutting through the tension like a hot knife through butter, “where should I touch you first?”
You close your eyes for a beat, reminding yourself that this is still Jake—insufferable, irritating Jake. “You don’t have to be weird and over the top about it. When he gets here, you can just sit on the couch, then I’ll join you and sit close. You can put a hand on my thigh.”
Jake’s brows furrow, his face contorting with mild disgust. “I know you’re trying not to make him uncomfortable, but that’s not going to work. Think about it—your ex is coming over, and your current boyfriend is just sitting casually on the couch? Not buying it.”
You roll your eyes again, hoping to avoid yet another pointless argument. “Jake, this doesn’t need to be-”
“You told him you’re dating me,” he interrupts, poking his chest with a finger. “And if this was real, I’d be making damn sure I had a hand on you at all times.”
You raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore how your body reacts to his proximity and his words. Heat floods your chest and settles behind your hipbones, desire tightening in places you don’t want to think about right now. “You don’t need to stake your claim, Jake. Spencer isn’t here to win me back.”
Jake steps closer, cutting the distance between you until there’s barely two feet separating you. “You don’t know that.” His voice lowers slightly, making the air between you feel thick and electric. “And yes, I do. If you want him to believe we’re dating, then you need to let me do exactly what I would do if this was real.”
You’re not sure whether he’s just being cocky or trying to show off, but damn it, he’s making a good point. “Okay, fine. But don’t make him uncomfortable.”
Jake’s smirk widens, taking on that familiar, smug edge. “No promises, darlin’.”
You spend the next ten minutes pretending to clean—wiping already spotless counters, rearranging throw pillows, and dusting things that definitely don’t need dusting. All while Jake lounges on the couch like this is the easiest job he’s ever had.
“It’s three days, sweetheart,” he says. “By Sunday, Spencer will be back in his overpriced New York apartment sipping single malt and Googling himself.”
You snort but say nothing. Three days. Just two dinners and one brunch. You’ll keep the visits restricted to daylight hours, keep Jake close, keep your story straight—and by Sunday afternoon, Spencer will be out of your apartment and out of your life.
That’s the plan, anyway.
But as you glance over at Jake—sprawled out, so completely at ease in your space, looking infuriatingly good even in his most relaxed state—you start to question the rest of it.
Because it’s not Spencer you’re worried about fooling anymore. It’s yourself. And when Jake turns his head and catches you staring, smirking like he knows exactly what you're thinking?
Yeah. This might be harder than you thought.
The intercom buzzes, loud and sudden, startling you from your task of rearranging the flowers on the dining table. Your heart launches into your throat, pounding like you’ve just jumped from a plane without a parachute.
Jake chuckles and rises from the couch, strolling over to the intercom with infuriating confidence. He presses the button and leans in. “Come on up.”
You force your feet to move, carrying you toward him and not stopping until you’re right beside him. You press yourself against him and the moment your body meets his, heat blooms under your skin. It’s not new—you've touched him before—but it feels different. More charged. More deliberate. Jake’s arm slides around your waist without hesitation, and his fingers curl into your hip, firm and possessive. There’s a subtle squeeze and the pad of his thumb grazes a sliver of skin just beneath the hem of your shirt.
You feel it everywhere.
He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “It’s showtime, sweetheart.”
Your breath stutters. This is just pretend.
Your heart pounds against your sternum, each beat like the tick of a countdown clock. The elevator dings. Footsteps echo down the hallway. Closer, closer. You draw in a deep breath and hold it, ignoring the sharp ache it sends through your chest.
“Relax,” Jake murmurs, pulling you tighter against his side as he reaches for the doorknob.
The second the footsteps stop, he yanks the door open—no chance for a knock.
“Spence!” Jake beams, like they’re old frat brothers reunited. “Come in, buddy. How are you?”
You nearly snort. The absurdity of his enthusiasm bubbles up in your throat, but you bite your lip hard enough to keep it down.
Spencer looks good—but all it does is remind you how little you miss him. His perfectly coiffed blonde hair hasn’t changed one bit, but he’s tanner than you remember—courtesy of the European sun, no doubt. He’s not as tall as Jake, but he’s got that same overinflated ego. The difference? Jake’s cockiness comes from… well, let’s just say it’s probably anatomical. Spencer’s is inherited—passed down with a trust fund and a country club membership.
He’s dressed exactly as you expected: a sky-blue Ralph Lauren polo, crisp white pants with a crease so sharp it could slice bread, and tan boat shoes—an ironic choice, considering he’s terrified of boats.
But it’s his face that really seals the moment. Jaw unhinged, eyes wide, staring at Jake like he just opened the door to a ghost. Or maybe something worse: the ghost of his ex-girlfriend’s new sex life.
“Jake?” Spencer finally says. “Your new boyfriend is Jake Seresin?”
Jake’s grin is unbothered—like this is the moment he’s been waiting for his whole life. “The one and only.”
You feel his hand press a little firmer into your waist, anchoring you there like you might suddenly run—and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted.
Spencer steps further into the apartment, his eyes glued to Jake’s smug face. “I thought you said there was nothing going on between you two.”
Your stomach twists, but you keep your voice even. “There wasn’t. Not back then.”
Spencer glances at you. “You told me I was being paranoid. That he was just your friend.”
Jake chuckles. “I remember you telling me about that.”
You shoot him a look that’s supposed to say “not helping,” but he just smiles innocently and shrugs.
Spencer looks seconds away from spontaneously combusting. “I trusted you,” he says, starting to sound like the whiny, private-school rich kid you always tried to ignore. “You promised me nothing would ever happen with him.”
“Yeah, that was then, and this is now. Things change, Spence—and this has nothing to do with you,” you say, tone sharpening. If he’s going to act like a child, then you're going to treat him like one.
Jake’s hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, his thumb sweeping in a slow, easy circle like he’s soothing a spark before it ignites. “People change, bud. Timing is everything.”
Spencer folds his arms, visibly rattled. “So, what—he swooped in the second I left?”
Jake tilts his head, eyes full of mock offense. “Swooped? Come on. Give me a little credit. She came to me.”
You snap your head toward him, about to object, but his grin is wicked and the mischief in his eyes dares you to play along.
“Well...” You drag the word out, buying a few precious seconds to stitch your story together. “Technically, yes. I was upset after the breakup, so of course I turned to my best friend for comfort.”
Spencer’s blue-grey eyes narrow. “You broke up with me.”
“That she did, pal.” Jake tries for a sympathetic look, but you know better—he’s enjoying this a little too much.
“Just because I ended things doesn’t mean it didn’t rattle me,” you shoot back, trying to shift the focus away from Jake. “We were together for four years, Spencer. That’s a long time. I just had the guts to do what you didn’t. So, forgive me if I’m not in the mood to explain myself to you. I don’t owe you anything—and my new relationship? It’s none of your business.”
You see his expression twist into an offended scowl, and anger flickers in your chest. The nerve of him, acting like you still owe him something just because you pulled the plug first.
“For the record,” you continue, voice cool and firm, “yeah, I leaned on Jake. And somewhere along the line, I found something a lot deeper.”
Then, without missing a beat, you glance at Jake—who’s already wearing that cocky smirk—and let one of your own curve across your lips as you look back at Spencer.
“Actually,” you say, eyes narrowing with satisfaction, “I think it was Jake who found something a little deeper… if you know what I mean.”
Jake snorts, slapping his hand over his mouth, but he can’t suppress the gleeful chuckle bubbling from his lips. Spencer, on the other hand, looks utterly humbled—his cheeks are bright red and his jaw is hanging open like he’s just been slapped across the face.
You step away from Jake, waiting for his hand to drop so you can grab it. The second your fingers slide into his, a rush of warmth zips up your arm, and you try to ignore how good it feels, but damn, it’s hard.
“Get your boxes,” you say to Spencer, keeping your tone cool. “Jake will help you pack some stuff this afternoon, but it’s date night, so you’ve got exactly two hours. You can come back in the morning.”
Spencer's lip twitches, like he's about to argue, but then he stops himself. He nods curtly and unties the fancy cashmere sweater draped around his shoulders, hanging it carefully on a hook by the door. He hesitates when he notices Jake’s clothes tossed haphazardly alongside yours. After a moment, he huffs, shakes his head, and stomps out of the apartment.
You fight to suppress a grin as you turn to Jake, but he’s already beaming at you. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
You pretend to flick your hair off your shoulder with theatrical flair. “Oh, I know.”
He chuckles. “I can’t believe you just told your ex I’ve got a huge dick.”
You shrug, one shoulder rising nonchalantly. “You’ve got the ego to match, so I figured I could make an educated guess. Besides, it’s not like Spencer will ever know for sure.”
His brows shoot up. “Oh, so you were just guessing?”
Heat floods your cheeks, and suddenly his eyes are too intense to meet. “Well, obviously.”
He leans in, his hand tightening around yours, voice low and teasing—laced with a challenge that feels dangerously not like a joke. “Want to find out for real?”
Your breath hitches. Words abandon you. All you can do is stare at his face—too handsome and too tempting.
“Because I’d go a hell of a lot deeper than that weasel. So deep, you’d be screaming-”
The intercom buzzer cuts him off, and you’re hit with a wave of relief and frustration all at once. Your pulse is racing, your chest tight, and the thrum of your heartbeat fills your ears.
Jake chuckles, clearly amused by the timing, and leans back, releasing your hand to press the button on the intercom. He glances over at you, winks, and casually strides toward the lounge, sprawling out like he owns the place. Like he’s some modern-day Adonis—there to wind you up and then claim your couch like it’s his throne.
You force your limbs to move, opening the door for Spencer and helping him carry in the flattened cardboard boxes tucked under his arms. You lead him to the spare room—where all his abandoned belongings have been gathering dust for the past six months—and leave him to it.
You don’t have to ask Jake to help. The second you return to the living room, he stands, crosses the space without hesitation, and steps right up to you. His palm finds the back of your head as he pulls you in, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to the top of your hair.
You know he’s just doing what you asked—pretending to be your boyfriend. But the tenderness of the gesture feels heartbreakingly sincere. It sinks into your skin, fills your chest like warm water, and when he pulls away, he takes the comfort with him.
Your eyes trail after him as he walks toward the spare room, and you shamelessly ogle his ass on the way out. Then you collapse onto the lounge where he’d just been sitting, curling up in the lingering scent of his cologne. You tug a blanket from the wicker basket beside the couch and wrap it around yourself, clicking on a show you barely register—because all you can think about is the way Jake Seresin touches you.
This might not have been such a brilliant idea after all.
-
Spencer uses up his two hours like he paid for them, waiting until exactly 5:59 PM to dust off his palms on those stupid white pants—as if he hadn’t made Jake do all the heavy lifting—and announce that he “better get going.”
You give him a tight smile as you hold the door open, already half-relieved just watching him walk out. It's not that pretending to love Jake is hard—you do love him. It’s the reminder that all the lingering touches, the soft smiles, the stolen glances—they’re just an act. That’s what’s draining you.
