You were sitting at the edge of the couch, rambling about the argument you’d had with your best friend. The frustration in your voice was obvious, but when you glanced over, Jay B was lying back, one arm propped behind his head, the other scrolling lazily through his phone. He hummed at the right moments — or maybe the wrong ones — and you could tell he wasn’t really listening.
You frowned, watching his thumb flick across the screen again. The irritation that had been aimed at your friend began to shift toward the man in front of you. You let out a small sigh and fell silent, but he didn’t even notice.
That did it.
Without a word, you got up, walked around the couch, and leaned down over him. He glanced up for a second, eyes flicking from your face to your lips, then back to his phone as if pretending to stay focused. You smirked. Slowly, deliberately, you swung one leg over his and sank down into his lap.
His phone froze mid-scroll.
Jay B looked up at you, a grin instantly tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh?” he drawled, voice dropping a little lower. “What’s this about?”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached for his phone, pried it gently from his hand, and placed it on the coffee table. His hands slid to your hips, warm and steady, thumbs pressing lightly against your sides. His grin deepened.
“Talk to me” he said, fingers flexing just a little. “What do you want, hmm?”
You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Let's say I want your undivided attention,” you said simply, and leaned down to kiss him.
The grin faded into something darker as his lips met yours. He tasted faintly of mint and coffee, and the lazy rhythm of the kiss made your chest feel light. One of his hands moved up your back, pulling you closer until you could feel his heartbeat against yours.
For a moment, everything else disappeared — no phone, no argument, no lingering irritation. Just the quiet hum of the room and the way his thumb traced slow circles against your spine.
When you finally pulled back, he was looking at you like you’d just stolen his breath. “You could’ve just said that, you know,” he murmured.
You chuckled, brushing your nose against his. “I did,” you whispered. “You just weren’t listening.”
He laughed softly and kissed you again — longer this time — as if making up for it.
And from that point on, his phone stayed right where you’d left it.
Jinyoung
You were almost done getting ready — a few final touches, a bit of perfume, one last look in the mirror. Jinyoung had finished long before you. You could hear the quiet creak of the chair in the kitchen where he sat waiting, his phone silent, a glass of water half-forgotten beside him.
When you finally stepped out, the sight of him made you pause. He was sitting casually, legs crossed, shirt perfectly pressed, sleeves rolled up just enough to show a bit of his forearms. He looked effortlessly put together, the kind of handsome that made your heart skip even after all this time.
You smiled to yourself, lingering in the doorway for a second longer than you should have. He noticed.
His gaze lifted from the table, one eyebrow raising slightly. “You ready?” he asked, voice smooth, unhurried — as if he already knew he had your full attention.
Instead of answering, you slowly crossed the room, heels clicking against the floor. His eyes followed you, curious. When you stopped in front of him, you could see the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
Without saying a word, you slid into his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs. His brows lifted in amusement, but his hands instinctively came to rest on your waist.
“This doesn’t look like you’re ready to go out,” he said, that teasing tone wrapping around each word.
You only smiled, fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck. “Maybe I changed my mind,” you murmured, leaning in to kiss him. His lips were soft, deliberate — always in control — but you could feel the way he inhaled sharply when you deepened the kiss.
When you pulled back, you trailed your lips along his jaw and down to his neck, pressing a slow kiss there. “I’m no longer in the mood to go out,” you whispered against his skin.
He let out a quiet laugh, one hand tightening slightly on your hip. “You know, we had plans,” he said, feigning disappointment.
You hummed. “We can make new ones,” you whispered, kissing the spot just beneath his ear.
Jinyoung tilted his head back, eyes closing for a moment. “You’re dangerous,” he said softly, the last of his resistance melting away. When he finally looked at you again, his expression had softened — the teasing replaced by something warmer.
“Five minutes,” he murmured before pulling you back in for another kiss. “Then we’ll see if we still want to go.”
Spoiler: you didn’t.
Mark
The soft clicking of Mark’s keyboard filled the room, rapid and steady, broken only by the occasional muttered word under his breath. You stood by the door, arms crossed, watching him with a mixture of amusement and mild annoyance. He’d said, “Just one more game,” about twenty minutes ago. That was three matches ago.
You tried the subtle things first — brushing your fingers through his hair, leaning against his chair, even whispering his name close to his ear. Each time, he just smiled absentmindedly, his eyes glued to the screen.
“Almost done, babe,” he said, not even looking away.
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s what you said fifteen minutes ago.”
He just laughed quietly, completely focused.
You sighed dramatically, waiting a few more seconds before deciding that if he wasn’t going to give you attention willingly, you’d have to take it.
You stepped closer, hands resting on the back of his chair, and leaned down to murmur near his ear. “You’re ignoring me.”
“Mm, not ignoring,” he said, still not looking away. “Just concentrating.”
That was the final straw.
Before he could react, you slid onto his lap, one leg over each side, and caught his chin with your hand, forcing his gaze up to meet yours. The surprise in his eyes was instant — his hands froze midair, his game forgotten.
“Hey—” he started, but you cut him off with a kiss.
It wasn’t soft. It was the kind of kiss that demanded his full attention, and it worked. His hands hesitated for a second before falling naturally to your waist, fingers gripping lightly as he leaned into you. His chair creaked beneath the shift, but neither of you cared.
When you finally pulled away, his eyes were still half-lidded, lips slightly parted. He blinked once, then let out a small laugh. “You really want me to loose huh?” he murmured, his voice low and amused.
You smiled, brushing your thumb over his bottom lip. “Yes,” you whispered, kissing him again before he could say anything else.
His hand came up to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss until the soft glow of the screen was the only reminder of the game he’d abandoned. The quiet sound of the defeat notification chimed in the background, and he laughed against your lips.
“Guess I lost,” he said softly.
“Guess you did,” you replied, smiling as he pulled you closer.
And for once, he didn’t seem to mind losing at all.
Jackson
You and Jackson were curled up on the couch, half a bowl of popcorn between you and the TV glowing with the latest K-drama episode. The male lead had just appeared onscreen — perfect hair, perfect jawline, the whole cinematic package — and you might’ve let out a small, dreamy sigh without realizing.
That was all the ammunition Jackson needed.
“Awww, look at you,” he teased immediately, grinning wide. “You’ve got hearts in your eyes right now!”
You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. “I do not.”
He laughed, leaning closer. “You totally do. Should I be worried? Should I start dressing like him? Maybe do the slow-motion hair flip thing?” He mimicked it horribly, making you snort into your drink.
“Stop it,” you said, shaking your head.
He only smirked. “Admit it, babe. You’ve got a crush.”
You turned toward him, a spark of mischief in your eyes. “Oh, really?”
Before he could react, you lunged forward, setting the popcorn aside just in time, and climbed right into his lap. His laugh burst out immediately, loud and surprised, hands automatically landing on your hips to steady you.
“Oh?” he grinned, tilting his head back against the couch. “What’s this? Trying to prove something?”
You leaned in closer, your face inches from his. “You talk too much,” you murmured, your tone light but teasing.
Jackson chuckled, his eyes flicking between yours. “You know, every time you do something like this…” His hands tightened slightly on your waist, pulling you closer until your chest brushed against his. “…it just makes me want to tease you more.”
You smirked. “Then I guess I’ll have to give you more reasons.”
He laughed again, warm and genuine, before his voice softened just a touch. “You really think I’m gonna let you win this?”
“Pretty sure you already did,” you whispered, looping your arms around his neck.
The TV kept playing in the background, the K-drama long forgotten as Jackson’s laughter faded into a quieter, sweeter sound. He pressed a quick kiss to your jaw before looking up at you with that familiar spark in his eyes — half amusement, half adoration.
“Alright, fine,” he said, smiling. “You win this round. But next episode, I’m picking the guy I get to crush on.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing as he pulled you closer. “Deal,” you said, though you both knew neither of you would be paying attention to the show anymore.
Youngjae
The air was cool and quiet inside the car, the faint hum of the old movie playing through the drive-in speakers filling the silence. The glow from the big screen washed over Youngjae’s face as he watched intently, his eyes wide and focused, completely immersed.
You, on the other hand, had lost interest about twenty minutes ago. The movie wasn’t bad, but the way his brow furrowed every now and then — the way his lips parted slightly when something dramatic happened — was far more entertaining.
You leaned your head against the seat, watching him instead of the film. He didn’t notice at first, too caught up in the story. A small smile crept across your face as you realized how adorable he looked when he concentrated.
“Are you even watching the movie?” he asked suddenly, glancing at you with a little grin.
“Not really,” you admitted.
He chuckled softly, eyes flicking back to the screen. “You’re missing the best part.”
You hummed, pretending to think. “Maybe. But I think I found something better to look at.”
That earned you a flustered glance. His ears turned a shade pinker, and he tried to hide it by facing forward again.
You bit back a laugh, then decided to make things a little more interesting. Without warning, you shifted, moving closer until your knee brushed his. He turned his head just in time to see you climbing gently onto his lap, settling yourself there with a mischievous smile.
“Y–Yah!” he stammered, his hands instinctively landing on your hips. “What are you doing? Someone might see!”
You shrugged, leaning in until your nose brushed his. “It’s dark,” you whispered. “No one’s looking.”
He looked like he was about to argue — but the words got lost when your lips met his. For a moment, he froze, eyes wide. Then, slowly, his shoulders relaxed, and his hands tightened just slightly, pulling you closer.
The movie continued to play outside, the flickering light dancing across the windshield, but neither of you cared. You kissed him again — deeper this time — and felt him smile against your lips.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, he let out a quiet laugh, still blushing. “You’re gonna get us caught,” he murmured, though his voice was softer now, fond.
You grinned. “Then stop me.”
He gave you that shy, crooked smile — the one that always made your heart skip. “I don’t think I want to,” he whispered, before kissing you again.
And for the rest of the night, the movie was completely forgotten.
