#jake drabbles

[junsfriend]

loyal puppy — sjy

SUMMARY: Ever since your boyfriend Jake transformed from his nerdy high-school self into the university's star football player, you've become everything you thought you’d never be. Jealous. Anxious. Clingy. But Jake really doesn't mind your newfound possessiveness. He encourages it, even. So when he defies expectations again to star in a musical with a stunning costar, you spiral. Now, the “lowkey” relationship you once insisted on gets jeopardized under the weight of your own insecurities.

PAIRING: popular!jake x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 26k+

GENRE: secret!relationship au, university!au, grumpy gf x sunshine bf (?), smut, angst, fluff, some toxic themes

WARNINGS: mdni, nsfw, porn with plot, tsundere!reader, lowkey crazy!reader, whipped!Jake, lowkey masochist!bf Jake, switch!Jake, emotional constipation, he want that cookie bad, jealousy, avoidancy, football = soccer, unsafe/unprotected sex, cursing, sweat, dacryphilia, storage closet sex, lots of biting/marking, 69, cumplay, jewelry play, begging, failed pull-out method, creampie, squirting, lmk if i missed anything

A/N: Not to pick a favorite child but… I loved writing this fic so much. 

a year ago.

It’s the last year of high school, on a relatively normal walk back home. The same cracked sidewalks, the same autumn breeze, the same shy boy matching his steps beside you like he always did. Just like any other day. 

Until he decided to ruin it.

“Do you wanna… like, date?” Jake asked suddenly, hands shoved deep into his uniform pants pockets, trying too hard to sound nonchalant. “You know… put a label on us. Or whatever.”

You remember almost running away out of pure instinct, soul escaping your body. But instead, you laughed. Because what the fuck was he on about?

You? Jake? Date?

The two of you were barely even supposed to be friends. He's a straight-A student teachers constantly compared you to, with those thick-rimmed black glasses glued to his face and unkempt bowl of hair. A striker on the football team who watched matches from the sidelines just as much as you did… and you weren't on the team.

And on the other hand, there’s you. Not-so-pleasant you. Considered a troublemaker because you always showed up late to class, talked back to ill-meaning adults, and picked fights with boys who catcalled too much. A rumor spread through school that your dad was a terrifying loan shark with gang ties. He’s a banker.

Assigned classroom cleaning duties was what brought you two together in the first place. It wasn’t fate. Nothing notable. You more or less picked him up on your shoulder and claimed him as a personal assistant. Someone who would fetch you water when you’re thirsty or give you answers to math problems when you were too lazy to solve them yourself. 

So why in the world did he think you two should date?

“Who put you up to this?” you wheezed between bursts of cackling. “I’m gonna beat their ass.”

Jake scratched the back of his head, clearly not amused.

“I mean… You and me?” you continued, tears of laughter blurred your vision. “We would make the worst couple ever—”

“I don’t think so.”

You froze mid-step. Jake had slowed his strides down a long time ago, but now he was completely still. You turned to find him a few steps behind, face flushed and hands by his sides. 

He’s holding something. A small, turquoise box. One that looked suspiciously like…

You felt like throwing up.

“I-I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he stammered. “What it’d be like if I were your boyfriend. If we… went on dates and stuff.”

Oh, hell no.

It’s like an immediate sense of panic overcame your body. And before your brain could process a single rational thought, you broke out into a sprint. Running down the street like a maniac. In hindsight, you probably should’ve known that you couldn’t outrun an athlete. But you weren’t really thinking, period. 

You feel a tug on your waist. Jake had already caught up to you. He spun you around, like the male leads do in those stupid romcoms, and pulled you into him. His face was close. Too close. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose, and a bead of sweat clung to his temple. And it wasn’t from running.

It was from you.

He looked nervous. Ridiculously nervous.

The ring box pressed into your back, and you put your palms sternly against his chest, trying to create some distance between you two. It wasn’t helping.

“Jake,” you warned. “Let go of me or I scream.”

He shook his head, his arms only wrapped tighter around you. “Only if you promise you won’t run,” he replied, a sort of desperation laced in his voice. “And that you’ll listen to what I have to say.”

You bit your bottom lip, suddenly too aware of his intense gaze and how they searched yours through those big, fat lenses. You gave a small nod, not trusting your voice to come out right. The moment his grip loosened, you broke your agreement almost immediately. Your feet moved on their own, like fight-or-flight, as you tried to rush out of his arms. But he was one step ahead of you, grabbing your wrist to bring you back right where you were.

“Really?” he asked, exhausted. “That’s not gonna work a second time.”

You glared, but your eyes betrayed you. They slid down to the turquoise ring box, still in his hand. Jake's eyes flickered in the same direction, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“I can put it away if it’s freaking you out,” he muttered, slipping it back into his pocket. You almost let out a sigh of relief, but not when his large hand was still wrapped around your wrist.

“...Thank you,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on the ground. “Now make it quick.”

Jake's heart constricted. ‘The worst thing she could say is no!’ the internet had told him. This was a lot worse, actually!

“[Y/N],” he started sharply, and the sound of your name on his lips sent shivers down your spine. He released you, only to set both his hands on your shoulders, guiding your gaze up to meet his.

“I… I think—” He stopped, inhaling a deep breath. “No. I know. I… really… really… l-like you.”

His voice was as shaky as his hands, and for a brief second, almost every part of you wanted to knock him out with your backpack because your heart was beating too loud in your chest. It pissed you off. But you held back and just… stared.

Jake, ever the hopeless romantic, had fallen for you the moment you asked him to clean the entire classroom alone while you skipped duties to hang out with your friends. He said yes, only because he has a hard time saying no, especially to someone he found so pretty. But then you laughed and told him you were joking. Told him not to bend over backwards just to please other people. Spent time with him that day when usually, others paid him no attention.

He was enamored ever since. 

But the silence between you two was suffocating, heavy enough to stall his breathing. Jake’s palms were growing damp against the fabric of your uniform blazer, and his heart felt like it was ready to fall to the floor. Maybe this was a bad time to do it. Or maybe the ring really freaked you out. Was it too big a gesture? The WikiHow tutorial he consulted had told him to bring a gift, after all. 

“Hello?” Jake’s voice cut through your thoughts. He gave your shoulders a tiny shake, trying to pull you out of your entranced state.

“Hm? Sorry… say that again? I don’t think I heard you…”

Jake’s expression fell as he dropped his hands back to his sides in defeat.

“Okay,” he muttered, voice small. It wasn’t worth it. Everything went off script anyway. “Never mind. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

He brushed past you, shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets again. He was fidgeting with the ring box, wishing he could throw it into the nearest bushes. God, he felt dumb. So fucking dumb.

Of course you’d say no! He was nobody. Just Jake. Just some guy you latched onto at the start of high school so you could poke fun at him for the next few years and make him pay for your boba addiction. And you, with your cool-ass friends with eyebrow slits and really underground music tastes. You’re way out of his league—

“Jake,” you called out, surprised at how loud your voice could get if you were desperate. 

He turned around immediately, wearing such a pronounced pout even from a few meters away. Somehow, seeing his face again made your throat close up. He liked you. He really liked you.

“Say it again,” you demanded, arms crossed with doubt written all over your features. “I need to hear you say it one more time.”

You walked toward him until you stood close enough to see the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth. Was this it? Would you actually give him a chance? Jake pressed his lips together and inhaled a deep breath to calm himself. 

“I like you,” he said as softly as a whisper. “Would you… Be my girlfriend?”

You looked at the ground, feigning a calmness when your mind was racing with thoughts too insane to vocalize. When you finally looked up again, your heart betrayed you. It skipped a beat at the way his gaze fell on yours, wide and hopeful. It almost hurt. He was too bright, too cute.

(Okay, so what if you liked him back. He didn’t have to know that.)

“Sure,” you said, forcing your voice to sound casual. Jake froze.

Then his entire face lit up. Suddenly, he was grinning from ear to ear, jumping in place like a dog begging for a treat. “Really? Like really? You’ll go out with me?!”

He took your hands in his, tenderly. Like he wasn't entirely sure the moment was real. You felt the dampness of his palms first, then the tug of his fingers intertwining with yours, like he had already rehearsed this part of his confession a thousand times in his head. Your cheeks warmed.

‘What a weirdo,’ you thought to yourself. It’s not like he’d just won the lottery. What was he so happy about?

“Just don’t make it weird,” you grumbled. “Keep it on the down low.”

Jake’s smile faltered, brows knitting together so tightly you were sure it’d leave a wrinkle on his cute face.

“Like… you don’t want people to know?” he asked, voice quieter now. You nodded, confused by his confusion. 

“Why would anyone need to know?” you asked genuinely. He frowned, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand, silently asking you to reconsider.

“Not even Sunghoon or Jay?”

You scoffed. “Especially Sunghoon and Jay.”

“Why not?” he groaned. You just shrugged.

“I don’t want our dynamic to change just ‘cause we’re dating,” you reassured him, letting go of his hands to ruffle his hair. Like you always do when you tease him. Like that would make it all better. “And all that coupley PDA stuff draws too much attention anyway.”

You’d spent years cultivating your intimidating persona, and in your mind, it was simple. No one else needed to know that you were vulnerable to something as cringe-inducing as dating. The other students would only use it against you. For what? Who knows.

But you could just imagine the teasing glances and whispers in the hallways. If Jake were really serious about dating you, surely he’d be understanding of your aversion towards embarrassment. Right?

He didn't seem entirely convinced. At all. “So… what would be the difference then? Between us now and before?” 

You sighed and stepped past him.

“It's what we'd do in private, you know?” you muttered over your shoulder. “Kissing and all that…”

You didn’t see it, how Jake’s ears completely reddened or how his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers twitched at his side, like he was already imagining what it’d be like to hold you properly. To touch you. To kiss you. Like real couples do.

“D-do you want to see the ring I got you?” he blurted out, catching up to you. “I swear it’s lowkey. It has a ‘J’ engraved inside the band. I got a matching one with your initial, too! No one would even notice if you wore it—”

And you feel your heart thunder in your chest, scaring you into another sudden sprint. “Get the hell away from me, weirdo!” 

Your joined laughter echoed down the street as he chased after you. And even though he could catch up to you, he let you have your fun, staying just a little out of his reach.

–

Jake is very good at obeying orders, always has been. Especially after the first few times you glared at him for accidentally reaching for your hand in the cafeteria. He learned fast.

He tried his best not to show affection publicly, no matter how badly he wanted to wrap his blazer around your shivering frame when you would nap during class. He forced himself not to linger near you when you were loitering with your fellow delinquents by the school staircase, laughing at a joke he didn’t quite understand. He suppressed the urge to defend you from teachers who reprimanded you out in the hallways. Tried not to look behind at you for too long during football games he never played in anyway.

Once, someone asked him about his love life, and he instantly turned into a blushing, mumbling mess. And they laughed it off. It was Jake. No one thought twice. He was always like this. Awkward. Flustered.

The parasites he calls friends, Jay and Sunghoon, would probably go into cardiac arrest if they ever found out how he doted on you in private. How soft he was. How gentle.

You pretended not to notice. But ever the observer, Jake sees how your defenses weaken, ever so slightly, each day.

You let him put his arm around you in dark movie theaters instead of yanking it away. Let him stay for dinner with your parents when he comes over to help you study (because lord knows you need it). You stopped flinching when he called you ‘babe’ in private, sometimes responding without even questioning who he was speaking to. It was baby steps, but to Jake, it was everything.

Was it awkward? Yes. The way his glasses got in the way when he finally kissed you for the first time. Your noses bumped together. Too much tongue involved. It was a mess. Still life-changing, nevertheless. 

He replays the memory often. The two of you on your bed, him holding your plushie hostage, you trying to rip it out of his arms. The way you fell on top of him with your lips accidentally crashing on his. He pretended like the make-out session that occurred immediately after didn't absolutely ruin him.

Jake edged past the warmer parts of you when no one was around to bear witness. And you both were so good at keeping secrets. No one would have believed it anyway. You’d made sure of that.

–

“You two are very strange,” Jay commented, maybe a couple of months into your secret relationship. Every senior was gearing up for graduation, choosing which universities to attend or which path to take in life.

And of course, Jay and Sunghoon found out that Jake and you would both be attending the same university. Not just any school. A top one. Yonsei. 

Jake had earned a full-ride scholarship after finally getting off the damn bench and scoring four goals in a single match against the best high school team in the nation. Jake could've gone abroad to an Ivy League, but he chose not to. Because at Yonsei he could visit family more often, save a lot of money, and… well, keep you close, most of all.

And by the will of a higher being (Jake’s relentless tutoring), you somehow made it in as well.

“I thought you said you wanted to go straight into the workforce,” Jay questioned you. “Now you’re telling me you somehow, in some way, got into the same school as Jake? This fucking nerd?”

Sunghoon chimed in with a smile he always wore before teasing you. “I didn’t even think you could get into college, honestly.”

You wanted to hit him so bad, but you stopped yourself. Your resolution for the new school year was to turn over a new leaf. And that comes with not hitting annoying boys over the head with your fist. You could get arrested for that from now on... So instead, you used your words.

“You’re mad I got in, and you didn’t,” you snorted, sticking out your tongue as Jake snickered beside you. You sat close enough to feel the warmth of his shoulder, but far enough apart to keep Jay and Sunghoon from noticing.

“You guys have no faith in her,” Jake sighed earnestly. “She’s really smart when she applies herself. She just needed a push, that's all.”

You glared at him, not sure if his comment was entirely a compliment. Yes, he played a role in your achievements. No, he could not credit himself for the hard work you put in to get that high-ass score on the college entrance exam. Even your teachers apologized for doubting you.

“Should’ve put those hours of tutoring her into me instead,” Jay groaned. “Now you’re gonna be all alone with no friends.”

Jake’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? S-she’s my friend.”

He stumbled over the words, clearly thrown off by the ominous comment. You watched him, amused. God, he was so obvious.

Sunghoon just looked between you two, doubt etched all over his face. “Barely,” he scoffed. “Trust me, bro, you are getting left behind as soon as she finds another victim willing to pay for all her food.”

You can start your resolution next week. This time, you really smacked him, sharp on his bicep. Sunghoon yelped.

“Why are you always so aggressive?” he whined, rubbing the sore spot with his arm. You raised your hand threateningly again, but you stopped yourself short. 

At the corner of your eye was Jake’s soured expression, a flash of worry obviously overcoming him. But you couldn’t comfort him. Not now. You wouldn’t hear the end of it from these two.

“You never know,” Jay chirped, faking thoughtfulness with a hand on his chin. “Jake might be too cool for us once school starts.”

Jay and Sunghoon exchanged a look and then burst into laughter.

“Ain’t gonna happen!” Sunghoon cackled, putting his whole gut into it. You joined in hesitantly, though your eyes kept drifting to your sullen boyfriend. And he wasn’t amused. Not at all.

Because he never found it funny, the idea of you leaving him behind.

–

“Do you think I’m weird?” Jake asked one evening, with you curled up beside him on your bed. Your knee draped over his stomach, his glasses pushed up just enough to rest comfortably against your pillow. On his late-night visits, your parents would come in to check if you two were truly studying as you claimed. After Jake gained their trust, they learned to leave the two of you alone (when they probably shouldn’t have).

Your eyes were shut tight to prepare yourself for an oncoming nap.

“Yes,” you said quickly, not even giving him time to process the response.

“Like… bad weird?” he asked after a second. He’d been thinking lately, after the conversation with his friends, how different the two of you really were.

How easy it was for you to stand up for yourself. Go against the grain. How you don’t automatically default to nods as he does or lose your train of thought mid-conversation. How you hated being touched by most people but would smack someone’s shoulder when you genuinely found something funny. 

He wanted that, wanted to see the world the way you saw it. To move around without hesitation. Even when people called you a troublemaker. Even when teachers scolded you for wearing your uniform skirt shorter than the dress code. How was confidence so natural for you?

“Bad weird,” you teased, eyes still closed. “But it’s okay. I’m used to it by now.”

A small ache tugged at his heart. “You still like me though, right?”

You laughed. Jake loved to do this sometimes. Bait for reassurance. But you’re not that kind of fish.

“Who said I ever did?”

You said it jokingly, but a silence followed. You don’t quite catch it as you drift to sleep, the way Jake’s eyes dimmed.

“Oh,” he said disappointingly, staring at the ceiling.

Sometimes, he wondered if the reason you wanted your relationship to be private in the first place was because of him. If his inability to relate to your friends with secret tattoos and chains on their jeans made you embarrassed to be his girlfriend. 

Because you got along well with his friends just fine, could tease Jay and Sunghoon like you’d known them your whole life. But it was so hard for him to do the same with yours. To look natural when he joined that one karaoke hangout, where they looked at him expectantly because you had bragged that he could sing well.

You said it so proudly too, and he wanted to prove himself to them. That he was worthy to be in their presence. And then his voice had to crack.

“Should we get your friend some water?” someone joked, and the whole group laughed. With his cheeks red with embarrassment, Jake sat back down next to you, silent for the rest of the night. It was lame of him. Even he knew that. 

But even as he watched you defend him with all your heart, he couldn’t find himself to cheer up. Because in your world, he had always felt out of place. 

–

And so Jake did what he’s known to do best. Research.

He avoided WikiHow tutorials on how to ask out a girl and headed straight to the most honest part of the internet: Reddit.

‘makeover tips for guys’

‘how to gain more confidence’

‘how to be attractive enough that your girlfriend isn’t ashamed of you (serious responses only pls)’

He frequented the self-help section of the school library, took notes on everything from fashion advice to fixing his posture. He practiced eye contact with himself through the mirror until they watered, joined Sunghoon in the gym, and copied his weirdly intense routine.

Jake kept this process all to himself, much like your relationship. He learned to be good at that. Keeping secrets.

He would reinvent himself for university. Become someone you’d be proud to show off because he didn’t want to feel like this anymore. Like he would fall behind. And knowing you… he wasn’t sure if you’d bother to look back and see if your loyal puppy was still there trailing behind you. 

–

present. 

So that’s how your relationship’s been going so far. While Jake was on this great journey to undergo metamorphosis, there were no real complaints on your side.

So why was it like this now? 

Waiting for your very late boyfriend, who was making you miss the first minutes of the university’s freshman orientation ceremony. You almost text him a paragraph about how, usually, you're the unpunctual one in the relationship, but a stranger approaches you.

“BOO!” 

You almost let out a scream when you notice who it is. Or who you think it is. Is it who you think it is?

Because instead of wild, unruly hair hiding his eyebrows and big black frames resting on his nose bridge, your boyfriend looked like someone else entirely. His hair was styled in a middle part, framing his handsome features perfectly. Instead of his usual oversized hoodie with holes on the sleeves masking his athletic body, he’s wearing a varsity jacket and a simple white shirt that clung way too well to his muscular frame. You could even see the faint outline of contact lenses in the whites of his eyes.

Your eyelashes flutter in confusion. You literally just saw him yesterday. When did he find the time to get a haircut and invest in a new closet?

Jake steps forward with a small, hopeful smile and holds out a box of egg tarts. Did it add to his already late ETA? Yes, but he always thinks about you and what you'd like to eat. Could you blame him for getting you a sweet treat?

But that wasn’t the part you were really focused on.

“Who are you and what did you do to Jake?” you ask, fists raised like a boxer. He chuckles nervously, bringing the pastry box back to his side.

“Do I look weird?” he asks quietly, shifting his feet. The vulnerability in his voice made you lower your hands instantly.

“So…” you start, eyes looking him up and down. “This is on purpose? Like, Sunghoon didn’t put you up to this? Or Jay?”

He pouts. His mom practically screamed, “So handsome!” when he showed her his new look over video call. So, why was your reaction like this? 

“I just thought… new school year, new me! No?” he says, puffing up with pride.

You shake your head, moving your hand on instinct to ruffle his freshly styled hair. But he catches your wrist before you can touch him. You pull away, heart squeezing a bit, knowing that he dodged one of your rare bouts of affection. Or whatever you call it.

“It took me forever to get my hair to look like this,” he mutters, looking away. “Don’t want my hard work to go to waste.”

You click your tongue, trudging past him. Since when did he care about what his hair looked like? This was the same guy who showed up to graduation with a T-shirt and sneakers and got confused when the teachers asked him to go back home and change.

“Whatever,” you sigh. “No more standing around. We have to go—”

“Still not wearing the ring?” he asks, catching up to you. He noticed it earlier when he caught your arm. 

When Jake gave it to you just a year before, he set no expectation for you to wear it. He really hadn’t… But it has been a year. Wasn’t it about time? He wears his everyday…

You suck in your teeth and glare at him. “Why would I?” 

He flinches. And you start to feel guilt bubbling in your chest as his steps start slowing next to you.

“It’s just…” he mumbles. “It’s not like we’re in high school anymore. No one’s even gonna notice. And no one’s gonna care if we’re dating.”

You roll your eyes. You care. You still had a reputation to uphold. Maybe not as a troublemaker anymore. But still. Something about wearing your boyfriend’s ring for everyone to see and question seemed like your own personal hell. Who would want to be the center of attention as a university freshman?

“It’s the principle,” you say, not really knowing what you mean by it either. Because you are wearing it. Just not on your finger. It hangs around your neck, hidden underneath your blouse. But Jake didn’t have to know that.

You would rather die than give anyone the satisfaction of knowing you were smitten with this man. Soft, but only for him. Your biggest weakness.

“So are we always just gonna be a secret?” he sighs. You turn to face him, but you keep it pushing. It’s too much to explain right now. Or ever.

“Come on,” you insist. “We need to get to the orientation.”

–

Indeed, it wasn’t high school anymore. Because everywhere you turn, Jake’s name is being brought up.

“The hot guy on the football team—”

“He set the curve on the first exam and proved Professor Kim wrong on the board—”

“I saw him help a grandma cross the street. Soooo dreamy—”

It was enough to almost make you pull your hair out of your head. This was Jake they were talking about! The guy who was too shy to ask for no pickles in his damn burgers, who used to let Sunghoon copy off his homework and then rewrote his own just to make sure the teachers wouldn’t catch on. This was your Jake.

You take a moment to breathe.

You sound crazy. Deranged, even. It shouldn’t even matter. Jake was always good-looking! People just never noticed or took the time to appreciate him outside of his ability to decode the most difficult of physics equations.

“A couple of guys from the team think I’d look good with a sweatband,” he says, showing you a photo during a late-night walk. He’s shoving his phone screen to your face, and you pout at the sight. His hair pushed back, forehead glistening. A perfect view of his beautiful, dark eyes. 

“Nah,” you say dismissively, trying to push down the fluttering in your heart. He tilts his head, staring at the photo once more.

“Really?” he mutters. “I thought it looked pretty good.”

“Do you really wanna look like Jay in junior year? He’s gonna tell you that you copied him.”

He gives a small sound of acknowledgement. You could tell he’s taking your comment seriously, like you said something truly eye-opening.

“You’re right,” he nods. “Then, how do you feel about a lip piercing?”

Your brows furrow at the thought of metal against his pouty lips. The way his teeth would tug on it. The effect he would have on all of his newfound admirers…

“Absolutely not!” 

Yeah, you were losing it.

–

No, really, you might actually be going insane.

It was hard enough for you to create genuine friendships at Yonsei, full of stuck-up rich kids who only managed to get in through elite cram schools and expensive tutors. But after a few polite conversations, their masks fell to show their true intentions. You know now that you are being used as a shortcut to get on Jake’s radar. 

Because why do people you’ve never met before suddenly feel comfortable enough to ask you to introduce them to him? Why do they request to follow you on Instagram only so they can find his account more easily? And what pisses you off most—the question they always ask, without fail: “Is he single?”

And you know there's a quick answer you can give. A very simple solution to your eye-twitching problem. Because every time someone high-fives him in the corridors or bats their eyelashes flirtatiously in his direction, you have the overwhelming urge to just pounce on him. To wrap your arms around his middle and never let him leave your sight. 

But you can’t. Your pride is too big, your ego too fragile to admit that someone actually managed to slip past the cold exteriors of your heart. So instead, you're waiting impatiently for him to reply to your text.

He's not at practice. He's supposed to be on his way. So where the hell was he?

jake: sorry! study group went for a lil bit longer than I thought. everyone kept asking me for help haha. omw!

And then he sends a photo. It's a group selfie, with him in the middle. Three girls on his right and another two on his left, surrounding him like a piece of meat.

you: dont bother coming. im sick.

With envy, maybe. But you're perfectly healthy.

jake: im sorry babe :( you feeling okay? want me to get you anything from the store?

you: Nah.

You almost scream. There's so much you want to say and admit, but your fingers won’t type any of it. You really don't deserve him. He's so nice, and you're so… Fuck.

Why is it so hard to admit to your own boyfriend that you miss him?!

jake: ok :( I love you!

Your stomach flips.

Haha… You needed professional help. Really.

–

Jake was better at football than the bench in high school ever suggested. Senior hierarchy was everything at Yonsei. A starter as a freshman was practically unheard of before Jake. How he managed to level up from being a designated benchwarmer to being on the field at all times felt like whiplash.

Did he just have this in him this whole time?

I mean, you guess he looked kind of cool out there, all sweaty and serious-looking. Shouting call-outs to his team mid-game. Your legs squirm at the sight. He really needs to put on his damn glasses. (Though knowing you, that might only make things worse.)

You sit there, wearing the university colors of white and blue, holding onto a sign that says “Go Team!”

You would have made something with his name on it, but the thought alone sends shivers down your spine. You could not bear to give the stupid boys beside you the ammo of watching you scream Jake’s name and go crazy over his goals. So instead, you silently watch and admire as he steals the ball yet again.

Jay and Sunghoon, decked out in the rival school’s signature red for no reason whatsoever (they don’t even attend that university either), stood on either side of you with a level of passion you’ve never seen from them before.

“GET HIS ASS!” Jay screams. “Play the mental game! When Player 15 cries, he calls his mom first—”

Player 15 would happen to be Jake.

“The guy with ‘Sim’ in the back of his jersey loves to sing Celine Dion in the shower—”

You groan as heads turn, not enjoying the various glares and snide remarks from your surrounding schoolmates. You still haven't made any substantial friends yet at university. Being associated with these bozos would only make it that much harder. This would be the last time you sneak them into the student section. 

“Can you two please sit down?” you mutter. “We’re ahead by like four goals. Psychological warfare is not enough for Jake to lose.”

Sunghoon drops back into his seat with a huff, cracking his neck.

“This won’t do,” he mutters. “Jake’s gonna surpass me in Instagram followers if he wins this.”

Jay chuckles on your left side, still standing and selfishly blocking the view of everyone behind him. “If he wins, you think he’ll invite us to their celebration party after?”

Your brows furrow. “What party?”

Jay finally sits down when the opposing team calls a time-out, one eyebrow raised at your confused expression. “Isn’t that like a thing every school does? First big game of the year, there’s bound to be something.”

Sunghoon nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s like common knowledge.”

You almost pout before catching yourself. Jake never mentioned anything about a party. 

So when the game ended and, of course, Yonsei won, the two boys could not help but ask. 

“So there’s a party, right?”

“And you’re taking us?”

Jake looks between the two of them, forehead glistening and hair damp with sweat.

“What party?” he asks, and you smile gingerly. That’s right! You weren’t crazy. He would’ve told you if there was—

“You have to go to the party, Jakey!” a voice chirps from behind you.

You recognize her. The team manager of the football team. Short hair and a cute button nose. Very pretty. Your eyes cut between Jake and her. Wait.

Jakey? Who the hell calls him that?

Jay and Sunghoon give each other some shifty glances and step aside, letting the girl join the conversation. You feel this weird inclination to move closer to Jake, but you suppress the urge. 

“Hm?” Jake finally replies, confused more than ever. “No one told me about a party.”

The girl giggles. What even was her name?

“Oh, Jakey! Since you’re a freshman, I’ll give you the rundown.” 