The second the door clicks shut, you let out a long, theatrical sigh, like you’ve been holding your breath for the full two hours. “Oh, thank God. I don’t know how I’m going to survive a whole day tomorrow.”
Jake chuckles, but there’s something tight about it—like he’s forcing it out through gritted teeth. “Am I that hard to love?” he asks, and though his tone is teasing, something flickers behind his eyes that doesn’t feel like a joke.
Your brows knit. “No, it’s not that. It’s just...”
He steps closer, invading your space like he’s done all day—and you hate how much you don’t mind it anymore. In fact, you kind of want him to stay right there.
“What is it?” he murmurs, voice low and rough enough to make your skin prickle.
You swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close he is, how good he smells, and how charged the air between you feels. “It’s just Spencer, you know? Having him around is... exhausting.”
Jake’s lip quirks, but his eyes are sharp, studying you. “Oh? So you’re not struggling with this fake relationship thing at all? Not even a little confused? Frustrated? Having trouble remembering it’s not real?”
You blink, stunned silent. You’re not sure how, but you’re starting to believe Jake Seresin might actually be a mind reader.
“I-” The words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his stare. His piercing green eyes pin you in place, make you forget how to speak, how to breathe.
Then, just when it feels like you might combust, his smirk cracks into a grin and he takes a step back, letting the tension snap like a rubber band. “Alright then,” he says, clapping his hands together, “what’s for dinner, gorgeous?”
You inhale like you’ve just broken the surface of the water. Your lungs burn. Your head spins. This man is giving you whiplash.
It takes almost a full minute to regain control of your body, and when you finally do, you walk straight into the kitchen without giving Jake an answer. You can’t even look at him right now—but he has no trouble looking at you.
He watches you like he’s starving and you’re the feast. It makes focusing on dinner nearly impossible.
You busy yourself preparing the meal you planned yesterday—Italian sausage spaghetti with a pull-apart garlic loaf. You don’t usually go all out for dinner, but you’re using Jake’s presence as an excuse to cook something hearty and delicious. Maybe after eating, you’ll both be too full to maintain this unbearable sexual tension. He can crash on the couch, and you’ll curl up in bed. Or maybe you’ll take a long, steamy shower and do what you need to do to unknot the tension pulsing behind your hipbones.
Dinner comes together quickly, and after a few casual questions from Jake about the food, he drifts back to the couch, half-watching whatever show has been playing in the background for past few hours. You set the dining table just the way he asked—candles, wine, and soft music humming from the speaker on your bookshelf.
Finally, you place two full bowls of pasta on the table—opposite each other. Because you’re not really dating, so why would you sit beside him? To feel his warmth? Let him rest a hand on your thigh?
The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine.
You try to shake it off and glance at Jake—only to find him already watching you.
You clear your throat. “Lieutenant Jake Seresin, your dinner is served.”
He grins like a kid in a candy store, pushing off the couch and sniffing the air like a Loony Tunes character. “Damn, I think Phoenix might’ve been right. This is a full-on domestic fantasy.”
You roll your eyes and duck your head, hoping he doesn’t see the heat rising in your cheeks. “Just sit down and eat, Hangman. I’m tired and hungry.”
You flick off the kitchen lights, leaving the room bathed in the soft glow of the candles. The atmosphere feels far more romantic than you intended. Is this what Jake wanted?
You don’t give yourself time to overthink it—because the food smells amazing, and there’s a very attractive naval aviator sitting across from you, looking like he was plucked straight from a dream.
You spend the first few minutes eating in silence, both too busy shovelling pasta into your mouths and tearing into buttery garlic bread to speak. Somehow, Jake even manages to make slurping spaghetti look hot—and you hate when people make noise while they eat.
“So,” you say, slowing your pace and setting your fork down, “did you want to stay here tonight or head back to your place?”
He keeps his eyes on his plate, as if avoiding yours will mask whatever he’s really thinking. “Up to you, darlin’. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“Well, Spencer did seem pretty suspicious about the whole thing… so I think it’s safer if you stay.”
His head snaps up, and that signature smirk spreads across his lips. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” you say, fighting the heat rising to your cheeks, “he might sniff around tomorrow. Like, literally. He might be a creep and notice your towel’s untouched, or that your side of the bed hasn’t been slept in, and-”
“You want to share the bed?” he asks, looking far too pleased with the idea.
You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “We’ve shared a bed before.”
“Yeah,” he says, a low chuckle slipping out, “blind drunk.”
His eyes are too pretty, too intense, and your chest feels tight under their weight. You look away, eyes darting around the table until they land on the wine bottle.
“Well then,” you say, picking it up and refilling his glass, “drink up, Seresin.”
Two bottles of wine later, you’re both loose-limbed and laughing—less awkward about the day’s chaos, and a lot less anxious about sharing a bed tonight.
You giggle at one of Jake’s ridiculous jokes while clearing the table, and when he insists on helping clean up, you swat him away, telling him it’s all part of his domestic fantasy. He rolls his eyes but still hovers, drying dishes and pretending not to notice the way you keep throwing him side-eye glances every time he guesses wrong about where something goes.
“Do you want to shower?” you ask as you finish wiping down the stovetop.
His green eyes go wide, that crooked grin slipping across his face like sin itself. “Is this you offering?”
Your stomach flips, heat crawling up your chest. “I meant—do you want to shower first?”
“Oh,” he chuckles, almost disappointed. “Yeah, sure. If you don’t mind?”
“Wouldn’t have asked if I did,” you mutter, turning back toward the lounge.
You listen to his footsteps fade toward the bathroom, then collapse onto the couch, burying your face in a pillow that smells maddeningly like him.
What the fuck are you doing?
Yes, you’ve always had a little crush on Jake, but you’re not delusional. He’s out of your league. You’ve made peace with that. You’ve always been happy just being his friend. So why does all of this feel so good? Why is it getting harder to remember that he doesn’t see you the same way?
He’s thrown himself into this charade like it’s more than just pretending, and it’s messing with your head. Does he want something more? Something casual? A few nights, maybe? Or... does he want you—the whole messy package?
The shower starts, and you groan into the pillow. You’re confused. You’re also so fucking horny. Red wine was a terrible idea.
Ten minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open. “All yours,” Jake calls, his voice smooth and casual as he walks toward the bedroom where he left his duffel bag.
You drag yourself upright, every step toward the bathroom a battle against the mental slideshow of naked, wet Jake. You shut the door, strip down, and step into the shower, letting the hot water calm your skin and chase away the ache blooming low in your belly.
You don’t have the guts to do what you really need to make that ache go away—not with Jake just a paper-thin wall away. The thought creeps in, bold and reckless, whispering what if you just called him in here? But then you laugh softly under your breath and shake it off. As if. The idea of Jake rejecting you would be a level of humiliation you’re not prepared to face tonight. Or ever.
You shut off the water, swipe a towel from the rack, and give yourself a quick dry before wrapping it snugly around your body. The bathroom is thick with steam, your skin flushed and dewy, your pulse still thudding from thoughts you shouldn't be entertaining.
You open the door to let in some air—only to nearly collide with Jake.
He’s right there. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants slung low, a towel around his neck, and an annoyingly cocky smirk on his lips.
“Damn,” he says, leaning one arm against the doorframe, eyes roaming blatantly. “I was coming to see if you drowned, but now I’m thinking maybe I should’ve brought more wine.”
You try to step back, but he follows, slipping inside like he belongs here. You grip your towel tighter.
“Jake,” you warn, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?”
“Just enjoying the view,” he says casually, his eyes far too warm for comfort. “This your idea of torture? Walk out here looking like a damn dream and expect me to just keep pretending?”
You’re not sure what’s pretending and what isn’t anymore, and you have no idea what his words mean. Is he just messing with you? He has to be.
“I didn’t ask you to come in.”
“And yet,” he says, grinning, “here I am.”
The heat in the room is stifling—and it's not just the steam. Jake moves in closer, crowding your space, eyes flicking from your lips to your towel and back. His fingers reach up, slow and deliberate, and tug lightly at the edge of the fabric resting on your collarbone.
“Think this is regulation towel length?” he teases.
“Do you want me to report you to HR?” you ask, trying not to smile. Your voice wobbles on the last word when his fingers brush across the swell of your breast.
“Only if HR gives out spankings,” he says with a wink.
You laugh, then immediately regret it, because the movement loosens the towel just slightly—and his gaze drops. The air between you crackles.
“Jake,” you murmur, breath hitching.
He leans in, his lips brushing your temple like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. “Say the word,” he whispers, voice lower than a dare.
You turn your face toward him, your lips just inches from his—and then:
BZZZZZZZZZZZT.
The intercom buzzes loudly from the living room, startling you both. You jump, and Jake curses under his breath.
“Saved by the buzzer,” you mutter, half annoyed, half relieved.
He takes a step back, eyes still dark with want, running a hand through his hair. “Or maybe cursed by it.”
You give him a pointed look. “Shut the door on your way out, Hangman.”
He backs out slowly, smirking the whole way. “You know I’m not going to forget this, right?”
You roll your eyes and wait for him to close the door before locking it for good measure. After drying off, you go through your usual skincare and haircare routines, trying not to think about whatever the hell just happened between the two of you. But one glance down the hall as you exit the bathroom makes your heart plummet.
Spencer is standing by the front door. And Jake—still very much shirtless—is looking smug as hell.
“Hey, darlin’,” Jake drawls, turning to Spencer with a wink. “We just finished up in the shower, if you know what I mean.”
You freeze like a deer in headlights, towel clutched to your chest. You feel like a naked model caught mid-pose in front of a life drawing class—except your ex is the one holding the sketchpad, and Jake is… well, Jake.
“Spencer,” you bite out, “what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I-I forgot my sweater.” He holds up the creamy cashmere one he’d left by the door, eyes darting anywhere but your body.
You raise a brow. “And that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again—clearly trying not to ogle you while very aware of the broad, half-naked man beside him who is allegedly your boyfriend. Jake’s green eyes darken the longer Spencer’s gaze lingers.
“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters. “I guess I didn’t think-”
“Yeah, thinking’s never really been your thing, huh, pal?” Jake cuts in, clapping a firm hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Now if you don’t mind fucking off, I’d like to get back to round two with my very satisfied girlfriend. And just so we’re clear—if you show up before 9AM tomorrow, all you’re gonna hear is her screaming my name in ecstasy.”
Your body lights up like a struck match. You don’t even look at Spencer as Jake all but escorts him out the door. Your focus is entirely on the shirtless man—the ridiculously hot, dangerously cocky, fake boyfriend who just made you feel completely and utterly claimed.
You’re not sure if it’s the wine or the caveman behaviour, but suddenly, the idea of crossing that line doesn’t seem so dangerous anymore. In fact, it sounds like the best idea you’ve had in years.
Jake shuts the door and flicks the deadbolt before turning those dark green eyes on you. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and you’re gonna make my dreams—and Spencer’s nightmares—come true.”
His dreams?
Your breath catches in your throat. Then, like a startled chicken, you turn and bolt to your bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you. Your head spins as you scramble to grab the pyjamas stashed under your pillow. Every inch of your skin feels hypersensitive, like Jake’s gaze alone has lit up your nerve endings one by one.