Bambam
The club was alive — lights flashing, bass thrumming through the air, bodies moving in rhythm to the beat. You and BamBam had been sitting in one of the corner booths with a few friends, half-listening to conversations, half-watching the dance floor.
He looked good. Too good, really. The dim lighting made the silver in his jewelry glint every time he moved, his shirt slightly unbuttoned from the heat of the night. You were nursing your drink, trying not to stare, when you noticed her — a girl from another group leaning a little too close, her laugh a bit too loud.
You watched as she brushed her hand along the back of the booth, close enough to get his attention. And of course, she got it — at least for a second. He smiled politely, said something you couldn’t hear. But before she could take it further, BamBam shook his head with an easy grin and leaned back, draping his arm across the back of your seat instead.
The girl got the message. She disappeared toward the dance floor with a pout.
You told yourself you weren’t jealous, but the way your chest tightened said otherwise.
When most of your friends drifted away to dance, leaving just the two of you in the booth, BamBam turned to you, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’ve been quiet,” he said, his tone light. “Everything okay?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Perfectly fine.”
“Mm.” His smirk said he didn’t believe you.
You didn’t give him a chance to tease you further. Without warning, you swung a leg over his lap and straddled him, your hands braced against his chest. His brows shot up, a low chuckle escaping before he could stop it.
“Ohhh,” he laughed, voice rich and teasing. “So that’s what this is about.”
You didn’t bother answering — you just leaned in and kissed him, hard enough that he lost the next breath of laughter. His hands found your waist instantly, fingers flexing as he melted into it. You felt him smile against your lips, clearly enjoying how bold you’d gotten.
When you finally pulled back, your lips were still inches from his. “Still think I’m quiet?” you asked, grinning.
He tilted his head, smirk deepening. “You were jealous,” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself.
You laughed softly. “Maybe a little.”
He hummed, pulling you closer again, his breath warm against your ear. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I only look at you anyway.”
And with that, he kissed you again — slow this time, deliberate — until the rest of the club faded into nothing but music and the two of you.
Yugyeom
The studio lights were dim, casting a warm glow over the scattered equipment and half-empty coffee cups. Yugyeom sat in front of his setup, headphones around his neck, a proud grin tugging at his lips as he watched your reaction to the track he’d just finished.
The bass was smooth, his vocals melting perfectly into the rhythm. You could feel the song all the way down to your chest — confident, sultry, and effortlessly him.
When it ended, you blinked, trying to find words. “That was… wow,” you said, still caught in the afterglow of the melody. “It’s got such a vibe. I don’t even know how to describe it.”
He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Good ‘wow’ or bad ‘wow’?”
You smiled. “Very good wow. Like… dangerously good.”
He turned in his chair to face you, eyes glinting with amusement. “Dangerously good?” he repeated, clearly intrigued.
You tilted your head, a small smirk forming. “Yeah,” you murmured, stepping closer. “Like it shouldn’t sound that attractive.”
Yugyeom’s grin widened, but before he could tease you, you moved — slowly, deliberately — and slid into his lap. His breath caught for just a second, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air as if he wasn’t sure where to put them. Then instinct kicked in, and they settled on your hips, firm and warm.
“Oh?” he said, his voice dipping low, playful. “What’s this about?”
You leaned in until your lips brushed his, whispering against them. “I love watching you work,” you said honestly. “It… does something to me.”
That made him grin — the kind of grin that started small and grew until it took over his whole face. “Yeah?” he murmured, eyes flicking down to your lips again.
You nodded, barely getting the chance to breathe before he closed the space between you. The kiss started soft but deepened fast, his fingers tightening against your waist as if he couldn’t get you close enough. You felt him smile against your lips, his breath hot and uneven.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were darker now, voice low and teasing. “You’re gonna make me forget about work,” he whispered.
“Good,” you said simply.
He laughed quietly, the sound low in his throat, before kissing you again — hungrier this time. Without breaking the kiss, he stood, lifting you effortlessly in his arms. You gasped, clinging to his shoulders as he carried you toward the small couch in the corner of the studio.
“Guess we’re taking a break,” he murmured, his smile brushing against your lips.
The shift wasn’t immediate, but it was unmistakable.
In the week since Heather and Jackson had decided—tentatively, cautiously, almost incredulously—that they were a thing, their rhythm had softened. Not that the teasing had stopped. If anything, it had only gotten worse. But there was a new undercurrent to it now, one that made her skin buzz and her stomach flip. He still poked at her sarcasm. She still rolled her eyes when he got too earnest. But their jokes lingered longer. The silences didn’t feel sharp anymore.
There were small changes. She started leaving her toothbrush at his place. He started wearing the hoodie she always borrowed, claiming it smelled like her now. They cooked together—well, Heather cooked, and Jackson would make them drinks, offering zero help and maximum chaos. She couldn't even hate it.
They didn’t talk about it too much. That seemed to work for both of them.
And now, here they were: sprawled across Heather’s bed in the slow hush of morning. Light bled through the curtains, painting the room in soft, lazy gold. Heather blinked awake, still half-buried under the covers. She registered Jackson first by warmth—his body curled against hers—and then by touch, the easy weight of his hand resting low on her hip like it belonged there.
He was awake. She could tell by the way his thumb was moving, slow and deliberate, tracing the hem of her sleep shirt.
“Don’t pretend to be asleep,” he murmured, his voice gravel-soft and smug against her ear. “You haven’t kicked me yet. Dead giveaway.”
Heather groaned into her pillow. “Don’t ruin it. I was having a dream where you didn’t talk until after coffee.”
Jackson chuckled, and she could feel it vibrate against her spine. “Aw, where’s the famous death glare? I’ve been robbed.”
She rolled over just enough to glance at him, one eye cracked open. “You want the glare? I can still make your life miserable.”
“Oh, thank God,” he whispered, grinning. “For a second I thought you were going soft on me.”
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, then finally her lips. She sighed, caught somewhere between annoyed and content, and kissed him back without thinking. It was a little lazy, a little sleepy, and a lot familiar.
That was the part that caught her off guard.
This—waking up next to him, letting herself stay still for more than thirty seconds, not panicking about what came next—this felt easy. Dangerous, even. She wasn’t used to easy.
She rested her forehead against his. “God, you’re clingy in the morning.”
“You like it,” he said, unapologetic.
She hated how much he was right.
They eventually crawled out of bed, more out of necessity than enthusiasm. Jackson wandered into the kitchen wearing nothing but sweatpants and the cocky smile of someone who’d clearly decided this was his home turf now. Heather followed, rubbing sleep from her eyes and pretending she didn’t like the sight of him rummaging around her cabinets like he belonged there.
Which, lately… he sort of did.
“I’ll make coffee,” he announced grandly, already grabbing the beans. “Eggs or toast? Or both?”
Heather gave him a flat look. “And I should trust you with the responsibility because...?”
“You burn it every time,” he said brightly, “but I admire your commitment to consistency.”
She muttered something rude under her breath and tossed two slices in the toaster.
The kitchen was a mess. Not dirty, just lived-in. Her laptop still sat open on the dining table, half a bag of chips from last night beside it. One of Jackson’s hoodies was slung over the back of a chair. There was a sock in the sink for some reason neither of them could explain. But the air was warm, and the light pouring in from the windows made everything feel just a little golden.
It was chaos. It was theirs.
The toast, predictably, burned. Heather cursed, waving her hand in front of the smoke alarm just in case it started shrieking again. Jackson just laughed from behind her, setting two mugs down on the counter. “You had one job.”
“Oh, shut up.”
But then he stepped up behind her, slid his arms around her waist, and kissed the back of her neck. She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away.
"Make me." he whispered in her ear. She didn’t want to, just let him embrace her, let her lips upturn naturally.
He didn’t say anything about last night. About the way they’d fallen asleep tangled up on her couch, his arm around her, her face pressed to his collarbone like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t mention the way she’d lingered in bed this morning instead of bolting up and checking her phone. He didn’t ask what this was or where it was going.
And she appreciated that. Because she wasn’t sure she had answers.
Still, when she caught him watching her from over his coffee cup, a little smirk tugging at his mouth, she felt that twist in her chest again—familiar, dangerous, uncomfortably hopeful.
They drifted naturally into their parallel routines. Heather took her usual spot at her desk, legs curled under her, laptop open, fingers already flying as she tackled lines of code and a seemingly endless to-do list. Jackson, after a brief detour to retrieve his hoodie from the chair and toss it on over his bare chest, settled on the couch with his laptop, headphones, and an intense sort of focus that made him go silent and still except for the occasional bob of his head.
They didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to.
The apartment was quiet in that companionable, lived-in way—faint traffic sounds from outside, Heather’s keyboard clicks, the soft tap of Jackson’s foot keeping time with something only he could hear. Every so often, he’d glance up at her and smile, or she’d tilt her screen away so he couldn’t peek at the half-finished UI she was grumbling over.
Hours passed like that—comfortably. Like this was routine, like they’d done this dozens of times before.
Eventually, Heather stretched, groaned, and looked over at him. “You’ve been bobbing your head like that for twenty minutes. You gonna let me in on whatever’s going on in that mad brain of yours?”
Jackson looked up, pulled one earcup off, his grin slow and a little smug. “You curious?”
“... A little.”
He held the headphones out. “Come here.”
She rolled her eyes but stood anyway, stepping around the table to sink down next to him on the couch. He adjusted the headphones on her head with a ridiculous amount of care, then tapped the space bar to play.
The track floated into her ears, raw and unfinished but unmistakably Jackson — darker edges woven with a surprising undercurrent of warmth. A steady pulse thrummed beneath layered harmonies, and fractured synth textures shimmered like something rising from deep underwater. The rhythm hooked her, pulling her closer, making her lean in with every note.
“Need you to save me
Oh-ooh, ooh, I'm fading
I'm losing air
Can't be in this world alone...”