She scooches in between you two, pushing you slightly to the side. The boys don’t seem to notice, and you have half your sense not to shove the girl right back.

“Whenever we win,” she starts, “the whole school goes to En Bar nearby and takes it over! Free drinks and everything. You’re our star player, so you definitely can’t miss it. Your friends are invited too, of course.”

She looks between Jay and Sunghoon, not even sparing you a glance.

Jake scratches the nape of his neck. “Sorry, I’m actually feeling pretty tired—” 

“We’ll be there!” Jay and Sunghoon say instantly. You raise your eyebrow at them, and the two brush it off.

“We’ll make sure he comes,” Jay laughs, slapping Jake hard on the shoulder. Having gotten hit by the ball in that exact spot just an hour before, he winces.

“I’m not really—”

“Great!” the girl smiles, clapping her hands together. “I’ll see you all there then?” 

Of course, her back is fully turned towards you. Dumb and dumber nod in unison, and as the girl walks off, they push at each other excitedly.

“First college party,” they cry out in joy.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. “You two are pathetic.”

Jake nods slowly in agreement. “Well… you guys have fun. I think I’m just gonna head back to my dorm and shower…”

“And get ready, right?” Sunghoon says dangerously, wagging a finger at him. “Because you are coming, right?”

Jake shivers under his friends’ threatening glares. But what really scares him is when his eyes find yours. You look pissed. Fuck. What did he do this time?

“I mean… I guess I could pop in…” Jake says reluctantly. He sneaks in another glance in your direction and sees that your frown grows even deeper. Was that the wrong thing to say?

“Babe?” Jake calls after you as you stride across campus, shivering in your t-shirt and mini skirt. “Why are you walking so fast?”

It’s dark now, save for the dim street lamps. You stop abruptly, and he almost bumps into you. When you turn, your jaw is already clenched.

“Am I crazy, or did that girl just completely ignore me?” you ask genuinely, voice at the seams of losing composure. Because what the fuck was her problem?

Jake laughs nervously. “Choa? I thought she seemed pretty friendly?”

Your expression sours. “Yeah, maybe a little too friendly,” you say under your breath. Jake catches it.

“Wait,” he says with a shit-eating grin, leaning in. “Babe… are you jealous? Hm?”

Your cheeks heat up, arms crossing like a toddler. “Fuck off.”

He laughs now, twisting you around and guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulder. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, babeeee…”

He notices how you don’t pull away from his touch, when normally you would hiss something like, “people are watching,” or something like that. Jake bites back an even bigger smile. You just let him hold you.

The walk to his dorm was peachy for him, save for the fact that his sweaty arm stank up your shirt.

You! Jealous. This has to be a dream. When you reach his room, shared with a sophomore named Heeseung who never seems to be around, you sit on Jake’s bed, still reeling from the earlier interaction.

“Am I overreacting?” you ask him, not at all bothered that he was taking his jersey off. You’re well past the stage of pretending his bare torso flusters you. “Like… did it not seem like she wanted you?”

Jake laughs, wiping his underarms with a nearby towel. “Me? Babe, no. That’s out of the question. She's like four years older than us—”

You roll your eyes. “So where the fuck did ‘Jakey’ come from?”

He shrugs, catching his reflection in the wall mirror hanging on his door. His muscles flex in a way that makes your eyes travel down his well-toned back…

You snap your gaze back to the wall. No. Focus. You’re supposed to be mad.

“New year, new nickname?” he offers, teasingly.

You throw a pillow at his head. Like the athlete he is, Jake dodges it. He turns to you, laughing, amused by how sulky and adorable you look on his bed. Brows furrowed in contemplation, tugging your legs close to your chest. Your plush thighs in your pretty little skirt that would have gotten you dress-coded back in high school with your knee-high socks and…

Fuck. 

“It’s not like I care,” you mumble, unconvincingly. 

Jake huffs out something that sounds like a chuckle, but his thoughts are elsewhere. His mind (and eyes) are on the edge of your skirt. He places a hand on your thigh and rubs it softly. To you, it felt like reassurance, and it was. But he was also incredibly horny.

“Babe,” his words drawl. “Look at me.”

Your eyes meet his for a split second before he plants a wet kiss on your cheek. “Hey—”

He chuckles as he plants another on your nose. Then your chin. And then your other cheek. And now you’re trying to push him away, but he holds your wrists to prevent you from stopping his incessant attacks. 

“Jake—You stink—Freak!” You try to say as his lips find yours, while he’s giggling up a storm. So cute. You're so fucking cute. 

His next kiss is deep, drawing out your breath sharply. Your back is on the bed now with Jake on top, his hands still wrapped around your wrists.

Jake’s lips move against yours, your eyes fluttering shut. His tongue prods and pushes in, his taste so sweet and heavy as you breathe in his weirdly intoxicating scent. Like fresh laundry doused in the salt of his sweat. You clench his biceps as he comes up from the kiss to catch some air.

He looks at you, face flushed and mouth parted. 

“I’m hard,” he blurts out, and you smack him on his naked chest.

“What do you want me to do about that?” you mutter as you start to feel him press against your stomach. “Don’t you have a party to go to?”

He shakes his head, burying his face in your hair. He lets out a groan, grinding onto you just to feel any part of you against his football shorts. You let out a squeak, clenching at his toned muscles harder.

“You’re not coming with?” he asks, and you can hear the shakiness in his breath. You smirk, wrapping your legs around him and shifting up so that his tent could meet your core. Jake fit between you so snugly.

His head lifts to meet yours, pupils already so dilated.

“Why would I?” you say through hooded eyes, and you could visibly see him gulp. It almost makes you laugh. But instead, you tease him, moving your hips up to graze his bulge. 

“I have time,” he groans quickly. “For this. Or whatever you want to do. Like I’m really down for any—”

You roll your eyes, gripping the back of his head to smash him back down to your lips. Your movements are messy, tongues clashing at a feverish pace. He’s still sore from earlier, but like hell he would let this opportunity go. Not when you looked this fucking good. And angry too. (For him, these things aren’t mutually exclusive...)

With trembling fingers, he lifts your shirt and almost moans at the sight of your bare skin. While he wants to thank you for saving him the trouble of not fiddling with a bra clasp, you pat yourself on the back for leaving your necklace at home.

Knowing how frisky Jake gets after the adrenaline of a good win runs through him, it was the right call. You don’t think you could handle Jake seeing you so jealous while having his ring resting on your chest. Yeah, you’d probably die right in front of him.

His hands grab your tits softly, massaging them between his fingers. Jake dips down, swallowing a nipple in his mouth as he watches you sigh out in pleasure.

He’s confident in one thing when it comes to you, and it was this right here. He could make your tough exterior melt just as long as you were under him. Or over him. He has no preference.

His tongue circles your bud, tugging with his teeth lightly. 

“Jake—” When he hears you squeak, his dick twitches with anticipation. So pliant now. What happened to that dominance earlier? He’d like to see it come back…

He moves on to the other breast, licking and massaging so it doesn't feel too neglected. Jake loves your tits, could be buried between them for the rest of his life if you let him. But now isn't the time! He has a very mean and very jealous, but also very hot, girlfriend to please. And maybe some party to make it to, who knows.

Jake pulls his shorts down roughly, just enough so that he can take his dick out. Already so big, the bulbous tip weeps with desire for you. He’s palming himself, relishing in how your eyes shut tight, lips parted open as his wet, pink muscle traces circles over your sensitive skin.

He’s nipping the top of your breasts now, careful not to leave marks in visible areas. Jake knows how you get about that sort of thing. 

His fingers drag your white, damp panties off your legs, but keeps your skirt on. And the knee-high socks for good measure. His hand meets your core, pushing down on your clit with a heavy pressure he knows you like.

You gasp, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re so embarrassed. The noises you're making are unbecoming of you. All he does is laugh. Still so sensitive during sex after a whole year of dating. And he’s supposed to be the shy one.

His fingers drag slowly on your folds as he spreads your juices all over his digits. Jake might just cum in his pants with how soft your tits feel as he nestles his head in between them. 

He pushes two fingers in right away, and you draw out a sharp breath. You almost hit him on the shoulder. He has no idea how big his hands are. How sometimes you would eye them whenever he helps you with homework. Veiny, like his cock.

He’s moving his fingers in and out of you at a steady pace, wet squelches echoing through the room. 

“Ngh—Mmm—” you groan, arching your back to meet his movements. Impatient. You’re always so impatient.

“JAKE!” you cry out, when he rubs over a certain spot.

He looks up at you from his comfortable position between the valley of your chest, and with a teasing glint in his eyes, he says, “You mean Jakey?”

And it’s not an exaggeration in the least to say that you start seeing red. You grab his wrist, the pads of your fingers digging into his flesh. He stops his movements, looking at you with those puppy-dog eyes like he did something wrong. And he did. Something very. Very. Wrong.

“Sorry, I just wanted to tease—”

You pull his fingers out of you. With one swift movement, you grab him by his shoulders and push him down onto the bed. You’re hovering over him now, eyes dark.

Jake swallows nervously. Why’d you have to look so hot when provoked?

“Did I ruin the vibe or…”

“Shut up,” you growl, crashing your lips onto his. He tries to hold your waist to offer support, but you hold his wrists down onto the sheets. He could probably push you off very easily. But he doesn’t. Because he loves seeing you like this. Loves the urgency in your touch.

You want him! And you’re showing it! His heart is practically doing backflips in his chest.

Your tongue explores the inside of Jake’s mouth, licking the roof of it in a way that has him seeing stars. You’re so rough with it. Sucking on his, biting his lip, moving so desperately against him.

“Babe—” he tries to say in between your assaults on his mouth. But it comes out in a breathless whisper when he feels you grinding your slick pussy against him.

“I said,” you say through gritted teeth. “Shut. Up.”

He almost moans when his leaking tip hits your clit. Just the contact alone has the back of his head hitting the pillow roughly. But he forces himself to watch as you move against him as he offers no assistance. Your grip on his wrists moves to the sheets as you focus on grinding against his dick. Swiveling yourself on him back and forth. Rubbing and rubbing. But it’s not enough. He needs to be inside. Needs to feel you right now.

Your breath is on his neck now, riling yourself up at his stunt. Jakey? What grown woman calls someone that? Choa and her nice ass bob... Fuck her!

“Ngh—” he lets out as you suction an erogenous zone on his neck, sucking and biting him like a vampire. Your tongue lapping at his skin to soothe him from the brutal assaults of your teeth. You close your eyes to relish in his taste. So salty from sweat, but still so sweet. But you’re distracted now as Jake breaks free from your hold. He grips your ass with one hand, the other guiding his pulsing member to your slippery entrance.

“Wha—” 

He’s looking at you with pleading eyes. “Can I, baby?” Jake begs, cheeks tinged pink. “Please?”

You bite back a smile. What a fucking loser.

You push down on him, just slightly, just enough for his bulbous tip to slip inside. His grip on your ass is now slack. He doesn't even want to fight back, really.

“Fuck—” Jake’s mouth parts open, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes when you come back up. No longer inside you, he groans.

“Whyyy,” he whines. “I said I’m sorry—”

He inhales a sharp breath when you engulf his tip again, tightening around him just a little harder. 

“Do you like being called Jakey?” you question darkly. “Like it when other girls feel up on you?”

He shakes his head desperately. “No—Only you—” he says through pained groans.

And then you lift again, laughing at his pathetic form. “I don’t believe you.”

He’s practically writhing underneath you now, his mushroom tip pulsing against your folds. Your skirt hides it all from view, and he just wishes he could rip it off you. Give you a new one, much, much shorter, so he can see everything better. 

But only if you let him.

“You’re literally torturing me,” he whimpers, hips jutting up messily. He keeps missing your entrance, the one he desperately needs to be buried in. “Need to feel you right now—”

“What’s it to me?” you ask meanly, your thumb prodding at his bottom lip. His tongue comes out to lick at the pad of your thumb, sucking it ever-so-slightly. You enjoy this view. Him underneath you. Pleading. Whining. Like he's starving. 

“I’ll make you feel so good, baby,” Jake offers through the haziness of his lust. Not entirely conscious of how desperate he sounds. “You can use me however you want. I’ll literally do anything. Just please—”

And then you sink, so slowly that his eyes roll to the back of his head. The devil. His girlfriend is the devil.

“Babe—” You shut him up with another open-mouthed kiss. Messy, just how he likes it.

He grips his hands into yours as you suckle his tongue, intertwining your fingers together. You try not to wince as you sheath him fully, realizing now that you were overconfident in taking control before he could properly prep you.

Usually, sex was an hours-long ordeal with Jake. He likes to finger you, then eat you out, then repeat, until he can slip into your slick warmth with little issue. Sex is the only time you don’t deny him the pleasure of seeing you flustered over him. Over what he could do for you. What he could provide you if you let him tell everyone in the world that he’s yours. 

Regardless, Jake will always be long and thick, and he still stretches you out so deliciously. Your mouths clash against each other, swallowing back both of your moans as saliva pools at the sides of his bruised lips.

Depraved. That’s all you could think of when Jake bottoms out inside you. He’s so sweaty now, the scent so musky that it drives you insane. Do other girls smell these pheromones when he’s around? Or is this just you and your hypersensitivity to everything that involves him?

You’re moving up and down now, with shallow thrusts that do little to satiate the flame in your stomach. You don’t do this enough—take control enough. Your knees are already weak, wobbling, as you grind down on him.

But you push through it as you continue to impale yourself on his cock, gummy walls clenching him tightly with each thrust. You want to get him off like this, even if your whole body is trembling above him. 

And it’s not like Jake doesn’t notice. But like the little shit he is, he doesn’t feel like helping. Because he enjoys the feeling too much, of your breasts bouncing filthily against his chest. When you lift yourself from his lips so that you can focus on riding him, he finds it so endearing. How you put your hands on his abdomen to steady yourself, how you fuck yourself on his length. How much you struggle to take all of him in. Not sure what to do with yourself.

‘My poor baby,’ Jake thinks, chuckling at how tight your eyes shut just to feel him better. 

“Need help?” he hums, his hand drawing circles on your hip. You shake your head, teeth gritted.

“N-no,” you try to muster out, but it’s unconvincing. Your movements are stuttering, moans slipping out of your mouth too easily. He smirks. His little pillow princess. 

Jake, with his grip on your hips, pulls you down onto his cock. Hard. You gasp as his hips snap up with it.

“Ah—” you cry out, your nails now digging into his shoulder blades. He pounds into a spot that had you almost come undone at that very moment. How did he get so good at this?

Jake lifts you, all the way until his pink tip is the only thing in your wet pussy. Then, as harshly as he could, he pushes you down on him, his thickness grazing at your deepest parts. And he does this again and again until you collapse onto his chest from the roughness of his thrusts.

“I’m gonna—Ngh—Fuck—You—” you try to say through your moans, try to sound angry. But you love it. Love how tight he grabs your bum. Love the slight stretch of pain as he stuffs you full of him. Love that trickle of spit that falls out of his mouth as his back lifts off the bed to feel you better. Ugh, you hate him.

“JAKE—”

“Shhh, baby, ” he whispers, forcing your face into the crook of his neck. “Just take it.”

Jake plunges up into you, propelling your hips down with his harsh grip. He lifts a heavy hand, smacking your ass from behind as you try to match his timing. You scream. He does it again, massaging the tender spot. The pain mixes with the pleasure, as tears prick the corner of your eyes. You feel your climax building now as your lips find his neck again, sucking and biting. Marking him. Let everyone know that he’s yours. That you own him.

“Babe…” he whines, too lost in the suctioning of your tightness to really care. Because he’s close too. So fucking close. 

Jake’s arms move up to your back, caging you into a bear-like embrace. His feet plant themselves on the bed, as his dick shoves into you with newfound energy. He’s going so fast, you could practically hear the speed. Feel it too. The wet squelches of his balls slapping against your ass. You move with him, trying to sync your rhythm to his.

“Mmm—Ahh—” your moans jumble into each other. Your legs are trembling, even more than they were before. A searing feeling within you continues to build and build. A single, full thrust from him has you biting into his neck brutally, stifling your moans as your orgasm crashes through you in waves. 

“Shit—” he cries out, from both the pain of your teeth and the pleasure of your cunt's constricting grip. You grind down on him, whimpering into his skin, back arched to ease yourself through the sensitivity.

Jake’s dick twitches in you once, then twice. He pushes you off of him and onto the bed, harsher than he intended. But he doesn’t have a condom on, and... he likes the way you look in white.

He hovers over you now, his painfully hard length in his hand. He’s stroking himself with urgency, fist wrapped around himself with a panicked grip. He’s watching you intently as you splay out underneath him. So fucking pretty for him. Lips bruised and bitten so sensually. Legs opened with your juices glistening on the inside of your thighs. Maybe he should stuff his cock into your—

“Fuck—” he groans, mouth parting at the sight of his thick ropes of cum spurting out of him, coating your stomach and tits. He strokes slowly, pumping all that he’s worth onto your body. You welcome it, eyes drinking in his flushed demeanor.

“I love you,” Jake mutters as he comes down from his high. And you don’t say anything back, distracted as your fingers coat themselves on the sticky fluids on your skin. Such a mess, both of you.

You hear it then. Intense vibrations on his nightstand. Jake’s phone, very much neglected, is blowing up with texts and calls. Was it going off like that the whole time? Then his eyes go wide like saucers.

“Shit! The party—” 

Your eyes narrow. Before he can pick it up, you grab the nape of his neck to pull him down into another sloppy kiss. Your legs wrap around Jake once more, smirking as you feel him melt into you with little resistance.

“What party?”

morning after.

“You’re a bitchhhh,” Sunghoon cries out, over a FaceTime call that Jake was forced to pick up at nine in the morning. You were already gone by then, running late to your morning lecture. 

Heeseung, thankfully, still hadn’t returned to the dorm. Or else you wouldn’t have been able to stay over and let Jake devour you a few more times, but that’s besides the point. He starts humming happily to himself with the memories of last night still fresh in his mind.

“They wouldn’t even let me into the bar because I was wearing the wrong colors,” his friend continues to complain.

“I get it, I get it,” Jake replies, only half-listening. He’s fixing his outfit in the mirror, admiring how well a polo shirt fits him. It’s weird. He’s getting used to not looking like a dweeb all the time, just a few weeks into his big transformation, even with his glasses on right now.

“Yo, do you think these pants look better with a belt or nah?” he asks, not really sparing Sunghoon a glance. He adjusts his shirt’s collar slightly until—

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

Jake jumps, phone nearly dropping from the desk he sat it on.

“WHAT IS THAT?!”

“What? What?!” Jake snaps his head to look behind himself, like Sunghoon might have seen a ghost.

“Did you get eaten by a fucking lion?!” Sunghoon gawks. Jake’s cheeks turned a bright shade of red.

Damn, he forgot.

“W-what are you talking about?” he mutters unconvincingly, slowly coming out of frame. He strips the polo off in a panic, digging through his closet until he finds a turtleneck. It’s autumn anyway. This is fine, right?

“Our friendship is done,” Sunghoon deadpans at the camera. “You got fucking laid and didn’t tell me?! I mean, I understand Jay, he’d make it weird. BUT NOT EVEN ME?!”

Jake shakes his head, tugging the turtleneck on. He tries to roll up his sleeves to look more casual, but now he looks like Steve Jobs. Shit. He should put his contacts on.

“So who is it?!” Sunghoon presses. “Who’s the unlucky girl?” 

 When Jake doesn’t reply, Sunghoon gasps.

“Unlucky guy?!”

“Man, shut up!” Jake cries, snatching his phone off the desk and coming back into frame. “Please don’t tell Jay.”

–

“Okay, so he told Jay,” he blurts, shielding himself with his arm like you’re about to hit him. “Please don’t get mad at me.”

You almost asked why he was wearing a turtleneck in relatively warm weather when he tugged the collar down to show his neck. Absolutely purple and bruised. And yes. Maybe a dark, suppressed part of you jumped with glee. But the more rational part started cursing yourself out.

“I can’t believe you’d video call him the morning after,” you groan, massaging your temple with your fingers. “Ugh, I’m so stupid. What was I even thinking?!”

Jake gives you a sly smile. “I mean, I’m not complaining—”

You shoot him another icy stare, and he stops. 

“W-well, it’s not like they know that it’s you! They probably think it’s someone else…”

You inhale a sharp breath at the thought. Was he gonna tell them the hickeys on his neck were from someone else? Who? Choa?

“Whatever,” you mutter, whipping around as your bag purposely smacked his bicep. You walk off, fists clenched, ignoring Jake’s calls out to you. 

Fucking Choa.

–

A full week has passed since the disaster that was Sunghoon seeing Jake’s bruised neck. Your boyfriend only felt safe enough to see the two idiots once the marks faded, and even then, he was a little disappointed to wake up and see them all gone. 

“So run it through with me again,” Jay requests, leaning over the boiling hot pot broth. The boys sit in a dimly lit restaurant with a stage in the back. 

“Like, you were just walking back to your dorm and boom—you found a rando to hook up with out of nowhere?!” Jay questions, dropping tofu into the soup so aggressively that it splashes Jake’s wrist.

“Why are you making up fantasies in your head about my sex life?” Jake mutters, pushing his glasses up his face. He was too lazy to put his contacts on just to hang out with these two. “I plead the fifth.”

“Bro, I thought you were a virgin this whole time!” Sunghoon adds unhelpfully. “Excuse us for trying to be supportive.”

Jake rolls his eyes, struggling to grab an udon noodle with his chopsticks.

“Wait,” Jay says through the hot pot steam. “Weren’t you walking with [Y/N] that night?”

Jake gulps, throat bobbing as he fiddles with the noodle more to avoid suspicion.

“Right!” Sunghoon snaps his fingers, and for a second, Jake’s life flashes before his eyes. They know. They have to! Fuck, you’re gonna be so mad at him—

“Why don’t we just ask her who it was?”

Jake stares at them and breaks out into a nervous laugh. Never in his life was he happier to have a more idiotic set of childhood friends.

“Please do,” Jake smiles, wondering how you would weasel out of that conversation with them. “She knows her very well…”

A piercing sound of microphone feedback ricochets through the restaurant. The three cover their ears as everyone’s attention turns to the neglected stage.

“Who wants to sing?! It's open mic night!” the restaurant owner booms. When a deafening silence fills the air, Jay lifts Jake’s hand straight into the air without hesitation.

“This guy loves Celine Dion!” he cries out as Jake tries to yank his arm back down. He curses at his friend, but to no avail.

“Okay!” the owner shouts excitedly. “Come on right up, sir!” 

Jay and Sunghoon practically drag Jake up the stage, laughing themselves all the way back to their seats in the far back of the restaurant. Jake stands frozen as dozens of strangers stare at him, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He takes off his glasses, shoving them in his pocket, and brushes his hair back. He couldn't bear to look at all these blank faces staring at him. Confidence. This is all about confidence.

When ‘My Heart Will Go On' starts echoing through the restaurant walls, Jake’s face flushes all the way red. This is exposure therapy; he tries to cope with himself. If he could do this, he could probably build up the courage to ask you about going public. So that his friends stop thinking he’s a loser. Maybe for you to stop thinking it, too.

He sucks in a deep breath. What’s the difference between this and a showerhead? Nothing. Absolutely nothing!

“Every night in my dreams, I see youuuu… I feel youuu…” he starts slowly, welcomed with a soft gasp from an audience member. Jay and Sunghoon’s laughter dies as Jake sings. Shit. He was actually doing it. And he sounded good, too. Like an angel. Was Jay crying?

Jake loses himself in the slow melody of the song, singing his heart out as he does in every postgame shower. ‘This one’s for you, babe,’ he thinks. Wherever you are… 

When the song ends and Jake’s eyes open, he’s met with a standing ovation. At a damn hot pot restaurant. Jay and Sunghoon are cheering the loudest, holding their hearts like their once-nerdy best friend was their child at a talent show. The owner comes up to the stage, sniffling.

“Give it up for this random kid!”

As Jake makes his way back to the table, he holds his head up high. He couldn’t have imagined doing this a year before, let alone ordering food at a kiosk without stuttering. It’s like taking off his glasses gave him super powers.

“Excuse me—” Jake turns around. A girl with long flowing hair stops him. 

“Are you Jake Sim? The freshman on the football team?” she asks, eyes bright. He nods. Does he know her?

“I’m Suji from the Dance department.” She bows slightly. “Your performance was incredible, by the way!” 

He nods, giving a small “thanks,” before he turns back around.

“Actually!” She calls after him. He stops again. “I just wanted to ask if you were interested in auditioning to be the male lead of our upcoming musical! It’s about a football player who finds passion in singing and dancing. I just thought it would fit you so well!”

Jake turns back to face the stranger. He ponders deeply. A musical? Him? He’d never thought about it before, but what the hell! He guesses he’s the type to try new things now. The power of a good haircut, maybe.

“I’ll think about it,” he says with a polite smile. 

Suji grins back. “Auditions start tomorrow. We’d love to have you.”

By the time Jake finds his way back to his seat, his friends are already geeking.

“You pulled another?!” Jay cries in anguish, biting his fist. “I should have gone up there. That should have been me! Damn it!”

“It’s not fair,” Sunghoon wails, leaning his head dramatically against the wall. “You had no play in high school. Like absolutely zero bitches—”

Jake snorts, scrounging for his glasses once more to slip them back on. “She was just asking me to audition for some musical.”

“I’m sure she was,” Jay says with a smirk. “I’m sure she’s staring straight at your back right now because she wants you in that musical soooo bad.”

Jake shifts in his chair uncomfortably, and sure enough, Suji is watching him. She shoots up her arm to wave. He looks back at his friends with a confused glance.

“Maybe they’re desperate?”

Sunghoon groans. “I’m gonna call [Y/N]. Let’s get her expertise on this.”

“Don’t!” Jake lunges, trying to grab Sunghoon’s phone as he takes it out of his pocket. But then flashes from that night start playing in his head. You above him. Riding him. Gripping his shoulders. Your lips on his neck, marking him until he whined and begged. All at the mere mention of Choa’s weird pet name for him. Jake clears his throat and sits back, not even trying to hide the shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

“...Yeah,” he says more casually. “Ask her.”

–

ma baby: Come over. Now.

Jake receives your text after Sunghoon’s impromptu call, bringing his hands together in a prayer position to the sky. Thank you to whatever higher being was watching over him.

When he reaches your residence hall, you’re waiting outside your door in pajamas, foot tapping impatiently against the carpet. You start glaring at his silhouette even before he comes into view. 

“So,” you start slowly, “you just let anyone talk to you these days?”

Jake’s already giddy. Yes… Be angry with him… Let him in your dorm room and reprimand him, while you’re at it…

“Babeeee,” he teases, his arms already reaching for yours. You dodge him. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” you reply flatly. “I’m just wondering when you started serenading restaurants and accepting invitations from random girls?”

“Just thought I could finally get some appreciation for my many talents,” he says teasingly, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“Are you saying I don’t appreciate you?” you ask, not at all amused by his playful gaze. “I tell you all the time that you’re smart!”

He chuckles. “Everyone and your mom knows that by now, babe.”

You narrow your eyes. ‘He’s learning how to fight back,’ you think sourly. 

“So you enjoyed that girl's appreciation, then?” you counter, knowing that you were riling yourself up by asking such a loaded question. Jake bites his lip to stifle a smile. There it is. 

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, pushing his glasses up. “I think I might actually consider auditioning!”

And this part is genuine. He’s always enjoyed singing. It could be a cool new experience, especially since he shied away from doing theater back in high school. Maybe now was his moment to shine... But when he notices how your expression darkens, he’s suddenly excited to audition for the musical for a whole different reason.

You look around the hallway, checking to see if anyone's coming by. Then you pull him by the collar and into your dorm room. The door shuts behind you two as you push him to sit on the bed. Jake looks up, eyes bright with pure anticipation as you climb onto his lap.