Once you’re dressed and your face isn’t quite so scarlet red, you head for the bathroom. You hang up your towel—deliberately ignoring the sight of Jake’s hanging next to it—and start brushing your teeth. But the flutter in your stomach is relentless.
Jake appears a moment later and joins you silently, his eyes finding yours in the mirror. You try to avoid them, but your gaze keeps drifting back, always checking, always wondering. And every time, he’s still watching.
You rinse and spit, then flee the bathroom before your knees give out. You don’t bother with the rest of your night routine—you need sleep, or space, or maybe a total reset of your entire hormonal system.
You crawl into bed and flick on the TV perched atop your dresser, the hum of background noise a small comfort. But it does nothing to quiet the static under your skin when Jake steps into the room.
He flicks off the main light, shuts the door with a soft click, and then sits on the bed beside you. The mattress dips under his weight, and it feels like the whole room tilts with him.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just sits beside you in the dim glow of the TV, his body so close you can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin.
You pretend to be engrossed in whatever’s on the screen, but your heart is thundering, and you can feel his gaze on you like a brand.
Then his voice, low and rough, slices through the quiet. “You always wear shirts like that to bed, or is this part of the fantasy?”
You try to scoff, but it comes out a little breathless. “You think everything’s about you.”
Jake chuckles. “You’re sitting here braless in a tissue-thin shirt, biting your lip like you want me to devour you—and I’m the one with the ego?”
You turn your head, ready to throw back some snark, but he’s already watching you with that look. That look that makes your insides clench and your breath catch. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the first real meal he’s had in days.
“Jake…”
His gaze drops to your lips, and his voice is rough around the edges when he says, “I’m not gonna make it through this night if you keep lookin’ at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper, but even you don’t believe that.
Jake leans closer. “No? Then why’s your chest rising like that? Why are your pupils blown wide? Why is every part of you screaming touch me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
He shifts toward you slowly, like a predator moving in, until his thigh brushes yours and his hand finds your jaw. His thumb drags lightly along your cheek, then down to your bottom lip, tugging at it just enough to make your breath stutter.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Just say the word.”
You stay frozen, heart galloping in your chest.
“Because if you don’t…” he leans in, voice barely audible now, “…I’m gonna lose every ounce of self-control I have left.”
Still, you say nothing. Can’t say anything.
Jake’s eyes search yours for a second longer. Then—
“Fuck it.”
He crashes into you like a storm. His mouth slants over yours, hot and possessive and desperate, like he’s finally giving in to something he’s been denying for far too long. His hands cup your face, then slide down, over your neck, your shoulders, gripping your waist like he needs to ground himself.
You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping in to taste you. It’s not gentle. It’s fire and tension and not just one day, but years of pretending finally snapping all at once.
Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips and pushes you back into the mattress just slightly, moving over you, his body caging yours in without touching more than he has to.
You arch up into him, chasing his heat, his weight. And when his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, resting just above your waistband, your breath catches in your throat.
He pulls back just enough to look at you—his pupils dark, his lips kiss-bruised. “Still pretending?” he breathes.
You shake your head, dazed. “Not even a little bit.”
-
You wake up warm. Too warm.
Jake Seresin is sprawled across half your bed, one leg tangled over yours and an arm wrapped around your waist like you’re his personal body pillow. His bare chest is pressed to your back and his breath ghosts hot across your neck with every slow, sleepy exhale.
You’re painfully aware of two things: one, you’re very, very naked. And two, so is he.
And then... you remember everything.
The kissing. The touching. The downright Olympic-level sex. The way he looked at you like you were something he’d been starving for.
Your body aches in the best way, but your brain is in full meltdown mode. You try to untangle yourself without waking him. Emphasis on try. Because the second you shift, Jake groans and tightens his arm around you.
“Nuh-uh,” he mumbles, voice still rough with sleep. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”
You huff, trying to wriggle free. “I have to pee.”
“Fine,” he says, releasing you with an exaggerated sigh. “But don’t even think about climbing out the window. You’re mine now.”
You roll your eyes as you slip out of bed, grabbing the closest shirt—his shirt—and tossing it over your head. It hangs low on your thighs, smelling like him and sex and very bad decisions.
By the time you return from the bathroom, Jake’s propped up on one elbow, watching you with the same hunger in his eyes as last night “Damn, you look better in my shirt than I do.”
You scoff and head for your dresser. “Don’t you get tired of hearing yourself talk?”
“Not when I’m this right.”
You grab a pair of shorts, but before you can pull them on, Jake is already moving. He slides off the bed, all muscles and tan skin, and corners you against the dresser.
“You know,” he murmurs, eyes dark and wicked as his fingers slip under the hem of his own shirt you're wearing, “you didn’t officially wake me up yet.”
Your heart kicks up a notch. “Is that a thing now?”
“Absolutely.” He leans in, brushing his nose along your jaw. “You gotta wake me up right, darlin’. Or I’m gonna be all cranky.”
You arch a brow. “Define right.”
He grins, lips brushing yours. “Tongue. Teeth optional.”
You laugh into the kiss he gives you—hot, deep, and toe-curling. His hands roam down your back, tugging you flush against him. You can feel he’s already half hard again, the cocky bastard.
But before things can spiral into round two, your phone buzzes loudly from the nightstand.
Jake pulls back with a dramatic sigh. “If that’s Spencer again, I swear to God-”
You smirk. “Jealous?”
He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Jealous? Sweetheart, I just spent the night making you scream my name.”
You roll your eyes, fighting a smile, and he grins like he just won the damn lottery.
To Jake’s great disappointment, it is Spencer. He’s on his way over, and the motel he’s staying at is only five minutes away. You both overslept—but can you really be blamed? No way. You were up most of the night tangled together, doing something that definitely didn’t feel pretend.
“Come on, Romeo,” you say, tossing Jake his shirt. “Get dressed before Tybalt gets here.”
Jake pauses, one brow arched as he tries not to stare at your naked chest. “Did you just imply that you used to date your cousin?”
A light laugh bubbles out of you. “Not intentionally, but I’m surprised you know Shakespeare.”
He grins, smug. “A little knowledge never hurt anyone. Helps win the ladies over, too.”
He’s joking, you know he is—but the way he says ladies—plural—hits you like punch to the gut. That’s what Jake is: a ladies’ man. It was stupid to think this could be anything more than a bit of fun. Some stress relief between two friends who spent all day teasing each other until they snapped.
If anyone can do casual sex, it’s Jake Seresin. It doesn’t matter how many pretty words he said last night—you can’t let yourself believe he actually meant them.
“Hey,” he says gently, catching the shift in your energy. “You okay?”
You nod a little too quickly, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. Your nose starts to sting, and you blink fast, trying to will the emotion away. Who the hell cries after the best sex of their life?
You gather your clothes and retreat to the bathroom, needing a buffer between you and Jake’s curious, overly perceptive eyes. You dress quickly, trying not to think about how good his shirt felt against your skin.
It isn’t long before Spencer buzzes the intercom again, and you’re almost grateful. Jake doesn’t get the chance to press you, to ask about the look on your face that feels like it could crumble into a sob at any second.
You’ve really fucked up now—because you let yourself believe it might’ve meant something.
The two men spend the morning in the spare room, exchanging nothing more than grunts and sidelong glances while packing Spencer’s things into boxes. You don’t bother checking on them—you're not sure you can look at Jake right now anyway. So, you remain firmly planted on the couch, stuck in a spiral of your own damning thoughts.
Around midday, you consider offering them lunch, but then you remember the mischievous glint in Jake’s eyes when he said that “it helps win the ladies over,” and you quickly decide against it. Instead, you grab your keys, tuck your phone into your back pocket, and head toward the door.
“I’m heading out for a bit. Won’t be long,” you call out, not waiting for a reply before stepping out.
“Wait,” Jake’s voice calls after you as the door swings shut. But you pretend not to hear.
You stride toward the elevator, pressing the button more forcefully than necessary, but it doesn’t arrive fast enough. By the time the doors finally slide open, Jake is already in the hallway, his brows furrowed in concern.
“Hang on a second,” he says, stopping right beside you, raising a hand to hold your jaw gently.
When you step back, his face falls, confusion and dread flickering across his features.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you answer, stepping into the elevator.
But he follows you in, jaw ticking with tension. “Darlin’, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking I broke you.”
You shake your head. “I’m not broken.”
“Then what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, hm?” His voice softens, but the underlying concern is still very present.
You take a deep breath, averting your eyes to the floor of the elevator as you try to carefully assemble your thoughts. You don’t want to hurt him, but you also can’t ignore how wrong everything feels in your gut.
“I just... I can’t do this, Jake,” you say, your voice almost cracking.
He looks absolutely gutted, like you’ve just sucker-punched him.
“I know it shouldn’t be a big deal. Plenty of people do it without any consequences,” you ramble on. “But I think there could be some huge consequences if we keep doing this. There’s just too much on the line. And while the sex was—God, it was mind-blowing—I just don’t think I can handle you doing it with other people while I’m over here trying to... figure out what this is.”
The hurt on his face quickly morphs into utter confusion. “What the hell are you talking about, sweetheart?”
“This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Last night. Us having sex and the whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing.”
Now, he looks genuinely offended. His eyes widen, green irises flashing with disbelief. “You think that’s what this is?”
Your heart races, the pulse in your throat thrumming. “Isn’t that what you want?”
Jake lets out a short, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. He glances briefly at the elevator doors before locking his gaze on you, intense and unyielding.
“Is that what you think?” he asks, his tone a low warning.
Suddenly, you feel very small—not in a sad way, but in a vulnerable, exposed way. He steps closer, stalking toward you with predatory intent, and you instinctively back up against the elevator wall. His presence fills the small space, and the hunger in his eyes is unmistakable.
You swallow thickly and nod. Just a small movement, but it’s enough to make him pounce. He presses his body to yours, trapping you between him and the wall, the metal rail digging into your lower back as he cages you in.
“I thought I made it pretty fucking clear last night, darlin’,” he whispers, his voice low and almost dangerous. “But if I didn’t, then let me say it now.”
He pauses, eyes burning into yours as you breathe in each other’s air, hearts racing in sync.
“I want you. Only you. All of you,” he growls. “I’ve been waiting years to do what I did last night. And now that I’ve had a taste?” He lets out a deep, throaty chuckle. “I’m never letting you go. You’re mine.”
Your mind goes blank. Your mouth is dry, and your heart’s thundering in your chest as his words hit you like a freight train.
“Say it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against yours as he pulls you closer. “Tell me you understand.”
“I’m yours.” The words fall from your mouth before you can stop them, but they feel right. Like they were meant to be said.
Jake smirks, a wicked, cocky grin that makes his eyes sparkle with unspoken mischief. “Good.”
And just like that, his lips crash into yours—urgent, fiery, and full of need. The kiss is wild and untamed, teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. His hands drop to the curve of your ass, lifting you effortlessly, forcing your legs around his waist as he presses you harder against the elevator wall.