The opening chords were haunting. Synths laced with a kind of ache. Then Jackson’s voice came in—soft, raw in a way she hadn’t quite heard before. Not the slick, performance polish she was used to, but cracked around the edges. Honest.
She blinked slowly, absorbing the full weight of the song, the words settling heavy in the quiet between them.
“My heart is broke
Just bring me home, ooh, oh
Need you to save me
Oh-ooh, ooh, I'm fading (I'm fading)
I'm losing air
Can't be in this world alone.”
Jackson’s gaze was intense, fixated on every subtle shift in Heather’s expression—as if her reaction could unlock some hidden truth he wasn’t ready to face aloud. His eyes searched for a flicker, a crack in her calm, some sign that the weight of his words and music landed where he hoped.
When the final note lingered, fragile and unresolved, Heather slowly lifted the headphones away, her chest rising and falling unevenly. She swallowed hard, a lump catching in her throat, and exhaled softly as if letting out all the breath she’d been holding.
“That was…” she began, voice low, hesitant, “...so good. It hurts, but it’s amazing.” Her eyes met his, unguarded now, reflecting something deep and tender.
Jackson gave a small, tight nod, the kind that carried the weight of unspoken battles. “That was where I was… before you.”
Her gaze softened, warmth breaking through the guarded edges she usually kept around her heart. “And now?” she pressed gently, as if she needed him to say it aloud.
He shifted closer, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, as if admitting a fragile truth. “Still fighting not to sink… but with you, I don’t feel so alone. Not like before. You’re the first good thing I’ve had in a long time.”
Without hesitation, Heather moved into him, sliding onto his lap with a quiet urgency, arms wrapping tight around his neck. She hugged him fiercely, as if holding him could steady both their fragile edges, shielding them from their past wounds and future fears.
Jackson breathed her in—the faint scent of her skin, the warmth radiating from her—and for the first time in what felt like forever, allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to.
They remained like that, tangled together in the quiet, two souls tethered by unspoken promises, finding a fragile, precious peace amid the chaos swirling around them.
As the afternoon bled into early evening, the light in the room turned soft and slow, like it, too, had grown tired of running. Their computers slept, the music had stopped, but neither of them moved to break the hush. Something unspoken hung between them—something softer, heavier, more certain than the lust of before.
It started with a look.
The kind of look that said I see you. All of you. The bruised parts and the golden ones. And I still want in.
Heather didn’t flinch from it this time.
When Jackson leaned in, it wasn’t rushed or hungry. It was reverent. The kiss he gave her was unhurried, grounding. He tasted like the coffee they hadn’t finished and something warmer underneath, something distinctly him. She sighed into it, and that was the only permission he needed. His hands slid to her waist like he’d done it a thousand times, like her body already remembered him.
They moved slow. Unfolded, rather than collided.
She let him undress her in pieces—not just the layers of fabric, but the walls too. There was no armor here, no quick-witted barbs or practiced coolness. Just skin. Just breath. Just her, laid bare in a way she’d never trusted herself to be. And it was Jackson, so it was different. He touched her like she was a favorite song he never wanted to stop playing. Like every sigh was a note, and every shiver was the chorus.
When she arched into him, it wasn’t to prove anything.
She wasn’t trying to forget. Wasn’t trying to outrun anything.
She was just there.
Fully, devastatingly there.
And he was right there with her, murmuring her name like it was something sacred, eyes locked to hers even as their rhythm deepened, even as the world narrowed to the shared heartbeat between them. There was conversation in it—their mouths never quite still, the occasional laughter breaking through the tension like light refracting on water. It was honest, messy, perfect in its lack of performance.
When she came apart, it was with her forehead pressed to his and his hands cradling her hips like he was anchoring her to the earth. And in the after, when their limbs were tangled and sweat-slick and spent, Heather found herself laughing quietly—because somehow, despite everything, she felt… happy.
Jackson kissed her shoulder. “What?” he asked, voice raspy, lazy.
She brushed his hair back with her fingers and grinned. “Nothing,” she lied, because everything felt too tender to name.
But she stayed close.
And that time, she didn’t look for a reason to pull away.
Genre: fluff…maybe a little angst, them being big babies, possessive behavior
Warning(s): none, they are a warning in and of themselves
제이비┃JAY B
Jaebum gets jealous more often than he'd like to admit. He trusts you and he knows how much you love him, but he gets very angry very quickly. Seeing someone capture your attention, someone trying to sway you, gets him hot in the face. He settles for leveling the person with a very bored deadpan as he approaches, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you away. Doesn't bother to address them, simply pulls you into him and carries on with his day. After the anger subsides, the shame takes over. He's stuck staring at the ground, mouth curled in a pout before you cup his face and litter him in affection. He doesn't like feeling insecure, to feel like he's doubting you but he can't help it. It's all made better with some warm words and loving kisses.
마크┃MARK TUAN
Mark is not a jealous man. He's confident in himself and your relationship, but he has his moments. He tries his best to keep his jealousy hidden as it's not an emotion he wishes to revel in. If someone approaches you and you seem to enjoy the conversation, he simply hovers behind you and stares. If you seem uncomfortable, however, he's approaching you both. He rests a hand at the small of your back, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple and calmly ending the conversation. You can always tell when he's upset. His voice gets tighter, sharper, and he's more affectionate following the interaction.
잭슨왕┃JACKSON WANG
He is incredibly protective. He hates the idea of people seeing you. Anything longer than a glance leaves an unsavory taste in his mouth. So when someone actually tries to talk to you it has him on edge. He's moving closer to your side, unabashedly curling around your waist and nuzzling at your neck, hovering over your shoulder. If you don't seem bothered by them, he stops at attempting to mentally burn a whole through their skull. If they actually try and touch you though or start making you uncomfortable, he's not afraid to hurt them—feels it's more than justified—no matter where you are. He gets very needy once you’re back home, draping himself over your lap and pushing his face into your hands. Makes you tell him how much you love him and refuses to move for an hour.
진영┃PARK JINYOUNG
He has a nonexistent tolerance for jealousy, it's always very clear when he gets jealous and quickly boils to the surface. He's not loud, never wants to scare you, and tries not to make a scene. He locks eyes with them over your shoulder, dark and daunting, and makes his intentions very clear. Fuck off. If they're persistent, he wraps a heavy arm around your waist and tugs your back against his chest or hovers over your shoulder and glares. Once they're gone, he gets softer. Subtly touches you: slipping his hand into yours and sitting close enough that your thighs brush.
영재┃CHOI YOUNGJAE
Sweet Youngjae doesn’t really get jealous. He trusts you and almost everyone around him, he understands that the feeling is irrational, you love him and he loves you. If anyone was ever successful in getting him to that point, he would hate the feeling and tries his best to work through it without you noticing. If the person is making you obviously uncomfortable, however, he tries to end the interaction as quickly as possible, firmly introduces himself as your boyfriend. He’ll hide his anger behind a sunny expression, pulling you away from them. His easy smile and soft affection is back the moment you're both alone.
뱀뱀┃BAMBAM
He gets jealous pretty easily, no matter if it's a stranger off the street or a friend you've known for years. Like, he would be unable to hide the fact. He’s very transparent, may get confrontational, and you can just always tell whenever he gets jealous. His smile gets a little darker, jaw clenched tightly and his eyes flashing. He always waits until he feels like a line has been crossed. If they reach a hand to touch you or say something that has you recoiling, he slides his hands over your hips, nosing at your cheek, mumbling a quiet, "you okay, baby?" And takes a little too much pride in the look on the person's face when they shuffle away.
유겸┃KIM YUGYEOM
Gyeomie doesn't usually get jealous easily, mostly because he's too enamored with staring at you to notice anyone else looking, so they have to be pretty shameless for him to notice. He hates seeing you uncomfortable, even if it's only a little, so the moment he does notice, he's removing you from the situation. He has no shame about it either, doesn't even try to hide his intentions when he walks over. He will pick you up and carry you off without so much as a word. He gets really clingy afterwards, whining about you not paying enough attention to him and pressing himself against you, curling over your shoulders.
Heather sat cross-legged on the couch, Jackson’s laptop balanced on her knees like a patient in surgery. Her brows were furrowed, the blue light of the screen reflecting in her eyes as she typed with sharp, efficient movements. The living room still smelled faintly of coffee and last night’s whiskey — but now it was layered with the comforting aroma of eggs sizzling in a pan.
Jackson hovered in the nearby kitchenette, barefoot and slightly sheepish, spatula in hand and hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He kept glancing over at her like a kid waiting to hear if he’d flunked out of school.
“You really did a number on this thing.” she said, eyes locked on the terminal window scrolling with lines of recovered data.
“I was… emotionally compromised,” he offered weakly, flipping a strip of bacon.
“You rage-deleted an entire catalogue of half-finished tracks, Jackson. That’s not emotionally compromised, that’s—”
“An existential meltdown. Yeah.” He winced, cracking an egg one-handed. “Sorry.”
Heather’s lips twitched. She wouldn’t give him the full smile yet — not until she recovered at least 80% of what he’d torched — but the fact that he was making her breakfast was softening her stance.
“And,” she added, “you didn’t even bother to empty the trash bin. You were half a second away from a total overkill moment, and yet somehow too lazy to complete it.”
He turned and gave her a look. “Are you seriously cyber-roasting me while saving my ass?”
“Yes.” She hit a key. “Because it’s fun. And you kind of deserve it.”
Jackson laughed, low and warm, and the sound settled something in her. She liked this version of him — hoodie-wearing, bare-faced, trying not to burn their breakfast while she dug through the digital mess of his emotions.
She glanced up at him, leaning her cheek into the couch cushion. “You’re lucky I’m a genius.”
“I’ve never doubted it.”
“And I want extra toast for this. White bread. Not that multigrain stuff you stock like a frat boy.”
“I’m emotionally compromised and now being bullied in my own kitchen,” he muttered, but she heard the smile in it.