“What’s up, babe?” he asks, feigning ignorance. And you fall for it. Because your cute, nerdy boyfriend couldn’t possibly have ulterior motives… Right?

“You have class tomorrow?” you ask as you adjust yourself on him, legs encasing both sides of his thighs. His hands find your hips, pulling you closer.

“It depends,” he says, knowing full well he has an 8 a.m. physics lab. “Is your roommate coming back anytime soon?”

Oh yeah. Her. 

“Not tonight,” you mutter, already peppering his neck with small kisses. “She’s visiting her parents.”

Jake smirks, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip as the wheels are already turning in his head. He fakes a cough.

“You know… I think the musical is actually a romantic comedy.”

You’re on your knees, carpet harshly grazing your skin. 

“Fuck,” Jake groans, head thrown back as his hand clutches your hair. He’s pushing you down onto his cock, relishing in the way your cheeks hollow around him. How you take his whole length into your mouth without your usual snappy commentary. Look at you. Underneath him. So eager to please, but so in need of control. He bites his bottom lip at the view. It's addictive.

“Just like that,” Jake encourages, stroking your cheek so lovingly. Your tongue licks the underside of his thickness, careful not to have your teeth graze his sensitive skin. He’s so flushed above you, a darkness blooming in your heart. The sight of his glasses pushed so low on his nose bridge. So focused, so desperate for release.

‘My Jake,’ you think to yourself. ‘All mine.’

You bob your head up and down, your mouth plunging down to the base of his member with the help of his tight grasp on your hair.

“Y-yes,” he sighs, his hips coming up to meet your lips. Jake’s gaze never leaves yours, unable to tear his eyes from the tears forming in your eyes from just how much he fills you up. You always had something to say. Always rolling your eyes at him. Now, your eyes were rolling back for a different reason.

His mouth falls open. “F-fuck—” 

You smirk as his hips start to lose rhythm. You remember the first time you gave him head. Just like this, knees on the floor of his room back home, with his parents watching TV downstairs. Glasses perched and foggy. He came within seconds. You were proud, just a little, that he was able to last this long now.

“B-babe?” he tries to cry out. “I’m close—”

You pull away from him with a pop of your lips, teasing the slit of his tip with the flat of your tongue. He groans in frustration, but his hands don’t push you down to take him in again.

“Already?” you say, eyes batting up at him. “Why should I give you the satisfaction?” 

He whines, his grip on your hair tightening just a little. 

“Please?” he asks, not really sure what you want from him. It’s not like he asked you to just fuck him with your mouth! That was all your doing. Okay, yes, maybe he did provoke you. But did that mean he didn’t deserve to orgasm?!

You’re pumping him slowly with your right hand, gripping tightly and stroking enough so that he’s still edging close to his climax. But not close enough to actually reach it.

“I thought I was supposed to be showing you appreciation,” you say pointedly. “Take my time with you and all that.”

He shakes his head ferociously, his hips snapping up into your fist. 

“Babe—Please—I’m so—” he groans when he feels you slow your pace again. 

“So what?” you ask, feigning naivety. You really are the devil.

He shakes his head. He can’t speak. Can’t even think. Just frustrated with how your lips aren’t wrapped around his fucking dick anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he cries. “I’ll do anything, baby. Please—Just stop teasing—Please—”

His sobs are music to your ears. Your wrist’s pace on him quickens, as your mouth engulfs his swollen tip. Your tongue circles the head, pumping him up and down with all your strength and might. Jake’s hands are clutching the sheets, hips pistoning up into your sticky fingers. He feels his load threatening to spill over. 

“Fuck—Yes, baby—There—” He pulls your head back, hand encasing yours, pumping ferociously with you. Your mouth is wide open, tongue sticking out, eyes looking directly up at his. An invitation.

Spurts of his hot, white release coat your pink tongue. He unloads everything within him all over your features. Your cheeks. Your chin. Your cute ass nose. All covered in his milky cum. His mouth parts at the sight. So pretty. His girlfriend is so fucking pretty.

“I love you,” he whispers, as he wipes dribbles of his liquid off your chin with his thumb. “I love you so fucking much…”

You hum back in approval as he lifts you back up and onto his lap. Your face, still stained with his orgasm, comes up to kiss him. He grimaces slightly. You taste infinitely better than he does. He’s almost thankful you part ways with his lips so that you could pepper kisses down his neck.

And when you start sucking and nipping in the same way you did that game night, he smiles. His arms wrap around your waist as you suction his pulse point.

‘I could get used to this,’ Jake thinks.

The audition the next day went surprisingly easily. He truly was the only one trying out for the main role, while Suji was already pre-selected to play the female lead. Jake thinks it’s a bit unfair. What if other people wanted to audition too? But whatever. At least he got the part.

He finds you in between your lectures, holding out a boba for you in his hand. Jake’s not wearing a turtleneck this time, proudly wearing the battle scars of your teeth on his neck. No one’s brave enough to bring it up to him yet, to his dismay. Except you, who promptly smacks him in the arm for his shamelessness. 

“You look like a pervert,” you grumble, still taking the drink from him.

He chuckles at your cute expression. You say that like it wasn’t your intention to have him show the bites off. To show that he is very much occupied with someone else. Not Choa. Or whoever this other girl was.

“I was wearing my jacket the whole day,” he reassures. “Just took it off when I came to see you.”

He flexes slightly. “You think I’ve bulked recently?”

You roll your eyes and ignore his obvious fish for compliments. “So how’d it go? The audition?”

He smiles. “You’re looking at the male lead of Singing Striker,” he says proudly, hand to chest. “And before you ask, the name was not my choice.”

You scoff at the cheesiness. “Congrats,” you say through small sips of your gifted drink. “Break a leg.”

“Babe… when you say it like that, I feel like you mean it the other way.”

You shake your head, speaking robotically. “So who’s the female lead? It’s a romcom, you said?”

“The girl,” he starts, snapping his fingers like he doesn’t already know who she is. “Suji. From the restaurant. The one who recruited me.”

Your eyes morph into a squint, like you’re glaring at him. 

“...Interesting,” you say, willing yourself not to overreact. So Jake is hot now (always was). Girls just love to approach him with invitations to stuff. And he gets to act in a musical with someone that Jay described as “the baddest girl I’ve ever seen in my life.” Great! You love that, actually.

You bite down hard on the boba straw. “You know what… Are they casting for extras?"

And it's like a bad habit now. How you nip and scar his neck like you’re feeding off him every time a girl even so much looks in his direction. It’s easier than saying you’re jealous, easier than admitting that you have a sick sort of need to control who Jake interacts with.

You almost bent a metal spoon in the cafeteria when a girl asked for his number while you were sitting right in front of him. Granted, you did denounce being in a relationship with him pretty heavily the first few weeks at school. You knew she had every right to shoot her shot, but that didn't stop you from taking Jake right into a janitorial closet and making you eat him out as an apology.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans into the space between your thighs as your hands push him deeper into your wetness. “I've never even seen that girl in my life—”

You grit your teeth, angry that he even mentioned her.  “Did I ask?” you growl through sharp breaths. “Just shut up.”

He smiles against your clit, sucking harshly to elicit more of your beautiful noises. He hums into you. Happy that you're mad at him. Happy that he gets to do dirty things with you without having to practically be on his knees and begging. Well, really, he already was.

His tongue laps at your folds, thrusting in and out to prolong his stay in between your thighs. Maybe he is teasing, but really, he’s just taking it all in. Your addictive noises. Your sweet taste. The feeling of his fingers digging into your ass just to hold you up. The way you clench around his tongue when he arches it inside, real deep. Yeah, he needs you bad.

Jake is lapping at you, your legs constricting around him even tighter when he finds his way back to your clit. When he tugs on it with his teeth, you jolt.

“Jake—” He does not care. He nips again, flattening his tongue to soothe the slight pinch. You arch your back into him, riding his face until you stop yourself. You look desperate. Pathetic even. But Jake groans.

“Keep going,” he huffs. “Use me, babe. Use me like I’m your fucking toy.”

You tsk, wondering where he learned to talk like that. 

“Fucking pervert,” you mutter through harsh breaths. But your grip on him does tighten, and he whimpers at the feeling of you tugging on his locks.

“You like it when I'm like this, don't you?” You grit your teeth, pushing him in further. His nose is practically buried into your clit as he fucks his pink muscle into you at a merciless pace.

“Like when you get attention. Like when everyone fucking wants you.”

You're seething, practically riling yourself up. He tries to speak, but you clench around his tongue, trapping his voice. He hums into your folds instead, licking the roof of your warm hole as he finds the exact spot he's been searching for. You mewl.

“Fuck! T-there!”

You're grinding onto his face now, smothering him with your scent. Yes, he thinks to himself, please suffocate him. Tremors go through your body as you feel something intense build in the lower pit of your stomach. So close. So fucking close.

Jake’s grip on your ass loosens as he lets you do all the work. Your legs over his shoulder pump furiously into his face. Like, Jake is just a mere vessel for your climax. And he wouldn't have it any other way. He doesn't even nurse his own hard-on, one that's painfully stretching his jeans. 

You're fucking his tongue, whining with each thrust, eyes starting to roll back, fingers almost pulling Jake’s hair from his scalp. Your hips stutter and then—

“Fuuuck…” Your orgasm pulses through you in ways that have you screaming silently. Your legs are trembling as his mouth vibrates with his hums against your core. Jake’s lapping up all your juices with an urgency.

Everything. He wants to taste everything. When you gently push him off from the oversensitivity, he resists at first. He holds you in place until he gets his fill, until tears are threatening to spill over. But your legs finally find the ground as he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, out of breath. 

‘Whore’ you want to say out loud, but you know that would only make him hornier. He’s weirdly into stuff like that. But you smile as you comb through his hair. He doesn’t have complaints about you messing it all up as long as you’re fucking him, huh?

Jake, still on his knees, looks up at you with a lick of his lips, savoring the remaining taste of you on it. You wish he could see how he looked. Flushed. Damp. Yours. You almost lift him up to kiss him when—Ding.

The loving gaze you two share is cut off by the sound of his phone. He finally gets up from his knees, checking the notification.

“Oh shit,” he mutters. “Suji says I missed the costume fitting. I think I need to head out soon—”

You smash your lips against his, interrupting his train of thought. You moan at the taste of yourself on his devious tongue. Jake smirks, wrapping his arms around your waist. Maybe you could add a few more hickeys to his collection before he heads out... Just for good measure.

jake: let’s go to jay’s together?

For one of your weekly hangouts. The nights you try to avoid because they always end with you ignoring the pile of assignments you’ve already been putting off. 

you: sure. wya rn?

You smack your forehead the second you realize how quickly you sent that text. You swear you weren’t waiting. It wasn’t like you were staring at the last message he sent five hours ago, ruminating over whether it was appropriate to tell him how much you missed him.

jake: meet me by the bleachers :D practice is ending soon.

The speed at which you change outfits is impressive, already heading to the damn field before you realize it. He’s there, dribbling with a couple of his teammates. You sit at the top of the stands, a bit out of his sight. He catches a glimpse of you anyway and waves. You shoot him a simple smile of acknowledgement that dampens almost immediately.

Because you also see Choa, handing him a water bottle. When Jake reaches for it, trying to avoid brushing her hand, she purposefully finds his fingers anyway. It’s enough for your stomach to sink.

Even though he’s just smiling politely. Even when it looks like their conversation lasts for two seconds. It doesn’t feel any less bad. Choa notices you staring, and she scoffs. “This is a closed practice—”

“She’s with me,” Jake corrects her immediately. “I told her to come. That’s okay, right?”

You lift an eyebrow, challenging her. Jake said it the nice way. If she had to hear you speak, you would have probably been escorted off the field by now. She coughs awkwardly and nods, instantly folding under Jake’s attention. Your boyfriend, by the way.

“O-of course,” she stammers. “Just make sure she doesn’t see the playbook.”

The guys continue playing, and you move down a few rows, keeping Choa in your line of sight. It’s like she feels the daggers you send her way because she whips around to glare at you.

“It’s kind of pathetic,” she starts. “How you cling onto him.” You squint at her, not sure if you heard her correctly. You turn around, too, to check if she really had the audacity to speak to a stranger like you in that way.

“You talking to me?” you ask, pointing at yourself mockingly. She clicks her tongue.

“Who else?” she bites back. “Do you even have a name, or do you usually just go by Jake’s guard dog?”

Your cheeks burn in anger. Oh, if you were in high school… She’d have been on the ground by now, makeup stained with turf and pebbles. But unfortunately, you’re trying to stick to your resolution. A reformed delinquent girl at a prestigious university—

“You mute too?” Choa adds in for good measure. You stand, and it’s like Jake’s Spidey senses tingle because he stops to watch, monitoring if he needs to step in.

“You know,” you say, voice cool and devoid of emotion, “you’ve got a lot to say for someone who has to talk like a baby to get a man’s attention.”

She snarls. “Excuse me?”

“Jake’s not gonna let you hit,” you mock, scanning her up and down with a disgusted face. You only say the next part just to piss her off. “You’re not really his type.”

“And you are?” She steps in closer. “You’re stuck in the fucking friendzone, acting like hot shit—”

Oh, if only she knew. The truth is sitting on your tongue, burning, begging to be spoken just so you can wipe that stupid smirk off her face. But you’re not that angry yet. Not enough to expose yourself.

“You seem like such a loser,” she continues, voice laced with malice. “Everyone already thinks you look like some stray puppy following Jake everywhere he goes. Don’t you have a life of your own? Any hobbies? Isn’t it sad showing up where you’re not wanted?”

Ouch. Jake was your puppy. He follows you around everywhere. 

She digs right into that ugly little fear in the back of your mind. That you look as pitiful as you feel. That you truly were just biding your time in this dumb university until Jake showers you with attention. Is this what a relationship’s supposed to feel like? Like you’re waiting for him, all the damn time?

You inhale a deep breath. You’re better than this. Better than catfights over someone that’s already yours. A man who sleeps on your chest almost every night... But you’re not above being petty.

“And did he tell you all that,” you ask with fake sweetness, “or are your delusions that Jake’s gonna fuck you starting to get to your brain?”

She opens her mouth, but you cut her off. “I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you,” you continue, sarcasm dripping in your voice. “Make sure Jakey knows exactly the kind of girl you are.”

Choa bites the inside of her cheek. “Not like I said anything wrong.”

“Oh, right.” You pitch your voice up to that grating baby tone she uses with Jake. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate you calling me a ‘fucking loser,’ since you care so much about what he thinks.”

You could laugh at her suddenly hunched shoulders, but you just drop back down onto your seat, fake scrolling through your phone. “Don’t you have a team to manage?”

Choa whips her bob around, stomping back toward the group and desperately hoping that no one heard. But Jake is already staring. He doesn’t look mad. Just resigned. 

“Choa?” he calls out, voice low and almost inaudible. He’s not smiling like usual.

“Yes?” she answers immediately, with that lilted tone that sounds like nails on a chalkboard. You don’t hear the conversation that takes place, so curious as to why Choa’s expression suddenly drops.

“Don’t ever talk to her like that again,” he says, and the entire team stiffens around them. 

“And next time,” he adds, walking past her, “Just mind your fucking business.”

–

You never, in all your years of living, thought you’d be sitting in an auditorium seat watching your boyfriend act like he was in love with another girl on stage. But here you are, leg bouncing and forearms itching from the irritation bubbling in your chest.

“But don't you get it?!” Jake rehearses, script in hand. His hands flail in fake exasperation. You cover your mouth to hide the wince forming on your lips. “How can I choose between the stage and football?!”

“You don't have to choose,” Suji steps in, acting much better than Jake, at least. “You can do both.”

Jake sighs, throwing his hands up in the air. He's facing her now.

She's pretty, you think. Really pretty. Probably one of the most gorgeous girls you've ever seen in your life. And Jake is staring right into her eyes. You can’t help but wonder if he thinks the same. You grit your teeth at the thought.

“But what would people think of me?” he sighs. Suji shakes her head, moving closer. Your brows knit. That's not part of the script.

“Who cares what other people think?” she says softly, resting her hand on his chest. Your expression darkens immediately. “If it feels like you're alone… Then I can be there to support you.”

Maybe Jake's character should care what other people think, especially if he’s gonna prioritize singing on stage with some pretty girl over his football career—

You slap your own cheek lightly. Relax.

“Cut,” the musical director calls out. “Great job, you two! After this is the dance scene. We can rehearse that tomorrow. I think that's all for the day.”

When the actors and stage crew finally funnel out, you watch Jake stay behind, chatting with his costars onstage. So radiant, smiling at them with his toothy grin and cracking jokes as he says goodbye. He never used to be like that. Used to be so painfully shy that Jay had to accept his academic awards for him in high school.

And yeah, you feel like shit when he's standing there, surrounded by people who have stars in their eyes when he talks, while you're grumpily waiting in a faraway seat with no real excuse to interrupt. You're just part of the stage crew, after all. Just one of the invisible people who move props in between scenes while Jake and Suji’s characters fall deeply in love with each other. Yuck.

But you’re not gonna do the usual thing of dragging him to the nearest secluded area and fucking his brains out. No—you’re better than that. You’re not a loser! You’d let this pass.

“Bye, I’ll catch up with you guys soon! My friend’s waiting for me.”

The word ‘friend’ digs deep into your heart. But that’s your own fault.

Jake walks toward you, and the quick smile he throws your way is cut short the moment he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He stops in front of you, forehead still glistening from the stage lights, eyes glued to the screen even as he talks.

“I have practice in like thirty minutes,” he sighs, scrolling through his calendar. “And then the crew wants to have, like, a group dinner later tonight.”

He cranes his neck to release some tension, finally looking up at you. “Damn. My character is lowkey right. It really is hard balancing the two.”

You roll your eyes and stand up. “The crew? Like Jay and Sunghoon?”

He shakes his head as he walks beside you, still a bit occupied with his phone. He's sending text messages to some massive group chat, text bubble after text bubble popping up.

“The main acting crew,” he says, emphasizing the second word. “I think they wanna run the lines at En Bar and get a couple of drinks.”

You almost stop in your tracks, but you force yourself to continue walking with him, arms crossed. Good for him, you think. And you mean it. He's adjusted so well to university life, while yours feels like it revolves around him.

What's Jake up to? Is his practice done? Who's he talking to? Is it Choa? Is it Suji? Is it every girl that makes eye contact with your newly socially adept boyfriend, who just so happens to have the most gorgeous face known to mankind?

You want to punch yourself real bad.

“Do you wanna come?” he asks when he notices you've fallen silent. He thinks it's cute when you're jealous. Sulking and pouty—when it’s obvious why you’re upset. Not when you're quiet. Not when you're creating distance between you two as he walks beside you.

“I can ask them if we can reserve more chairs—”

“It's fine!” you interrupt, but even you don’t convince yourself. “I have work to catch up on anyway.”

His lips part as if recalling something important, something he promised you. 

“I'm so sorry, babe!” he gasps. “I totally forgot that you needed help studying for your exam tomorrow!”

You shrug your shoulders. You’re a cool girlfriend. Super chill. Not crazy at all.

“No, it's okay,” you say, chain necklace feeling heavy on your chest. “I'll just go to the tutoring center. You're busy, I get it.”

His eyes are still laced with concern. You sound so disconnected, so not yourself. Did he do something wrong?

“I can come over tomorrow?” he suggests, but it almost comes out as a plea. “We can watch the new movie you wanted—”

“My roommate’s gonna be home.”

“Okay…” he says, voice fading. “What about my dorm?”

You shake your head.  “I'm not really up for a movie, I guess.” 

Jake’s expression sours. It feels like you’re shoving sheets of metal down his throat. He can take you angry. Can handle you screaming, kicking, crying, and calling him names. He can’t take whatever this is.

“I can just cancel,” he says quickly. “I’ll come over tonight!”

And Choa’s voice resounds in your ear.

“You seem like a fucking loser.”

You bite your bottom lip and stare at his wavering gaze. You wonder if he pities you. 

Has he noticed? How quickly you reply to his texts? How often you show up to his extracurricular activities? How you can’t seem to admit that you’re hurting, even when he’s right here in front of you? God, you hate this feeling.

“It’s okay,” you say, and it’s small like a whisper. “Need some alone time anyway.”

“Alright,” he breathes, relenting to whatever boundary you’ve set with him. He reaches out to brush a strand of hair from your face, but when you flinch, he retracts his hand instantly.

“I love you?” he tests.

You give him a small smile and nod, pushing past him. He moves like he wants to catch your hand and stop you. But as always, he lets you walk just a little too out of his reach.

Because you still don’t say it back.

–

So this is what it feels like to twiddle your thumbs and try not to scream as Jake misses yet another hangout... He’s busy with his daily practices and rehearsals. You get that. But it’s still physically torturous to sit through Jay and Sunghoon stoking the fires of your insecurities.

“He’s gotta be seeing someone,” Sunghoon sighs, reclining into the beanbag in Jay’s apartment. “Dude just abandons his friends without any pussy involved? There’s no way.”

You smash a throw pillow from the couch and into his face, and Jay throws another one for good measure.

“Why do you always think with your dick?” Jay mutters. “Just let Jake be. This is his moment. Not like he had much to work with in high school.”

Sunghoon sighs. “Yeah,” he mumbles, almost apologetic. “He was pretty lame back then.”

You never thought so. Maybe you joked about it, but you never really meant it. He was kind. A little shy. So eager to please and follow you around. And now that the roles were reversed, you weren’t sure how to feel anymore. Fuck. Why couldn’t you just be happy for him?

He has this amazing life outside of you now. Cool friends (not Jay and Sunghoon). Great prospects for the future. It’s like a bird leaving the nest. Your carefully cultivated nest.

You felt like a cloud raining over his head when you’re around him now. After Choa, you started to notice the whispers around campus a little more. How people avoid him when you’re around because you can’t carry empty conversations about upcoming exam scores the same way Jake can.

It’s just different. He is. And it feels like you are too. But not a good different. It’s the kind that makes you feel like this isn’t how you should be. That you aren’t who you want to be… Maybe Choa was right.

And now a pillow is thrown in your direction. You shoot daggers at Sunghoon with your glare.

“What?!” you yell. He pounces in fear.

“I asked,” he coughs. “Is college treating you okay? You making friends?”

You roll your eyes. “Are you my dad?”

Jay sighs. “We always talk about Jake. Sue us for wanting to know how you’re doing for once.”

The words linger. What are you doing?

–

You’re stewing in it, marinating in how lonely it feels to stand in a corner with the stage crew while Jake, Suji, and the rest of the main cast laugh amongst themselves. Whatever.

“Those two are so cute,” a girl beside you says. Gaeul. So sweet, so bubbly. So oblivious to how tightly you clench your teeth. “They’d be like the it couple on campus, no?”

When you look between Jake and his toothy grin and Suji with her sweet laugh, you can’t help the way your heart constricts. “Yeah,” you mutter in disgruntled agreement. “I guess.”

Jake sends you sneaking glances, ones you don’t notice despite your eyes lingering on him. 

You haven't been the most responsive lately. He texts you a lot in between practices and rehearsals. Whenever he has the chance. He asks to come over. Asks you to come over. And you’ve turned him down almost every time.

You didn’t attend his last two games, you’re skipping rehearsals that you used to sit through for hours, and Jay knows where you're holed up more than he does. He’s worried about you. Worried that you’re avoiding him. Were you avoiding him?

“I heard you two are really good friends,” Gaeul asks you with sparkling eyes. “He seems like such a catch. How’d you not fall in love?”

You shrug. What answer are you supposed to give? It’s not like you were resistant to his charm either. “He went through a transformation recently,” you admit. “We were both kind of outcasts in high school.”

“Me too!” she says excitedly. “I bleached my hair, and everything before uni started. What about you? Were you two like super shy?”

You shake your head. “Jake was. I was just a bad student. Got in trouble a lot. My parents literally laughed when I told them I wanted to go here.”

And your heart thuds in your chest from a memory. Because Jake believed in you. Sat through hours of studying, teaching you the difference between derivatives and whatever the fuck linearization was, just for the chance to attend the same university. So he could spend time with you, so he could be with you. And now you barely see him.

“Really? I’m not surprised, though. You seem like such a chill girl. Like you don’t care what other people think of you.”

“Trust me. I’m far from it.” You catch Jake’s longing gaze again, but you turn away.

“Starting to think it was a mistake joining this thing,” you mumble, “with how often everyone forgets their lines.”

She laughs. “I like how straightforward you are,” she says with a wide smile. “Don’t really mince your words, do you?”

You smile too, in what feels like forever. It felt free to talk about something—anything—outside of him.

“Unfortunately, I don’t know how to hold back what I say.” Which is a lie. Because you hold back a lot. More than you let on. 

“Alright!” the stage manager yells. “Let’s get in position for the final scene.”

The kiss scene. The one you’ve dreaded for so long. You and Gaeul move across the stage, setting up the mics and instruments in their right place. You move past Jake with your head down. He frowns. So you are avoiding him.

“Places, people!”

You watch, from the wings, as Jake pours his heart out into the lyrics. A song about breaking free from stereotypes and whatever other inspirational stuff this whole musical’s about. He’s good. Really good. He moves like a natural on stage, throwing Suji these soft, tender glances that look so painfully real. She glows under the lights, stars in her eyes. And as the song comes to an end, he picks her up to spin her.

Just like the script says. And you clutch your forearm at the sight.

“I feel like I can really be myself with you,” he says to her. “Like I don’t have to hide or pretend.”

Whatever.

“And you make me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.”

The two stare at each other. A pause. Jake leans in. And so does she. Fuck.

You can’t do this. Can’t watch. You turn and walk out the back exit. Your chest is heavy, constricted with that ugly pang of envy.

Fuck this feeling. It hurt. Why did it have to hurt? You hate the tears that well up in your eyes, hate the shivering of your shoulders as you hug yourself in the parking lot of the stupid auditorium. You need to go back in. Save face. Show how little that kiss scene affected you because you’re supposed to be his friend in the eyes of everyone else.

You clutch your necklace through your shirt, fingers twisting the ring. Jake, who loves you. Who desperately wants your relationship to be public, to show you off. The same Jake on stage kissing another girl for a stupid musical you didn’t even want to be a part of.

He doesn’t deserve this. This monstrous version of you, who cares too much but gives too little. Overbearing to the point of suffocation.

So you walk back in, face steeled and tears wiped. He’s talking to the director with Suji, like nothing happened. Like all semblance of your self-esteem wasn’t just ruined a few minutes ago. But you need to stop. Because it isn't his fault. It isn't even Suji’s.

It’s yours. You hurt your own feelings.

Jake sees you and immediately lights up, calling your name as he jogs over. You don’t smile back.

“I have some time after rehearsals,” he says lovingly, his hand tugging your arm. “Wait for me?”

This would be the last time you would.

–

He tries to hold your hand on the walk back home to steady his heart rate. Opening night creeps closer and closer, and preparation alone won’t save him from the nerves. But when you pull away before his fingers can intertwine with yours, he flinches.

Maybe there are too many people around, Jake tells himself. You’re probably worried about being seen. And so he continues his merry yapping. He doesn’t notice the defeated glint in your eyes or the slow steps you take next to his. He’s still riding the high from rehearsal, still proud he finally made it through every line without stuttering or needing the script.

Maybe he’ll do well enough on opening night that you’ll let him kiss you afterward. Maybe you’ll walk toward him with flowers while he wraps you in his arms. He’d spin you around, brag to the whole world that you’re his girlfriend. Say it loud and proud in front of annoying ass Jay and Sunghoon, who got front row seats.

The thought pulls a grin onto Jake’s face, making him skip ahead a little. And you both keep walking toward the dorms. Just like any other day.

Until you ruin it.

“I’m dropping out of the stage crew,” you say, casually. He stops in his tracks. All semblance of a smile wipes from his face. The show is sold out. It’s too late to get you tickets. 