Every inch of your skin hums, the heat between you two scorching. You can’t get enough of him, his touch, the rawness of this moment. You claw at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours, and before you can even think, you're already lost in him, all logic and restraint flying out the window.
But then, right on cue, your personal cockblock arrives. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Spencer stands there, completely flustered, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Neither of you had pressed a button when you entered, but the look on Jake’s face suggests that it might have been intentional.
“Sorry, pal,” Jake grins, his lips bruised and swollen. “I just can’t get enough, you know what it’s like.”
Spencer’s mouth moves, but no words come out.
Jake casually takes the box from Spencer’s arms. “Let me help you with that. Go grab another one. Let’s get you out of here before you see more than you’re willing to, hm?”
Spencer nods woodenly, still staring in complete shock.
You can’t help the giggles that escape you as you slip past Spencer and out of the elevator, back toward your apartment.
There’s nothing fake about you and Jake anymore—not that there ever really was. And now, you can confidently say that Jake’s ego is as well-proportioned as the monster between his legs.
SUMMARY: Jake "Hangman" Seresin had a reputation for flirting with anything that breathed, which is exactly why you never paid him much attention whenever the Dagger Squad rolled into the Hard Deck. But the more time you spend around him, the more you realize he’s not the arrogant jerk you assumed he was. Against all odds, you fall for him, hard. So when you suddenly start pulling away, Jake can't help but wonder what he did wrong.
WARNINGS: One-sided miscommunication, angst, self-deprecating thoughts, implied daddy issues, jealousy, fluff, cursing, platonic reader x Dagger Squad, lovesick!Jake, making out, probably some inaccurate military details (sorry)!
A/N: Literally hated his character when I first watched the movie, yet the more I watch edits and read fanfiction the more this man has grown on me... which is how this came about. Hope y'all enjoy! Divider by @thecutestgrotto <3
➩ main masterlist
➩ jake seresin masterlist
The Hard Deck was buzzing as it usually was on a Friday night. You and Penny moved in perfect sync behind the bar, dodging each other with practiced ease as the room filled with the clamor of laughter, clinking bottles, and the low hum of music from the jukebox in the corner. The scent of citrus and salt clung to your skin, your fingers sticky from pouring whiskey sours and popping lime wedges into beers.
You wiped your hands on a towel tucked into your apron, catching Penny’s eye just as she slid a beer down to a waiting customer. Penny leaned in as she wiped down the bar, eyes flicking toward the entrance. “They’re here.” She murmured, barely suppressing a grin. You didn’t need to ask who. The sound of boots scuffing the floor and the unmistakable blend of egos and energy meant only one thing: The Dagger Squad, fresh off another brutal day of training.
Maverick must’ve put them through hell, judging by the way Bradley dragged his hand through his hair like he might tear it out. Natasha looked like she was already plotting revenge, and Mickey was slumped against the pool table like gravity had it out for him personally. “They look like death.” You noted, already lining up glasses. Penny smirked. “Except for a certain blonde who’s looking at you like you’re his reward for surviving it.”
You threw her a dry look, but heat bloomed at the back of your neck. “You’re imagining things.” Penny rolled her eyes, nudging you with her elbow. “Oh, sure, I must be also imagining the way you check your lip gloss every time he walks in.” You snorted and turned away to hide your smirk, reaching for the tequila. “God, you’re even worse than Amelia.” Penny raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The squad fanned out across the pool tables, dropping into their usual spots with groans and exaggerated sighs. Bradley clinked his dog tags against the counter like a bell, while Natasha stretched out her shoulders and grumbled something about Maverick trying to kill them. And then, right on cue, Jake Seresin. He swaggered in a few beats behind the rest, as if the doors themselves had waited for his entrance.
His hair was a little messy, his skin kissed by the sun, dog tags catching the low light as they swung against his collarbone. He moved like he owned the room, like he’d fought gravity and won. But you knew better now. He’d fooled you once. That cocky smile, that drawl, that insufferable nickname, Hangman. You’d pegged him for exactly the kind of man who flirted with anything that moved and forgot the names of anyone who didn’t. So you ignored him.
Every night he came in, you barely spared him a glance. And every night, he tried again. But Jake didn’t win you over with charm. He won you with patience. When your car wouldn’t start after a long shift and you were ready to scream into the night, he appeared, hands in his pockets, smile soft. No teasing, no smug remarks. Just a quiet offer to take a look. Thirty minutes later, he had it running again. He didn’t ask for anything in return.
He started walking you to your car after closing, no pressure, no flirting. Just company. And then he started showing up on your off days. Not in uniform. Not with the squad. Just Jake. He’d sit at the bar, nursing a soda or a single beer, and talk to you while you cut garnishes or cleaned glasses. He asked about your family. Your hometown. Whether you liked working nights or if you ever thought about leaving the beach behind.
He never made it about himself, not at first. And when he finally did, it was different. One night, long after the bar had emptied, you found him leaning against the jukebox, staring at the floor like it had personally offended him. “My dad never thought I’d amount to much,” He murmured when you passed him. “Guess part of me still tries to prove him wrong.” You’d stopped in your tracks. That was the moment something cracked. Not in him, in you.
Because behind all that swagger, Jake Seresin was carrying something heavy. Something private. And he trusted you enough to let you see it. That was when you started falling. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t sudden. It was slow. Unavoidable. A creeping warmth that found its way under your skin and settled there. So now, as Jake leaned across the bar, sweat-damp and sun-touched from a long day of dogfights, you didn’t feel annoyance anymore. You felt fear.
Because you’d let him in. Because he wasn’t who you thought he was. Because he looked at you like you were more than just a bartender, and you weren’t sure what to do with that. “Evenin’, darlin’.” His voice dropped low into that familiar Southern drawl, thick like honey and rough at the edges, and it sent goosebumps skittering down your spine before you could stop them. Jake leaned one elbow against the bar, casual as ever, but his presence was anything but forgettable.
Sunlight from the open doors caught in his windswept hair, and sweat still clung to the base of his throat. Those hypnotic green eyes, greener tonight under the warm, flickering lights, swept over your face with the same lazy intensity they always did, as if he were memorizing you every time. You arched a brow, letting your hands stay busy with the shaker. The clink of ice helped mask the fact that your heartbeat had kicked up a notch. “You look like Maverick dragged you through a jet wash.”
Jake’s grin curled slow, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was an edge in them, subtle, but there. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was something else. “He sure as hell tried,” He muttered, rolling his shoulder with a wince that was half hidden. “But it’s nothin’ I can’t handle.” You slid a cold beer across the polished wood without looking up, but your fingers brushed his for half a second longer than they should have.
His hand was warm, calloused and steady, and instead of pulling away, he lingered. Just a breath longer. Just enough to make your skin tingle where he touched you. You hated that it made your pulse skip. Hated it even more that he seemed to know exactly what it did to you. Jake gave you that heartbreaker wink before peeling away to join the others, the beer already raised in a half-salute. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
You watched him walk, shoulders still squared from the cockpit, tags clinking lightly against his chest, and tried not to let your eyes linger too long. Penny had, of course, seen all of it. As she restocked the limes with a knowing look, one perfectly sculpted brow lifted in dry amusement. “You keep looking at him like that,” She murmured, voice low as she tossed a handful of garnishes into a silver tray. “He’s gonna think that you actually like him.”
“He already thinks that.” You rolled your eyes, mostly to distract from the flutter blooming in your chest. “Because you do,” She countered without missing a beat, slicing through a lemon with precision. “Might as well admit it before you combust.” You didn’t answer. Not because she was wrong, but because she wasn’t. And you hated how easily she saw through you. The truth was… you did like him. Too much. In ways you didn’t want to admit out loud.
Jake Seresin had wormed his way past your sarcasm and rolled eyes and cool indifference like it was nothing. And the scariest part? He hadn’t even tried that hard. “I’ll be right back.” You muttered, grabbing five beers from the cooler and sliding them onto a tray with practiced ease. You tucked a cold can of Coca-Cola into the front pocket of your apron, Bob’s usual, always sipped with quiet contentment while the others knocked back drinks like they were on shore leave. Penny caught the gesture and smirked.
“Go get your man.” You didn’t dignify her with a reply. Just rolled your eyes and turned on your heel, weaving between the crowds with practiced grace, the tray balanced effortlessly in your hands. But your stomach flipped all the same, traitorous and fluttering, because the moment your eyes found Jake again, laughing with Bradley. And you weren’t sure how long you could pretend you weren’t. Taking a deep breath, and squaring your shoulders you shook those thoughts from your head.
“You all look like you could use a pick-me-up.” Every head at the table turned toward you, some sluggishly, others like your voice alone had jolted them back to life. “A beer for you,” You chirped, placing the cold glass in front of Mickey, who looked like he’d barely survived the day. His forehead rested on the edge of the table until he forced himself upright. “You’re an angel.” He groaned, already reaching for the glass like it might bring him back from the dead.
“And a Coke for you.” You placed the soda down with a satisfying clink in front of Bob, who was seated slightly off to the side, content with his quiet corner and a half-eaten bowl of peanuts. His cheeks turned pink as he straightened his glasses and smiled shyly. “For my favorite WSOs.” You added with a playful wink. Both men flushed under your gaze and responded with a thank you, in perfect unison.
You kept moving, passing out drinks with ease and affection. Natasha muttered something about you being a godsend as she reached for her beer, lifting it in a silent toast before taking a long, grateful sip. Rooster gave you a wink and a crooked smile that probably worked on half of San Diego, though it never really had an effect on you. Javy nodded with an appreciative grin, and Reuben gave you a friendly fist-bump.
“For my favorite pilots.” You teased, grinning as you finally came to rest beside Natasha. She leaned her head onto your shoulder with a contented sigh, her hair brushing against your cheek. “Marry me.” She mumbled, half-serious, half-drunk on exhaustion. Before you could even talk, a familiar voice, smooth, smug, and laced with that Southern twang, broke the silence. “That’s just cruel,” Jake drawled. “I thought I was your favorite.”
Your head turned before you could stop yourself. And just like that, your heart didn’t just skip a beat, it slammed into your ribs like it was trying to break free. Jake stood at the pool table, cue stick in hand, body bent low as he lined up a shot. His back arched just enough to make your mouth go dry. His biceps flexed as he adjusted his grip, veins prominent, forearms corded with strength. His khakis clung low on his hips, his flight belt hanging lazily from a loop.
He looked ridiculous. Unfair. Like he’d walked straight out of a damn recruiting ad, but dirtier. Infinitely more dangerous. Jake’s head lifted slowly, eyes cutting toward you from beneath those long lashes. The corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk when he caught you looking. Caught staring. “You wound me, sweetheart,” He added, standing to his full height. “All that charm, and I don’t even rank in your top five?”
You masked your thudding heart with a dry laugh. “I said favorite pilots,” You shot back. “Didn’t say anything about most high-maintenance.” The squad erupted in low chuckles, a few of them tossing mock “oofs” in Jake’s direction. Jake only grinned, unbothered, sauntering toward the group with that same easy swagger that made it impossible to tell whether he was teasing or flirting, or both. You forced yourself to look away, turning back toward the tray.