Heather looked back at the screen. She could already see the audio files reappearing, like ghost limbs returning — raw takes, stems, lyrics half-written in desperation. His heart laid bare in waveforms. And yet he’d trusted her enough to let her touch it.
Maybe that was its own kind of intimacy.
She glanced back at him again. His brow was furrowed slightly as he flipped the eggs, and something inside her softened.
He’d spiraled. But he was still here. Still trying.
So was she.
Heather recovered the last of Jackson’s lost files, he was plating breakfast like he was auditioning for MasterChef. He set two mismatched plates on the coffee table with a flourish, then gestured like a proud waiter who’d just conquered brunch.
“Madam,” he said, bowing with exaggerated flair, “your toast. White bread. Lightly buttered. Brought to you by sheer guilt and deep personal shame.”
Heather quirked an eyebrow. “You’re lucky I’m here. Another hour and your entire archive would’ve gone the way of MySpace profiles.”
Jackson sank down beside her with a groan and dug into his eggs like he hadn’t eaten in days. “I seriously owe you. Like, my first-born kind of owe you.”
“Please. Like you’d survive a kid with me.” She smirked. “I’d program it to sass you.”
“You already do that with yourself,” he muttered through a mouthful of toast.
They ate with the quiet comfort of two people who’d passed the threshold of polite silences. It wasn’t awkward — it never really was with them, not anymore. But Heather could feel something brewing underneath Jackson’s calm exterior. Every few minutes, he’d glance her way like he was trying to read her mood — or maybe his own.
After a few more bites, she leaned back, crossing her legs beneath her. “So. How’s it feel?”
“How’s what feel?”
“Having your entire musical legacy saved by the same woman you once called a ‘mean bitch’ to her face.”
Jackson winced with mock guilt. “Technically -- this is the fourth time. I prefer to think of my impulsivity as consistency.”
“You’re lucky I find your suffering charming.”
He laughed, but there was a tightness to it — subtle, but there. Heather tilted her head, watching him. He was doing that thing again, where he got quiet right before saying something real.
Then he said, almost too casually, “We’ve broken, like, every rule, haven’t we?”
Heather blinked. “Rules?”
“Our rules,” he clarified, resting his plate on his knee. “No feelings. No sleepovers. No attachment. No... toast.”
She arched a brow. “Wow. We didn’t just bend them. We took a sledgehammer to that whole damn list.”
He chuckled, but it faded fast. His gaze lingered on her a moment too long, like he was working up to something.
“I guess what I’m saying is... I didn’t expect this.”
Heather set her plate down, brushing a crumb off her shirt. Her pulse ticked up, even though her voice stayed even. “Didn’t expect what?”
“This,” he repeated softly. “You. Wanting you around in the morning. Wanting to talk to you about things that aren’t just... easy.”
The shift in the air between them was palpable — not heavy, but close. Like a page had turned without either of them noticing until now.
Heather didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached for her coffee, using the movement to ground herself.
“I didn’t expect it either,” she said finally. “I thought keeping things casual would make this cleaner. Safer.”
Jackson nodded slowly.
“Why did you kiss me that night?”
Heather looked up from her coffee. “What night?”
“When you were locked out. The night you stayed over. You kissed me first.”
The question lingered in the air between them, heavier than it should have been. She blinked, caught off guard not by the memory, but by the tenderness behind his voice. Not accusing. Just... curious. Maybe even a little vulnerable.
She set her mug down slowly.
“I... don’t know,” she said at first, because it was easier. Because it bought her time.
Jackson didn’t press. He just watched her with that quiet patience he rarely used unless it really mattered.
Heather let out a slow breath, eyes drifting toward the kitchen window. The sun was still low in the sky, casting a golden wash over the countertop — soft and far too gentle for the storm inside her chest.
“I think,” she started, hesitating as she searched for words that didn’t make her sound crazy, “I wanted to shut you up.”
That earned a crooked smile from Jackson, but she didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile.
“I hated you,” she added, voice softer now. “You know that, right? I hated how loud you were. How confident. How everything rolled off your back like it didn’t matter.”
Jackson tilted his head slightly, the smile fading as he listened.
“I thought you were obnoxious. Vain. Completely full of shit.” She gave a dry chuckle. “Still think all of that, actually.”
He shrugged. “That’s fair.”
“But that night,” she continued, her voice catching slightly, “I don’t know. Something shifted. I was tired, angry, completely out of my depth. My life felt like it was slipping between my fingers and I was clinging to control with white knuckles. And you were just... there. Unbothered. Untouched.”
She looked at him, finally, and her gaze was sharper now — not cold, just honest.
“And I think I needed to feel something that wasn’t spiraling. Or scared. Or bitter. You made me feel... something different. Something reckless. And I hate that.”
Jackson’s expression softened, his usual charm dimmed by something quieter. He leaned back, letting her words settle.
“You hated me,” he echoed gently.
“I hated that you got under my skin so fast. I hated that you made me curious.” Her fingers toyed with the hem of her sweater, restless. “And it’s easier to hate someone than to admit you want them. I learned that the hard way.”
“And then you kissed the most chaotic man you could find.”
“Exactly.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Jackson let that sit for a beat, then said, “I’m glad you did.”
Heather glanced at him sharply, but he didn’t look smug. Just open. Honest.
“I don’t think we’d be here if you hadn’t,” he added.
“No,” she said quietly. “We wouldn’t.”
And that admission — simple as it was — sent a flutter of warmth and something dangerous curling in her chest. She sipped her coffee again, needing the familiar heat to ground her.
They sat there in silence for a long moment, the crumbs on their plates forgotten, the air between them thick with everything unspoken.
Then Jackson broke it, his voice a little lighter. “So... you’re saying I grew on you.”
“Like mold,” she deadpanned.
He laughed, head tipping back, and for once, the tension didn’t immediately return. It stayed suspended — fragile but intact — as if neither of them wanted to be the first to let go.
They stayed like that for a while: lingering in the kitchen, the morning light soft against the countertops, the remains of breakfast scattered between them. A comfortable quiet settled, not awkward, just full of things unsaid.
The plates were mostly pushed aside, save for one slice of toast Jackson hadn’t touched. His gaze flicked over to Heather, who was refilling her coffee, her expression guarded again — not closed off, just… careful.
He hesitated, then said, “So. I’ve got some time.”
Heather glanced up. “Time?”
He nodded, setting his fork down. “I don’t have to go back to Korea for a while. No tour, no press. Just… space. For once.”
He said it casually, like he wasn’t holding his breath. Like he wasn’t already bracing himself for a deflection.
Heather’s brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t speak. She just sipped her coffee.
“I was thinking,” he added, quieter now, “maybe we don’t have to keep pretending this is just… nothing.”
Still no answer. Her eyes lowered to her mug.
“I mean,” he went on, trying to keep it light but failing slightly, “we’ve broken just about every rule we set. Might as well make it official.”
Heather let out a breath through her nose. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“I’m starting to think it is.”
She looked at him, really looked at him. There was a quiet war behind her eyes — between logic and instinct, fear and want.
“I don’t know if I’m good at this,” she said finally.
“At what?”
“Being more than casual. Being in something. Last time I tried, it nearly broke me.”
“I’m not him,” Jackson said, gently.
“I know. But I’m still me.”
They were quiet again, the air thick with the weight of things neither of them wanted to name out loud.
Then Heather added, “If we do this... it’s not going to be neat. Or easy.”
Jackson smiled faintly. “I didn’t think it would be. You’ve met me, right?”
She rolled her eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“I’m not promising anything,” she said.
“I’m not asking you to.”
Heather sighed, staring at her coffee like it might offer an answer. Then, slowly, she nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s… try.”
Jackson’s smile grew, not smug, not triumphant — just happy.
“Okay,” he echoed.
And just like that, the lines they’d drawn so carefully started to blur — not gone, just... less sharp.
Warnings: ex partners, alcohol, angst and spiralling
Word Count: 3.3k
The studio was dark save for the screen’s pulsing glow, casting sharp shadows across Jackson’s face as he looped another synth layer over the beat. His brows knit in concentration, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He was chasing something — a groove, a feeling, a moment — and he was almost there. Six weeks ago, the track had been a husk of a melody. Now, it pulsed with life, infused with something new for him. Something he hadn’t written for anyone but himself.
For her, if he was being honest.
The bass rolled smooth under crisp percussion, his voice slipping into the pre-chorus, catching that slight rasp that only showed up when he meant it. He didn’t even hear the outer door open.
It wasn’t until a perfume-sweet breeze drifted in, one that made his stomach clench on instinct, that he turned around—and froze.
Lia stood just inside the room, arms crossed loosely, a knowing smile playing at her lips. She was dressed in effortless designer chic, like she’d stepped off a jet rather than a city street. Still polished. Still dangerous.
“Hey. Miss me?” she asked, tilting her head.
Jackson blinked. “What the hell—aren’t you supposed to be in Ibiza?”
“I was. Got bored.” She drifted further in, letting her fingers trail along the edge of the mixing console like she owned the place. “Didn’t feel like playing muse anymore.”
He stood slowly, still processing the abrupt emotional whiplash. “So you just flew halfway around the world to walk in on my session?”
“Don’t be so dramatic. I was in town. Figured I’d see what you were up to. Or who you were up to.” Her eyes glittered, amusement curling her lip. “You’ve been busy.”
He ignored the implication. “We haven’t talked in over a year.”
“Yeah, and you haven’t posted anything personal since.” She circled him now, studying him like he was one of her art pieces. “No features. No live sets. Just... shadows of you. You always did like disappearing when things got too real.”
Jackson clenched his jaw. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Lia’s smile cracked. “I made mistakes, Jackson. But at least I was honest about wanting us to work. You just vanished.”
“You wanted the image, not me. You wanted me curated—packaged.”
“And you wanted to feel alive again. I get it.” She stepped in closer, her voice softening. “But I missed you. I missed this.” Her eyes flicked to the monitors, the tangled headphone wires, the sheet of lyrics covered in notes. “This was always you at your best.”