“You won’t be able to watch,” he says, panic laced in his voice. You’re at a standstill, in the middle of campus, surrounded by trees and concrete. “You should’ve told me! I can see if I can pull some strings—”

He’s already taking his phone out to text someone. Probably the director. He doesn’t even ask why. Just goes straight to problem-solving. Your Jake. Too good. Too kind. Too forgiving.

It’s too much.

“I’m not coming to watch,” you say, harsher this time, stopping him from sending the message. Guilt washes over you instantly. Because he looks at you with his brows knit together, eyes wavering.

“I don’t understand.”  You don’t want to come? You don’t want to support him?

Your mouth opens to say something. Anything. But your throat feels hoarse, shoulders too heavy. Shit. Don’t cry. You don’t cry in front of anyone.

“Jake,” you start, clenching your quivering hands open and closed. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His heart drops. 

“Do what anymore?” he swallows, his mouth dry. “I’m confused—”

“I think we need to break up.”

Numb. Everything is numb.

“W-what?” Tears sting Jake’s eyes before he can blink them back. “Don’t… don’t say that.”

You shake your head. “Jake,” you whisper, careful not to get too close. Careful so you don’t make the mistake of taking back your words. “I don’t think we’re good for each other.”

He inches forward. You take a step back.

“Do you think that? That I’m not good enough—”

“No,” you interrupt. But he isn’t listening. And he doesn’t want to. Because this feels like a fucked up joke, a prank on him that’s been taken too far. Won’t you stop?

“Because if it’s something I did, I can change,” he begs. And your heart breaks a little at how desperately he searches for a hint of emotion in your face. But you don’t relent. You can be the bad guy. You always are. 

“Please. We can talk this through.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, an unusual softness in your voice. “I don’t want to change my mind—”

“Why not?!” he asks, voice louder. The quiet that falls between you two is masked by the rustle of surrounding trees, orange and red leaves falling around you two. The cool, autumn air brushes your face. His eyes sting with redness. 

“Why don’t you tell me anything?” His voice cracks. The aching in your heart makes you want to give in, to take it all back. But you aren’t like Jake. You can’t adjust, can’t welcome change so openly. 

So as you look at him with his slicked back hair and sharp features, so different from a year ago, it feels like you've already lost something. The version of yourself who had more to give than hollow excuses and marks left on his skin.

You couldn’t admit to it even now. That you hate who you’ve become. “I’m telling you right now,” you gulp, bracing your own words. “That I want to break up.”

And the first semblance of tears falls down Jake’s cheeks as he lets out a bitter laugh. He doesn’t believe it. Can’t accept it. He won’t let this be the end.

“If it’s because of what Choa said—”

Your brows furrow. “You heard what she said?” 

His hands are in his hair, tugging at it with frustration. You seem angry, but he doesn’t know why. He never does.

“I told her to mind her business,” he explains quickly. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks. So if you’re breaking up with me just because she called you clingy or whatever…”

And he doesn’t know it, but the words trigger something in you. Something you’ve been pushing down over and over again. The feeling of seeming weak, of needing him. The need to monopolize. It sickens you.

“It matters what I think Jake!” you finally burst out. Frustration etched in your voice, shaky from the cold air and your wavering emotions. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“All I ever do now is wonder who you’re with, why you’re with them, and I just… I just feel so fucking lonely.”

He reaches for you, but you push him away. Your grievances spill out of you before you can hold them back.

“I’m paranoid of anyone who talks to you. I couldn’t even fucking watch you do that stupid kiss scene,” you continue. 

“We didn’t even kiss!”

“That’s not the fucking point!” you scream, before you can stop yourself. You inhale sharply when he flinches. Calm down. This is not his fault. Why are you getting angry with him?

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, taking one more step back. He holds your wrist gently to keep you in place.

Jake stares at you with his lips parted, stunned. “So why can’t we just go public?” he pleads. “You wouldn’t have to feel this way if—”

“That’s not the issue either,” you scoff, but you can’t even convince yourself. Because isn’t this how it all started? Your unwillingness to be embarrassed, to seem vulnerable in front of others. Was this not the root of it all?

“Then what is?!” he cries, his grip on your wrist tightens, not to hurt you, but so that you don’t run. Because you’re good at that. Running.

“I get insecure too,” he reassures, but you look past him now. “But I tell you. I tell you when I’m hurt, I tell you when I’m down. Because I… I want you to understand me. I want to understand you too…”

He swallows hard before continuing. “So I don’t get why you would even bring up breaking up before we even try to solve the problem together—”

“Because I don’t want to solve it, Jake.”

His hold on you loosens instantly, arm dropping to his side. You feel colder as he steps back. Jake stares at you, hurt laced in his gaze. Like you stabbed him in the heart and twisted the knife in to marinate.

“...You're always like this,” he mutters under his breath. “Always saying hurtful things without thinking about how they make me feel.”

He feels his throat close up as he draws in some baited breaths. The tears come in more heavily, his cheeks damp as they roll down his pained face. 

“So you see what I mean?” you say, your own tears threatening to spill over without you even realizing. A part of him instinctively wants to wipe them away, to pull you close and make it stop. But all he feels is anger. Because you’re the one breaking up with him. You’re the one choosing to end things. What right do you have to cry? What right do you have to look shattered when he's the one in pieces?

“I’m horrible to you,” you let out with pained laughter. He shakes his head immediately. 

“No, you’re not—”

“I always pick fights—”

“You don’t—”

“I act like a fucking bitch—”

“Don’t call yourself that—”

"I feel like I’m insane when I’m around you,” you let out, before you can stop yourself.

“I don’t think that at all—”

“But I do, Jake,” you cry. “I hate how jealous I get when you’re surrounded by other people. I hate feeling like I’m holding you back. I hate what I’ve become since…”

And you can’t finish because his tears have stopped. He’s looking at you with a new kind of anguish. The kind that you don’t necessarily expect. The kind that feels like disgust. 

“Since you started dating me?” he says like he correctly finished your statement. But that’s not what you're going to say. Never that.

“Since you didn’t need me anymore,” you whimper. “I’m not a good girlfriend, Jake. You’d be so much happier without me. Everyone would think it if they knew.”

He stands in front of you, hollow. If they knew. He has to laugh. That’s the problem. No one does. You don’t want them to. It’s clear now.

“Fine,” he says, and the steadiness of his voice makes you shudder. Good. This is what you wanted. 

He’s staring at you, jaded like he had come to terms with it. He used to love how insistent you were about your point of view on things, how firmly you stood by your opinions. Used to envy it. But now, he detests it. That stubbornness. 

“Whatever you want,” he sighs, hands slipping in his pockets. “Let’s break up. Pretend we never happened.”

Your mouth parts. “Excuse me?”

Jake scoffs, hands tightening into a fist. They’re trembling, but he won’t let you see. He can do what you do. Act like he’s okay. Act like you didn’t just kill him. He’s gotten very good at that. Acting.

“I’m being honest, Jake—”

“You don’t love me,” he cuts in. And your heart sinks. “That’s all this is. You never show it. You never say it. And I’m tired of hearing you pretend like you’re doing me a favor when I’m practically begging you not to leave.”

His voice cracks, but he continues. “So fine,” he mutters. “Have it your way. You won’t ever have to admit that we dated, start a clean slate without me. Just like you want.”

He presses his lips together and gives you one last look before he takes his hands out of his pockets. He’s fiddling with the ring. His ring. The ring that matches yours.

“You know,” he starts, voice trembling and bitter, “when it was the other way around… when I felt like shit about myself…. I never once thought of leaving you.”

His gaze is on the ground. “Because I always thought I was better with you than without. Because you made me want to be better.”

His voice falters. He looks at you now, sniffling. 

“I tried to be better.”

And in one swift motion, Jake takes off the ring.  “...But you didn’t even want me enough to stay.”

“Jake, no—” 

But it’s too late. You see him throw it, the bushes rustling nearby. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He shoves his hands back in his pockets and walks past you to the direction of the dorms.

“There,” he says quietly behind you. “Like we never happened.”

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even spare you a glance. It’s only when he’s fully out of sight that you dig through the orange and red pile of leaves, through dirt and branches. Tears stream down your face as you sob, searching for it like a mad woman. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic. 

But you can’t find it. No matter how hard you try to find a silver glint in the greenery, there is nothing. And you clutch onto yours like it’s your lifeline. He threw it away. How could he throw it away?

And you wonder then if you made the biggest mistake in your life.

–

You thought the pit in your stomach would fade once you ripped the bandage, but the hole in your heart opened wider. And it’s only been a week.

Jake used to dodge questions about his love life, but now he admits to anyone with ears who walks by that he’s single. You have ears. And you walk by often. You’re not sure if he’s taunting you or if you just want him to be.

When your eyes meet his at the one lecture you still share, he’s the first to turn away. Jake used to sit beside you, shoulder brushing yours, tilting his laptop so you could keep up when the professor switched the slides too quickly. When you pass the football field, you try not to wince when you see Choa latch onto his arm like she belongs there. He used to always pull away. 

The worst part is that these stolen glances are all you have of him. He’s blocked you on everything, which feels weird to think about. Jake, who’s always gentle, always forgiving, always offering second chances—even to people who don’t deserve it. Maybe this time you’re one of them.

You have no right to be upset. Not anymore.

And so you wrap yourself in your studies, check out new extracurriculars, even try to make new friends on campus who know nothing about Jake. You try to rebuild, try to go back in time before that fateful day in high school when you met him. But it’s been far too long. 

He was a part of you, so deeply ingrained in your daily life. How could you act like you two never happened? Like your relationship never existed? How could he do it so well?

And then, you have to remind yourself. You'd already been doing that anyway.

–

“So what did he do?” Jay questions, tuning his guitar while Sunghoon and you sit in his living room. “Did he tell you he was done paying for your stuff or…”

“Shut up,” you grumble, already agitated enough as you scroll through Suji’s Instagram. You couldn’t even muster the energy to be jealous over a photo of Jake and her holding up peace signs next to each other. You just feel empty. “Nothing happened.”

Jay rolls his eyes. “He’s usually texting one of us to get you to answer his messages by now. It’s been crickets from him for the last two weeks.”

You swallow hard. He used to do that?

Jay’s gaze flickers toward you and sighs as he fiddles with his guitar strings. “You know, I really don’t get the two of you,” he mumbles. “Like you already rejected him in high school, you’re practically just stringing him along at this point—”

You sit up. “Excuse me?”

He shakes his head, dropping the guitar onto his lap. “Jake told us,” he starts hesitantly. “That you ran away when he tried to confess last year.”

‘But that’s not the full story,’ you want to scream out loud. 

“Yeah,” Sunghoon laughs as if recalling a memory. “Dude! Remember in the summer when he started going to the gym with me?”

Jay cringes. “Yeah, and he told us it was because he’d be starting this season, but we knew it was just because you said you liked macho guys.”

You shake your head, ears warming at the thought. That’s insane. 

“Oh, and that stupid ass ring,” Sunghoon adds, clutching his stomach. Your hand instinctively clutches at your necklace, fingers brushing the chain. “His mom beat the shit out of him when she found out how much he spent on it.”

You twiddle with the ring through your shirt. You should've taken it off by now. He'd already thrown his away. So what use was it leaving him if all you were going to do was hold on?

“Why would he do all that for me?” you mutter, not realizing that you said your thoughts out loud. 

Jay shrugs. “Love makes you do stupid things.” And then he sighs. “Go easy on him, okay? You know how he is. Jake’s a sensitive boy. Especially when it comes to you.”

You look down at the ground, shame bubbling up in your chest. Jake loved you. He really did.

–

You smile from your view of the auditorium, even from the back, feeling like a speck of dust in the full house. A bouquet is in your hand as you nervously find your seat. Jake’s right. Everyone’s here to watch.

You could see Jay and Sunghoon’s tiny heads toward the front, pushing down the bitterness of not being able to sit as close as they were. It's not fair, you think. You had to buy a last minute ticket off a student who could no longer make it while they don’t even like musicals. You shake your head.

This isn’t about you. It’s Jake’s big night. 

The lights dim. Your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—steps onto the stage in a football jersey that looks almost exactly like his real-life one. The audience quiets at his entrance. As he delivers his cheesy opening monologue, you mouth the words with him. He’d practiced it so much in front of you. Pride wells up in your chest. He doesn’t stutter once. 

Even when Suji joins him on stage, even as they sing together during their characters’ first meeting, you couldn’t help but smile. 

The scenes blur as you lose yourself in the show. You watch the characters as they are and not as your ex and the girl you desperately wanted to hate. It was actually fun. The cheeky glances, the perfectly rehearsed dance scenes. The way the main character so seriously thought that singing was going to affect his football career. It made you laugh, made you tear up, made you suck in a deep breath when Jake leaned into her. 

And because you’re still you, and because the wounds still feel fresh, you close your eyes. You don’t have to know if he really did it or not. It doesn’t matter. It’s his moment.

‘If only I felt like this the whole time,’ you thought to yourself. Then maybe you wouldn’t have to psych yourself up to find him afterward and pour your heart out to him. You shiver at the thought.

But Jay had said it: love makes you do stupid things.

And you do. Love him. 

Enough to buy him flowers. Enough to admit that you’re done hiding. Enough to risk asking him to love you again—even if there’s a chance that he already moved on.

–

“Bro,” Jay starts, with tear-stained cheeks. “Don’t ever do that again. I can’t be crying like that in front of everybody.”

“Quit football,” Sunghoon says, patting Jake on the back with unusually red eyes. “Just focus on this musical shit. I swear you could make it big time.”

Jake chuckles, watching as the auditorium empties of guests. “Thanks, guys. I’m glad you two liked it.”

God, he wishes you were here. He could imagine exactly what you’d say when you walk up to him, with a small smile you try to suppress. Saying good job while ruffling his hair. Trying to act like you didn’t cry like everyone else. Jake smiles, quietly, at his own thoughts. It’s ridiculous, coming up with hypotheticals when you’d already made it clear. You don't want to be with him anymore. 

“Jake.” 

His heart instinctively skips a beat.

When he turns, the air in his lungs escapes him. You’re holding a bouquet so big it hides most of your frame, looking at him expectantly as you push it towards him. His eyes widen, unable to speak or even take the flowers from you. Is he dreaming?

“You did a good job,” you say, trying to sound as genuine as possible, wanting him to feel your sincerity.  “You killed it up there.”

“Thanks,” he says shortly, finally taking the flowers from your hands. He can’t help but stare. 

“I—” you try to push out, but Suji rushes to the stage to tap Jake on the shoulder.

“Hey.” She smiles up at him. “We're heading out soon for the celebration. Did you still want a ride with me?”

“Damn, even musicals got afterparties?” Sunghoon mutters to Jay, who attempts to shush him.

Jake returns a smile. “Yeah, just give me a second.”

And when he turns around to look at you, to finally hear what you have to say, your eyes are glossed over. Maybe you’re too late. Maybe this is idiotic after all. It's been weeks. There's no guarantee he'll even listen.

“I just wanted to say congratulations,” you mutter, though you've changed the words you meant to say entirely. It's supposed to be: ‘I’m so proud of you. Will you take me back? I’ll stop being so mean. We can tell everyone we’re in love—yes, even Jay and Sunghoon.’

But old habits die hard. And Suji—beautiful fucking Suji—crushed every ounce of confidence you had to come up to him in the first place.

“That's all,” you say, shooting him a small grin. It doesn't quite reach your eyes. He notices. Jake always does. Just never knows the reason why.

Before you can step back, he grabs your wrist, spinning you into his arms. Like the male leads do in those stupid romcoms.

“Don't,” he whispers. “Please… don't run away this time.”

You stare up at him, searching his gaze.

“Man, what the fuck is going on…” Jay whispers behind the two of you.

Sunghoon shrugs. “You think they finally…?”

Jake turns his head to give a disgruntled look to his two idiotic friends, and they shrink, making their way down the stage to finally give the two of you more privacy. He turns his attention back to you, wrist still in his hand, and gently moves it down to take your hands in both of his.

“I thought you didn't want to come,” he starts, licking his lips through the nerves. “Why are you here?”

Your cheeks heat up. Fuck. Where do you even start?

He draws circles with his thumb on the back of your palms. “Why?” he asks again, more confident this time.

It would be easy to act like your old self and push out a half-assed excuse. That you just want to be supportive, even after you’ve broken up. That you don’t miss him at all. But you're too tired to pretend like Jake's absence in your life didn’t feel worse than when you were with him. 

“Because…” you start, with a shaky breath. “Because I wanted to talk to you.”

His brows furrow. “About what?”

And you feel your heart pumping in your chest, your palms slick with sweat. This is harder than you thought.

“I wanted to—” You swallow, taking in a deep breath before continuing. “I wanted to apologize. With the ring. The one you threw away.”

You see Jake's ears turn a bright shade of crimson. “Actually—”

“But I couldn’t find it,” you cut in. “No matter how hard I looked. I tried. I really, really…”

You start to choke up. Because fuck. He'd gotten you that ring to confess to you. Spent all his pocket money so that he could get something he knew you'd love. Had it engraved with the letter J. Your Jake. Your handsome, talented, smart, and wonderful Jake.

“...really want to get back together,” you finally let out, eyes shining underneath the stage lights as tears threaten to spill over. “I'm sorry, Jake.”

His breath hitches, hands releasing yours so suddenly. Your heart clenches. “You broke up with me,” he mutters.

You nod. “I-I thought I needed to. To find myself. But… you were right. I was just running away from my problems.”

You swallow hard, correcting yourself. “Our problems.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “So is this the part where you expect me to forgive you?”

Your heart clenches. “I'm sorry,” you say again softly.

“You still haven’t even given me a reason,” he scoffs. “So tell me why. Why do you want to get back together when—”

It’s like slow motion, what you do next. You cup Jake’s face right into your hands, crashing your lips onto his. In front of Sunghoon. In front of Jay. In front of the whole cast and crew who were packing up to leave. The same people he’s had to make excuses to about why he suddenly looked so distraught these past few weeks. You pull back, breathless.

“Because I love you,” you say, loud enough to elicit gasps from your watchers. You don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed anymore. Because the words fall naturally from your lips, like breathing. And it's like music to his ears. 

“I fucking love you,” you repeat, hands still on his cheeks. His mouth parts open, breathless. He blinks. Once. Twice. And then he smiles, tears forming in his eyes. Jake swoops in, his lips finding yours again. His mouth moves against yours in tandem, slow and passionate. Your eyes flutter shut, soaking in the taste of him. You missed him so much.

When he pulls away, a shit-eating grin lights up his face. “Finally,” he whispers, cheeks flushed. “You finally said it back.”

You lightly swat his shoulder. You should've known he was trying to egg you on. Jake and all his damn questions.

“I love you too,” he mutters against your temple, squeezing you against him. “I love you so much.”

He peppers kisses all over your face, and you hear gagging on the sidelines.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” he mutters into your hair. “That shit fucking hurt.”

You smile sadly. “I promise—”

“YOU TWO WERE DATING?!” a familiar voice cries out. Of course. Nosy-ass Sunghoon. You resist the urge to drop kick him right then.

“I have a better question,” Jay pipes in. “Are we invited to this afterparty too or…”

Jake furrows his brows, turning to the idiotic duo. “What afterparty?”

Sunghoon and Jay bombard you with questions about your secret relationship, but mainly just start arguing about who was gonna call the taxi for the party they still desperately wanted to go to, since Suji had already left.

Running far away from the auditorium, Jake and you giggle as the two idiots try to chase after you. When you both reach his dorm, he doesn't waste one second after you close the door to lift you over his shoulder. You yelp as your feet lift off the ground, squeaking when your back hits the mattress with a soft bounce.

He sets the bouquet softly on his nightstand before hovering over your frame, and his knees sink into the mattress as he traps you underneath him. Jake strokes your cheek lovingly, his hand trailing down and down until it reaches the edge of your skirt. Still as short as ever. Thighs so pretty underneath the thin fabric.

“I missed you,” he sighs, hands trailing to the edges of your panties. He strokes your plush skin, sending shivers down your spine. You want to roll your eyes, deflect the warm stirring in your core as he scans your figure, eyes clouded with lust. But you’re supposed to be turning over a new leaf. Honesty and all that.

“Imissedyoutoo…” you mutter lowly, rushing through your words.

He moves closer, ear practically touching your lips. “Hm?” 

You lose patience, baring your teeth and nipping his helix. He flinches, glaring at you with a playful scoff.

“You said you weren't gonna be mean anymore…” Jake sighs, tone dripping in mockery as he pouts. And you want to say something more, but Jake’s hands land on your ass, giving you a subtle squeeze.

You know what. You'll humor him. Just this once.

You bring your lips to the ear you just bit, kissing it lightly. Steady hands trail down the fake football jersey he adorns, and to the painful bulge of his shorts. Jake sucks in a deep breath.  You chuckle, amused at how suddenly it hardens. So easy to arouse. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, licking his outer shell. He shudders against your touch, your breath on his neck triggering goosebumps all across his arms. You squeeze him through the fabric, his head falling to your shoulder. “I’ll stop…”

“Don’t,” he lets out through ragged breaths, as you stroke him languidly. You chuckle. He’s so cute. Cheeks tinged with pink. It makes you want to do worse things to him...

“Lie down,” you command, and he gladly takes your place on the bed. Your knees encase him now, tugging his stupid jersey over his head. “Let me make it up to you…”

His muscles are so well-defined, glistening under the light of your dorm room. You trail kisses down his chest, licking down his abs. Salty. Just how you like him. Jake squirms underneath you as you tug his shorts down, his dick slapping your chin on the way up as it springs free. Jake almost cums from the sight, tip flushed red and pulsing with need. To feel you. To be so buried deep inside you that he can feel the head poking through your stomach. 

When you move your head down to kiss his hardness, he digs his fingers into your shoulder. “No, baby,” he mutters. “Come up here, hm?”

You furrow your brows. Why the fuck was he trying to interrupt you during your apology?

“Wha—” 

Jake cuts you short, manhandling your waist as his fingers press into your hips. He positions your knees on both sides of his head, turning you around. He pushes your mini skirt all the way up to scrunch around your midsection. Yes, you might have an amazing view of his throbbing cock, but now you can't see his beautiful fucked out face. He breathes in the scent of your panties with hooded eyes, nose grazing your clothed folds. 

You pout. “I thought I was the one making it up to you—”

“You are,” he chuckles, interrupting you instantly. He pushes your ass down to his face with one hand, using the other to press your chest flush against his body. Your face inches closer to his member. Oh. That's what he's doing.

“Pervert…” you mumble, coyly reaching out for him. So thick and large that you need to use both hands to engulf him, pre-cum dribbling out of him as if on command. 

“I am,” he mumbles, pulling your panties low enough to give him access to your cunt, lying just below your knees. He licks a stripe up your drenched folds all the way to your puckered hole. You wither against him. “Call me whatever you want, baby. Just sit on my face when you do it.”

Your hips land down on him softly as your thumb spreads his liquid down his engorged length. This position was new to you, meaning it was also new to him. But Jake moves expertly like the quick learner he is. He plants open-mouthed kisses on your folds, pink muscle lapping at your labia like a man starved. Your tongue sticks out to offer kitten licks over his tip. 

But Jake hasn’t had you in weeks. And he knows what he wants. And it’s not the weak jutting you do against his face, or the shallow sucking you offer his engorged cock. No. He wants all of you. The sick part of you that would degrade him, that would rile yourself up like all those nights before. And he doesn’t want to have to mention a stupid nickname some stupid girl said to bring it out of you.

There were more healthy methods, he’s sure, to guide you right where he wants to be. And so Jake’s hands grip your ass, pushing you down on him harder. Forcing your hips to grind back and forth against his face at the rabid pace he sets, nose sticking in between your folds slightly as his tongue laps at your clit. Like this. Dirty. Raunchy. Aggressive. He fucking loves it. 

“Ngh—” you cry out, propelling him to push himself deeper in your mouth. You take a deep breath so his cock can slide through more easily, taking as much of him as you can to drown out your warbled moans. Your tongue finds the underside of his thickness, tapping him as you start to gag. And when Jake reaches the back of your throat, he gives you a second to calm yourself before he bucks his hips up into you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, remembering to hollow your cheeks as he shoots forward. But it’s hard to stay focused when his wet, pink muscle pushes into you. 

“Fuck—Taste so good, baby—” The squelching sounds that mix with Jake’s moans against your bundle of nerves are obscene, sucking and flicking his tongue with a fervor you try to match now. Your tongue curls up to meet the underside of his girth, bobbing your head up and down with ferocity. Anything to please him. 

“Mmmm—” you moan around him. Your mouth feels so fucking good, but your pussy on his lips was like actual heaven. He could eat you out all day. As a reward. As a punishment. Anything. 

And he breathes your scent in again, groaning once more. He pushes his nose closer to your folds, the tip of it engulfed in your wetness. You almost gag around his dick at the intrusion, saliva pooling at the base of his cock. You wrap your thighs around him tighter, bouncing on his face like he was nothing but a sex toy. Erratic. Desperate. Yes. Just like that. Fuck him like you never want him out of your sights again.

He knows you're close, knows by the way you start scratching at his thighs like an agitated pet. But, no. Jake needs it. Needs you to cum all over his face. Make a mess on him. Of him. His tongue plunges into you now, index finger coming up to play with your clit.

His cock pops out of your mouth with little resistance as your body goes slack with pleasure. You're just licking at his dick with a loose hand at this point, eyes rolling back from ecstasy. 

You whimper against the slickness of his sloppy mouth, drool continuing to fall out of the corners of your mouth through your slurred speech. “Ngh—No—Let me—Fuck—Jakeeee—” you try to say, but it all sounds nonsensical.

Jake understands, more than you know, as his heart constricts so deliciously. 'My poor baby,' he thinks. Just wants to make him feel good. Wants to make it up to him so bad. But you don’t know that the only thing that could make him happy right now is for you to choke him out with your sopping cunt. 

“Mmm—Ngh—Ahh—” He’s too good down there. Too fucking messy. Why does he do this? Why does he love making you sound like a fucking animal? Your toes curl, the grip around his shaft tightening as your back arches even more into him. 

You feel it. But it's different from usual. It feels like too much. Like an impending explosion. You claw at his thigh even more, all of a sudden panicked. “Jake—Let go—Jake—” 

When he shakes his head, his tongue swipes your clit left and right. His grip on your ass pushes his nose more deeply into your soaked folds. You whimper, cheek nuzzling against his length in desperation. 

“I'm serious….” you whine as you try to pull away. This is weird. You feel weird. You try to run away from it, that foreign feeling. But it's no use. Jake's too smart, too quick. He presses you down on him harder, hugging your waist, suctioning your clit, cheeks flushed from how quickly his mouth works against you. 

“JAKE!” you scream as your thighs clamp around him, hips shuddering uncontrollably. Like a hose turning on for the first time, a spray of your juices lands onto Jake's chin and neck, coating him in your dampness. He welcomes it, tongue sticking out to taste as much of it as he can.

You cry above him, tears landing on his dick that still rubs against your heated face. He laps up every last remaining bit of your climax desperately, like they’d dry up too quickly if he didn’t. You whine, grinding yourself on him to steady your heart rate. When he’s fully satisfied, Jake frees you from his clutches, lying you down on the bed so your head can finally rest on a pillow.

His cock is still incredibly stiff. And you're still in tears.

“You… fucking… dick,” you say in between sniffles, not believing you could ever climax that hard in your life. “Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?”

And he knows what’s going through your head. Because old habits do, in fact, die hard. And now you probably think he was out fucking anyone and everyone during the weeks-long hell that was your breakup. Jake chuckles, pulling your skirt down. He bites his bottom lip at the sight of your folds. Glistening with his saliva and your juices. He fists himself tightly. 

“Still so jealous, baby?” He smirks. God, please let him indulge in his pouty girlfriend at least once more.