Yet, your stomach was doing somersaults, and the heat creeping up your neck wasn’t from the warm summer air drifting through the doors. You leaned your hip against the edge of the table, tray balanced on one hand, the soft clink of glass against wood fading into the background as you glanced around the table. Everyone looked a little less dead now, drinks in hand, shoulders relaxing bit by bit. “Do I need to talk to Maverick for all of you?” You teased, eyes flicking from one exhausted pilot to the next.
Bradley groaned loud enough to turn heads. “Please do. Tell him we're human. Or at least that some of us are.” Natasha scoffed, lifting her beer toward her mouth with a half-glare, half-laugh. “We were human. Until Mr. Hotshot over there decided he could outfly Mav.” All eyes slid toward Jake. “Okay, whoa. Let’s not point fingers here.” He was already making a face. “You tried to buzz Maverick,” Mickey interjected, half-leaning across the table with animated hands. “In a tight turn. In a no-fly zone.”
“And missed.” Reuben added between mouthfuls of peanuts, a smug grin spreading across his face. Jake raised both hands, feigning innocence with the precision of someone who’d practiced. “I wasn’t trying to buzz him. I was maneuvering. Strategically.” Javy snorted covering it up with a cough as he received a glare from Jake. “And we all got punished for it,” Bob chimed in quietly, lifting his Coke as if to toast to their shared suffering. “One hundred push-ups.” You winced at his words, that sounded brutal.
“In flight suits.” Reuben groaned, rubbing his shoulder like the soreness was still setting in. You clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle your laughter, the image forming vividly in your mind, Jake, cocky as ever, probably smirking even as Maverick made them drop. The others glaring daggers at him while dripping sweat onto the tarmac. Jake, of course, leaned into the attention with no shame. “You’re welcome, push-ups build character.” He grinned, sliding into the empty chair beside you with smooth ease.
You barely had time to register the motion before his arm draped over the back of your chair, knuckles grazing your shoulder. “You’re lucky they didn’t bury you under the tarmac.” Natasha muttered, but her lips twitched. Jake leaned a little closer, the heat of his body now radiating into your side. His voice dropped a note, low and velvety. “You know, I think I could use a little personal motivation to recover from today.” Your breath caught before you could control it.
His fingers brushed lightly against the bare skin of your upper arm as they “accidentally” adjusted across the tables edge. You turned toward him, ready to make some smart remark, maybe put him back in his place before he got too cocky again, but your gaze collided with his, and just like that… you froze. His eyes weren’t just green, they were alive with something deeper. Mischief, sure. But behind it, a flicker of something that made your stomach swoop. Like he wasn’t just teasing you tonight. He was waiting.
“Jake—”
“Y/N!” Your name snapped through the air like a whip, pulling you back to earth. You turned sharply toward the bar where Penny stood, waving a bar rag like a battle flag. “Bus just pulled up, I need you.” You groaned under your breath but moved fast, peeling yourself away from the table. Jake’s arm slid off your shoulders with a warmth that lingered longer than it should have, his fingers brushing your back as you stood. The moment broke, but not before you caught the small smirk tugging at his lips.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
“Try not to cause anymore trouble while I’m gone.” You grabbed the empty tray and backed away from the table, shaking your head. “No promises, sweetheart!” He called after you, voice lazy, teasing. But his eyes, they lingered. Watching you like a man who knew the exact altitude you’d started falling. You spun on your heel and disappeared behind the bar, pulse still hammering, trying to remind yourself that you were here to work.
But even as Penny tossed you a bar towel and pointed toward the flood of sailors crowding toward the taps, all you could think about was the warmth of Jake’s body next to yours, and how dangerously easy it would be to let yourself fall. Thankfully, the flood of newcomers provided the perfect excuse to busy your hands and bury your thoughts. You moved, mixing cocktails with quick flicks of the wrist, pouring beers until foam kissed the rim, sliding credit cards back with a polite nod and a practiced smile.
Every small task became a wall, something to hide behind. Something to keep your mind off of Jake. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. As the crowd dwindled and the bar quieted into a low murmur, the shield began to crack. The last round of locals had migrated toward the dartboard. The jukebox slowed to soft rock. A few scattered voices still rose in laughter near the back where the Dagger Squad remained, sunburnt, beer-drowsy and content.
You peeled off your apron with a sigh and glanced at Penny, who gave you a reassuring nod and a knowing smile, motioning for you to take a breath, take a break. Your feet moved before your heart could object. You stepped out from behind the bar, every movement purposeful, steady, because if you hesitated, you knew the ache lingering just beneath your ribs might crawl up into your throat and give you away. You smoothed a hand down your shirt and walked toward the group, fully prepared to ask if they wanted one more round before last call. But then you heard it.
Jake’s voice.
Clear. Familiar. Cruel. Coated with disgust. “I just cannot stand her.” The words stopped you mid-step, your sneakers suddenly glued to the hardwood floor. The air left your lungs in one cold rush, and your feet carried you just far enough to place yourself behind the wooden beam beside the jukebox, half-hidden in the low light, half-ashamed for eavesdropping, but too frozen to move. “She walks around following me like a puppy, flirting, even her voice is annoying.”
Your pulse thudded in your ears, louder than the low hum of music, louder than the clatter of a dropped glass in the far corner. His voice cut straight through you, each syllable like a shard of glass. “She just doesn’t get the hint. I’m not interested in girls like her.” The blood drained from your face. You knew it. God, deep down, you always knew it. Jake Seresin was never going to want someone like you.
You’d seen the women he flirted with, tall, perfectly made-up, curves in all the right places, confident, playful, bright in the way that lit up a whole room. You? You were just the bartender. The convenience. The friend. The joke. The girl with rough hands from long shifts. The girl who hid behind sarcasm because confidence never came easy. The girl who, despite everything, had let herself believe, hope, that the way Jake looked at you sometimes meant something real. A dull ache bloomed in your chest. You pressed your hand against it like that would stop it from spreading.
At least now you knew. At least now the daydream could die. Now you could stop pretending. You swallowed down the lump clawing its way up your throat, nails digging into your palm as you pivoted, quick, silent and fast, back toward the bar. You didn’t even bother pretending to smile. Didn’t care who saw your glassy eyes or the way your breath came out shaky as you ripped the apron from its hook and slung it over the counter.
Penny turned, concern flickering across her face clearly noticing the entire shift in your demeanor, but you simply waved her off with a weak motion and a whispered goodbye. Not trusting your voice to hold steady. Not trusting her not to ask. If she so much as asked if you were okay, you’d break. You were out the door before Jake could even glance up. Before he could offer that sweet, mocking drawl. Before he could try to walk you to your car like he always did, like it meant something. Your heart couldn't take it. Not now. Not after that.
Back at the bar, Jake still reclined in the chair, nursing the same beer he hadn’t touched in ten minutes, finishing his train of thought with a huff. “I just hope Mav doesn’t put her on our training rotation again,” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve told her time and time again I’m not interested,” He continued with a groan. “She just doesn’t get the hint that she’s not my type.” Mickey nearly choked on his drink.
“Yeah, Hangman, we all know what girl is your type.” He grinned, elbowing Bob. Bradley leaned in, all smugness and raised brows. “The pretty bartender you make eyes at every time she’s near? The one you nearly punched me over for breathing near last week?” Jake froze. Bradley tilted his beer toward him, that smirk spreading. “The one you pretend not to care about, then sulk like a teenager when she walks away with anyone else?” Javy whistled. “Dude, just admit it. You’re into her. Bad.”
Jake ran a hand over his face, jaw tightening. “Shut up before she hears you.” But as he turned to glance toward the bar, expecting to find you rolling your eyes behind the counter, maybe catching his gaze just long enough to blush, his brows drew together. You weren’t there. Your station was empty. No apron. No sarcastic smile. No parting wave. Just… gone. His chest tightened without reason. You never left without saying goodnight.
A flicker of unease passed through him, but the others were still laughing, throwing teasing comments like darts, unaware of the sudden shift in his expression. He forced a grin, let the moment pass. But something inside him knew. Something felt wrong. And you, already halfway down the boardwalk with tears blurring your vision, didn’t get to hear the rest. Didn’t get to hear the way his voice softened when he talked about you.
You were cautious, careful, even. Every move you made around him became intentional. Guarded. Since that night, since the moment his words gutted you like a blade between the ribs, you’d started pulling away. Not all at once. No. That would’ve been too obvious. And despite the ache still lodged in your chest like a stone, you refused to let Jake, or anyone else, see you unravel. Instead, it was subtle. Gradual. A slow withdrawal masked as busyness, exhaustion, distraction.
When Jake came to the bar now, you didn’t linger. You took his order without looking him in the eye, handed him his beer with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. No teasing remark. No small talk. Just efficient, impersonal service. The kind you gave to strangers. The kind you gave to men you didn’t want to know. And you definitely didn’t allow his touch to linger, not that he’d had much chance.
Gone were the moments where his fingers brushed yours over a glass, or the way his hand would rest at the small of your back when you passed too close. You kept distance now. Measured it. Maintained it like it was a lifeline. You didn’t let him close. And Jake? He noticed. At first, it was subtle confusion. A longer-than-usual pause when you walked away. A look that lingered too long as you joked with Bob or nudged Natasha’s shoulder with a grin that used to be his.
Then it turned into something else, hesitation, maybe even hurt, though if it was, he didn’t show it outright. Luckily, or maybe tragically, the squad had been kept busy by Maverick all week. Long hours on the tarmac. Briefings that dragged past sunset. Extra sims, surprise drills, and mock dogfights that left them sore, sweating, and barely able to keep their eyes open when they dragged themselves into the Hard Deck each night. It gave you an excuse.
To work the bar, serve the drinks, and disappear behind orders before Jake could try and ask what was wrong. It was easier this way. Safer. You told yourself it would fade, the sting, the weight in your chest, the memory of hearing her voice is annoying and I’m not interested in girls like her whispered in that same drawl that used to melt you. But it didn’t fade. It stayed. Like smoke in your lungs.
You heard it in the silence after your shift when the beach was quiet and the waves were the only sound. You felt it in the ache behind your ribs when someone mentioned his name in passing. You even dreamed about it, twisting memories into warped versions where his words echoed again and again, his face turned away from you, laughter in his throat while you stood invisible behind the jukebox. You hated how much it hurt.
You hated that it still mattered.
The fifth night after it happened, the bar was quieter than usual, just a slow Thursday, a break between storms. You were stacking clean glasses behind the bar when Jake walked in alone. No squad. No backup. Just him. He looked tired. Disheveled in a way that felt different than post-training exhaustion. Like he hadn’t been sleeping much. His hair was messier than usual, shirt a little wrinkled, tags tucked into his collar like they were suddenly too heavy to wear out in the open.