He studied her, and for a moment—just a moment—his defenses faltered. Lia had always known how to speak to the vulnerable parts of him, the ones that needed validation, legacy, control. She could still sound like she cared, even when she was playing a game.
But something in him had shifted. Something Heather had quietly unearthed — not with manipulation, not with half-truths or sharp smiles, but with genuine challenge, authenticity, and that maddening, stubborn refusal to let him bullshit himself.
“I’m seeing someone,” he said finally.
Lia blinked, her composure twitching.
“Oh?” she said with practiced calm. “Public?”
He didn’t answer.
Lia laughed under her breath. “So it’s serious, then.”
Still no answer
Lia’s tone shifted, playful but edged. “So… who is she?”
Jackson’s jaw flexed. “That’s none of your business.”
“Oh, come on. Word gets around, even in your little underground hideout. People are talking.” She gave a dry laugh.
"Is that why you came here?" he asked, voice teetering on accusation, "To check out the gossip for yourself?"
"You give me too much credit if you think I plan that far ahead," she scoffed back. “What’s the plan, Jackson? You think it'll last this time?”
"Lia --"
“She know you’ll have to go?” she pressed. “Back to Korea, back to your fans, back to the stage. To being the Magic Man again. That’s not something you just… walk away from.”
He bristled, but said nothing.
“She got any plans to go with you?” Lia asked, watching him closely. “To follow you around while you do interviews and press and sell out arenas? Or is she just playing the cool girlfriend who’s too chill to ask about long-term?”
Jackson’s voice was low. “That’s enough.”
Lia tilted her head. “It’s not an attack, Jackson. I’m just saying… you and I both know how this ends. You’ll burn it down like always. And when she realizes you can’t choose her over the rest of your life, she’ll leave.”
She let that hang.
Then, softer, more cutting: “And you’ll come running back to the only one who ever understood what it cost.”
He stepped closer, jaw clenched, eyes sharp. “I’m not coming back to you.”
Lia blinked, caught off guard for the first time.
Jackson’s voice was calm, but laced with steel. “I’m not that guy anymore. And you don’t get to show up and decide what my life looks like just because you’re bored.”
Lia swallowed hard. “We'll see.”
She turned and walked out, heels clicking across the tile, leaving Jackson in the thick silence.
He sat back down, staring at the screen.
But the groove was gone.
The track felt cold.
And for the first time in a long while, Jackson wasn’t sure how to finish the song.
Later that night, the apartment was quiet except for the low buzz of Jackson’s studio monitors. He was slouched in his desk chair, his fourth glass of whisky sweating beside his keyboard. A looping chord progression played on repeat — haunting, unresolved.
He stared at the screen, eyes bloodshot, jaw tight. The cursor blinked at him like it was mocking him.
Lia’s voice kept replaying in his head.
You’ll have to go back. She won’t last. This isn’t your life.
With a curse, he yanked his headphones off and scrubbed both hands through his hair. Then, like a switch flipped, he opened his files and started deleting.
Demos. Hooks. Drafts he’d spent weeks perfecting.
One by one — highlight, delete, confirm.
The trash bin icon was filling with pieces of himself.
“Fuck!” Jackson slammed his hand down on the desk, the noise loud enough to rattle a pen holder off the edge. The sound cracked through the apartment like a shot.
Heather had just finished answering some work emails when she heard the first loud clatter. It wasn’t just a dropped glass. It was followed by a muffled shout, something guttural and frustrated.
She froze.
A second crash — metal against wood — then the telltale sound of someone swearing under their breath. That did it.
She stood up fast, padding barefoot out and towards his door. “Jackson?”
No answer.
She knocked. “You okay?”
Again, silence.
But the door was unlocked...
The room was dim, lit by the moody glow of LED strips and the flicker of his DAW screen. Jackson sat slouched on the floor, his t-shirt halfway off one shoulder, a half-empty glass of whisky sweating in his hand. His face was flushed, eyes glassy and unfocused — but stormy. On the floor nearby, an overturned metal trash bin had spilled some old lyric notebooks. A pen had snapped in half. The whisky bottle was three-quarters gone.
Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Jackson—”
“I’m fine,” he said, far too quickly, like a reflex. His voice was hoarse.
She stepped fully into the room, arms crossing over her chest. “You don’t look fine. You look like a haunted raccoon in a crisis.”
He let out a breathy laugh, rubbing his face. “Thanks. That’s the aesthetic I was going for.”
She stepped forward, cautiously, "You're drunk."
"Tipsy." he corrected, "But well on my way."
“What the hell happened?”
Jackson set the glass down — too hard — and leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing his temples like trying to stop a migraine from splitting his skull. “Lia showed up today.”
Heather stayed crouched in front of him, one hand steady on his knee while the other hovered in hesitation, like she wasn’t sure whether to hold him or not. His head hung low, knuckles white around the neck of his whisky glass, shoulders curled inward like he could fold himself small enough to disappear.
Then she blinked, the delay catching up to her. “Who?”
Jackson flinched. Not big — just a subtle twitch in his fingers. He turned his face away, like the answer might crack something open.
“Lia,” he muttered, voice gravel-thick. “She’s… she used to be someone I—” He dragged a hand down his face. “I thought I loved her.”
Heather tilted her head slightly, searching his profile. “What happened?”
“She’s an actress. Beautiful, always had cameras pointed at her. We met through work and it turned into this… curated fantasy. For the press. Fans. We looked good together in photos.” He gave a bitter huff. “Like a couple designed by committee.”
Heather stayed quiet, letting him talk.
“I kept telling myself she just didn’t show affection the way I did. That maybe I just had to earn it. I wrote songs about her, for her — she barely listened. And when things got hard—” he choked out a laugh, “—when my solo stuff didn’t chart fast enough, when GOT7 went quiet, she bailed. Said I was dragging her down. Too messy. Too emotional. She left me in the middle of the night. Literally.”
Heather’s stomach twisted. “Jackson…”
“She told people I was obsessed. That I wouldn’t let go. I watched interviews where she laughed about it like I was some clingy fanboy.” His eyes were glassy, unfocused. “I didn’t leave my house for a month. Couldn’t function anymore. Just lay there and thought about how stupid I must’ve looked.”
Heather’s jaw clenched. She didn’t know this woman — but she already wanted to punch her teeth in.
Jackson’s gaze drifted to the floor again, far away. “I thought I buried all of it,” he said finally, voice low. “After she left me… I left everything behind. Packed up, disappeared for a while. Then I came back with this idea in my head — that if I made something bold enough, loud enough, if I lit myself on fire, people would see me again. See past the wreckage.”
“The Magic Man,” Heather murmured.
He nodded. “I made that persona because I needed armor. He could be fearless. Explosive. He didn’t have doubts. But... I was burning out under all of it.” He hesitated, swirling the remaining whisky in his glass. “I was doing shots before interviews. Picking fights with my team. Hooking up with strangers who didn’t even know my real name. And the scary part was, it worked. People loved it. Ate it up. ‘Jackson Wang’s reinvention!’ They thought I’d found myself.”
Heather didn’t interrupt. Just leaned into his side, listening.
“I remember standing backstage once in Paris, crowd screaming, lights going nuts — and I just felt nothing. Like I was watching someone else wear my face.”
A beat of silence.
“That’s when I realized,” he said, bitter, “my music is mine, yeah. The lyrics, the sound — that’s me. But the career? It’s never been mine. It belongs to expectations. Labels. Markets. Fans. Everyone but me.”
Heather looked up at him. “Then why keep doing it?”
He smiled, soft and sad. “Because when I’m alone in a studio, with nothing but a melody in my head — I still love it. I still need it. It’s the only thing that ever made me feel understood, even when I didn’t have the words.”
She exhaled through her nose, her hand squeezing his.
“So maybe the problem,” she said gently, “isn’t the music. It’s the mask you think you have to wear to keep making it.”
Jackson’s eyes flicked to hers. She wasn’t judging. Wasn’t trying to fix him.
Just... there.
He swallowed. “I don’t know how to keep being Jackson Wang, the artist, without losing Jackson, the person.”
Heather reached out, curling her fingers around his. “C’mon,” she said softly. “Let's get you up.”
“What—”
“You’re crumpled like a collapsed mannequin and it’s bumming me out -- no offence.” Her voice was light, but the look in her eyes was anything but. She tugged gently, and after a beat, he let her help him up. He stumbled slightly and she caught him by the waist, grounding him, steadying his weight with surprising strength for her size.
She led him into the living room, flipping on a warm, soft light as they passed. The couch welcomed them like a sigh. She made him sit, tossing a knit blanket over his lap before settling in beside him.
Jackson exhaled, head falling back against the cushion. “I should’ve known better.”
“Hey -- it's so easy to get caught up in the pandemonium. It's happened to so many quote-unquote 'celebrities' out there.” Heather said simply. “And everybody rags on them because of their lifestyle and shit, and people are finally coming to see just how much of a toll that takes on mental health. That’s not a weakness.”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at the ceiling, like it had answers he couldn’t find.
“She said this,” he added after a long pause, “what we’re doing—won’t last. Said eventually, I’ll have to be Magic Man again. And I'll have to leave.”
Heather didn’t react right away. Then she leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees.
“Do you believe her?”
He turned to look at her. Vulnerable. Scared, even if he didn’t say it.
She was quiet. Thoughtful.
Then: “You don’t have to be Magic Man all the time.” she said.
Jackson blinked.
“I like Jackson,” she said, softer now. “The guy who bickers with me over dumplings and geeks out over Castlevania . The one who tries to act cool but has feelings like a tsunami under the surface. Who gets drunk at 3am and will still give food to his bitchy neighbour as apology.” She smiled faintly. “That guy’s kind of a mess. But he’s fun.”
He let out a shaky breath, some of the tension bleeding from his body.