“No, but be honest,” you mumble. “Did you—”

“Fuck other girls?” he finishes your sentence, scoffing playfully at the ridiculousness. Your eyes narrow.

“Well, did you?”

Jake spent almost every day crying, unblocking and blocking your number over and over again just to see if you'd notice. But he can tell you all that later. Because right now, you're giving him a death glare that only makes his cock throb harder. 

“No, babe,” he mutters, swiping his wet tip against your even more drenched folds. So puffy after all he's put it through. He peppers kisses on your shoulder. “You know I’d never.”

And you do. He’s only ever been with you. Will only ever be with you. You know that. But still. The wheels are already turning in your head. You know… you're usually the one worried about these things. Doesn't he deserve a taste of his own medicine?

“Imagine if I did—”

And he slams his dick into your plushness, eliciting a scream from you. He doesn’t even let you complete your evil plan.

“FUCK—”

“Don't finish that sentence,” Jake glowers, brows furrowed. You lick your lips deliciously. "That's not funny."

“See how it feels?” you whimper, as he delivers another harsh thrust, your shirt riding up your stomach from the impact. You arch your back off of the bed as Jake groans into your neck, licking a stripe up your jaw.

“All this just ‘cause I made you squirt,” he mumbles angrily, wincing as your pulsing walls squeeze his length into a tighter grip. “So fucking immature.”

You chuckle evilly. “Immature like who? Sungho—”

His childhood friend’s name doesn't even leave your lips when Jake clamps his teeth into your neck. Hard. “OW—”

A taste of your own medicine. But his skin grazes something then—a thin chain that he's seen before but never questioned.  You never wore it when you fucked. A circular hardness underneath your shirt that weirdly looks like…

He tugs on it before you can protest, and there on the chain is a ring. With J engraved on the inside. His gaze softens. And you become a blumbering mess underneath him, shy with embarrassment. “I can—Explain—Just—” 

Jake pulls out enough so his tip is the only thing suctioned in your folds before pistoning into you harshly once more. You whimper.

“Shut up and let me fuck you,” he mutters into your ear, before engulfing your lips in his. With a newfound energy, Jake pounds into you with urgency, pace brutal against your already sore pussy. His hand comes up to grab your tits, spilling over your bra from the impact of his movements. So rough. So mean. Damn, you were rubbing off on him.

You have this aching desire to flip him over and ride him back into submission, but the slapping of his hips into yours devolves your thoughts into unintelligible moans. 

“Ngah—Fuck—Oh my god—”

Jake’s mouth leaves yours as his eyes travel downwards to the piece of jewelry. He likes how it looks on you. Sitting so nice between your bouncing breasts. Maybe, he’d buy you a necklace next. A pretty Tiffany necklace to go with the pretty Tiffany ring on his pretty girlfriend’s pretty finger. Fuck. You’re so fucking pretty.

He brings the ring up to his mouth, biting down on the metal, before he lowers himself onto your lips once more. With the ring in between his teeth, he grabs at your jaw to open for him. Jake transfers it over to your parted lips as you catch the ring with your tongue, coated in his saliva. He dives down into you, your tongues battling as the coolness of the metal moves between your mouths. His thrusts are slower now, but you moan just the same.

Drool drips down both of your lips, the ring getting passed between you two in the movements of your open-mouthed kisses. He lets up, the necklace falling wetly onto the pillow. He admires the red marks the chain leaves on your neck. Maybe a Tiffany choker instead?

And his thrusts deepen, until your cervix repeatedly kisses his mushroom tip. He wished you could see your expression right now. So needy. So perfect. 

“Jake—Baby—” When the pet name leaves your lips, Jake lets out a deep, guttural groan. Like he'd been waiting his whole life for you to say it.

“Yes, baby?” He repeats after you, sweat beading down his forehead as he continues to split you open, pumping into your tightness with urgency. His hands are pushing your thighs open now, admiring how the ring sits sloppily on your neck as he jackhammers into you.

“I love you,” you moan out, your hands reaching for his face. “I love you so much.”

He looks at you with glassy eyes, soft and tender. He kissed you again, sweeter this time. 

“I love you too.” 

And he spreads you apart further, fucking you into the squeaking mattress with his pulsing dick, so big that it fills you everywhere you need him. He pushes in and out, evoking a new set of tears to stain your cheeks. “Baby,” you cry out. “I'm almost—”

“Wait for me,” he pleads, elbows falling to the sides of your head. He buries himself in the crook of your neck. “Can you, baby? Please—”

You try to nod as he's ramming into you as deep as he can go. He whispers sweet nothings into your ear, about how good you are for him, how pretty, how perfect, how he loves the marks you leave him, how he wants you to control him, how you’re the only one he’d ever be with in any lifetime ever.

“Ngh—” His hips snap forward with everything he can give. He feels it now, too. That coil that threatens to spill inside you. But he can't. No condom. No birth control. 

And when your hips rise, clenching around him, your orgasm hits you like a truck. You mewl out in pleasure, crying as Jake tries to pull out of you. But you suction him so well, too well, that it's a little too late. He twitches deep inside of your pussy. And his mouth falls open as the first spurts of cum spill, but nothing escapes his lips. 

“Fuck, baby,” he whines. He needs to pull out. But your cunt feels so damn good… So warm… So wet… And so much of himself has already spilled inside you… It's okay, right? To fill you up with all of it? But he has self-control. He swears it.

“No…” You whimper when he actually pulls away, his seed dribbling everywhere.

“...’m sorry, babe,” he groans, as his hand wraps around himself, stroking languidly. “I’m so sorry.”

Jake’s cheeks are flushed as he pumps the remainder of his climax on your drenched folds, painting your clit a milky white. He sees the first of his juices push out of you, his fluids like cream all over your puffiness.

“Fuck,” he moans, his fingers coming up to spread it all across your folds. But when you look down, all you feel is empty. All you feel is the need to push down against his fingers and take him all over again. 

Jake's eyes widen as he lets out a shaky breath. You look so desperate. For what? He's not sure. But he can't deny his baby anything. He can't deny himself either. He wants to see it just once. Seems like you do too. 

“Can I?” he asks in a low whisper, fingers spreading your folds apart to watch more of his load seep out of you. And you nod, shyly, relieved you didn’t have to beg for it yourself, already going through too much exposure therapy for one day.

And so Jake gathers the cum that's gushed over his digits, and with a shaky breath, he pushes them back into you. You tighten your grip on his biceps.

“Fuuuuck—” You cry out when he starts pumping them in and out, slow but still so fucking deep. His veiny fingers always know which parts to knead. 

Jake’s eyes are in a daze, obsessed with how his cum goes back in so easily—even when you’re still so tight and so sensitive. Everything feels so fucking drenched. And like this, he wants to see you come undone again.

“One more, baby…” he pleads in a low whisper, pressing butterfly kisses on your eyelids. He licks the tears that spill from your eyes. So pretty like this. “You want to make it up to me, right?”

You can only whine in response, hands shaking as they clutch onto him for dear life. 

“Hm?” He asks for confirmation, curling his fingers up to the spongy spot inside you. He grinds his palm on your engorged clit. Whimpering out a pathetic ‘yes,’ you let the pleasure overtake you once again. Your body feels like it's on fire. Too hot. Too much. But still, your back arches up into him, whimpering.

“Come on,” he whispers into your ear. Low and steady. “Give it to me.”

And you can practically hear the mess that his three fingers are creating as they pump into your folds, can feel the stickiness of your mixed juices coat your inner walls. But you shut your eyes, letting the warm tingling overtake your core. Yes—Right there—Fuck—

“I'M—” you screech, but it's no use. Your head falls back against the pillow as you sob. And Jake curses underneath his breath as you spray all over him once again, massaging your clit as he pulls his fingers out to watch. Your hips rise to meet nothing, just your body spraying so beautifully against his torso. His dick could harden once more any second now from the sight. He relishes in it, admiring his work as his cum pushes out of you again. Thick and creamy.

You look down too, seeing the fucked-out state he's put your body into. Maybe you would've been right to flick his forehead and call him every insult in the book for filling you up like that. But fuck. Could you ever have him cum outside of you again if it felt that good to have his cum inside you? No, you'd definitely need to get on the pill ASAP.

Jake’s gaze falls onto your face now, at your bruised lips and your dried tears. But the ring catches his eye once more, the one he hadn’t seen in a year. And his heart flutters.

“Babe?” he starts, lying softly next to you. He wraps you in his arms, not minding the dampness of the sheets below. He’ll clean you up later.

“Mmm?” You respond, on the brink of unconsciousness. Satiated. He touches your chain, the other hand wrapped around your stomach, giving a reassuring squeeze.

“How long have you been wearing our ring like this?” Your breath catches. You'd hoped that he'd forgotten, that the conversation could wait for the morning when your heart wasn't thumping so loud. It takes you a second before you respond.

“Since you gave it to me,” you admit, slowly. Jake can feel the warmth creep up to your ears. And he wonders how he's never seen it, how you seem to hide it so well after all the times he's undressed you before. But then again, you’ve always been good at keeping secrets.

Still, he smiles. Because even after you walked away, even when you said you were done, you still kept this piece of him. Wore it so beautifully around your neck, too.

Fuck—he’s never letting you walk out on him like that again. If you even hint at breaking up, he might actually end up begging on his knees and—

“Not like it matters anyway,” you cut through the silence grumpily. “You threw yours away.”

He lets out a surprised laugh and pulls you closer, squeezing you tight. You pout. What’s he so jolly for?

“What do you mean?” he asks cheekily. “That never happened.”

You turn around abruptly, facing him with furrowed brows. “I literally saw you—”

Your words are cut short when his mouth finds yours, one hand steadies your jaw as the other reaches blindly into his nightstand. A drawer opens. He pulls back just enough to show you the turquoise box, one eerily similar to the one you have in your closet, as he flips it open.

His ring. Silver and engraved with your initial. But how…?

“I guess I'm really good at pretending to throw things,” he answers before you can even ask. Thought I’d be a little dramatic that day…”

You smack his shoulder, but your hand massages the spot soon after, swallowed by the wave of relief that crashes over you. He didn't really let go like he made it seem. He was still yours, even when you thought you lost him. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you grumble, pinching his cheek. All he does is chuckle. 

In one smooth motion, Jake lifts your necklace and unclasps it, letting the ring unfurl out and into his palm. You don’t stop him. 

He looks at you for a second, as if asking for permission. You offer Jake your hand instead of speaking. He slips the piece of jewelry onto your ring finger, kissing your knuckles. Then he slides his own ring back where it belongs, to where he’s always kept it. Jake smiles up at you, planting another sweet kiss on your lips.

And you know you’ll wear it proudly this time. Without him having to ask. 

“I love you?” he says, gently, like he needs to hear you say it back just one more time. Just to make sure. And you kiss him again, warmth coating your features.

“I love you too.”

His heart clenches in the best way possible.

Damn, he could really get used to this.

epilogue

Jake runs to the benches, grabbing at his water bottle like it’s his last salvation. He gulps it all down in seconds, sweat seeping down his body. Practice was way too intense today.

“Oh my god, Jakey,” a lilting voice punctures through his ear. “You're literally dripping.”

His eye twitches as she enunciates the last word. 

“Choa,” he starts, shooting daggers at her. He's too exhausted to put up with this today. Or ever. She was graduating in a few months anyway. He might as well say his piece. “First of all, my name is Jake. And second of all, it makes me really uncomfortable when you say things like that.”

Choa pouts, tugging his sleeve like a toddler. “Why?” she giggles. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No.” He pulls away, not even bothering to look at her. “I just don't appreciate how you talk to me.”

She glowers, thrown off by his disposition. He's usually so sweet, so polite. What happened?

“It's ‘cause of your friend isn't it? You know she was so fucking rude to me—”

“My girlfriend,” he corrects immediately. Choa’s hands drop down to her sides. Jake pays her no mind, packing his stuff into his duffle bag instead.

“W-what?” she stutters out. “Since when?”

He shrugs, finally slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Since forever.”

“What?!” she screeches. “How come you never told—”

“Oh Jakeyyyy,” you sing out in an octave higher than your regular speaking voice. He presses his lips together to prevent the laughter that almost seeps through his mouth.

“Yeah, babe?” He calls out, looking past Choa. You're standing with your arms crossed, eyeing her down from a few meters away. A bright new necklace shining above your shirt. 

Your gaze flickers back to him, not bothering to waste your precious energy on the small, vicious girl. You tilt your head to the side, beckoning him over in a silent command. And he follows.

Your loyal little puppy.

Jake takes your hands into his just to really rub salt on Choa's wound, your matching rings clinking against each other.

“Do you remember Gaeul from the backstage crew?” you announce proudly, the bob-headed girl long-forgotten. “She wants to hang out with me tomorrow!”

Jake smiles, ruffling your hair. “That’s great!”

“She's throwing something at her apartment this weekend, too,” you slide in. “Maybe… we can go together?”

“Oh yeah, Suji told me—” And he stops himself. But it’s too late. You’re already frowning.

“Okay, so let me go ahead and take Jay instead…” And he pouts at your words.

“Not fair,” he mutters, but you see the smile he suppresses. 'What a freak,' you think to yourself.

You click your tongue, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “...I'm biting the shit out of you later.”

And if Jake had a tail, it most definitely would’ve started wagging.

“Promise?”

fin.

A/N: Don't save him, he don't wanna be saved.

Taglist: @missoxy @cutehoons02 @zohaaz @f4loveex @rianzysworld @tinastar13 @woniewonwon @starfallia @liaviva @lhspeachie @fancypeacepersona @sanasour @reasonablyminiatureandroid @tinyhrry @nyxphobia @aernx @soulskiu @shining-won @esoteric-eye @yohanabanana @jungwongfs-blog @starjoongie @yeeunlvr @gyu-luvs @ikeuster @not-aya @ppeachyttae @psyches-reid @moonxiiey @hueningsgirl @sylphjeong @mariegibeau @beaepa @jisiziu @aloveminsalade @ilovetimotheechalamet8 @vixensss @chyshiacat @chuuiehearts @heyinnnn @sparkcling @moonstrucksofie @snghon @nct-sticker-127 @fdzvie @synielve @honeyyjw @simj4k3 @petalsofink @axfyl

[swiftjay23]

~ 𝓒𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲, 𝓢𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝, 𝓛𝐨𝐯𝐞

After a brutal breakup, you don’t expect the campus playboy to be the one who steps in to help you put yourself back together. Jake Sim has rules. No feelings. No jealousy. No getting attached. As your self-appointed wingman, he teaches you how to flirt, how to have fun again, and how to make your ex regret everything, never expecting that every lesson would pull him closer to you instead. What starts as a joke turns into late nights, blurred lines, and a deal neither of you is equipped to keep. But when misunderstandings, old wounds, and fear collide, walking away is easier than staying, until it isn’t.

𝓖enre: romcom AU, friends with benefits, smut, angst, fluff, FWB to lovers, mutual pining, emotional slow burn, happy ending

𝓟airing: Playboy!Jake x fratgirl!reader

𝓦arnings: excessive drinking, smoking, flirting, banter, yearning, angst (a lot of it), Jake is stupid asf, blonde Jake Sim (this alone should be illegal), weaponized eye contact, hookups, mentions of sex, swearing, strong language, self-doubt, insecurity, hurt, no comfort, they're so in love in hurts, emotional angst, arguments, a red-flag ex, messy breakups in public places, extreme toxic behavior, jealousy, denial, avoidance, and men who run from feelings, campus-wide teasing and wolf whistles, friends who see everything and say nothing (until it’s funny), Jake being a cocky bastard who smirks at the worst times, accidental emotional intimacy, fake rules that absolutely do not work, one (1) grand romantic gesture, speed driving, (probably) underage drinking,

𝓦arnings (SMUT!): 18+ MDNI. Multiple rounds of sex. Make-up sex. Angry sex. Blowjob. Handjob. P in V. Unprotected sex (no!). Creampie. Orgasm. Fingering. Cunnilingus. Marking. Licking. Sucking. Biting. Riding. Missionary. Degradation. Praise. Friends with Benefits. Yearning. Nipple play. Tit job. Hate sex. Oral sex (both m and f recieving), FWB, Grinding. Dry Humping. Spanking. Possesiveness. Dirty talk. Flirting. Teasing. Aftercare. Lots of kisses.

𝓒ameos: Heeseung from Enhypen (as your new bf, for a very short time LMAO), Jay and Sunghoon from Enhypen (As Jake's friends), Giselle from Aespa

𝓘nspired 𝓑y: Crazy, Stupid, Love

𝓦ord 𝓒ount: 31.6k

Sam: Ty ml @si3rren for reading this, and no, @yvampyr, Jake does not die of heartbreak.... (sadly)

[Better Than The Movies] [Masterlist]

DELTA PHI GAMMA.

DPG, for short. You had always thought it was an explicitly obnoxious name. The kind of name that sounded like a bad tattoo decision or a frat guy’s idea of “branding.” Three Greek letters slapped onto a house where something went wrong about 99.9% of the time. The remaining 0.1% was reserved for moments people later referred to as “character development.”

Tonight, apparently, was yours. The music at Delta Phi Gamma is loud enough to make the drywall sweat. Bass thumps through the floor, cups spill on every staircase, someone’s already passed out in a doorway and the night isn’t even halfway over. The living room smells like sweat, vape clouds, and spilled Jungle Juice. Basically: romance’s natural habitat. And you’re getting dumped in the middle of it. Not gently. Not privately. Not even with the decency of a lowered voice. You push your way through the crowd, throat tight, mascara clumping at the corners of your eyes as you replay the last thirty seconds of the conversation that just detonated your night.

Your ex, now officially, gloriously, miserably your ex, didn’t even bother lowering his voice when he said it. “I just don’t think we want the same things.”He’d said it like he was commenting on the weather. Like you hadn’t just spent two years learning the exact way he liked his eggs or pretending you didn’t hate his friends or memorizing the shape of his back in the dark.  Which was bullshit, because the thing he apparently wanted was your roommate’s cousin. Emma, you mimicked, mouth turning upwards unpleasantly. At a frat party. During midterms week.

A laugh bubbles up in your chest, hysterical and painful, and you choke on it as you shove into the bathroom. You sob as you burst into the stall, slamming the stall door behind you. The lock barely holds. The music bleeds through the walls in a rhythmic, mocking pulse. You slide onto the toilet seat fully clothed, one hand pressed to your mouth to stifle the sound, the other gripping your phone like you could strangle the memories out of it. The first tear falls. Then another. Then the flood sits you down and wrecks your life.

“Fuck him,” you whisper to yourself, but your voice cracks so hard it sounds like a bad karaoke mic. You open your photo gallery. There he is, smiling in the sun, arms around you on the beach, the stupid fake-candid he forced you to take because he loved the lighting. Delete. Delete. Delete, your thumb hovers over the last one: you wearing matching hoodies, kissing your cheek. Your vision blurs. “God, I hate him,” you choke, wiping at your eyes with the sleeve you don’t realize has mascara stains already smeared on it.

A knock rattles the stall. “Babe? You good? You’ve been in there forever,” your friend calls. “I’m FINE!” you lie, voice cracking like a broken violin. You are absolutely not fine. You hit delete. A pop-up appears: Delete 247 photos? This action cannot be undone. You choke. “Two hundred and—? Ugh, I have no life.” You press confirm. The screen goes blank. Another sob. You grab a half-empty tequila bottle someone left on the counter and take a swig so aggressive it burns all the way down.

The night air out on the balcony isn’t much better, cold, smoky, buzzing with drunken laughter and cigarette glow. You lean against the railing, gulping in breaths like you could rewind your brain. Your friend hands you a drink. “Honey, it’s okay—”

“It’s NOT okay,” you snap, then immediately burst into tears again. “I wasted TWO YEARS of my life on a man who wears socks during sex.”

“Oh no.” “Oh YES,” you say dramatically, waving the bottle. “Guess who’s single and insane and probably going to die alone with seventeen cats?” “Babe—”

“He dumped me during a beer-pong tournament, Alyssa! Who DOES that?!” “Uh—” “And his stupid face, ugh, I hope he trips into a puddle. Of acid. Actually, I hope someone steals his favorite hoodie. And his Spotify playlist.”

Your friend pats your hair. “Okay, you’re spiraling.” “I am FLOURISHING.” You are absolutely spiraling. She takes the bottle before you drown yourself in it and disappears inside to get water, leaving you alone on the balcony with your misery (and the rest of the lot). Someone snorts behind you. You whirl around, ready to fight, and come face-to-face with Jake Sim, leaning against the balcony doorframe like he’s posing for a frat-boy-magazine cover. Backlit by neon lights, jaw sharp, eyes amused, blonde hair slightly messy from the crowd. He’s wearing a black tee that fits like sin, jeans that should be illegal, and a smile that’s gotten at least fifteen people in trouble this semester alone.

DPG’s worst decision. DPG’s biggest problem. DPG’s prettiest manwhore. Everyone knows exactly who he is. Everyone has heard the stories. Half the campus claims to have hooked up with him. The other half wants to. Jake lifts his brow slowly, cigarette resting between two fingers, his smirk lazy and unfairly beautiful. “Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he says, clearly lying. “I just wasn’t prepared for the… socks comment.” You sniff, flipping him off with wet lashes and a quivering lip. He grins wider. Your friends abandon you with a pat to your back, not wanting to be caught in whatever cosmic embarrassment cloud is forming above you. Now it’s just you and Jake. And your humiliation. And your tequila bottle. “You uh…” Jake gestures vaguely toward your face. “You’ve got, like—” He traces under his eye. “Mascara. Everywhere.”

You glare. “You don’t say.” He steps closer, plucks the tequila bottle from your hand, and inspects the label. “Top-tier coping mechanism,” he muses. “Very classy. Very ‘my life is falling apart but I’m committed to the bit.’”

You grab the bottle back. “Mind your business, Sim.”

He places a hand over his heart. “Ouch. Using my last name? Cold.”

Someone walks past him and smacks his ass. Someone else waves and shouts, “Jake, last night was INSANE! Call me!” He finger-guns at her without looking away from you. You roll your eyes. “Wow. Delta Phi’s favorite prostitute.” “Harsh,” he says, amused. “But not incorrect.” You sniff hard, wiping your face. “What do you want, Jake?” “Me?” He shrugs, taking a drag from his cigarette before flicking it aside. “I want to help.”

You stare. He cannot be serious. Jake gestures around. “Breakup at DPG? That’s… brutal. You’re one tequila shot away from crying into someone’s protein shake.” You let out a pathetic half-laugh half-sob. “And,” he continues, stepping closer until he’s uncomfortably, comfortably, warm, “I’m great at fixing people’s lives. Or ruining them. Depends how you use me.” Before you can retort, a girl in a tight red dress walks by behind him and taps his shoulder. “Hey, Jake,” she purrs, giving him a wink so practiced it should be copyrighted.

Jake lifts a hand in greeting. “Hey, Emily.” Emily? Evelyn? Eliza? You can’t keep his roster straight. As soon as she’s out of earshot, you give him a look. He shrugs. “We’re… friendly.” “Friendly,” you repeat flatly. “Right. And I’m the Pope.”

His smile widens, dimples appearing like tiny weapons. “Want me to pray for you?” “Actually, yes,” you say, wiping your face again. “Pray I forget I ever dated that walking red flag.”

You blink at him through thick, salty lashes. Jake softens, just barely. “Come on,” he says gently. “Let me help you forget that loser.” You deadpan. “How?” His grin returns, slow, wicked, lethal. “I’ll be your wingman.” You choke. “You?” “Yeah.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I’m good at this.” “I bet you are.” “I can teach you everything you need,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. “Confidence. Flirting. Getting over someone. Getting under someone. Whatever works.”

Your heart stutters. Your mascara is a disaster. Your night is ruined. Your ex sucks. And the campus playboy, Delta Phi Gamma’s crowned prince of bad decisions, is offering to rebuild your sanity. You stare at him. Jake smirks. “So what do you say? Want the Jake Sim Experience?” You take a shaky breath. “God help me,” you whisper. “Fine.” Jake beams like he just won something. And maybe he did. You don’t remember agreeing to leave the party. One second, Delta Phi Gamma is vibrating under your feet, the balcony lights buzzing, Jake Sim smirking like the devil with a solution, and the next, you’re sitting on the front steps of the frat house with cold concrete seeping through your skirt and a paper towel pressed under your nose. Jake crouches in front of you, elbows on his knees, assessing you like a particularly dramatic puzzle. “Okay,” he says carefully. “Good news is, you’re alive.”

You sniff. “That’s debatable.” He snorts, reaching into his pocket and producing a packet of tissues like this is not his first emotional emergency rodeo. “You cry like someone who hasn’t slept and definitely hasn’t eaten.”

“I had half a pretzel,” you mutter. “Tragic.” You take the tissues, blotting your face. Mascara comes away in thick black streaks. You groan when you see it. “I look insane.” Jake tilts his head, studying you with a seriousness that makes your stomach flip. “Nah. You look like someone who cared. That’s not the same thing.” You stare at him. He freezes, like he didn’t mean to say that out loud. Then, instantly, Jake Sim Mode snaps back on.

“But,” he adds lightly, “you are smearing eyeliner onto your chin, so let’s manage expectations.” You huff out a weak laugh despite yourself. From inside the house, someone screams along to a song that hasn’t been relevant since high school. A group stumbles out the front door, one of them pausing when she sees Jake.

“Jake!” she slurs happily. “You coming back inside?” He doesn’t even look at her. “In a bit.” She blinks, clearly unused to that response, then shrugs and wanders off. You notice. Of course you do. “So,” Jake says, rocking back on his heels. “Walk me through it. What did the idiot do?”

You hesitate. Then everything spills out in one ugly rush. “He said he felt ‘stuck,’” you ramble, voice wobbling. “That I was too serious. That I didn’t know how to have fun. And then I find out he’s been flirting with someone else all night like I’m not even standing there—” Your throat closes. Jake’s expression shifts, something sharper flashing behind his eyes. “He’s an idiot,” Jake says flatly.

“That’s not helpful.” “It is,” he counters. “It’s just not comforting.” You drag a hand through your hair. “I feel stupid. Like… how did I not see this coming?” Jake leans back against the railing, crossing his arms. “Because you trusted him. That’s not stupidity. That’s optimism.” You squint at him. “Are you always like this?” “Like what?” “Emotionally competent when it’s inconvenient.”

He grins. “I contain multitudes.” A beat passes. The noise from the party feels farther away now, like it belongs to another world. Jake glances at your phone, still clutched in your hand. The screen lights up with another memory, your ex’s stupid grin. “You wanna do something cathartic?” he asks.

You look at him suspiciously. “That depends.” “Hand me your phone.” “No.” “Come on,” he coaxes. “I won’t text anyone. Promise.” You hesitate, then reluctantly hand it over. Jake scrolls with lightning speed, thumbs flying. “Okay, first of all, why do you have this many photos of him?” “Because we were together for two years!” “And in none of them is he outshined by you,” Jake mutters. “Tragic.” He starts deleting.

You gasp. “Hey! That one—”

“Gone.”

“That was from our anniversary!”

“Double gone.” You laugh despite yourself, trying to grab the phone back. He holds it out of reach easily, standing to his full height.

“Oh my god, Jake, give it back!” 

“Only if you admit this feels a little good.” You freeze. He stops too.

Then you sigh. “…Okay. It does.”

Jake softens. Hands the phone back. “There we go.” You look at the empty gallery, chest aching and lighter all at once.

“I don’t know how to be alone,” you admit quietly.

Jake studies you for a moment. Then he says, casual but certain, “You won’t be.”

You glance up. “What?”

He shrugs. “Not like—” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “But I’ll help you. Get your groove back.”

Your eyebrow arches. “My groove?”

“Yes. Your post-breakup glow-up montage,” he says, dead serious. “Everyone deserves one.”