You felt his eyes on you the second he stepped through the door. You didn’t look up. You couldn’t. He approached the bar slower than normal, his boots echoing too loudly in the now-quiet space. You busied yourself with organizing lemons. Limes. Anything not him. He stopped a few feet short of the bar. Didn’t speak. Not right away. Finally, his voice broke the silence, low, cautious, unsure. “You alright?” You kept your gaze focused on the citrus you were already over-slicing. “Fine.”
“You’ve been distant.” He murmured, like he was still trying to piece it together. “Did I do something?” You shrugged. Cool. Detached. “Just tired, Jake.” A lie. But he didn’t push. He just studied you, jaw working slightly like he was chewing on whatever thoughts were flooding in. “Right,” He said eventually, voice quieter. “Of course.” You turned to put the knife down, finally meeting his eyes for a split second. And it nearly undid you.
Because Jake wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t cocky. He looked…confused. A little wounded. The way someone does when they’ve lost their grip on something they didn’t even know they were holding. But you couldn’t tell him the truth. You couldn’t admit that the thing you’d overheard, the words that weren’t meant for your ears, had unraveled you completely. Because what if you were the only one who misunderstood?
What if, worse… you hadn't? So you turned away. Left him standing there with his fingers curled slightly over the edge of the bar, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or walk away. Jake didn’t push. He never did. But that didn’t mean he didn’t notice. And tonight, you knew he’d felt it, that little bit of space you’d suddenly started putting between the two of you. Because if he kept getting closer, you wouldn’t just fall.
You’d crash.
The days blurred. Long shifts, short sleep, aching feet, and a heart you couldn’t seem to quiet. You kept your rhythm sharp, precise, like it was armor. You showed up, moved through the motions, mixed drinks, gave smiles, told stories to sailors who needed a little kindness. And avoided Jake Seresin like he was a fault line waiting to break beneath your feet. You weren’t cold. Just distant. Detached in a way that made you feel like you were watching your life from the outside in.
It didn’t go unnoticed. Late one night, the bar winding down into a lazy hum, Penny passed you a glass of water and leaned her elbows onto the bar. You felt her gaze before she spoke, quiet, steady, knowing. “You alright, Y/N?” You didn’t look at her. Just nodded, wiping down a spill that didn’t need wiping. “I’m fine.” It was clipped. Dismissive. Enough to signal that the door was closed. You had mastered the lies and excuses, yet Penny wasn’t stupid.
She knew you like the back of her hand. She watched you for a few seconds longer, watched the way your eyes didn’t meet hers, the way your fingers trembled slightly when you reached for the towel. She gave a tiny, imperceptible sigh, then pushed away without pressing no matter how much she wanted to know what was wrong with you. Safe to say, you were grateful for it. Because if she had asked again, your walls might’ve just cracked.
Jake wasn’t doing any better. After your "talk", if you could even call it that, he’d been a wreck. Not the kind anyone outside the Dagger Squad would immediately notice. No, Jake Seresin still smiled at the rookies. Still strutted across the tarmac with his usual confidence, boots scuffing against the concrete, sunglasses low on his nose like he didn’t have a care in the world. But those who knew him best could see the cracks forming.
The way he flinched when your name was mentioned. The way he scanned the bar every time he walked into the Hard Deck, hoping, praying, that this would be the night you looked at him like you used to, eyes soft, smirk tucked behind your lip, leaning on the bar like you were daring him to flirt first. But that look never came. And it was driving him insane. Even in the air, his escape, his safe place, he felt off. Slower. Sloppy in a way that set off alarm bells in every seasoned pilot’s gut.
His reaction times were lagging, the sharp, lethal precision that earned him the call sign Hangman dulled under the weight of something heavier than G-forces. Natasha had picked up on it immediately. “You’re flying like you’ve got a piano strapped to your back,” She muttered through comms one afternoon after a sim run went sideways. “The hell’s going on with you?” Jake’s jaw had locked so tight, he didn’t even answer. Back on the ground, it was no better.
Bradley had cornered him near the locker room the next morning. “You’re off, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks.” He told him bluntly. Jake ran a hand through his hair, matted from the helmet. “I’m fine.” Even he didn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “You’re not.” Jake simply shrugged. “Let it go, Rooster.” But they didn’t. Not really. They just watched. Waited. Wondered what the hell had happened that turned cocky, unshakable Jake Seresin into a man unraveling from the inside out.
What they didn’t know, what he wouldn’t dare say aloud, was that it was you. The problem was you, or more accurately, the way you’d slipped through his fingers before he even realized how tightly he’d been trying to hold on. He didn’t understand it. How things had gone from warm glances and shared touches and that night where you had almost let something real slip between you… to now. To this cold distance. Where you wouldn’t so much as look at him unless it was absolutely necessary. And the worst part?
He didn’t know what he’d done.
The nights dragged on like this. Jake would come in with the squad, sit down like nothing was wrong, but the light in his eyes was gone. His jokes were duller. His smirk half-hearted. Even his beer sat untouched longer than usual, condensation dripping down the bottle as he watched you move around the bar like a ghost he couldn’t reach. Sometimes, he’d almost say something. His hand would twitch, or he’d lean half out of his seat, like he was on the verge of getting up.
Of walking over. Of fixing it. But you never gave him the chance. You never looked long enough to invite it. A deep, sinking pull in his gut. Like something was breaking open inside him and he didn’t know how to stop it. And so the distance remained, a thick, aching thing that hovered between you both, invisible to everyone else but suffocating just the same. Neither of you said a word. Neither of you walked away. But neither of you dared to move closer, either.
And it was killing you both.
Four days later, the Hard Deck was full, buzzing with heat and voices and that low, salty tension that clung to late summer nights on the coast. Dagger Squad was there, scattered across their usual pool table. Jake wasn’t with them yet. And for once, you were thankful. You could breathe without feeling his eyes track your every move. Or so you thought. You were behind the bar when you saw her walk in. Tall. Glossy.
Designer jeans that clung perfectly to her long legs and a strappy black tank that dipped low in the back. Blonde hair curled, nails perfect, and a walk like she owned every pair of eyes in the room. You recognized her instantly, one of the women you’d seen Jake flirt with a few times before. Only this time… she wasn’t looking at you. She was looking for him. And then, like a movie in slow motion, Jake walked in. He hadn’t seen her yet.
He was laughing with Bradley, dragging a hand through his hair, unaware of the way her eyes locked on him like a target. She moved toward him with purpose, lips already curling into a smile, like she knew he’d be hers the second he looked up. Your chest constricted so sharply it almost knocked the air out of your lungs. You turned away fast, heart hammering like you’d been punched. God. You were such an idiot. What were you expecting? That he’d pine over you?
That he’d choose you over someone like that? You braced your hands on the edge of the bar, the stainless steel biting into your palms. Don’t cry. Don’t cry here. Not in front of him. You grabbed two beers off the counter, trying to ground yourself in the moment. If she was what he wanted… fine. You weren’t going to compete for someone who’d already made their choice. But you could prove that he didn’t affect you anymore. At least, not on the surface.
So when you saw Bradley standing alone near the dartboard, you moved toward him without thinking, hips swaying just a touch more than usual, the corner of your mouth lifting in a practiced smirk. “Hey, Bradshaw,” You breathed as you passed him a beer, your fingers brushing his arm as you leaned close. “You winning?” He blinked, caught off guard by the softness in your tone, then chuckled low in his throat, catching on quickly. “I am now.” You laughed, light and teasing, and let your hand linger just long enough to be seen.
It wasn’t real. Not really. But it didn’t have to be. Not when Jake was watching. Because he was watching. Across the room, Jake's head snapped around the second he heard your voice. He’d been leaning against the bar, cornered by a girl with glossy lips and a laugh that grated on his nerves. She was touching his chest, twirling her straw between her fingers like a goddamn prop, but he hadn’t registered a single word she’d been saying.
Not since he walked in and saw you glowing in that golden Hard Deck light, laughing with everyone but him. But now? Now you were touching Rooster? His jaw clenched. There it was, that look. That flicker of heat buried deep in his eyes, something possessive and raw curling beneath his cool exterior. He was trying to keep it contained. Failing. You’d been giving him nothing but distance all week. Cold shoulders. Professional smiles.
And now you were here, cozying up to Bradley fucking Bradshaw, touching his arm like it meant something. Jake barely acknowledged the girl in front of him. Didn’t even glance her way when she laughed again, too loud, too fake. He stepped away like she wasn’t even there, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he moved. Fast. Direct. Heat rolling off him like the pavement in July. You tried to stay cool. Calm. Unbothered. But the second you felt him behind you, everything inside you began to splinter.
His shadow fell over you before his voice did, low and rough, like he was holding back something sharp. “Can we please talk?” No drawl. No swagger. Just those four words, spoken low enough for only you to hear. You turned slowly, lifting your gaze to meet his. And what you saw there made your throat go dry. His jaw was tight, lips pressed together like he couldn’t trust what might come out next. His breathing was shallow.
His chest rose and fell like he’d just finished a sprint. And his eyes, God, those eyes, were burning. Not with arrogance. Not even with anger. But with desperation. Desperation and hurt. Something cracked in your resolve. You'd spent days convincing yourself you didn’t care. That you were over it. Over him. That whatever you thought was between you had been imagined, one-sided. Stupid. But the way he was looking at you now? There was nothing one-sided about it. You hesitated. Your mouth didn’t move. But your heart answered for you.
You nodded.
And Jake exhaled like it was the first real breath he’d taken in days. Wordlessly, he led you outside to the back patio where the air was cooler, salt-stung and quieter than the inside. The string lights overhead glowed gold against the dark, and the music became just a dull vibration through the wood beneath your feet. Jake stopped near the railing, raking a hand through his hair like he didn’t know whether to speak or scream. His chest rose, then fell, like the effort to stay composed was costing him something.
“What the hell’s going on with you?” His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even demanding. It was tired, frayed around the edges. You folded your arms across your chest, forcing your spine straight, your eyes sharp. “Nothing.” Jake scoffed. Harsh. Humorless. “Bullshit.” He stepped forward. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. You won't even look at me anymore.” You turned your face away, blinking too fast. The ache in your throat burned. “Maybe I’ve just been busy.” He exhaled through his nose, slower this time. “Did I do something?”
You wanted to scream. To shove the words into his chest and make him feel what you’d been carrying since that night. But fear twisted around your tongue like barbed wire. So you said nothing. Jake took a step closer. Slower now. Careful. Like you were something on the edge of shattering. And you hated it, hated how much you wanted him to reach out. To touch you. To say something that made it all make sense. “I—I heard what you said,” You whispered, voice thin and raw. His brow furrowed.
“That night. After training.” You swallowed hard. “You were talking to the squad. You said you weren’t interested. That I wasn’t your type.” A bitter laugh escaped your throat, hollow and trembling. “God, it’s my fault, really. I was stupid enough to believe that Jake Hangman Seresin, serial flirt, legendary pain in the ass, would ever want someone like me… when he could have Malibu Barbie throwing herself at him.” The words spilled out before you could catch them. Sharp. Bare. Bleeding.