Heather nudged his knee with hers. “And don't listen to that bitch. Or anyone else. You know what's best for you. And sometimes... what's best for you means being a fucking dick to others. You have to protect yourself.”
He let out a hoarse laugh — quiet, but genuine, "You may have a point, there."
"It happens now and again," she smiled back.
Jackson smiled too, then leaned his forehead against hers. They stayed like that — breathing the same air, quietly coexisting — until the chaos settled to a hush.
“Thanks,” he murmured. “For... finding me.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Well. Someone has to rescue you from your melodramatic spiral.” she smiled, genuinely so.
His fingers brushed over hers, lacing together.
They didn't bother moving from that spot. The night carried on, and slowly, the city below them got quieter. But the lamp next to the couch remained, glowing warmly.
Heather curled against Jackson on the couch, his arm slung loosely around her shoulders, her hand tucked over his chest. He smelled like old whisky and something distinctively him — cedarwood, salt, and warmth. The tension in his body had softened, his breath evening out as the weight of the night finally wore him down.
She didn’t sleep right away.
Her cheek rested against his shirt as her mind ticked away, quietly cataloguing everything he’d told her. About Lia. About the burnout. About being adored by the world and yet feeling so alone inside it. She’d never seen him like that — raw, jagged around the edges, fragile and unsure. The confident, witty Jackson was still there, buried somewhere under exhaustion and long-ingrained depression.
And yet... this version of him was the best. Maybe even more.
Her thumb moved slowly, unconsciously tracing a line across his chest. In that moment, with his fingers tangled gently in the ends of her hair, she knew he wasn’t trying to impress her. He wasn’t posturing or charming or deflecting. He was just... human.
And it undid something in her.
She didn’t need him to be invincible. She just needed him to be honest.
And he was — in the messiest, most vulnerable way possible. No armor, no deflection, no half-smirks or clever jabs to soften the edges. Just Jackson, cracked wide open and trying to hold himself together with a bottle of whisky and raw conviction. And she hadn’t looked away.
Maybe that’s what scared her the most.
She told herself it was nothing. That it didn’t mean anything, not really — falling asleep like this, pressed against his side, letting his breath lull her into stillness. But the truth curled up quietly in her chest, warm and unwelcome all at once.
She cared about him, she had for a while.
Not just in the casual, no-strings way they’d sworn to each other. Not just in the this-is-fun-and-you’re-hot-and-we-click kind of way. No, this was different. This was late-night confessions and silent understanding. This was her fingers brushing over his heartbeat without thinking. This was her wanting to take some of the weight he carried and shoulder it herself.
Her eyes stayed open for a few moments longer, staring at the soft fabric of his shirt beneath her cheek. If she let herself really think about it, she’d spiral. So instead, she let her thumb trace another small circle over his chest, grounding herself in the simplicity of his presence.
Eventually, her eyes slipped shut.
But even as she drifted, the truth lingered quietly at the edges of her mind: She was in trouble. Real, actual trouble. And for once, she wasn’t sure she minded.
The morning sun crept in through the slats of the blinds, painting pale golden stripes across the living room floor and the bodies tangled on the couch. Jackson stirred first, groggy and stiff, but warm. The scent of her hair hit him first — faintly floral, a little like vanilla and shampoo and sleep — and for a few disoriented seconds, he didn’t move.
Heather was curled into his side like she’d always belonged there. One leg thrown over his, her fingers loosely tucked against his chest. Her brow was softly furrowed, lips parted, breath slow and even. She looked peaceful. Maybe the only time he’d seen her like this — no retort cocked, no armor up, just… Heather.
He swallowed against the tight knot rising in his throat.
She’d seen him come apart last night. All of it. Not just the breakdown — the real pieces, the cracked ones he didn’t show anyone. And she hadn’t flinched. She hadn’t shut down or slipped out the door when things got too heavy. She’d just stayed.
Jackson breathed out slowly and reached for the throw blanket with careful precision, draping it over both of them without disturbing the small cocoon they’d made. Then he lay back again, staring up at the ceiling as the morning light swam quietly across it.
Gratitude and dread churned low in his stomach.
He wanted this — God, he wanted her. Not just in the way he’d told himself he could handle. Not just the heat or the thrill or the smirking power struggle. He wanted the quiet mornings. The stillness. The way she fit against him like puzzle pieces no one had ever bothered to match before.
And that scared the hell out of him.
Because Lia’s voice was still in his head, coiled like a snake around all his worst doubts.
She won’t follow you. She won’t last. You’ll have to choose.
He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes for a second, breathing through the sting in his chest.
Beside him, Heather made a soft, unconscious noise and burrowed closer, her nose brushing his collarbone. One of her fingers curled slightly, catching in the hem of his shirt like she was anchoring herself in him.
And just like that, the noise in his head went quiet.
Maybe he didn’t have to solve all of it right now.
Maybe, just for today, it was enough to lie here with her and let the morning hold them.
Heather stepped out of the building with a sigh that practically echoed off the pavement. The glass doors slid shut behind her like they couldn’t get rid of her fast enough, and honestly, the feeling was mutual. She tugged her hoodie sleeves over her hands, muttering under her breath about the junior devs who couldn’t debug their way out of a paper bag and the client who thought HTML was a type of medication.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Jackson lit up her screen, a message accompanied by an a pinged address.
Come meet me. Don't ask, just trust me.
She narrowed her eyes at the words, then the location, suspicious immediately. Trust him? That was a gamble. But curiosity itched under her skin like static. She chewed her bottom lip for a moment, then thumbed back a response.
If this is another “surprise taco stand” situation where you try to convince me liver is a delicacy, I’m gonna kill you and sell your organs.
He sent back a winking emoji. Infuriating.
Ten minutes later, she found him waiting on a street corner, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, toque pulled low. He was doing that thing again—looking like he hadn’t tried at all but somehow still managing to stop pedestrian traffic with a single glance.
“Hey,” he greeted, grinning. “Rough day?”
“I’ve threatened to throw a monitor out a window. Twice.” She stuffed her hands into her jacket. “Where are we going?”
He just extended a hand.
She squinted at him. “This isn’t going to end in me being arrested, is it?”
“No promises,” he said, his smirk akin to the very devil he could be.
Heather rolled her eyes but let him take her hand. It was warm. Steady. Annoyingly comforting.
He didn’t say much as they walked, weaving them down a few side streets and across an avenue, eyes twinkling with every step like he was five seconds from laughing at his own private joke. Heather kept pace beside him, tossing barbs just to keep herself from getting too soft at the way his thumb brushed over her knuckles.
But then they stopped.
She blinked at the storefront, looked at him, then back at the sign.
"Jackson Wang."
"Yes, Heather Okimaw?"
“You did not just bring me to a fucking sex shop.”
Jackson’s grin was a study in shamelessness. “Technically, I’m in the process of bringing you in.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Accurate,” he said, and pushed the door open.
The little bell overhead jingled. Heather hesitated for half a second, then followed, one eyebrow arched so high it could’ve rivaled her eyeliner wing.
Inside, the lighting was dim, the displays tasteful, and the scent of vanilla-something hung faintly in the air. Heather’s eyes scanned the walls—lingerie, toys, lubes, harnesses, things she’d definitely scrolled past online at three in the morning but never seen in person. Her cheeks warmed, but not with embarrassment.
She stepped closer to a display and leaned in conspiratorially. “Is this your way of saying our situation is getting boring?”
"Oh, absolutely not." Jackson stepped behind her, voice a low hum at her ear. “Just thought we could... expand the toolkit.”
Heather snorted. “You have way too much fun planning these things.”
“You’re not saying no.”
She turned to face him, tilting her head. “You’re lucky I already own a toy. Or I’d assume you thought I was boring.”
He chuckled. “You? Boring? Not even close.” he leaned in even closer, his breath prickling at her ear, "But why have I not known about your little helper until now?"
"I got to keep some secrets to myself." Heather smirked and ran a finger along a velvet box. “So, what exactly did you have in mind, Daddy?”
Jackson nearly choked on his laugh. “I'm warning you, Heather”
“Whatever you say, Da--" he hand clapped over her mouth before she could get the words out, much to her delight.
Heather trailed her fingers along a shelf lined with sleek, glossy devices—some curved, some bejeweled, some vaguely intimidating. “Okay, some of these look like they’re meant to summon demons.”
Jackson raised his eyebrows at one particularly serpentine model. “That one might actually be sentient.”
A quiet laugh broke from the counter. A store clerk, probably in her thirties with magenta bangs and a pierced brow, stepped out from behind the register. “Need a tour guide?”
Heather glanced over her shoulder. “We’re exploring. And possibly be intimidated.”
“I can work with that.” The clerk strolled over, casual and friendly. “Looking for anything specific? Stimulation? Power? Something for couples?”
Jackson gave Heather a sly look. “What do you think? Teamwork?”
Heather rolled her eyes but didn’t protest. “Sure. Teamwork. Nothing that plugs into a wall, please.”
The clerk nodded, already scanning the shelves like a seasoned curator. “You want something you can both use—either solo or together. This one’s a customer favorite.” She picked up a discreet, black silicone toy, compact but clearly engineered with thought. “It’s waterproof, remote-controlled, rechargeable. And it comes with a magnetic underwear attachment. Good balance of power and precision.”
Heather turned it over in her hand, brow arching. “Underwear attachment?”
"Yeah." she pulled a small circle from the toy, demonstrating its magnetism to the rest of the device, "The back side sits on the clit and the magnet keeps it in place."
Jackson leaned in. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That you absolutely cannot be trusted with that level of power?” she replied sweetly.
“I would be the picture of restraint.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, but she didn’t put it down.
The clerk smirked. “It comes with a matching cock ring too, if you want to spice up date night. It's all very discreet, of course”
Heather blinked. Jackson raised a brow.
“Discreet,” she repeated, deadpan. “Is that a challenge?”
Jackson's grin spread like wildfire. “If it is, I accept.”