“And you’re… volunteering?”

He smirks. “You kidding? I live for reinvention arcs.”

You snort. “You’re the worst person to ask for help.”

“And yet,” he says lightly, “here I am.” A pause settles between you, comfortable, unfamiliar. Jake stands, holding a hand out. “Come on. I’m getting you water and greasy food before you pass out dramatically on these steps.” You take his hand without thinking. It’s warm. Steady. He pulls you up easily, doesn’t let go right away. Inside, the party feels louder, messier. Jake guides you through the chaos with a hand on your lower back, protective without being possessive.

Someone yells his name. Someone laughs. Someone whistles. Jake ignores all of it. He plops you onto a couch in the living room, presses a cup of water into your hands, and dumps a plate of fries in your lap. “Eat,” he orders. You obey.

After a minute, you glance up at him. “Why are you doing this?”

He shrugs, leaning against the arm of the couch. “Because I hate seeing people think they’re unlovable when they’re not.”

Your heart stutters. Before you can respond, someone plops down next to Jake and grins at you. “Oh my god, are you the girl from earlier?”

You blink. “Probably.”

She grins wider. “You’re cute. Jake never brings cute girls out of parties.”

Jake groans. “Please don’t psychoanalyze me in front of her.”

She winks at you and disappears back into the crowd. You stare at Jake. He rubs the back of his neck. “Ignore her.”

You smirk faintly. “So. The Jake Sim Experience comes with emotional support now?”

He meets your gaze, something unreadable flickering there.

“Only for you,” he says, then immediately clears his throat. “Temporarily. As a favor.” You smile into your fries. Outside, the night keeps going. And somewhere between the music and the mess and the man sitting too close beside you, you realize, this might be the beginning of something incredibly crazy, stupid.  And maybe… something kind of amazing.

You wake up with the distinct feeling that your skull has been hollowed out and refilled with static. Your phone vibrates somewhere beneath your pillow. You groan, roll onto your back, and squint at the ceiling of your dorm room like it personally betrayed you. The light feels too bright. Your mouth tastes like regret and cheap tequila. Your hoodie smells faintly like smoke and, you freeze. It’s not your hoodie. You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The fabric hanging off your shoulders is thicker than yours, darker, worn soft in a way that suggests it’s been stolen before. You stare down at the sleeve like it might explain itself. Your phone buzzes again.

Jake Sim: You alive?

You blink at the screen.

You: Unfortunately.

Three dots appear instantly.

Jake Sim: Good. Meet me for coffee. You owe me for emotional labor.

You groan and collapse back onto your bed. The café off campus is too quiet for the kind of hangover you’re nursing. The smell of espresso makes your stomach twist, but you order anyway, because you’re trying to be a functional adult. Jake is already there when you arrive, sprawled in a chair like he owns the place. Sunglasses on indoors. Baseball cap pulled low. Hoodie that looks suspiciously familiar. You stop short. “That’s my hoodie,” you say flatly.

Jake grins without looking up. “Correction. That’s my hoodie now. You left it in my car.”

“I did not get in your car.”

He finally lifts his sunglasses, eyes bright and far too awake for someone who was at Delta Phi Gamma until two in the morning. “You absolutely did. You cried about fries and declared them your emotional support food.”

You close your eyes. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he says easily. “Sit down before you fall over.”

You sit. There’s a beat of silence while you both sip your drinks. The normalcy of it is strange, sunlight through windows, students typing away, no bass rattling your bones.

Jake watches you over the rim of his cup. “How you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a bus. Reversed over. Then hit again.”

He hums. “Progress. You didn’t cry when you saw me.”

“Give it time.” He smiles. It’s quieter than last night. Softer. And it makes your chest do something uncomfortable. “So,” you say, wrapping both hands around your cup. “About… whatever that was.” “The breakdown?” he offers.

“The… you offering to fix my life,” you clarify. Jake leans back, chair creaking. “Ah. The Wingman Initiative.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“For tax purposes, yes.” You snort despite yourself. “Jake, I don’t need a project.” “Good,” he says immediately. “Because I don’t do projects. I do collaborations.”

You study him. He looks relaxed, joking, but there’s something deliberate in the way he’s paying attention to you, like he actually means this. “Okay,” you say slowly. “Say I agree. What does this… collaboration involve?” Jake straightens, suddenly all business. He pulls a napkin toward him and grabs a pen from his pocket. Step one: ominous.

“Ground rules,” he says. “Very important.” He writes THE WINGMAN PACT at the top of the napkin, underlining it twice. You laugh. “You’re insane.” “Focused,” he corrects. “Now. Objectives.”

He starts listing them off, tapping the pen with each point. “I help fix your confidence. Remind you who you were before your ex convinced you you were boring.” You flinch slightly. He notices. “I help you flirt,” he continues, gentler now. “Like, properly. Not apologizing for taking up space.” You roll your eyes. “I don’t do that.” “You literally apologized to the barista yesterday for ordering coffee.”

“Okay, I do that a little.” He smirks. “I take you out. Get you seen. Get you having fun again.” A pause. “And,” he adds, almost casually, “we make your ex painfully aware of what he lost.” Your lips part before you can stop yourself. “You’re serious.” Jake’s gaze locks onto yours. “Dead serious.” Something flutters in your chest. Dangerous. Hopeful.

“And what do you get out of this?” you ask quietly. He hesitates. Just for a second, but you catch it. “Entertainment,” he says finally. “And maybe a chance to do something that isn’t… meaningless.” That’s the crack. It’s small, but it’s there. You don’t comment on it. You don’t push. You just nod. “Okay,” you say. “What are the rules?” Jake exhales, relieved, and flips the napkin over.

“Rule one,” he says, writing as he speaks. “No feelings.” You snort. “That’s vague.” “Exactly,” he says. “Keeps us safe.” “Rule two,” he continues. “No jealousy.” You raise a brow. “You’re a literal campus legend.”

“And you’re freshly single,” he counters. “Trust me. It’s necessary.” “Rule three,” he says, slower now. “No kissing each other.” Your stomach drops. “Too intimate,” he adds quickly. “Messes with people’s heads.” “Right,” you say, nodding too fast. “Rule four,” he says, and this time his mouth twitches. “No sex.”

You laugh outright. “That should’ve been rule one.” “Hey, I’m trying to be respectful.” You look at him, really look at him. At the easy charm, the confidence, the danger wrapped up in a pretty smile. This is a terrible idea. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” you murmur. “But… okay. I agree.” Jake’s grin is immediate and bright. “Excellent. Welcome to your hot-girl era.”

“Do not call it that.” “Oh, I absolutely will.” He folds the napkin and slides it toward you like a contract. “Now,” he says, standing and tossing some cash on the table, “your first assignment.” You blink. “Already?” “Always,” he says. “There’s a mixer tonight. Sigma house. You’re coming with me.” Your nerves spike instantly. “Jake—”

“You’re walking in like you own the place,” he says firmly. “Head up. Shoulders back. No shrinking.” “And if I panic?” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Then you look at me.” Your heart skips. “I’ve got you,” he says. 

That night, you stand at the edge of the Sigma house living room, music thumping, people everywhere. Your palms are sweaty. Your heart is racing. Jake stands beside you, hands in his pockets. “Ready?” he asks. You nod, even though you’re not. You take a breath, and walk in. Jake watches you move through the room. The way you straighten. The way people look at you. The way you laugh when someone says something stupid. Something sharp twists in his chest. His pupils blow wide. He hates it. And he definitely doesn’t know why. The Sigma house smells like cologne, beer, and bad decisions.

Not the fun kind of bad decisions, either. The kind that end up as blurry Snapchat stories and half-remembered regrets. The air is warm, humid with bodies and sweat, every breath tasting faintly of hops and cheap perfume. Music pulses through the living room, too loud, too bass-heavy, vibrating in your ribs like a second heartbeat. Someone shouts your name from across the room, even though you’re not sure you know them. Red cups everywhere. Neon lights flickering against walls covered in banners, photos, and inside jokes you don’t understand but feel vaguely judged by. A couple is already arguing near the stairs. Someone spills a drink and laughs like it’s the best moment of their life. You take three steps in and immediately want to turn around. Your instinct is to shrink. To fold in on yourself. To make yourself smaller, quieter. To look for a corner, a wall, something solid to press your back against so nothing can sneak up on you. Your foot slows. Jake’s hand lands on the small of your back. Not gripping. Not pushing. Just there.

“Hey,” he murmurs, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath through your hair. “Don’t retreat.” Your spine straightens on reflex.

“I didn’t—” you start. “You did,” he says gently. “Shoulders back.” You do it. Your posture shifts. It feels unnatural at first, like you’re pretending to be someone braver than you are. “Good. Chin up. You walk like you’re apologizing for existing.”

“I am not.”

“You literally are.” You glare over your shoulder. He’s smirking, but his eyes are focused, sharp, locked on you like this matters. Jake leans in closer, voice dropping. “Rule one of flirting: you don’t chase attention. You allow it.”

Your pulse spikes. “Okay, Yoda.”

“Trust me.” He positions himself just behind you, not touching, but close enough that when someone bumps into you from the side, your back brushes his chest. The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends a jolt through you anyway. It feels… dangerous. Anchoring. A guy approaches, tall, loud, already tipsy.

“Hey,” he slurs, eyes flicking over you. “You—uh—you go here?” You open your mouth. Jake’s voice slips in first, low and smooth, meant only for you. “Pause. Don’t answer right away.” You hesitate.

The guy blinks. “…Hello?”

Jake continues, murmuring near your ear. “Smile first. Slow.”

You do. The guy grins like he’s just won something. “Now,” Jake says, “say something unnecessary.”

You swallow. “Depends,” you say lightly. “Is that your opening line?”

The guy laughs. “I mean—”

Jake hums approval behind you. “Good. Tease him a little.”

You tilt your head. “You ask that to everyone, or am I special?”

The guy chuckles again, clearly flustered. “I—maybe special?”

Jake’s breath ghosts your ear. “Eye contact. Hold it.”

Your gaze stays steady. The guy’s ears turn red. Jake exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself now. “See? You’ve got him.” The guy leans closer. “So what’s your name?”

Before you can answer, Jake murmurs, “Now disengage.” You blink. “What?” “Politely,” he adds. “You don’t give them everything.” You smile at the guy. “I’m grabbing a drink. Nice meeting you.” You turn away before he can respond. Your heart is racing. “What was that?” you whisper as Jake steers you toward the kitchen. “That,” he says, voice amused, “was flirting.”

You stare at him. “I didn’t even do anything.” “Exactly.” Someone brushes past you, and Jake automatically shifts closer, hand hovering at your waist without touching. “You see how easy that was?” he says. “You don’t need lines. You need presence.” You scoff. “Easy for you to say. You flirt by existing.”

He smiles faintly. “That’s a learned skill.” You snort. “No it’s not.” Jake opens his mouth to argue, then stops. Something flickers across his face. Gone before you can name it. “Okay,” he says instead. “Round two.” He guides you toward the couch area, where a group is playing some chaotic drinking game. “This time,” he says quietly, “you approach.” “I will die.”

“You’ll live.” A guy with dark curls looks up as you approach. “Hey.” You glance back at Jake. He gives you a tiny nod. You take a breath. “Is this game actually fun or are you all pretending?” The group laughs. Curly-Hair Guy grins. “Depends who’s losing.” Jake’s voice murmurs behind you. “Lean in. Not too close.”

You perch on the arm of the couch, relaxed. Curly-Hair Guy’s attention stays on you. “You wanna play?” Jake’s jaw tightens. “Ask a question,” he whispers. “Make him talk.” You tilt your head. “Only if you tell me your worst drunk decision.”

Curly-Hair Guy laughs. “Oh god—” Jake cuts in softly, almost involuntarily. “Careful.” You glance back. “What?” He clears his throat. “Nothing.” The game continues for a minute. You laugh. You joke. You’re… actually having fun. And Jake? Jake watches. Watches the way you smile easier now. The way you don’t fidget with your hands. The way people lean toward you like gravity shifted. He hates how good you look. You step away from the couch, cheeks warm, adrenaline buzzing. “I think I’m getting it,” you say quietly.

Jake nods. “Yeah. You are.”

A girl walks past and bumps into him. “Jake, where’ve you been hiding?”

“Busy,” he replies curtly.

She blinks. Looks between the two of you. Smirks. You don’t miss it. “So,” you say lightly, “do I get a grade?” Jake looks down at you. Really looks.

“An A,” he says, voice rougher than before. “Easy.”

Something tightens in your chest. You glance around the room, then back at him. “Okay. Your turn.”  “My turn for what?”

“You flirt,” you say. “I watch.”

Jake chuckles. “That’s not part of the curriculum.”

“I need to learn what not to do.” He hesitates. Then shrugs. “Fine.” He steps away, smooth as ever, strikes up a conversation with someone near the bar. You watch. It’s effortless. Too effortless. But you notice something strange. He keeps glancing back at you. And when he does, his smile falters just a little. When he returns, you raise a brow. “You were distracted.” He scoffs. “No I wasn’t.”

“You were,” you insist. “You didn’t even get her number.” Jake shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it.” You study him. “You okay?” He meets your gaze. “Yeah,” he says. “I just… wasn’t having as much fun.” Your heart stutters. Before you can respond, Jake straightens. “Alright. Lesson one complete.” “What’s lesson two?” He leans in, voice low, dangerously close. “Learning when to walk away.” You swallow. He offers his arm. “Ready?” You take it. And as you leave the room, head high, confidence humming, Jake knows something is very, very wrong.

Because teaching you how to flirt with strangers? Easy. Teaching himself how not to fall for you? Impossible. Jake steers you toward a quieter corner near the staircase, where the music dulls just enough that you can hear your own thoughts again. The wall vibrates faintly with bass, but it’s no longer rattling your bones. Just… background chaos. “Okay,” he says, folding his arms like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk. “Lesson two.” You take a sip of your drink. “I survived lesson one. I deserve a juice break. Or a medal.”

He snorts. “You’re doing great. Which means it’s time to teach you how not to immediately ruin it.” You squint at him. “Rude.” “Accurate,” he counters smoothly. “Listen. Not everyone who gives you attention deserves access to you.” You scoff. “You say that like you’re not emotionally accessible to exactly no one.” He ignores that with the grace of a man who absolutely heard it and chose self-preservation. He scans the room, nodding subtly toward a cluster of guys near the beer pong table.

“See them?” he asks. You follow his gaze. “Yeah. They look like they’ve been arguing about the rules for twenty minutes.” “Exactly,” Jake says. “Red flag already.” “Green flags versus red flags,” he says. “You need to know who’s worth taking home, and who’s worth avoiding like expired milk.” You choke on a laugh. “Okay, Professor Playboy.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m serious.” He points discreetly with his chin. “Guy one,” he says. “Too drunk. Slurring. Thinks volume equals personality.” The guy in question shouts something unintelligible and spills half his drink on the table. You nod solemnly. “Avoid.” “Guy two,” Jake continues. “Won’t stop checking his phone. Either has a girlfriend or a fantasy football problem.”

You wince. “Both are crimes.” “Exactly.” “Guy three,” he says more slowly, eyes narrowing slightly. “Standing off to the side. Watching you, but not staring. Waiting to see if you notice him.”

Your chest tightens just a bit. “Take home?” Jake hesitates. Just a beat too long. “…Potentially,” he says. “If you want.” You study the guy. He really does look different. Calm. Not desperate. “And how can you tell?” you ask. Jake looks back at you. “Because the right kind of attention doesn’t feel like pressure. It feels like curiosity.” Something about that lands deeper than it should. You blink. “Wow. That was… kind of deep.”

He grimaces. “Don’t spread that around.” You smile. “Too late. I’m tweeting it.” He straightens. “Rule of thumb: if you feel like you have to perform, walk away. If you feel like you can just exist? That’s the one you keep.” You hum thoughtfully. “So… no juggling. No personality auditions.” “Exactly. You’re not on America’s Got Talent.” You glance at him. “You talk like you’ve thought about this.” His jaw tightens. “I have.”

You open your mouth to ask why, before you can, he clears his throat and shifts gears. “Lesson three,” he says abruptly. “Eye contact.” You groan loudly. “Oh my god. I make eye contact.” “No,” Jake says instantly. “You flee eye contact.” “I do not flee.” “You look at people like you’re afraid they’ll invoice you for attention.”

“That is not, okay maybe once.” He steps closer. Too close. Close enough that your back nearly brushes the railing, close enough that you’re suddenly very aware of how tall he is. And how his cologne lingers with the faint smell of wood.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Stand still.” You freeze. “Don’t move,” he adds. “Just look at me.” You lift your gaze to his. His expression changes. The teasing fades, replaced by something intent, focused. Serious. “Now,” he murmurs, “don’t blink. Don’t smile. Don’t apologize with your eyes.”

Your pulse starts to race. “Think of eye contact like a promise,” Jake continues softly. “You’re not asking. You’re offering.” The room feels smaller. Quieter. He holds your gaze steadily, unflinching. “Count to three in your head,” he says. “Then look away first. Slow.”

You do. One. Two. Three. You turn your head slightly, heart pounding. Jake exhales sharply. “Jesus,” he mutters.

You blink. “What?” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Nothing. That—” He clears his throat. “That’s what I mean.”

“Like that?” you ask.

“Yes,” he says too quickly. “Exactly like that.”

“Then,” he says quietly, “you make people forget what they were saying.”

“Oh,” you say, voice light. “That seems… powerful.”

“Don’t abuse it.”

“Absolutely abusing it.”

A guy nearby glances over mid-conversation, then visibly stumbles when you meet his eyes. You hold it. Calm. Steady. Just like Jake taught you. The guy loses his train of thought completely. You look away first. Jake watches the entire thing, something sharp and conflicted twisting in his chest.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “That worked.”

Jake forces a smile. “Told you.”

But his hands are clenched at his sides.

You turn back to him, glowing now, confidence buzzing under your skin. “Okay. What else, Sensei?”

He looks at you for a long moment. Too long. “Careful,” he says quietly. “You’re picking this up fast.”

You tilt your head. “That’s good, right?”

He nods. “Yeah.” Then, softer. Almost to himself. “Too good.”

You grin. “What? Afraid I’ll steal your brand?”

He scoffs. “Please. I’m irreplaceable.”

“Oh yeah?” you tease. “Because I just watched you short-circuit over eye contact.”

“That was—” He cuts himself off. “Irrelevant.”

You laugh, the sound light and easy. “Relax. You’re safe.”

Jake watches you, really watches you, and thinks, That’s exactly what I’m not. The music swells again. Someone yells. Someone drops a cup. Life barrels forward. But Jake stays rooted where he is, watching you like he just handed someone a loaded weapon and realized, far too late, that it’s pointed directly at his heart.

And the worst part? You’re smiling while you aim. You get home buzzing. Not drunk, just… lit from the inside out.

You kick your heels off by the door, toeing them aside without caring where they land, and drop your keys on the counter with a satisfied little sigh. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your chest feels light. Electric. You catch your reflection in the mirror by accident and freeze. You’re smiling. Like, really smiling.

The kind that creeps up on you without permission. You groan softly and press your palms to the counter. Get it together. It was just a party.  Just flirting. Just lessons. You peel off your jacket, toss it over a chair, and flop back onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. Your phone buzzes in your hand as if summoned by the thought.

Jake: You survive?

Your lips twitch. You kick one leg lazily, then type back:

You: Barely. I might never emotionally recover.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Jake: Liar. You were glowing.

Your stomach flips. You frown at the screen, then roll onto your side, hugging a pillow to your chest.

You: Don’t flatter yourself.

A pause. Longer this time.

Jake: Didn’t say it was because of me.

You scoff out loud, biting your lip.

You: Sure, Sim.

You stare at the screen for a second too long, then lock your phone and toss it aside. Rules. No feelings. No jealousy. No kissing.No sex. You nod to yourself like this is a pep talk. Then your phone buzzes again. You grab it before you can stop yourself.

Jake: wyd

Your heart does a stupid little hop. You kick your heels off completely, toeing them farther away, and glance down at yourself, dress half unzipped, hair messy, cheeks still warm from the night. A devilish thought sparks. You hesitate. Smile. Type.

You: Changing ;) wanna see?

The three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear. You laugh quietly into your pillow, heart racing, already knowing this is a terrible idea. A beat later, your phone buzzes.

Jake: Absolutely not.

You blink. Then:

Jake:…unless you’re joking.

Your grin turns downright wicked.

You: Guess you’ll never know.

You drop your phone onto the bed and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling again, pulse loud in your ears, smile impossible to wipe away. Across campus, Jake Sim stares at his phone like it personally betrayed him. He locks it. Unlocks it. Throws it onto his bed.

“Rule four,” he mutters to himself. “No sex.” Then, quieter: “Fuck.”

You wake up late. Sunlight filters through your curtains in thin, accusatory lines, your phone warm beneath your palm like it’s been waiting. You squint at the screen. No new notifications. Which is, annoying. You roll onto your side and groan into your pillow. Last night replays in your head in humiliating HD: the party, the confidence, the way Jake watched you like he was trying to memorize something he wasn’t allowed to keep.

The text.

Changing ;) wanna see?

You bury your face in the pillow. Idiot. Rules were rules. You knew that. You’d agreed to them over lukewarm coffee and a stupid napkin contract. You weren’t supposed to be smiling like this the next morning, stomach fluttering every time your phone buzzed with nothing.

You drag yourself out of bed, shower, change into something comfortable, oversized tee, shorts, and make a half-hearted attempt at being productive.

You fail. Your phone buzzes on the counter while you’re pouring cereal. You jump.

Jake: I’m coming over.

You stare at the message.

You: Excuse me?

Three dots. Gone. Back again.

Jake: Relax. Daytime. Educational.

You snort.

You: You don’t just announce that.

Your phone buzzes again, immediate.

Jake: I do.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

You: Why?

A pause. Longer than usual. Then:

Jake: Lesson four.

Your pulse picks up. You’re still staring at the screen when there’s a knock on your door. You glance at the clock. There is absolutely no way, another knock. Firmer this time. You pad to the door, heart thudding, and open it.

Jake stands there like he belongs, sunglasses perched on his head, hair slightly messy, hoodie slung over one shoulder. He looks unfairly good for someone who definitely did not sleep properly. He grins when he sees you.

“Morning,” he says. “You look… awake.”

You scoff. “You’re early.”

“I’m punctual,” he replies, stepping past you without waiting for permission. “And motivated.”

You close the door behind him, watching as he glances around your place like it’s familiar already. “Nice space,” he says. “Very you.”

“What does that mean?”

“That you pretend you’re low-maintenance but own seventeen throw pillows.”

“Get out of my house.”

He laughs and drops onto your bed like it’s second nature, sprawling out, one arm tucked under his head as he props himself up on his elbow. Your heart does something stupid. He looks at you. Really looks. Jake is absolutely too comfortable in your room. He’s sprawled across your bed like it belongs to him, shoes kicked off, hoodie abandoned on your chair, one arm tucked under his head as he props himself up on his elbow. His phone rests loosely in his other hand, screen dark, attention fully on you.

Which is unsettling. Because Jake Sim does not stare. “…What?” you ask, breaking first.

He sits up instantly, like he’s been caught doing something illegal. “Lesson four.” You blink. “We’re still doing lessons?”

“Absolutely,” he says, nodding like this is very serious academic business. “This one’s important.”

You cross your arms. “Okay. Hit me.” Jake’s lips twitch. He glances at your phone on the desk, then back at you.

“Dirty texting.”

You choke. “Excuse me?” He grins, slow, cocky, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Relax. Words only. No pictures. No… extracurricular activities.”

“Jake.”

“You said you wanted to learn how to flirt,” he reminds you. “This is modern flirting.”

You hesitate. “I don’t sext.”

“Texting,” he corrects. “With intention.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

He scoots back against your headboard and pats the bed. “Sit.”

You do, reluctantly, legs crossed, heart already thudding for reasons you refuse to examine.

Jake unlocks his phone. “Rule one,” he says. “Dirty texting is about implication. You don’t spell everything out.”

“Thank god.”

“Rule two,” he continues, eyes flicking up to you, “confidence. You don’t ask permission.”

You snort. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is.”

He smirks. “That’s the point.”

He types something quickly, then nods at your phone.

“Read it.”

Your phone buzzes.

You pick it up.

Jake: You left your window open last night. Bet you slept cold.

Your brow furrows. “That’s not dirty.”

“Patience,” he says. “Now respond.”

“Respond with what?”

“Anything. But don’t apologize.”

You think for a second, then type:

You: I sleep fine.

Jake hums. “Too defensive.” He takes your phone without asking and types.

Jake: Didn’t say you didn’t. Just wondered if you thought about me noticing.

Your stomach flips. You look up at him. He’s watching you, really watching you, eyes bright, smug, pleased. “You’re evil,” you say weakly.

“Effective,” he counters. “Your turn.” Your cheeks warm. You bite your lip, then type:

You: You notice a lot of things.

Jake’s grin widens. “Good,” he murmurs. “Now add intention.” You hesitate, then:

You: Be honest, how many times have you thought about me today? Because I'm losing count over here.

Jake inhales, closing his eyes as he runs his hand through his hair. You try to ignore how good he looks. Your phone buzzes immediately.

Jake: Maybe I like seeing you flustered.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh before you can stop yourself. Jake freezes. “What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

He clears his throat, shifting slightly. “Nothing. Keep going.”

You smile now, emboldened by the way his ears are faintly pink. You type:

You: You’re doing a terrible job hiding it.

Jake exhales, slow and controlled. He types back, eyes never leaving your face.

Jake: Careful. You’re assuming I want to hide it.

Your breath catches. You look up at him again, and this time you don’t look away. He swallows. For half a second, the room feels charged. Quiet. Too aware. Then he smirks, breaking it deliberately.

“See?” he says lightly. “Dirty texting isn’t about being graphic. It’s about making someone imagine things they shouldn’t.”

You laugh again, softer this time. Jake’s gaze drops to your mouth before he can stop himself. You notice. Your smile turns mischievous. “So… am I passing?”

He leans back, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter: “Unfortunately.”

You tilt your head. “Unfortunately?”

He catches himself and scoffs. “I mean, you’re learning fast.”

You grin. “You’re just mad I’m good at it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You have no idea.”

You stretch out on the bed beside him, phone resting on your stomach. “Any other tips, Professor?” He considers you for a moment. The flush in your cheeks. The spark in your eyes. That damn giggle.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “One last thing.”

“What?” He leans closer, not touching, but close enough that your breath mingles.

“Never dirty text someone you wouldn’t be okay with accidentally thinking about you at three in the morning.”

Your heart stumbles. You swallow. “Noted.” Jake straightens abruptly, claps his hands once. “Lesson over.” You blink. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he says too quickly. “We’ll, uh—continue next time.” He grabs his jacket, suddenly very interested in leaving. You watch him go, phone still warm in your hand. Outside your door, Jake pauses, presses his forehead briefly against the wall, and mutters under his breath, “Fucking hell.”

After Lesson Four, everything changes. Not in a big, dramatic way. No lines are crossed. No rules are broken. But suddenly, Jake is everywhere. Your phone lights up constantly, while you’re brushing your teeth, walking to class, lying in bed at 2 a.m. staring at the ceiling. It’s always him.

Jake: You flirted with your TA today didn’t you.

You: He’s married and forty.

Jake: Didn’t answer the question.

You smile every time. You hate that. Sometimes the texts are instructional.

Jake: Eye contact. Three seconds longer than comfortable. Then smile like you know something they don’t.

You: You’re evil.

Jake: And effective.

Sometimes they’re not instructional at all.

You: I hate group projects.

Jake: I hate when you use periods. It sounds aggressive.

You: I am aggressive.

You fall asleep with your phone in your hand more than once. You start measuring time in notifications. And that’s when it gets dangerous. Because you notice things. Like how every guy on campus suddenly feels… dull.