Jake flinched. Confusion flashed first, wide-eyed, disoriented, then understanding slammed into him like a punch to the gut. “No,” He breathed, face paling, panic crashing behind his eyes. “You thought I was talking about you?” Your silence was answer enough. He stumbled back half a step, hands dragging down his face. Like he needed to wipe the guilt from his skin just to breathe. “Jesus Christ, Y/N.” His voice cracked. Rough. Gutted. “I wasn’t talking about you. God, no. I didn’t even know you were there.”
“Doesn’t matter.” You looked away, arms tightening around yourself like armor. “It does matter,” He snapped, voice raw. “You think I could ever, ever, talk about you like that?” His voice faltered, and he ran a shaking hand through his hair again, pacing once before turning back. “You think I’d look at you and say your voice is annoying? That I’m not interested? Are you serious?” You finally met his gaze, and what he saw nearly dropped him to his knees.
You weren’t angry. You were hurt. Really hurt. “I don’t think you meant to,” You whispered. “But you don't see me. You never do.” Jake looked like he’d been hit. The silence stretched, tangled between you, trembling and thick. Then he stepped closer. One step. Then another. His voice came softer now. Hoarse. Frightened. “I see you.” You shook your head. “I see you,” He repeated, louder this time, like if he said it enough it would finally reach you. “More than anyone ever has. And it scares the hell out of me.”
Your lips parted. A sound escaped, half-breath, half-sob, and the first tear slipped free before you could stop it. You turned your face away, but his hand lifted, gently brushing the drop from your cheek like it hurt him to see it. He hesitated, fingers twitching near yours, unsure if he was allowed. Then, with a breathless whisper, “Darlin’… I don’t want Malibu Barbie in there,” You blinked brows drawing in confusion. His hand hovered near yours, trembling.
“I want you. The girl who makes Bob blush. The one who doesn’t back down when I flirt, who gives it right back. Who knows when I’m lying through my teeth even when I don’t.” He reached again, this time slower, curling his hand around yours like it was sacred. Like letting go would ruin him. To his surprise, you let him. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. His fingers threaded through yours like they belonged there, like they’d always belonged there. And God help you… they did.
You were silent for a long time. Then, finally, so quiet it almost wasn’t real, you spoke pushing past the lump in your throat. “I thought I wasn’t enough.” Jake’s heart cracked clean in two. “You’re everything,” He whispered. “Everything, Y/N." Jake’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand like he couldn’t stop touching you now that you’d let him. His gaze was locked on yours, open in a way you’d never seen before, no walls, no smirk, no cocky bravado. Just Jake. Real. Unfiltered. Bleeding.
“I’ve been gone for you since the day you rolled your eyes at me instead of blushing.” You blinked, caught off guard. He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so wrecked. “I flirted. God, I poured it on. You remember? That night I tried to buy you a drink and you told me to grow up and learn how to pour my own?” A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. “You called me a heartbreaker.” You whispered recalling the moment as if it were yesterday. “Because you were,” He whispered, voice cracking just slightly.
“You are.” You swallowed, hard, but he didn’t stop. “I kept telling myself I just liked the chase. That I could move on. That you were just another pretty face behind the bar, except—” He shook his head, jaw tightening. “You’re not.” Your brows knit, but you didn’t look away. “I told you about my dad.” Jake’s voice dropped, softer now. “I didn’t even realize I’d done it until after. I’ve never talked about him. Not to anyone. Not like that.” The memory came back instantly. That night after last call, lights dimmed, your elbows resting on the bar between you.
He’d looked so tired, so open. You’d asked one small question, something about his hometown, and suddenly he was talking about Texas and silence and a man who never really told his son he was proud. Jake stared at you now, breathing hard like he was barely holding himself together. “You didn’t say anything when I told you. You just… listened.” He looked down, eyes catching on your joined hands. “You let me be someone I don’t let anyone see.” He swallowed. “I noticed everything about you, Y/N.” Your lips parted, but nothing came out.
“I know you hate wearing your hair down when you’re working because it sticks to your lip gloss and drives you crazy. I know you pretend to be annoyed when Bob leaves peanut shells on the bar, but you never actually throw them away until after he leaves, because you don’t want to make him feel bad.” Your eyes stung. His voice was reverent now, like he was listing truths he’d memorized like scripture. “I know you tie your apron the same way every night, double knot on the left, even though you’re right-handed,"
"You hum when you count cash. You clench your jaw when you’re about to cry and you never cry in front of people, and—” He exhaled, blinking fast. “I know how it felt. That night you sat beside me after training, shoulder to shoulder, not talking much.” He was close now. Closer than before. “I replay that night more than I want to admit,” Jake murmured. “The way your knee brushed mine and you didn’t move it. The way you leaned into me without even realizing it. I wanted to grab your hand so bad, but I was scared it’d ruin it. Scared you’d pull away.”
You hadn’t realized your breath had hitched until he reached up, gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m not scared now.” You were blinking back tears. “I was falling for you then,” He breathed, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. “And I’ve just kept falling. Every damn day. Even when you stopped talking to me. Even when it felt like you were slipping through my fingers and I didn’t know why.” His voice dropped to something trembling and soft. “You’re it for me, Y/N."
"The real thing. No games. No stupid lines. Just you.” You opened your mouth and closed it. Shaking your head, just slightly. “But I’m not your type.” You whispered, voice thick with emotion. Jake smiled, and it wrecked you. “Darlin’,” He coaxed, stepping even closer, pressing your joined hands gently against his chest. “You are every type I didn’t know I needed. You’re the only girl I’ve ever wanted to stay for.” Your heart was a drumbeat in your throat. Jake leaned in, breath warm and uneven between you.
“I want late nights on this patio with you. I want to sit on your kitchen counter while you complain about your day and steal your snacks. I want you in my bed. In my arms. In my life. All of it. You.” The tears spilled freely now. “I don’t want Malibu Barbie, or any of those girls who laugh at jokes I didn’t even tell. I want the girl who saw straight through me before I even knew who I was.” Your fingers clutched his shirt now, knuckles white. Jake leaned his forehead gently against yours, voice barely a whisper now.
“I love you, Y/N.”
The words hung there, raw, open, real. And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest lifted. Because he meant it. And he’d never looked more terrified… or more certain. Your breath caught. There it was, laid bare between you. His heart, stripped and beating in your hands. Jake Seresin, the man everyone thought was untouchable, cocky, invincible was standing here, terrified. Loving you with everything he had. For the first time in weeks, the fear that had been curling like smoke in your chest started to ease.
But it didn’t vanish. Because you were still scared. Not of him. Of you. Of how badly you wanted this. How deeply you felt it. How vulnerable it made you to need someone this much. You lifted your head slowly, his forehead still resting lightly against yours, your breaths mingling in the salt-tinged air. “I love you too Jake.” You whispered, and it cracked something open inside both of you. His eyes squeezed shut as he let out a slow, unsteady breath, like he’d been drowning, and those words were the air he’d needed for weeks.
“But I’m scared,” You admitted, your voice trembling, fingers still clutching his shirt. “Scared that this is just a moment. That you’ll wake up one day and realize I’m not what you want. That I’ll never be enough.” Jake opened his eyes, and the look on his face made your chest cave in. There was no hesitation. No uncertainty. Just devotion. He cupped your face like you were something fragile but precious, like he was honored just to hold you. “Y/N…” He breathed, stepping even closer, until your body was flush against his.
“I’m gonna spend every damn second we have proving just how wrong that voice in your head is. Every second.” You blinked fast, your heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to reach him. “I’ll show you,” He whispered, thumb sweeping along your cheek. “Not just once. Not just tonight. Every day. I’ll show you in the mornings, when you’re grumpy and still half-asleep and stealing the covers. I’ll show you when you’re mad at me, and I’ll deserve it, but I’ll still be there, because I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, just barely.
Like he didn’t want to overwhelm you, only remind you he was there. “I’ll show you when things get hard. When I have a bad day, and you have worse, and we’re tired and angry and still choosing each other anyway. That’s love, darlin’. And I’ve got it bad for you.” Your breath hitched, and your hands came up to grip his forearms. “I’ll prove it in every single look, every word, every time I hold your hand or brush your hair behind your ear or make you laugh after a long shift,” He murmured.
“I’ll remind you that you’re it for me. You’ve always been it.” The tears returned, but this time they came softer. You looked at him through the blur, voice nearly lost. “What if I fall even harder?” Jake smiled, gently resting his forehead against yours again. “Then I’ll be there to catch you. Every damn time.” You didn’t mean to lean in first. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, wild with devotion, soft with fear. Maybe it was the way he said you’re everything like it was the simplest truth in the world.
Maybe it was just that you couldn’t take it anymore, the aching distance, the space you’d both been tiptoeing around for too long. But suddenly your lips were on his. It was slow, searching. Like you were both discovering what it meant to be held this close by someone who knew you, who had seen you, in the mess, in the fear, in the fire, and chose you anyway. Jake let out a broken breath against your mouth.
Like he’d been waiting for this moment longer than he wanted to admit, and kissed you like it might kill him not to. It started slow, trembling. His hands cradled your face with aching reverence, thumbs trembling slightly against your cheekbones. But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted on a gasp, everything between you snapped, weeks of tension combusting all at once. He kissed you harder. Hungrier.
One hand slid into your hair, curling into your ponytail, while the other held your waist like he needed you closer. Like he couldn’t bear another second of space between you. His mouth moved against yours with heat and purpose, lips molding, tongue brushing yours, breath hitching as your bodies pressed together like magnets pulled tight. You whimpered softly against his mouth when he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, the sound swallowed by him as if he’d been starving for it.
He tasted like mint and beer and Jake, home, somehow, even in the chaos of it. Your teeth grazed, breath catching. Then your tongues slid together again and it was messy and warm and real. His hand fisted gently in your hair. You pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt, dizzy from how easily your body molded to his, how his chest rose and fell in stuttering exhales, like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. He kissed you like it was a promise.
And you kissed him like it was the first breath after drowning. Jake finally broke the kiss, gasping softly, but only just enough to press his forehead back to yours, breath mingling, both of you shaking. “Believe me now?” Jake grinned, the edges of his mouth still curved from that kiss, the one you were still trying to catch your breath from. He leaned in, nudging your nose with his playfully. Your lips twitched into a smile, still dazed. “It’s hard not to after a kiss like that.”
He chuckled low in his throat, the sound warm and rich, before dipping his head to press one last, lingering kiss to your lips, this one slower, softer, like a promise more than punctuation. “Come on,” He murmured against your mouth, hand already sliding into yours. “I want to show off my girl.” Your heart fluttered hard in your chest, giddy and unsteady. His girl. You could definitely get used to that. The two of you walked back toward the patio doors hand-in-hand, the cool ocean breeze still trailing behind you.
Jake was practically glowing, his grin wide, his shoulders relaxed in a way they hadn’t been in weeks. You could feel his thumb tracing slow circles against your knuckles as you walked, grounding you in the surrealness of the moment. As you stepped into the warm buzz of the Hard Deck, the shift in the room was instant. Bradley let out a long, low whistle, raising his beer. “Well, finally.” You flushed instantly, heat crawling up your neck as Natasha gave you a knowing grin from across the table.