Heather shook her head, biting back a smile, then turned to the clerk. “We’ll take both.”
The woman nodded, already leading them back to the register. “Good choice. Just don’t operate 'em in church. Or do. I don’t judge.”
Jackson laughed, hand brushing against the small of Heather’s back as they followed. “You sure you’re okay with this?”
Heather glanced at him. “I walked in here, didn’t I?”
“You nearly smacked me on the sidewalk.”
“Only because you looked so smug about it.”
He grinned. “So, what do you want to name it?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Definitely not Jackson Jr.”
His laughter echoed through the store, and for once, Heather didn’t care that someone else was watching them. She was too busy enjoying the fact that, for all her walls and rules and independence, she was walking out of a sex shop with the first person in a long time who made her feel like play was worth the risk.
Back at Heather’s place, the door had barely clicked shut before Jackson was on her—his mouth crashing into hers with a hunger that had her gasping against his lips. One hand tangled in her hair, the other sliding under her jacket, pushing it down her arms like it offended him by still being there.
She laughed into his mouth, breath stuttering as she stumbled backward, tugging his shirt with her. “You’ve got a one-track mind.”
“We bought a toy,” he murmured against her neck, kissing just below her ear, making her shiver. “I like to play with new toys.”
“We never do grow up,” she quipped—right before he bent and swept her off her feet.
She yelped, arms looping around his shoulders. “Jackson!”
He grinned, wicked and pleased with himself. “What? I missed this body pressed up against me.”
“I saw you eight hours ago.”
“Too long,” he growled, walking them down the hallway. “Way too long.”
By the time they reached the bedroom, she was half out of her clothes and he was already hard against her thigh. He set her down just long enough to finish stripping, neither of them bothering to fold or toss things neatly. Her hoodie hit the floor. His sweatpants followed.
By the time they reached the bedroom, Heather was half out of her clothes and Jackson was already hard against her thigh. He set her down just long enough to strip off his hoodie and sweats, tossing them wherever they landed. She went to peel off her panties, but his hand stopped her.
“Leave them,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “Magnetic attachment. Remember?”
The reminder sent a pulse of heat straight through her. He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out the sleek black box like it was contraband, popping it open with the kind of anticipation that made her breath catch.
He reached into his jacket pocket and held up the sleek black box. “Still game?”
Heather snatched it from him, pupils blown wide. “Offended you even asked.”
She was already crawling backwards on the bed, tugging him with her by the waistband of his boxers. “Let’s see what this thing can do.”
Jackson crawled onto the bed after her, a low growl of anticipation in his throat. Heather's heart pounded as she tore open the box, pulling out the toy and the remote. She handed the remote to Jackson, a challenge in her eyes.
"Remember, restraint," she warned, but her voice was already breathless.
He took the remote, a smirk playing on his lips. "Scout's honor," he murmured, turning it over in his hand.
Heather arched an eyebrow. "You were never a scout."
"You're right," he conceded, switching on the remote. The toy hummed to life in her palm, and before she could say another word, he took it from her, brushing his fingers against hers in a way that made her stomach flip.
Instead of going straight for the kill, Jackson started slow—deliberate. He ran the toy along the column of her throat, letting the vibration thrum against her pulse point. Down over her collarbone. Between her breasts.
Her breath caught when he circled one nipple, the hum amplifying against the metal of her piercing until she arched involuntarily. He repeated it on the other side, his eyes never leaving hers, taking in every twitch, every gasp.
“Tease,” she breathed.
“Just warming up,” he murmured, his smirk slow and shameless.
He slid the toy down her stomach, dipping briefly into her navel before tracing the sensitive line of her hip. Then he hooked a finger in the waistband of her panties, tugging them just enough to slip the small magnetic disc into place. The toy clicked in snugly against her clit, held perfectly by the fabric.
Heather’s hips jerked when he thumbed the remote, starting the vibration on a low, lazy pulse.
“Jackson—” her voice hitched, half warning, half plea.
He increased the speed, letting the rhythm change just as she started to find it, forcing her body to chase the sensation. He watched her like she was a performance meant for him alone, his free hand teasing along her ribs, then down to grip her thigh and hold her open.
The hum grew more insistent, and she writhed against the sheets, fingers knotting in the blanket. Just when her breathing went ragged, he dialed it back again, the sudden absence making her groan in frustration.
“God, you’re mean,” she panted.
“You like it,” he said, leaning in close enough that his lips ghosted her ear. “I like watching you try to hold it together.”
Her nails dug into his forearm as he kicked it back up—harder this time—pressing the toy firmly against her through the thin fabric. The pressure, the relentless rhythm, the way his eyes devoured her every reaction…it was almost too much.
When he finally slid his hand under the edge of her panties to touch her directly alongside the vibration, her whole body jolted. Her back arched off the bed, a broken sound tearing from her throat as he pushed her higher, then higher still.
And Jackson? He just kept watching, his smirk curling at the corner of his mouth like he could drag this out forever.
Her body was trembling now, the toy’s relentless hum pulsing through her, Jackson’s fingers working in slow, deliberate counterpoint. Every nerve ending felt raw, strung tight, ready to snap.
Then—suddenly—he eased the pressure, thumbed the setting down until it was barely a whisper against her clit.
Her eyes flew open. “What the hell—”
“Maybe we should slow down,” he drawled, his voice maddeningly calm, like they weren’t both half-naked and vibrating with need. “You’ve had a long day. Don’t want you to overdo it.”
She glared at him, breathless. “Fuck off.”
That earned her nothing but a smug quirk of his mouth—and silence as he cut the toy completely.
Heather made a frustrated, strangled noise, arching against him. “Jackson.”
He only raised a brow, tracing a lazy circle along the inside of her thigh with his fingertips. “Gonna try that again?”
She clenched the sheets in her fists, her pride battling the pounding between her legs. The seconds stretched, his gaze locked on her, and finally—finally—she exhaled a sharp, “Please.”
“Please… what?” His voice was velvet and smoke.
“Please turn it back on,” she ground out, every word an admission she hated and craved at the same time.
His smirk deepened as he thumbed the remote back to life. The toy surged against her clit, and she gasped, the sudden rush of sensation making her toes curl.
This time, he didn’t hold back. He kept her panties on, pressing the toy against her so every flicker of vibration hit her right where she was desperate for it, his fingers slipping lower to tease her folds through the damp fabric. The contrast—the soft, barely-there brush of his touch against the ruthless pulse of the toy—was unbearable.
Her hips moved helplessly against him, chasing the pleasure, her breath breaking in short, ragged bursts. Jackson’s free hand slid up her body, palming one breast, thumb toying with her piercing until she moaned, deep and raw.
“That’s it,” he murmured, leaning close so his words ghosted over her mouth. “Take it for me.”
She barely registered the sound of her own voice, high and wrecked, as the tension pulled and twisted inside her.
Jackson’s fingers were merciless, teasing her folds through the fabric of her panties, while the toy buzzed relentlessly against her clit. Every press, every flick of vibration, made her muscles knot tighter, and he leaned close, letting her feel the heat of his chest against hers.
“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Look at you, shivering for me. You love this, don’t you? Can’t get enough, can you?”
Heather’s back arched, head thrown back, lips parted in a ragged gasp. “Jackson—fuck, yes—oh god,” she hissed, voice breaking with need.
He smirked, brushing his thumb over her nipple piercings, rolling them with the toy still pressed hard against her clit. “Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got. You’re barely starting, aren’t you? Or is that just the tip of it, little tornado?”
Her hips jerked involuntarily, almost bucking against him. “Shut up,” she moaned, breathless, “don’t—don’t stop.”
“Shut up?” he teased, tilting his head, lips brushing her ear. “Honey, you’re trembling, shaking, soaked—shut up means I get to slow down. Maybe let you catch your breath.”
Heather’s hands clutched the sheets. “Fuck,” she hissed, voice cracking. “Don’t you dare—don’t stop.”
Jackson chuckled darkly, letting the vibration cut for a second, teasing her relentlessly with just his fingers now. Her whole body quivered, a helpless shiver running through her, and her eyes snapped to his.
“Beg for it,” he said simply, smirk widening, eyes dark and hungry. “Tell me you need it back. Tell me you can’t fucking stand it.”
Heather’s chest heaved. “Please, Jackson… please, put it back on—don’t tease me anymore,” she gasped, voice trembling with desperation.
“Ah,” he murmured, pressing the toy again, even harder now, while his other hand spread her folds through the panties. “That’s better. See how good you feel? All hot and wet for me. I love watching you lose it.”
Her legs quivered, her hips lifting, body teetering on the edge as every buzz, every press, every whisper of his voice pushed her closer. Her head lolled back, nails clawing into the mattress as the world narrowed to him and the merciless, delicious pressure between her legs.
“Jackson, I—oh god, I’m—” Her words dissolved into a strangled moan, her body shuddering violently as she came hard, folds clenching around his fingers, juices soaking the vibrating toy. She cried out, every nerve on fire, and he held her through it, eyes tracking every twitch, every gasp, every trembling arc of her hips.
When her shaking subsided, Jackson pulled the toy away just enough to kiss her deeply, taste her, and tease a soft chuckle against her lips. “Jesus, you’re incredible,” he murmured, his hands lingering on her skin, thumb brushing over her clit once more as she shivered from residual pleasure. “I could watch you do that all day.”
Heather gasped, half-laughing, half-collapsing against him. “You’re evil,” she whispered, breathless, body still humming from release.
“And you love every second,” he replied, voice low and smug, lips ghosting over her collarbone. “It's okay, though. I won't make you say it out loud.”
Jackson slid up beside her, shifting to bring their bodies flush together, his breath hot and quick against her damp skin. She lay there, heart pounding from the aftershocks, still catching her breath when he drew her close, pulling her deeply with him into the heat of the moment. Her limbs were liquid, her senses still spinning from the rush he'd given her, and she could feel his desire pressed hard against her hip.