Too eager. Too awkward. Too obvious. You’ll be mid-conversation with someone cute, someone objectively hot, and catch yourself thinking:

Jake would’ve told him to slow down. Jake wouldn’t laugh like that. Jake would know when to shut up. You hate that thought.

You shove it down and remind yourself this is literally his thing. He’s done this before. With dozens of girls. Probably hundreds. He’s a playboy. A manwhore. You picture him sprawled across someone else’s bed, head propped on his palm, saying the same lines. Watching another girl flush. Smirking the same way.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You set your phone face down and stare at the wall. Get over it. That night, he texts you.

Jake: You okay? 

You hesitate. Then:

You: Yeah. Just tired.

Three dots appear. Disappear.

Jake: You don’t lie well. 

Your heart drops. Before you can respond, another message comes through.

Jake: Come with me.

You: Where?

Jake: I’ll pick you up.

You: Tell me why I’m concerned-

Your phone buzzes again.

Jake:Trust me.

You do. That’s the problem. His car smells like his woody cologne and something fried when you slide into the passenger seat. He hands you a paper bag without looking at you.

“McDonald’s,” he says. “Emergency therapy.”

You peek inside.

“Two cheeseburgers?”

“You strike me as a two-cheeseburger person.”

You snort. “Rude.”

He pulls out of the parking lot, one hand on the wheel, the other already unwrapping his burger. You sit in comfortable silence, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too used to someone. Grease drips onto his fingers. He licks it off without thinking. Your eyes flick away quickly.

“So,” he says casually. “What’s wrong?” You swallow. “Nothing.”

He hums, unconvinced, and parks somewhere quiet. The campus lights glow faintly in the distance. “You’ve been distant,” he says. “And before you deny it, yes, I notice.”

You pick at the wrapper. “You probably notice everything.”

He glances at you then. Really looks. “Only you,” he says, like it slips out.

The silence that follows is heavier. You force a laugh. “Bullshit.”

“Okay,” he says. “Mostly you.”

That makes your heart do something stupid. You take a bite of your burger, chew too fast, and finally say it. “Do you… do this a lot?”

He frowns. “Do what?”

“This,” you gesture vaguely between you, the car, the food, the late hour. “Helping girls.”

His jaw tightens just a fraction. “Used to.”

Your stomach sinks. “Oh.”

He sighs and leans back in his seat. “Not like this.” You look at him. “What does that mean?”

He meets your gaze. His usual cocky grin is gone. “It means I don’t usually care if they text back,” he says quietly. “Or if they’re smiling at someone else.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t usually replay conversations in my head like an idiot.”

The air shifts. You stare at him, heart pounding, every rule screaming in your ears. No feelings. No jealousy.  You swallow hard.

“Well,” you say lightly, forcing a smile. “Guess I’m special.” He laughs softly. “Unfortunately.”

You both eat the rest of your burgers in silence, knees almost touching, radio low, something warm and terrifying settling in your chest. When he drops you off, he doesn’t come in. He just looks at you, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. You’re halfway out of his car when he speaks.

“Wait.”

Something in his voice, low, rough, stops you cold. You turn back, one hand still on the door. “What?”

Jake’s jaw tightens like he’s made a decision he hates. He kills the engine, the sudden quiet loud between you. “I’m not done,” he says.

Before you can process that, he’s out of the car, keys abandoned, following you up the steps. You fumble with your door, heart racing, and the second it clicks open, he’s inside.

The door shuts behind him with a soft, final sound. “Jake,” you start, laughing nervously, “you said—”

“I know what I said.” He moves closer. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just inevitable. He doesn’t touch you at first. Just stands too close. Close enough that you can smell him, soap, something warm and familiar, a hint of fries still clinging to his hoodie. Close enough that when he exhales, you feel it brush your cheek.

You back up without realizing it until your shoulders brush the wall. Cool paint. Warm body. His hands come up, not touching you, not yet, but caging you in, palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. Your breath stutters.

“Jake,” you murmur, unsure whether you’re warning him or yourself. His jaw tightens. His pupils are blown wide, dark and unreadable, like he’s staring at something he shouldn’t want as badly as he does.

“You trust me?” he asks quietly.

The question shouldn’t feel dangerous. It does anyway. You nod. “Yeah.”

“This is lesson five,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “Fake moans?”

“Yeah.”

He’s close enough now that you can see it, the way his pupils have blown wide, dark swallowing the brown. His chest rises and falls faster than before. “This is about control,” he says, voice rougher. “About sound. About knowing what you’re doing to someone without touching them.”

Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. “And you’re going to practice on me?” you whisper. A corner of his mouth lifts. Not smug. Strained.

“I trust you,” he says, like that’s the most dangerous thing he could’ve said.

Your breaths mingle. You can feel the warmth of him, the heat rolling off his body, the way he leans in just enough that your noses almost brush. You wet your lips, suddenly too aware of everything, how close he is, how the wall presses into your back, how his gaze flicks to your mouth and lingers a second too long.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “Give me something believable.”

You laugh softly, nerves bubbling. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” he asks, eyes never leaving your mouth. “Because you’re blushing.”

You hate that he’s right. The sound that leaves you is awkward, too loud, too forced, wrong in every way. It echoes faintly in the quiet apartment. He winces. “No.”

“Hey!”

“That sounded like you were mocking me.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, expert. You try not being weird about it.”

His laugh is short, breathless. “Trust me. I’m being very normal.”

He doesn’t move away. Instead, he exhales, long, slow, and the expression on his face changes. Like someone bracing for impact.

“This is a terrible idea,” he mutters.

Then he does something neither of you planned. Jake leans down. Not fast. Not rough. Deliberate. His hand slides up, not to your waist, not anywhere scandalous, but to the wall above your head, fingers curling slightly as he dips his face toward your neck. You feel the brush of his breath first, warm and teasing. Your pulse explodes.

“Jake—”

“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Just, listen.”

His mouth ghosts along your skin. Not a kiss. Not really. Just the faintest press of lips near your collarbone, a gentle nip that makes you gasp despite yourself. Your hands curl instinctively in the fabric of his hoodie. He does it again, lighter this time, then drags his lips slowly upward, a soft tickle that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

Your body betrays you. A sound slips out. Not loud. Not practiced. Not fake. A soft, breathy sigh that you didn’t mean to make. The room goes still. Jake freezes. His breath turns ragged, shallow. You feel the tension snap through him like a wire pulled too tight. Your fingers slide into his hair before you can stop yourself, just for a second, just enough to feel how warm he is, how real.

His eyes meet yours. Dark. Shaken. Ruined. “Fuck,” he breathes, then catches himself. “Okay. That, yeah. That’s dangerous.”

Your heart flips. You look up at him. “Jake?”

He swallows hard. His gaze drops to your lips, then snaps back to your eyes like it burns. “You don’t understand,” he says quietly. “If you do that to the wrong guy, they won’t stand a chance.”

Something twists in your chest. “What about the right guy?”

The question hangs there, reckless and unguarded. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then he leans in, close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours, and says, barely audible:

“The right guy would lose his mind.”

His breath ghosts your cheek. His control is fraying, you can feel it in the way he shifts, the way his jaw clenches like he’s holding himself back by sheer will. You shouldn’t notice that. You definitely shouldn’t love it.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like a caged animal. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “I knew better.”

You hug yourself, heart aching in a way you weren’t prepared for. “Jake…”

He looks at you then, really looks, and for a split second, the playboy mask is gone entirely. What’s underneath is raw and dangerous and far too honest. He pulls away suddenly, stepping back like he’s been burned.

“Lesson over,” he says too quickly.

Your lungs ache when you finally breathe. “Jake—”

“Rules,” he cuts in, not looking at you. “We said rules.”

He heads for the door, hand already on the knob. Before he leaves, he glances back once. His eyes are dark. Honest. Wrecked.

“Don’t practice that on anyone tonight,” he says. Then he’s gone. And you slide down the wall, heart racing, knowing, deep down, that something just broke. And it’s not going to be fixable.

You tell yourself it’s casual. You repeat it like a mantra as you walk beside Jake down the street, hands stuffed into your sleeves, the late afternoon sun warming your skin.

Casual. Educational. Very normal. “Coffee doesn’t count,” Jake says, like he’s reading your thoughts. “It’s a neutral setting.”

You snort. “You’re the one who suggested it.”

“For strategic reasons.”

“Sure.”

The café is small and warm, the kind with mismatched chairs and soft music playing just loud enough to fill the silence. Jake holds the door open for you without thinking. His hand lingers at the small of your back as you step inside.

You pretend not to notice. You order first. He remembers how you like your coffee without asking.

That should not make your chest tighten. You sit across from each other by the window. Sunlight catches in his hair. He’s wearing a simple black tee and a jacket, nothing flashy, no frat boy bravado, no playboy armor.

Just Jake. You wrap your hands around your cup. “So,” you say. “What’s today’s lesson?”

He leans back in his chair, studying you. “Observation.”

“Of what?”

“Of you,” he says easily.

Your stomach flips. “That’s not a lesson.”

“It is when you’re pretending you don’t notice things.”

You kick his foot under the table. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins. “You like it.”

You hate that you don’t deny it. A couple at the table next to you laughs softly. Someone reaches for someone else’s hand. You look away too quickly.

Jake notices. “You okay?” he asks.

You hesitate. Then shrug. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile falters. “This doesn’t feel like training,” you say quietly.

His gaze sharpens. “What does it feel like?”

The truth sits heavy on your tongue. Like comfort. Like safety. Like something you don’t want to label because labeling makes it real. You stir your coffee instead. “Like we’re cheating.”

He blinks. “On who?”

You shrug again. “The rules.”

He laughs softly, but it dies too fast. “Yeah,” he admits. “A little.”

You both fall quiet, watching people pass by the window. Your knees bump beneath the table and neither of you moves away. Jake breaks the silence first. “You know,” he says, casual but careful, “I don’t usually do this.”

You look at him. “Coffee?”

“Daytime,” he clarifies. “Talking. Listening.”

Your heart stutters. “Why me?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers trace the rim of his cup. “Because you don’t want me to impress you,” he says finally. “You just want me to be… here.”

Your throat tightens. “Don’t,” you whisper.

“Don’t what?”

“Say things like that.”

He watches you for a long moment, eyes soft, almost vulnerable. “Okay,” he says. “Then don’t smile like that.”

You realize you are. You both laugh quietly, the tension easing just enough to be survivable.

Jake notices before you do. You’re mid-sentence, something stupid about how the foam art on your latte looks like a heart, when his posture changes. He goes still, eyes locking onto something over your shoulder.

His jaw tightens. “Hey,” you say. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s already standing, already reaching for you. “Jake?”

“We’re leaving,” he says, calm but firm. Not a question.

Your stomach drops. “Why—?”

Then you see it. Your ex. Across the café. Laughing. His hand wrapped around someone else’s wrist like it belongs there. Someone pretty. Someone new.

Your breath stutters. Jake’s hand closes around yours instantly. “Don’t,” he murmurs, already pulling you up. “Don’t look.”

“I—I can’t—”

He steps closer, blocking your line of sight with his body. You’re pressed briefly into his chest, the scent of coffee and him filling your lungs.

“I’ve got you,” he says, low and certain. “Come on.”

He doesn’t rush you, but he doesn’t give you time to spiral either. One hand stays firmly linked with yours as he steers you through the café, past the door, into daylight.

Only when you’re outside does your breath come apart. You shake. You didn’t even realize you were shaking until he notices.

“Hey,” Jake says softly. He guides you toward his car, opens the passenger door, and waits until you’re seated before closing it gently, like you’re something fragile. He circles to the driver’s side, gets in, but doesn’t start the engine right away. The silence is loud. Your hands are in your lap, fingers curled tight. You stare straight ahead, chest aching.

“I didn’t know he’d be here,” you whisper, embarrassed by how small your voice sounds.

Jake exhales slowly. Then he reaches over. His hand finds yours. Warm. Steady. No hesitation. Your breath catches. He laces his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “It just, caught me off guard.”

“I know.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and grounding. “He doesn’t get to ruin your day,” Jake continues. “Or your coffee. Or you.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “That latte was expensive.”

“Exactly,” he says, lips quirking. “Criminal behavior.” You glance at him, expecting his usual teasing grin.

It’s not there. Instead, he’s watching you, really watching. Concern etched into his features, brows pulled together, jaw tight with something that looks dangerously close to anger. “He’s an idiot,” Jake says, suddenly sharp. “And I’m not saying that because I hate him.”

You blink. “You don’t?”

He scoffs. “Oh, I do. But that’s not why.”

He lifts his free hand and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering for half a second too long. “Anyone who lets you walk away,” he says softly, “doesn’t deserve a second of your doubt.”

Your chest tightens painfully. Jake seems to realize what he’s doing a beat too late. He pulls his hand back, loosens his grip, but doesn’t let go completely.

The engine hums to life. As he drives, your joined hands rest on the console between you, undeniable. You don’t pull away. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the set of his shoulders, the way he checks on you at every red light, thumb brushing your skin like a reassurance he doesn’t even know he’s giving.

And it hits you. This isn’t a lesson. This isn’t wingman behavior. This isn’t casual. Jake Sim has feelings. And the way his hand tightens around yours tells you he knows it too, even if he’s terrified to say it out loud.

The car slows to a stop outside your place. Neither of you moves. The engine hums softly, a low vibration beneath the silence. Your hands are still tangled together on the console. You can feel his pulse through his thumb. It’s fast.

Too fast.

“Hey,” you murmur, finally. “You okay?”

Jake exhales like he’s been holding it in for miles. He turns toward you, and stops.

You’re close. Too close. Close enough that you can see the faint freckle near his jaw. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath when he swallows. Neither of you lets go.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says quietly.

“Done what?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. “Touched you like that.”

Your heart thunders. “Jake—”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, voice strained. “I crossed a line.”

You shift without thinking, drawn in by gravity, by comfort, by him. Your knee brushes his. “I didn’t mind,” you whisper.

That’s when it happens. He leans in. Slow. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to pull away.

You don’t. Your breaths tangle, soft and uneven. His forehead nearly touches yours. Your lips are a whisper apart, close enough that the moment feels suspended, fragile, electric, inevitable.

His thumb strokes your knuckle once. Your eyes flutter shut.

And for half a heartbeat, you’re certain—

He freezes.

His breath stutters. His hand tightens abruptly before dropping away like he’s been burned. He pulls back. Fast. Too fast. “Fuck,” he breathes.

You open your eyes. Panic flashes across his face, raw and unguarded. His pupils are blown wide, chest rising sharply like he can’t quite get enough air.

“I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I—I can’t do this.”

Your heart sinks. “Jake?”

“This is how it starts,” he continues, words tumbling now. “This is how I mess things up. And I promised, I promised I wouldn’t be that guy.”

“That guy?” you whisper.

“The one who ruins you,” he says, voice breaking just a little. “The one who pretends it’s nothing when it’s clearly not.”

Silence crashes down between you. You stare at him, chest aching. “I don’t think you’re ruining me,” you say softly.

He looks at you like that’s the most dangerous thing you could’ve said. “That’s the problem,” he murmurs.

He opens the door, stepping out into the night air like he needs it to breathe. You sit there, stunned, watching him rake a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back. “I’m sorry,” he says, eyes sincere, wrecked. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

You swallow hard. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He hesitates. “I did.” He closes the door gently, like earlier, like you’re still something precious.

“Text me,” he says, voice low. “Please.”

Then he walks away before you can answer. Inside, you lean against your door, heart racing, lips tingling with something that never happened.

Across the street, Jake stands beside his car for a long moment, head bowed, fists clenched. Because he knows now. There’s no lesson left that can save him from this.

And there’s no rule strong enough to stop what’s coming next. You don’t move for a long time after he leaves.

You stand there with your back against the door, fingers pressed to your lips like you might still feel him there if you try hard enough. Your heart won’t slow down. Your skin feels too tight, like it knows something before you’re ready to admit it.

You slide down until you’re sitting on the floor. And that’s when it hits you. Not all at once, no. It’s quieter than that. Heavier.

You like him. Not liked. Not maybe. You like Jake Sim like it scares you.

You like the way he remembers how you take your coffee. The way he notices when you’re lying. The way he got angry, not jealous, not possessive, just furious, on your behalf.

You like the way he touched your hand like it mattered. Like it was something to be careful with. You laugh weakly to yourself, dragging a hand down your face. “Oh, I’m fucked,” you whisper.

Because it isn’t a crush. It isn’t a rebound. It’s the kind of liking that settles deep and makes a home where it shouldn’t.

And somewhere across campus, Jake doesn’t even make it to his bed properly.

He kicks his shoes off, shrugs out of his jacket, and collapses face-first into his mattress like gravity finally won. He groans into his pillow, muffled and frustrated, then flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

Your face flashes behind his eyelids. Your mouth. Your breath hitching. How close he got, how close he almost went.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself.

He grabs his blanket and drags it over his head like it might save him, like it might smother the heat pooling low in his stomach and the ache sitting heavier in his chest. This isn’t just want.

That’s the terrifying part. He wants to text you. Wants to hear your laugh again. Wants to go back and do it differently,or not pull away at all.

He presses his forearm over his eyes, breathing hard. “I’m in love,” he says quietly, like a confession he never planned to make.

And the realization hits him just as cruelly as it hit you: There are no rules left that can protect either of you now. Not from this.

It happens when you least expect it. You’re walking with Jake across campus, too close, shoulders brushing, pretending this is normal, when someone calls his name.

“Sim.” She’s pretty. Effortlessly so. Cropped top, glossy lips, confidence dripping off her like she knows exactly where she stands in his life.

She doesn’t even look at you. She just steps in, cups his face, and kisses his cheek like it’s muscle memory. “Call me,” she says, low and sweet.

Then she walks away. Just like that. Your chest goes tight. Sharp. Ugly. You don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until Jake does too.

He looks at you, eyes flicking over your face with far too much interest. There it is. The crack. His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smirk.

“You jealous,” he asks lightly, “of something that’s not yours?” That does it.

You turn on him, fire flashing through you. “I’m not jealous of leftovers.” The smirk drops. The air between you crackles.

“Leftovers?” he repeats, incredulous. “That’s what you think?”

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “You act like I don’t know your reputation.”

“And you act like you don’t care,” he snaps back, stepping closer. “Which is it?”

Your heart is pounding now. “I don’t care.”

“Bullshit.”

You’re nose to nose before you realize it, breaths colliding, words spilling out sharper than you mean them to.

“You don’t get to touch me like that,” you say, voice shaking, “and then pretend it means nothing.”

“I never said it meant nothing,” he shoots back.

“Then what does it mean, Jake?” you demand. “Because you can’t keep doing this, looking at me like that, acting like I’m different, and then going back to them.”

His jaw clenches. “You think I want this?” he asks quietly. “You think I don’t notice every time you stiffen when someone looks at me?”

You laugh bitterly. “God, you love this.”

“No,” he says, low. “I hate it.”

That stops you.

His hand comes up, bracing against the wall beside you, not touching, not quite, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him.

“You want honesty?” he murmurs. “Fine. I don’t want to stop wanting you. But I also don’t know how to be anything else.”

Your pulse roars in your ears. “You’re such an asshole,” you snap, but your voice betrays you, too thin, too close to cracking.

Jake laughs under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Wow. Creative. Took you weeks to come up with that?”

“Don’t,” you warn. “Don’t do that thing where you joke like this isn’t exactly what you want.”

He tilts his head, eyes raking over your face like he’s cataloguing damage. “And what is it you think I want?”

You step closer, refusing to be the one who blinks. “You love this,” you say. “You love knowing you can have anyone. That you can flirt, disappear, come back, act like nothing sticks to you.”

“Careful,” he says quietly. “You’re projecting.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “I get jealous once and suddenly I’m crazy? One of your hookups kisses your cheek in front of me and I’m supposed to smile like it doesn’t feel deliberate?”

His jaw tightens. He steps closer instead of backing away, voice dropping. “I’m pissed you keep dangling yourself in front of me like it’s a game.”

Silence. Thick. Charged.

Jake exhales through his nose, eyes dark now, something volatile flickering there. “And you love pretending you don’t care,” he shoots back. “You roll your eyes, you make jokes, you act like you’re above it—”

“So don’t what?” you interrupt, heat crawling up your spine. “Don’t feel something? Don’t want you?”

That stops him. The words hang between you, reckless, naked, irreversible. For once, Jake has nothing ready. No smirk. No deflection.

Your chest rises sharply. Your hands curl into fists, nails biting into your palms like you need the pain to keep you grounded.

“You don’t get to look at me like that,” you say, voice breaking despite yourself. “You don’t get to touch me, protect me, almost kiss me, and then act like I’m insane for reacting.”

“I’m trying not to hurt you,” he says too fast, like the line’s rehearsed.

You laugh, soft, bitter. “Congratulations. You’re failing.”

Something in his face fractures. The mask slips. Just for a second. And before you can overthink it, before fear can catch up, you grab the front of his jacket and kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Messy. Too much and not enough all at once. Every unsaid thing crashing into one breathless second. His lips are warm, familiar in a way that feels unfair, and for half a heartbeat, he kisses you back.

Hard.

Like he’s been starving. Then he freezes.You feel it instantly, the way his body locks up, the way his hands hover at your waist like he doesn’t trust himself to touch you. He pulls away like contact burns. “No,” he says, shaking his head, breath uneven. “We can’t.”

Your heart stutters. “Jake—”

“This is—” he drags a hand through his hair, panic and want tangled in his eyes, “—too messy. Too fucked up.”

He looks at you like he wants to say more. Like he wants to stay. Like walking away is the hardest thing he’s done all day. But instead, he turns.

“Jake,” you whisper, uselessly. He doesn’t stop. He leaves too fast, shoulders tense, like if he slows down even a little he’ll break.

He doesn’t see your eyes burn. Doesn’t see your lip tremble. Doesn’t see the tears spill the second he’s gone.

You stand there alone, chest aching with the weight of it. Because now you know the worst truth of all: You didn’t imagine it. He felt it too. And somehow, that hurts more than if he hadn’t felt anything at all.

You don’t remember how you get home. Your feet move on autopilot, vision blurred, chest aching like something has been scooped out and left hollow. The door clicks shut behind you and that’s all it takes.

You slide down the wall. Your breath comes apart immediately, broken, sharp inhales that don’t go anywhere. Your hands come up to your face like you can hold yourself together if you try hard enough.

You can’t. The sob that tears out of you is loud and humiliating and raw. It hurts your throat. Your shoulders shake violently as you curl in on yourself, knees to your chest, crying like you’ve lost something you never even got to have.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper to no one. “I didn’t mean to—”

Your phone is in your pocket. You don’t take it out. You already know there’s nothing there. You drag yourself to your bed, still crying, still gasping like the air is too thick to breathe. Your pillow is soaked in minutes. You clutch the blanket like it can anchor you, like it can replace the warmth that’s suddenly gone.

Your chest aches with every sob. You cry until your eyes burn. Until your head throbs. Until exhaustion finally drags you under, tears still slipping down your temples as sleep claims you.

Jake doesn’t drive far. He pulls over the second his hands start shaking too badly to grip the wheel. The car idles uselessly as he leans forward, forearms braced against the steering wheel, head dropping hard onto it.

And then he breaks. A sharp, broken sound rips out of his chest, half laugh, half sob. His shoulders cave inward like he’s folding in on himself, breath hitching violently.

“Fuck,” he chokes. Tears spill over fast, hot and relentless, dripping onto the wheel, onto his hands. He squeezes his eyes shut like that might stop it. It doesn’t.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “So fucking stupid.” He says it again. And again. Each time softer. Meaner. Like punishment. “You had her,” he mutters. “You had her and you ran.”

His chest heaves as he sucks in air that won’t settle. His jaw trembles. He presses his forehead harder against the wheel like he deserves the pain. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispers into the empty car. “I didn’t.” But it doesn’t matter.

Because he did. He stays there far too long, crying until his eyes burn, until the tears slow and leave him hollowed out and shaking. Two people, a few blocks apart. Both wrecked. Both awake in the dark. Both thinking the same unbearable thing: I love you. And believing, wrongly,that it’s already too late. 

The next day, the campus feels like a minefield.

You move like a ghost, head down, earbuds in, shoulders hunched. Every laugh, every shout, every passing glance makes your skin crawl. Even the familiar chatter of your friends sounds distant, muffled, like it’s happening underwater. You avoid everyone. Everyone except the one person whose presence is a damn knife to your chest.

Jake Sim.

You see him first in the lecture hall, half a dozen seats away, leaning against the back wall, shoulders slumped, gaze following you like a predator who doesn’t want to be seen. There’s no playfulness there today. No teasing smirk. His eyes are rimmed red, heavy, weary, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you realize he’s hurting too. You drop into your seat, pretending to bury yourself in notes. Pretending you don’t feel the weight of his stare, burning holes through your skull. Pretending you’re fine.

But you aren’t. The lecture drones on, a dull, lifeless hum under the storm building in your chest. Every movement from the back of the room, every slight shift in his posture makes your heart stutter. You catch glimpses of him in the corner of your eye, he doesn’t take notes. He doesn’t fidget. He just watches. And somewhere deep down, it terrifies you.

The hallway between classes is worse. You move fast, backpack tight against your chest, pretending not to notice him pacing nearby, pretending not to feel the pull like a magnet you don’t want to obey. Then you brush shoulders, brief contact, and your chest jumps, heart stuttering like a faulty engine. You don’t look at him. You can’t. You know if you do, you’ll melt entirely.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t stop. Not a word. Not a glance. Just the faintest brush of his presence, like a whisper in the back of your mind, dragging everything you thought you were over into sharp, aching clarity. The air around him hums, charged, dangerous, and you can’t breathe properly, can’t think properly, can’t even walk properly.

By the end of the day, you feel hollow. Exhausted. Your chest aches as if it knows exactly what’s coming. Every step home, every turn, every creak of the floorboards in your apartment makes you tense like a spring. And then the universe decides you cannot escape him. A knock at your door. You freeze. One hand gripping the doorknob, the other trembling at your side. You open it.

Jake stands there. Hair plastered to his forehead, clothes soaked through, rain streaming down in dark rivulets. His jacket hangs heavy and useless, dripping water across your threshold, and his eyes are wild, fevered, impossible to read.

“Jake—”

He doesn’t answer. He steps inside. Barely waits for a word. “You,” he growls, low and ragged, voice full of the kind of heat that makes your knees weak, “fuck the rules.”

Your stomach lurches. Your chest tightens. Every rational thought deserts you. “Excuse me?” you whisper, because what the hell else do you say to this?

He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t need to. There’s a predator’s confidence in the way he moves, a heat that doesn’t ask permission. In two long strides, he’s closing the distance between you. The air between you is electric, heavy with tension and rain and words unsaid.

His hands brush against yours as he grips your arms, lightly, teasing, but with enough pressure to make it clear he means it. Fingers dig in just enough to leave sparks along your skin. He leans closer, eyes dark, lips dangerously close, breath ragged. Every nerve in your body screams: he’s not supposed to be here like this. “I don’t care,” he mutters, low, almost a growl, the words scraping over your skin. “I don’t care about rules. I don’t care about anyone else. You. Me. Now.”

And just like that, the fragile, tentative walls you’ve built around your heart crumble. Something wild twists inside your chest. You’re trembling, your knees weak, your thoughts scattered like broken glass. The world narrows until there’s nothing left but him, the rain dripping down his jawline, the heat radiating off him, the pull that feels like gravity.

You realize, with a thud in your chest, that this is how it begins.

The FWB deal. The rules-free, messy, undeniably Jake-and-you dynamic. It doesn’t start with negotiation. Doesn’t start with words. Doesn’t start with agreements.

It starts with heat. Rain. Reckless, uncontainable desire.

And you know, deep down, that neither of you will survive pretending this is casual for long.