Jake didn’t even hesitate. Still beaming, he strolled right up to the squad’s table, pulled out an empty chair, and dropped into it without letting go of your hand. Before you could react, he tugged you gently down into his lap. You gasped, startled by the sudden PDA, hands bracing against his chest as he held you there, one arm wrapped around your waist like a vice, the other resting lazily on your thigh. His body was warm beneath you, solid and steady, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.
Now that he had you, really had you, Jake Seresin clearly had absolutely no intention of letting go. The squad erupted in cheers and teasing jeers, beers clinking, boots scuffing against the wooden floor. But then something caught your eye. You watched, wide-eyed, as Mickey, Reuben, and Javy each reached into their wallets and started sliding bills across the table, straight into the waiting hands of Natasha and Bradley. “Hold on,” Jake barked, brows shooting up. “You assholes had a bet going?”
“Please. We’ve been placing bets since the second she didn’t slap you the first night.” Natasha leaned back smugly, counting her winnings with all the grace of a champion poker player. “I thought I heard someone say ‘by Valentine’s Day or bust.’” You muttered, staring at Bradley as he fanned out a crisp stack of twenties. Jake turned, brows raised in mock betrayal. “Bob.” You looked toward the quietest member of the group, who was sheepishly sliding a twenty toward Natasha, cheeks flaming.
“Not you too!” You gasped dramatically. “I-It was obvious.” He mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “We were all just waiting for the two of you to stop being blind and realize you were already in love.” Mickey stayed matter-of-factly. Jake groaned, shaking his head with a dramatic flair. “Unbelievable.” But then he turned, eyes softening as he looked at you. “Well you’re right about one thing Fanboy, damn straight I love her.” He declared, suddenly and loudly.
His words were loud enough to carry over the music, his drawl curling around the words like honey. The table lost it, laughter exploding around you, but all you could do was stare at him, your cheeks burning, your heart thundering in your chest as he tugged you tighter into him, pressing his lips to your temple, warm and unashamed. And just over Jake’s shoulder, you caught a glimpse of the blonde from earlier, the one who’d been leaning against him when your heart had first started to break.
Her mouth twisted, her eyes narrowed. She scoffed, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the bar without so much as a backward glance. Only, Jake didn’t even see her leave. Because his focus was entirely on you. Not some bottle blonde who he didn’t know the name of. As you leaned back into his chest, the smell of salt and citrus and something utterly Jake wrapped around you like a memory, you realized you weren’t afraid anymore. Not of falling. Not of love. Not with him holding you like this, like he’d waited a lifetime to.
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When Jake stumbles into your office attempting to flirt with you, all you can do is humor the fact that your husband seems to have forgotten you.
▸ PAIRING & WC: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Wife!Reader — 1.6K
▸ WARNINGS: Pure fluff, slight amnesia, injured Jake, sexual jokes
▸ A/N: wrote a quick small idea because i love a good secret relationship and a flirty hangman
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The crash outside piques your curiosity. You abandon the latest report you’re working on and get up to swing open your door right on time for a certain blonde aviator to spill into the infirmary. Jake barging into your office is not news; he barges in probably more than he really should, particularly when you’re with patients.
“Boundaries” becomes the most used word in your relationship.
Only thing is, this time, he’s looking at you with big, surprised eyes. The tinges of blue around his emerald eyes are even more prominent when they’re blown up. “Who allowed you to look this good, Doc,” he says with a swagger in his step, eyes droopy now as he leans against the doorframe.
Before you can question him, Rooster walks through the door, a pitying look at Jake. “He’s on the good stuff. Maybe too much of it.” You quirk an eyebrow. “Sedatives.”
Your eyes dart briefly to Jake who is still eyeing you with interest but now he has taken over your chair, propping his chin up on his palm with his elbow on your desk. That smug smile, albeit a little sleepier, is still plastered across his face.
“He crashed earlier–” The smile wipes off your face quickly and Rooster instantly adds, “Nothing big, managed to get out, but he landed wrong cause he ejected too close to the ground. We had to take him to the hospital. Most of it’s around his ribs, but he’s okay.”
Drifting over to Jake, you cup his face and tilt him to look up at you. While he’s busy giving you dark, flirty glances, you are checking him for any signs of permanent damage. He has a few scratches on his face, you notice now the new band-aid he’s sporting on his cheek.
You’re on your knees then and you’re slowly unbuttoning his uniform. If he’s really injured here, he should probably be wearing something more breathable. You remember he packed an extra short-sleeved shirt this morning.
“Whoa, at least take me out to dinner first,” Jake teases, which earns a roll of your eyes.
“Told his dumb ass he should be going straight home but he insisted on making a pit stop here. Something about getting a second look. He might’ve also said something along the lines of visiting the pretty doctor.” Your eyes snap up to Rooster, who holds his hands up in defense. “His words, not mine.”
Humored, you look at him playfully, accusingly. “So you don’t think I’m pretty?”
“That’s not what I said!” Rooster immediately replies, face flushing crimson. “Anyways, before I dig a deeper hole for myself, I’m going to leave him in your very capable hands. Whenever he’s done, one of the guys can drop him off at home.”
“I’m going to wrap up soon so I've got him, don’t worry.”
“You got his address?”
You fight to keep a straight face. “Yeah, it’s on his records.”
“Awesome, thanks, Doc. See you tomorrow.” With that, Rooster makes his exit, the door slamming shut behind him.
You wait a moment and thank the heavens that Jake has the false reputation of being an incorrigible flirt. That will hopefully throw off any suspicion of your relationship.
When you know you’re in the clear, you inspect Jake a little more closely. There are bandages wrapped around his abdomen and you wonder how severe the accident was if they had to give him sedatives. Then again, it’s entirely possible that Jake was being a little bitch and they gave it to him just to shut his mouth.
Aside from the minor injuries, he seems to be in pretty good shape. Physically at least.
Mentally – you look up at him and he’s still smiling stupidly at you – he’s perhaps not quite there yet.
“Jake, honey, I’m going to need to move you to the bed.”
“So soon?” His eyes blow up comically before the expression falls away to a confident grin. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
A disgruntled sigh slips past your lips. Even when he’s drugged up, he still manages to be insufferable. You position his arm around your shoulders and slowly help him to his feet. Jake leans his weight on you, but more so because he really likes being this close to you. The man is heavy to say the least. All six feet of him. You lead him carefully towards the infirmary bed with him nuzzling into your hair the entire time.
He hums thoughtfully and grins against the side of your head. His hot breath tickles your neck right as you plop him on top of the comforter. He avidly refuses to lie down, instead scooching his way in until he’s sat with his back against the wall.
Jake turns to you, grinning smugly with teeth in full view.
“Damn, darlin’, you smell so good. Do you have a boyfriend?”
You’re just sitting down on the edge of the bed when you hear it and freeze. “Come again?”
“Sweetheart, we haven’t even come once,” Jake retorts, seeming all too pleased with his joke. The ‘we’ is cute, very considerate of him to include both of you in the conversation. However, you’re too distracted by his question.
“You’re asking me if I have a boyfriend.” You repeat, incredulous.
Jake nods aggressively, likely jumbling his head even worse.
A smile tilts the corner of your lips. You raise your left hand, showing him the back of it. “I’m married actually.”
“Married?” He gasps, completely aghast. He looks crestfallen and then stares at the ring in annoyance. “I mean, of course, you’d be married. You’re so smart, and so pretty. You also embarrassed Rooster? God, you’re fuckin’ perfect. Who’s the lucky person? Do I know them? Are they on base?”
“You do know him, very well in fact. He is on base.”
A growl rises from his throat. “He better watch his back, I’ll get him if he even thinks about slipping once.”
“Really? How would you do that?”
“I could fight him.”
You chuckle. “Right, you’ll fight him. That might be a little hard.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s pretty tough. He’s tall. Very strong. Very handsome too.”
Jake scowls. “Alright, so he’s Mr. Perfect because you’re also perfect. Well, if I ever catch him not being perfect, I’m going to swoop in for the kill. Neither of you will ever see me coming.”
A grin stretches across his face at your laugh. “Good to know, Seresin. I’ll make sure to warn him.”
“Hm, so you’re really married,” Jake repeats again in a deep, disappointed sigh. He takes your left hand in both of his, looking down at the spectacular rock on your hand. He lets out a low whistle before he grimaces, realizing who he’s complimenting.
Actually, not even realizing who he’s complimenting.
“He did good, your husband.” Jake turns your hand, letting the diamond catch the sunlight. The facets sparkle, speckling the room with blinding polka dots. “Gorgeous ring for a gorgeous girl.”
Heat creeps up your cheeks. “Thank you.” You pause before dropping another bomb on him. “I should also probably tell you that you’re also married.”
Jake jerks back, nearly getting whiplash from how quickly he turns to look at you. “I am? To who? I think I’d know if I was married.”
“A very lucky woman.”
“Well, shit.” Jake grunts. “Well, if I married her, then I’m sure she’s as perfect as you.”
“Probably more alike than you think,” you mutter under your breath.
Jake is smiling at you softly and you see his eyes begin to close. His eyelids flutter, struggling to stay open. It’s as if he is striving to commit your face to memory. “I think I’m kinda sleepy, Doc.”
“Well, you best get your rest then.”
“When I wake up, if you happen to be single, you let me know right away. Or even before I wake up, that might just do the trick.”
“You got it, Hangman.”
–
“I had the strangest dream,” Jake tells you on your drive home.
He’s in the passenger seat, his head still spinning a little from the heavy slumber. He had woken up when everyone else was long gone and found you flipping through your novel, waiting for him. He didn’t seem to remember what happened just an hour prior, so you let it play out, told him he just slept the entire time.
“Hm, what about?”
“I was flirting with this woman,” he says, sounding even more confused than you should be. “I promise, sweetheart, I’d never hit on anyone else. I haven’t hit on anyone else, not since that time I flirted with you when you first joined.”
You hide your smile, focusing instead on the road. “Yeah, was she pretty?”
Clearly, a part of him does think so because he hesitates before responding. “Would you be upset if I said she was? I can’t even remember her face. I just remember thinking she was so fuckin’ stunning.”
“Should I be concerned about this fictional woman?”
“Definitely not,” Jake scoffs, crossing his arms over your chest. “Dream woman could never compare to you. The real deal.”
You let out a little mm-hmm as you pull out something from your pocket. His dog tag dangles from your hand, glimmering right next to the wedding band he keeps around his neck. “Rooster gave it to me before he left. Said you dropped it in your landing.”
He gratefully accepts the necklace and clasps it around his neck. “Thank you, did he ask about the–you know.”
“You mean your wedding ring? The one you’ve been wearing since you married me a year ago? The one you keep secret from your squadmates because no one knows you’re married and you let them believe you’re still a cocky, unbearable flirt?”
Jake laughs. “That’s the one.”
“Yes.”
“And what did you say?”
You smirk, “Told him it was a purity ring.”
“Darlin’,” he groans, “I have a reputation to maintain.”