He kissed her again, a long, unhurried exploration that sent shivers down her spine and reignited the passion in her veins. She was slipping back into a haze of longing when he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, a playful challenge in his gaze.
"You want more?" he murmured, daring her to say it.
Heather’s lips curved into a smirk, eyes still glazed from the aftermath of her climax. "What do you think?" she retorted, her voice a sultry purr. She shifted slightly, pressing her thigh against his erection, delighting in the sharp intake of his breath.
Jackson’s hand slid down to her hips, tugging gently at the waistband of her panties. “Let’s see if we can make this a bit more… direct,” he murmured, teasing as he peeled the fabric down her legs. Heather lifted her hips, helping him, until the last piece of clothing pooled at her ankles.
His eyes darkened, tracing every curve of her exposed skin. “Perfect,” he murmured, his hand cupping her jaw, thumb brushing against her cheekbone. “You’re a glutton for punishment, you know that?”
She nipped at his thumb, eyes locking on his. “You certainly seemed to enjoy doling it out,” she teased breathlessly.
He chuckled, a low, hungry rumble vibrating through her. “Guilty as charged.”
He brought the vibrator down against her again, this time unmediated by any fabric, amplifying the intensity. The hum pulsed deep inside her, traveling through every nerve ending, igniting every inch of her. Heather’s breath hitched, her body a live wire, unable to resist the waves of bliss he drew out.
Her muscles clenched and bucked, hips arching, hands fisting into his shoulders for leverage. “Jackson—oh god—” she gasped, voice breaking between moan and plea, every inch of her trembling.
He pressed the toy firmly against her clit, fingers dipping inside her, eliciting a strangled gasp as she arched harder, helpless under his touch. Her inner muscles fluttered and tightened, pulling at him, and he grinned against her skin, intoxicated by the sight.
“Let go, Heather,” he murmured, voice low and commanding, a shiver of lust threading through each word. “I’ve got you.”
Her eyes locked onto his, wild and bright, before her orgasm crashed over her. She screamed his name, body convulsing, waves of pleasure crashing from core to fingertips. He rode out her climax with meticulous patience, savoring every shiver, every gasp, every helpless moan, before slowly withdrawing his hand and switching off the toy.
Tossing it aside, he gathered her trembling form into his arms, holding her tightly as she came down from her high. Her heart had pounded wildly against his chest, still in turmoil from her recent release. He gave her a moment's rest, her breath hot against his skin, before the irresistible urge to please him took over. Heather wanted to try the ring part of the toy on him, eager for him to feel every tremor that had just unraveled her.
Her limbs untangled from his as she reached for the box again, her fingers still shaky from the aftershocks. She pulled out the ring implement, switching it on with a wicked grin. She could already envision him squirming, his hips bucking helplessly.
Jackson arched an eyebrow, eyes flashing with interest as she straddled his legs. "Ready for round two?" she purred, her voice still breathless but tinged with a teasing edge. Heather was not the only one feeling a bit insatiable.
He let out a sound that was half-groan, half-laugh, anticipation etched on his face. "I thought you'd never ask," he growled, pulling off his boxers and tossing them aside.
Heather's eyes gleamed with mischief as she slid the ring down his length, the cool silicone making him hiss with anticipation. She toggled the settings, finding a rhythm that made his hips jerk upward, seeking more. His hands gripped her thighs, fingers digging into her soft flesh as he gritted his teeth, trying to maintain some semblance of control.
"How's that feel?" she asked, her voice a sultry tease. She leaned down, her breasts pressing against his chest, her lips brushing against his ear. "Think you can handle it?"
Jackson's breath was ragged, his body already slick with sweat. "You're playing with fire, Heather," he growled, but there was no denying the pleasure etched on his face.
She smirked, sitting back up and admiring the view. His body was taut, muscles straining as he fought to keep his hips from bucking wildly. She could see the struggle in his eyes, the mix of pleasure and torment that made her smirk grow even more wicked. She leaned down again, her hair falling around them like a curtain, her lips trailing kisses along his jawline.
"Don't threaten me with a good time," she whispered, her tongue flicking against his earlobe. She reached down, her fingers wrapping around him, stroking him in tandem with the vibrations of the ring. Jackson's groan was low and guttural, his body trembling beneath her touch.
She could feel his pulse quickening, his breath coming in shorter gasps. His hands moved from her thighs to her hips, gripping her tightly as he began to move with her, his body chasing the sensation she was building within him. Heather sat up, her eyes locked onto his as his hips started to match her rhythm, his body surrendering to the relentless waves of pleasure. She could see the tension building in his jaw, the tendons in his neck straining as he held back, trying to prolong the moment. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire, and they never left hers, even as his body began to shake.
"Heather," he ground out, her name a guttural plea on his lips. She could feel him throbbing in her hand, the pulsing of the ring intensifying his every sensation. His grip on her hips tightened, almost painfully so, but she didn't care. She was intoxicated by the power she had over him, the ability to draw out these primal, desperate responses.
She leaned down again, her mouth crashing against his in a fierce, hungry kiss. He met her with equal fervor, his tongue clashing with hers, his hands roamed her body, gripping her ass, her breasts, any part of her he could reach as if she were the only thing anchoring him to the earth. She could feel his heart pounding against hers, his body trembling as she continued to stroke him, the vibrations from the ring driving him closer to the edge.
In an urgent, almost frenzied shift, Jackson rolled them over, his form enveloping hers with a swift, determined movement. Heather let out a breathy gasp, her back landing softly on the mattress as he nestled between her thighs, his gaze intense and fervent. "I need you," he breathed, his voice thick with longing. "All of you."
She entwined her legs around his waist, drawing him nearer, the subtle hum of the ring vibrating against her delicate skin. Her eyes fluttered shut as he slid into her, filling every inch. They both moaned, their bodies locked in a tight embrace, the toy nestled between them amplifying each sensation as he desired to climax with the ring still buzzing.
His pace was slow at first, deliberate, allowing her to feel every inch of him as he moved. Heather's nails dug into his back, her hips rising to meet his thrusts, their bodies finding a rhythm that was theirs alone. The vibration of the ring pulsed between them, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her veins, building her up again, impossibly, to another climax.
Jackson's lips found hers, his kiss hungry and desperate, swallowing her moans as their bodies moved as one. Heather could feel his heart pounding against her chest, his breath hot and ragged on her skin. She clung to him, her body tightening around him, drawing him deeper, urging him faster.
He broke away from her lips, his breath coming in short gasps, his forehead pressed against hers. "Heather," he whispered, her name a reverent prayer on his lips, his voice so full of need it sent a shiver down her spine. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close as their bodies rocked together, the intensity of the ring pushing them both to the brink.
"Don't stop," she panted, her voice breathless and desperate. She could feel her body tightening, the coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter within her. Jackson's grip on her tightened in response, his body shaking with the effort of holding back his own release. Every thrust was deliberate, every kiss a brand, every touch a spark that threatened to ignite them both.
The room filled with their shared gasps and moans, the air thick with the scent of their passion. Heather's eyes met Jackson's, and she saw her own desperation reflected back at her. His thumb found her clit, circling it in time with his thrusts, and she felt her body begin to unravel. The coil of pleasure snapped, sending her spiraling into another orgasm, this one even more intense than the last. Her body clenched around him, her nails digging into his flesh as she cried out his name, her voice hoarse from her screams of ecstasy.
Jackson watched her come undone beneath him, her face flushed and eyes glazed with passion. He felt her body milk his, the pulsing of her orgasm pushing him over the edge. With a final thrust, he buried himself deep within her, his own climax tearing through him with a force that left him shaking. He groaned her name, his body convulsing as he spilled into her, the vibration of the ring intensifying every wave of his release.
They clung to each other in the aftermath, their bodies slick with sweat and their chests heaving as they rode out the waves of their shared climax. The room was filled with the sound of their ragged breaths, the air thick with the musk of their passion. Jackson's body was heavy on top of her, his weight a comforting pressure that kept her grounded as she floated down from the high of her orgasm.
As their breathing slowly returned to normal, Jackson pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips. Heather sighed into his kiss, her body relaxing into the mattress as he rolled off her, disposing of the ring before pulling her into his side. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as his fingers traced lazy patterns on her shoulder.
"Well," Heather said after a few moments, her voice still breathless but regaining some of its usual edge. "That was... thorough."
Jackson huffed a laugh, the vibration rumbling beneath her ear. “You make it sound like we're giving performance reviews.”
Heather tilted her head to glance up at him, her lips curling into a sly grin. “I mean, if I had a clipboard, I’d be giving you a solid A-minus.”
“A-minus?” he echoed, lifting a brow. “What’d I lose points for?”
“Too much smugness,” she replied, poking his side gently. “And using the phrase ‘play with new toys’ like a walking sex-positive PSA.”
He grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Heather picked up on it immediately. His face had settled into that neutral, unreadable expression she was slowly learning to spot — the one he wore when he thought too much and shared too little. His fingers were still moving over her skin, but absentmindedly now, more mechanical than affectionate.
Her brows drew together.
“You good?” she asked, her voice quieter this time, more sincere.
Jackson blinked like she’d shaken him out of a trance. “Yeah,” he said quickly, then softer, “Yeah. Just... thoroughly put out.”
Heather narrowed her eyes. “That supposed to be a euphemism?”
“Absolutely not,” he deadpanned. “I’m exhausted. In a good way. You're a lot of fun.”
She rolled her eyes and snorted, letting it go—for now. But her gut twisted. She wasn’t sure if it was leftover endorphins or something else entirely, something she didn’t want to name just yet.
Still, she stayed tucked against him. Close enough to feel the tension in his chest, the occasional hitch in his breath. Her fingers idly traced a line over the slope of his ribs.
If he didn’t want to talk, she wouldn’t push.
But she was starting to wonder just how much longer they could go on pretending this was simple.