Not when his lips are so close you can feel the moisture of the storm. Not when his hands linger too long. Not when the ache in your chest is no longer just yours, it’s his too.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The door slams shut behind him, rain dripping from his hair onto the hardwood floor as Jake crowds you against the entryway wall. His mouth crashes into yours before you can catch your breath, no hesitation, no gentle prelude. Just hunger. His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, tasting like storm and want. Your hands fist in his soaked shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest.

His lips break away only to trail down your jaw, open-mouthed and messy, teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp. When he reaches your neck, he doesn’t hold back. He sucks hard at the sensitive spot below your ear, tongue soothing the sting before he bites down gently, then harder. You arch into him, a broken moan spilling out as heat floods your veins. Another mark, his mouth moving lower, branding your throat with wet, deliberate pulls that leave blooming bruises in their wake. Each one draws another helpless sound from you, louder, needier.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, voice rough and wrecked. His hands grip your hips tighter, fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You’re killing me.”

You can feel how far gone he is, the tremor in his shoulders, the way his breath stutters every time you moan his name. He’s unraveling, and it’s because of you. Suddenly his hands slide under your thighs, and he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. You cling to his shoulders as he carries you up the stairs, mouth never leaving your neck, adding another hickey just above your collarbone that makes your head fall back with a whimper. Every step jostles you against him, friction sparking white-hot where your bodies press together.

He kicks open your bedroom door, shoulders heaving, eyes dark and wild as he lowers you onto the bed without breaking the kiss. The mattress dips under your weight, and he follows immediately, covering you, caging you in. His knee nudges your thighs apart as he settles between them, and you both groan at the contact.

Jake pulls back just enough to look at you, lips swollen, hair dripping, chest rising fast. His thumb brushes over one of the fresh marks on your neck, possessive and reverent all at once. “Tell me you want this,” he says, voice low, almost pleading. “Tell me this isn’t just the rain talking.”

Your answer is to drag his mouth back to yours, legs tightening around him, letting him feel exactly how much you mean it. His hands, still icy from the rain, slip under the hem of your shirt, palms gliding over the warm skin of your stomach. You shiver hard, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the way he’s touching you, deliberate and slow, like he’s memorizing every inch.

Jake pulls back just enough to look at you, a crooked, wicked grin tugging at his lips. “Nervous?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb tracing lazy circles just below your ribs. “You’re shaking, baby.”

You try to scoff, but it comes out breathless. “I’m not—”

“Yeah, you are.” He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “It’s cute. Been driving me fucking insane imagining you like this.”

The confession hits you low in the belly, heat surging through you. He’s thought about this. Not just tonight, not just in passing, too much, he said. The words hang heavy between you, raw and real.

Before you can respond, his hands slide higher, gathering the fabric of your shirt as they go. He peels it up and off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside without looking. Cool air hits your bare skin, and you instinctively move to cover yourself, but he catches your wrists gently, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head.

“Don’t,” he says, eyes dropping to your chest. They darken instantly, pupils blown wide. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Any trace of teasing vanishes. He descends like he’s starving, mouth hot and eager as it closes over one breast. You arch off the bed with a sharp gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets as his tongue swirls around your nipple, teasing it into a tight peak before he sucks, hard. The pull shoots straight between your legs, and you moan his name without meaning to.

He groans against your skin, the vibration making you shudder again. Switching to the other side, he lavishes the same attention, wet, open-mouthed kisses, gentle scrapes of teeth, relentless suction that leaves you writhing beneath him. His hand cups the breast his mouth just left, thumb rolling the sensitive bud until you’re panting, hips rolling up against his thigh in silent plea. 

Jake lifts his head just long enough to look at you, lips slick and swollen, eyes feral. “Been thinking about this for months,” he rasps. “How you’d sound. How you’d taste.” He lowers his mouth again, grazing his teeth over your nipple just hard enough to make you cry out. “Not even close to how good the real thing is.”

Jake’s hands move to the waistband of your shorts, fingers hooking under the fabric along with your panties. He tugs them down slowly, eyes locked on yours the whole time, watching for any hesitation. There’s none. You lift your hips to help him, and he slides them off your legs, dropping them somewhere on the floor.

He eases you back against the pillows, the cool sheets a shock against your heated skin. Then he’s over you again, mouth finding yours in a deep, slow kiss before he starts moving lower, kissing along your jaw, your throat, between your breasts, down the center of your stomach. Every press of his lips is deliberate, reverent, like he’s mapping you with his mouth. You’re trembling again, not from nerves this time, but from the building ache he’s stoking with every touch.

He settles between your thighs, hands gentle as they part your legs wider. His breath ghosts over your skin, warm and teasing. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, then another a little higher, lips brushing so close to where you need him that your hips twitch involuntarily. Jake looks up at you, hair messy from your fingers, eyes dark but steady. His voice is low, rough with want but careful.

“Hey,” he murmurs, thumb stroking soothing circles on your hip. “Is this okay? Do you trust me?”

The question hangs in the air, simple and huge all at once. You can see it in his face—he needs to hear it. Needs to know you’re right here with him. You reach down, threading your fingers through his damp hair, and nod. “Yeah,” you breathe, voice shaky but sure. “I trust you, Jake. Please.”

The relief and hunger that flash across his expression undo you. He turns his head, pressing one more open-mouthed kiss to your thigh, a silent thank you, before his hands slide under your hips and he finally, finally lowers his mouth to you.

His mouth is on you the second the words leave your lips, hot, wet, devastating. Jake groans against you at the first taste, the sound rumbling through your core as his tongue parts you, slow and deliberate. He licks a long, flat stripe up your center, then circles your clit with maddening precision. Your hips buck, and he pins them down gently, holding you open for him.

You’re already soaked, trembling, and when he slides two fingers inside you, curling just right, your head falls back with a broken moan. The sounds you make, high, desperate, unrestrained, seem to unravel him completely. He growls against you, sucking your clit into his mouth harder, fingers pumping faster as your moans turn into breathless pleas of his name.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he rasps between licks, voice thick with awe and hunger. “These sounds… you’re gonna ruin me.”

It doesn’t take long. The pressure builds fast and fierce, your thighs shaking around his head as you clutch at his hair. When you come, it’s with a sharp cry, back arching off the bed, waves of pleasure crashing through you so hard your vision blurs. He doesn’t stop, gentle licks through your orgasm, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and boneless. Finally, he pulls back, lips slick, eyes glazed as he crawls up your body. There’s a smug, wicked tilt to his mouth as he hovers over you.

“Sensitive now?” he teases, voice low and rough, brushing a thumb across your lower lip. “Can’t handle a little more, huh?”

You’re still catching your breath, but the glint in his eye sparks something competitive in you. Before he can react, you surge up, hands on his chest, and flip him onto his back. He lands with a surprised huff, eyes wide as you straddle his hips, pinning him beneath you.

“My turn,” you murmur, grinding down just enough to feel how hard he is, straining against his soaked jeans, the outline thick and obvious.

Jake groans, head tipping back, hands flying to your thighs. “Jesus, fuck, okay.”

You lean down, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue, before sitting back. Your fingers make quick work of his belt and zipper, and he lifts his hips to help you drag his jeans and boxers down. His cock springs free, hard, flushed, a bead of precome at the tip, and you wrap your hand around him, feeling him twitch in your grip.

He hisses through his teeth, watching you with dark, half-lidded eyes as you spit into your palm and slide it down his length, slow and firm. Once, twice, twisting at the head just to watch his abs clench and his breath stutter.

“Shit,” he breathes, hips jerking into your hand. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you rise up on your knees, positioning yourself over him. His hands settle on your hips, steadying but not guiding, letting you take control. You meet his eyes as you sink down slowly, inch by inch, taking him in.

The stretch is perfect, overwhelming. You both moan at the same time, yours soft and shaky, his low and guttural. When you’re fully seated, hips flush against his, you pause, savoring the way he fills you, the way his fingers dig into your skin like he’s fighting not to thrust up.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel… so fucking good.”

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, and his head falls back against the pillow with a strangled groan. 

You start to move, slow at first, rolling your hips in deep, deliberate circles that drag a ragged groan from Jake’s throat. His hands grip your waist tighter, fingers flexing like he’s fighting to let you set the pace. But the way his eyes are locked on you, hungry, reverent, completely undone, gives you all the power you need.

You rise up slightly and sink back down, harder this time, and your breasts bounce with the motion. His gaze drops instantly, darkening as he watches them move. Another roll of your hips, faster now, and they bounce again, fuller, heavier with each thrust. The sight seems to snap something in him.

“God, fuck,” he rasps, voice breaking. He surges up, one arm banding around your lower back to pull you closer, mouth latching onto one breast without warning. His lips close hot and wet around your nipple, sucking hard as you ride him, the rhythm of your hips driving you both toward the edge.

Every bounce sends you down onto him deeper, and he meets it with a shallow thrust upward, groaning against your skin. The vibration shoots straight through you, making you gasp his name. He switches to your other breast, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, worshipping like he’s been starving for this exact moment.

Your name falls from his lips over and over, muffled against your skin at first, then louder when he pulls back just enough to breathe. “Baby… fuck… your name… been wanting to say it like this for so long…” It’s not a moan. It’s a confession.

Each time he says it, it cracks open a little more, like he’s been holding it behind his teeth for months, years maybe, waiting for the second he could let it spill out while buried inside you. There’s nothing casual in the way he says it. Nothing friends-with-benefits about the tremor in his voice or the way his free hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb brushing your cheek like you’re something precious. You lean down, forehead pressing to his, riding him faster now, the slap of skin and the creak of the bed filling the room. Your breasts brush his chest with every bounce, and he chases them with his mouth whenever he can, moaning your name like a prayer, like a plea, like he’s finally allowed to admit what this has always been.

This isn’t fucking a friend. This is Jake unraveling beneath you, giving you everything he’s been holding back, and taking everything you’re finally ready to give.

You pick up the pace, grinding down harder, faster, chasing the building heat between you. Jake’s hands slide up your sides, gripping, guiding, urging you on as his hips snap up to meet every roll of yours. Your breasts bounce wildly with the rhythm, and he can’t resist, he surges forward again, mouth latching onto one, sucking and groaning around it like he’s lost all control.

Your name tears from his throat in broken, reverent moans, raw, desperate, nothing hidden anymore. It spills out of him like it’s been caged for months, every syllable laced with something deeper than lust. You feel it in your chest, sharp and undeniable, mirroring the ache in his eyes when he finally releases your breast and crashes his mouth to yours.

The kiss is different this time. Not hungry or frantic, it’s deep, slow, consuming. His tongue slides against yours like he’s trying to say everything he hasn’t dared to. One hand cups the back of your neck, holding you there, while the other tightens on your hip as you ride him through it. You kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers tangled in his hair, bodies locked together, moving as one.

You’re both close, breath ragged, moans muffled against each other’s lips. When you come, it’s with his name on your tongue and his mouth still on yours, swallowing the sound. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep with a guttural groan into the kiss, arms wrapping around you like he never wants to let go.

For a long moment, you stay like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard, hearts hammering in sync. He’s still inside you, softening slowly, but neither of you move to separate.

Then it hits him. His eyes widen slightly, a flicker of panic cutting through the haze. He pulls back just enough to look at you, voice rough and quiet.

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts, swallowing hard, like he’s trying to stuff the moment back into the casual box you both pretended to build. “The kissing thing. I wasn’t thinking.”

You’re still catching your breath, thighs trembling around his hips, but you don’t let him retreat. Not this time. You brush your thumb across his bottom lip, the one you just devoured, and meet his gaze steadily.

“Yes,” you say softly, “you did.” The words hang there, simple and devastating. His breath stutters. Something shifts in his expression, defenses crumbling, vulnerability flooding in. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t laugh it off or make a joke. He just looks at you, really looks, like he’s seeing the truth you’ve both been dodging for way too long.

And the silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s electric. Feelings? Fully, irrevocably unlocked. Uh-oh doesn’t even begin to cover it. You’re still tangled together, limbs heavy, skin damp and cooling in the quiet aftermath. The storm outside has softened to a steady patter against the window, the only sound besides your slowing breaths.

Jake shifts first, easing out of you gently and rolling to the side so he doesn’t crush you. But he doesn’t go far, just enough to grab the sheet and pull it up over both of you. Then he settles back in, one arm sliding under your neck, the other draping across your waist, pulling you into the curve of his body like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You’re lying face-to-face now, noses almost touching. His eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them, the earlier wildness replaced by something careful and unguarded. With the hand tucked under your neck, he reaches up, fingers brushing lightly at your cheek. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, slow and deliberate, thumb lingering on your skin a second longer than necessary. The touch is so tender it makes your chest tighten.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, voice low and rough from everything you just did. It’s not a casual check-in. There’s real worry threaded through it, like he needs to hear you say it out loud.

You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He searches your face for a moment, like he’s making sure you mean it. Then he leans in, not to kiss your mouth, but to press his lips to the column of your neck, right over one of the marks he left earlier. The kiss is feather-light, barely there, nothing like the hungry bites from before. It’s soft, lingering, almost reverent. Affection slips out unbidden, raw and unmistakable.

You feel him freeze the second he realizes what he’s done. He pulls back slowly, eyes flickering with something like panic again. Clears his throat. “That… meant nothing,” he says, too quickly, voice flat like he’s trying to force it back into the safe zone. “Just… habit. Whatever.”

You almost laugh at how badly he’s lying, the way his hand is still stroking your hair, the way he hasn’t moved an inch away from you. “Yeah,” you answer, voice just as unconvincing. “Totally. Meant nothing.”

You both hold the lie for about three seconds. Then his forehead drops to yours, a quiet exhale shaking out of him. Your fingers find his, lacing together under the sheet. Neither of you says anything else. But you both know. And for tonight, pretending is easier than admitting it out loud. 

The morning after feels wrong. Not bad, just off. Like the world didn’t get the memo that something seismic cracked open between you and Jake Sim, shifted gravity, rewired the rules. Campus looks the same. The sun is too bright. People laugh too loud. Someone kisses their girlfriend outside the café like nothing in the universe has ever been fragile. You don’t feel like that person anymore.

You sit in lecture with your coffee untouched, fingers wrapped around the cup long after it’s gone lukewarm. Your pulse keeps jumping, too fast, too sharp, every time your brain betrays you and replays him. His hands. His voice in the rain. The way he looked at you like he’d finally stopped running and didn’t know what to do with the momentum. You don’t look for him. That doesn’t stop you from feeling him.

When someone leans too close to you in class, a guy from your discussion section who smells like cologne and confidence, you laugh politely at something he says. It’s automatic. Harmless. You don’t notice Jake until the air shifts. It’s subtle. A pressure change. Like the room inhales. He’s standing near the door. Watching. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pretend. His jaw tightens, muscle ticking once, twice. His shoulders square like he’s bracing for impact. When the guy says something else, something that makes you smile again, just a little, Jake moves before he thinks.

He appears beside you like he belongs there.

“Hey,” he says easily, like this is normal, like he hasn’t crossed half the room on instinct alone. His hand lands on the back of your chair, casual, sure, but unmistakable. A claim without words. “You ready?”

The guy blinks, thrown. “For…?”

Jake’s smile is polite and empty. “She’s late.” You aren’t. But your body betrays you anyway. You stand, heart hammering, because something in the way Jake says it makes it feel true. Makes it feel inevitable. Jake doesn’t touch you as you walk out, but his presence crowds you, close enough to block anyone else, close enough that you’re aware of him with every step. It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud.

It’s protective in a way that makes your stomach flip. Once you’re alone in the hallway, you finally exhale. “What was that?”

He keeps walking for a beat too long before answering. “Nothing.”

“Jake.” He stops. Turns. Finally meets your eyes.

“I don’t like people hitting on you.”

Your heart stutters, trips over itself. “You don’t get to—”

“I know,” he cuts in quickly, almost too quickly. “I know. I’m not saying I do. I’m just—”

He stops himself. His jaw flexes like the rest of the sentence is dangerous. Like if he finishes it, something permanent happens. You don’t wait for him to figure it out. You walk away before the conversation can pull you both apart at the seams. The rest of the day becomes a study in absence.

Jake doesn’t linger. Doesn’t lean in doorways. Doesn’t flirt in the halls. Doesn’t smirk back when people try to catch his attention. It’s like someone flipped a switch and stripped him down to something quieter. Sharper. You see it when a girl from his past finally corners him, someone familiar, comfortable, smiling like she knows him. “You never called,” she says lightly.

Jake barely hesitates. “Yeah. I’m not going to.”

She laughs, expecting charm. Expecting a joke. He doesn’t give her one. “Oh,” she says after a beat, confusion settling in. “Okay.” She walks away. You’re close enough to see it all. Your chest tightens. Because suddenly, painfully, it’s clear. He isn’t just spinning. He isn’t just reacting.

He’s choosing. The day drags after that. Every interaction feels loaded. Every glance lasts a second too long. You keep catching each other’s eyes across rooms, across crowds, quick, unspoken checks, like you’re both making sure the other still exists.

By the time evening rolls around, you’re exhausted. Your phone buzzes.

Jake: You done for the day?

You stare at the screen longer than necessary.

You: Yeah.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Jake: My place today?

Your breath catches. Not come over. Not want to hang out. My place today. Like it’s already a rhythm. Like this is something that continues. Like he’s done pretending it was just one night that got out of hand. You type back before doubt can talk you out of it.

You: Okay.

Across campus, Jake exhales for the first time all day. Because whatever this is, messy, dangerous, impossible, he doesn’t want it to end. And neither do you. 

Jake’s place is quiet. Not frat-house loud, not chaotic, no blaring music, no half-empty bottles, no careless mess. Just low lights glowing warm against clean walls, counters wiped down, shoes neatly lined by the door. It smells faintly like laundry detergent and something warmer beneath it, coffee, maybe, or vanilla, or just him.

It disarms you immediately. “Hey,” he says softly, like he’s approaching a skittish animal instead of someone he’s already held in the dark.

“Hey.”

He toes his shoes off and gestures you inside with an easy tilt of his head. “You want a drink? Water? Something stronger?”

“Water’s fine,” you say, suddenly hyperaware of how calm he sounds. How gentle. How normal this feels, like this is just another evening and not a turning point you’re pretending not to see.

He disappears into the kitchen, and you drift farther in, taking in the space. A couch with a blanket folded over one arm. A couple of books stacked neatly on the coffee table. A hoodie tossed over the back of a chair, one you recognize.

When he comes back, he doesn’t just hand you the glass. He pulls you into a hug first. It’s instinctive. Natural. Like neither of you even thought about it. His arms wrap around you, firm but careful, like he’s testing how much he’s allowed to hold you. Your body responds before your brain can interfere. You melt into him, cheek resting against his chest, his warmth seeping into you like it’s always belonged there. His heartbeat is steady, grounding, loud enough that you can feel it beneath your ear.

For a second, just one, everything goes quiet. You feel safe. You feel held. You feel… happy. The realization hits like cold water. You pull back slightly, breath catching, panic flaring sharp and sudden. You remind yourself of everything this isn’t. Everything it’s not supposed to be. The lines you promised not to cross. The way this ends if you stop being careful.

Jake doesn’t seem to notice the shift. He hands you the glass, fingers brushing yours in passing. “Careful,” he murmurs. “It’s cold.”

He moves back to shuffle into the kitchen. And you follow him, curious to see how the campus manwhore’s kitchen looks like. Surprisingly, it’s tidy, tidier than you would have expected it. Jake stood near the stove, his back to you. The glass is cold against your fingertips.

You nod, take a sip, and then something reckless takes over. Impulse. Need. A truth you haven’t learned how to swallow yet. Before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can analyze or overthink, you step forward and wrap your arms around him from behind.

A back hug. Your forehead presses into the soft fabric of his hoodie. It smells like him, clean, familiar, comfortingly Jake. Without thinking, you nuzzle closer, clinging like this is the only solid thing in the room. Like if you let go, something vital might slip through your fingers.

Jake freezes. Every muscle under your arms goes taut. His breath stutters, just once. You almost pull away. Almost apologize. Almost make a joke to defuse the moment, but then he exhales. Slow. Long. Like he’s been holding that breath all day. His shoulders relax. His hands come up to rest over your forearms, warm and steady, not pulling you closer but not letting you go either. A quiet laugh rumbles out of his chest, low, surprised, and you feel it vibrate through him.

“Touchy now, are we?” he says lightly, but his voice is softer than usual, stripped of its edge. You smile against his back, heart fluttering despite yourself.

“Maybe,” you mumble.

He tilts his head back just slightly, like he’s savoring the moment without daring to turn around. Like if he looks at you, something fragile might break.

“Good to know,” he murmurs. You stay like that longer than you should. No rush. No rules. Just the quiet hum of his apartment, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the dangerous ease of being wrapped around him like this is normal.

And that’s when it hits you. This isn’t just chemistry anymore. It isn’t just want, or tension, or heat you can explain away. It’s comfort. It’s the way your body relaxes without permission. The way his hands stay even when they don’t have to. The way neither of you says a word, because you both know, if you do, this moment might dissolve.

And that realization terrifies you more than anything else. Because comfort is where things stop being casual. And you’re not sure either of you knows how to walk away from that. He stays still for another heartbeat, just breathing with you pressed against his back, your cheek between his shoulder blades, arms looped loosely around his waist. The quiet stretches, thick and warm, until finally he moves.

Slowly, deliberately, Jake turns in the circle of your arms. His hands find your hips, guiding you backward until your lower back meets the cool edge of the kitchen counter. The movement is gentle but firm, no hesitation, no asking permission this time. He’s done pretending he doesn’t want this.

His eyes lock on yours for a second, dark, searching, a little reckless, and then he dips his head. The first kiss lands just below your jaw, soft, testing. You tilt your head back on instinct, giving him more, and he takes it. His mouth drags down the column of your throat, open and warm, lips parting to taste your skin. When he reaches the spot that made you fall apart last time, he pauses, breath ghosting over it, before he closes his lips and sucks, slow, deliberate, possessive.

A quiet moan slips out of you before you can stop it. He hums against your skin, pleased, the sound vibrating straight through you. Another pull, deeper this time, teeth grazing just enough to sting in the best way. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he answers by pressing his body fully into yours, pinning you gently between him and the counter.

He works his way across your neck, marking a slow path, each hickey placed like he’s memorizing the spots that make you shiver, make you sigh, make you arch into him. Every time you moan, softer ones turning sharper as he lingers, he growls low in his throat, like the sound alone undoes him.

One of his hands slides up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your shirt, while the other stays firm on your hip, holding you exactly where he wants you. His mouth finds that sensitive place just above your collarbone and stays there, sucking steadily until your knees buckle a little and you have to grip his shoulders to stay upright.

When he finally pulls back, lips swollen and shiny, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to look at the fresh bloom of marks he’s left, eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied. His thumb traces one gently, reverently. Your breathing is uneven. So is his. He leans in again, but this time his kiss is softer, just a brush of lips against the newest mark, like an apology and a promise all at once.

You’re both still saying nothing. But the way he’s holding you, the way he’s tasting you like he’s got all the time in the world, says everything neither of you is ready to admit out loud. This isn’t casual. It never really was. His breath is hot and uneven against your neck, the words slipping out like they’ve been waiting there all along.

“Need you, pretty girl.” Low. Rough. Almost reverent. You feel the way his whole body tenses when you nod, small, certain, and then gently but firmly push at his chest. He lets you, confusion flickering across his face as he steps back half a pace, brows knitting together.

“What’re you—”

The question dies the second your knees hit the kitchen floor. His eyes go wide, pupils blown dark and stunned. Mouth parts on a silent exhale. He looks down at you like he can’t quite believe what’s happening, like this is something he’s imagined too many times and now it’s real, and he doesn’t know how to process it. 

Your fingers find the drawstring of his sweatpants. One slow tug undoes the knot. You hook your thumbs into the waistband and drag them down together with his boxers, letting them pool around his ankles. His cock springs free, thick, flushed an angry red at the tip, already leaking. Hard and straining like it’s been aching for hours.

Jake hisses through his teeth when your hand wraps around him, skin hot against your palm. You give him a few slow, firm pumps, base to tip, twisting just a little at the head, and his hips jerk forward on instinct.

“Fuck—” The word is strangled, half-laugh, half-groan. One of his hands flies to the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles whitening as he grips it for balance. The other hovers uncertainly near your head, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch.

His chest rises and falls fast. Eyes locked on you, dark and glassy, like he’s already half gone just from the sight of you on your knees in front of him. You lean in, lips brushing the tip in the lightest tease, and he shudders hard enough that the counter creaks under his grip. “Baby…” It’s barely a whisper, wrecked and pleading. “You don’t have to—”

But the way his cock twitches in your hand says otherwise. You look up at him through your lashes, holding his gaze as you give him another slow stroke, thumb swiping over the bead of precome at the slit. His head tips back, throat working on a swallow. He’s trying so hard to keep some semblance of control. He’s failing beautifully.

You hold his gaze a second longer, letting him see exactly what you want, then lean forward and take him into your mouth. The first slide is slow, hot, wet, deliberate, your lips stretching around the head as your tongue presses flat against the underside. Jake’s breath catches sharp and loud, hips twitching like he’s fighting not to thrust. You sink lower, taking more of him, until the tip nudges the back of your throat. You pull back just enough to breathe, saliva already coating him, glistening, before you push forward again.

This time you don’t stop. You relax your throat and take him deeper, nose brushing his pelvis as you swallow around him. A choked gag escapes you, wet, messy, unavoidable, and the sound seems to snap something in him. His hand finally lands in your hair, fingers threading gently, not pushing, just anchoring himself as his head falls back with a broken groan.

“Fuck—baby—”

You pull off with a slick pop, gasping, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock before you dive back in. Faster now, sloppier, hollowing your cheeks, sucking hard, letting the wet sounds fill the kitchen. Every time you bob down, you take him to the hilt, gagging softly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the stretch. It’s messy on purpose, drool spilling down your chin, coating him, dripping onto the floor. You don’t care. You want him wrecked. And he is.

His thighs tremble under your free hand. His grip tightens in your hair, not guiding, just holding on like he’s about to lose it. Every gag, every wet slide of your mouth pulls another ragged sound from him, curses, your name, breathless pleas. “Look at you,” he rasps, voice shattered. “So fucking perfect, taking me like this—”

You hum around him, the vibration making his hips buck. You feel him swell thicker against your tongue, throbbing hard now. He’s close. You double down, faster, deeper, messier. One hand pumps the base you can’t quite reach, twisting in time with your mouth. The other cups him lower, gentle pressure that makes him curse loud and long.

“Shit—I’m gonna—”

You don’t pull off. You take him as deep as you can, throat fluttering around the head, and he comes with a choked groan, hot, thick pulses spilling straight down your throat. You swallow greedily, milking him through it, gag reflex twitching but holding, until he’s shuddering, spent, fingers loosening in your hair. Only then do you ease off slowly, lips dragging along his length, cleaning him with soft licks as he softens. A final string of spit and come connects you for a second before you break it with a swipe of your tongue.

You sit back on your heels, breathing hard, chin wet, lips swollen. Looking up at him. Jake stares down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. Chest heaving, eyes glassy, completely undone. He reaches down with both hands, cupping your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that escaped and the mess at the corner of your mouth. His touch is so tender it almost hurts.

“Pretty girl,” he whispers again, voice hoarse and reverent. “Come here.”

He pulls you up into his arms before you can even catch your breath, crushing you against his chest like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. He cleans you up gently, warm washcloth from the bathroom, careful strokes across your chin and neck, thumbs brushing away the last traces of mess with a tenderness that makes your throat tight. No words, just quiet glances, soft smiles that linger too long. When he’s done, he presses a kiss to your forehead, quick and instinctive, then pretends it didn’t happen.

You both end up on the couch, some random movie flickering on the TV that neither of you is really watching. He tugs a throw blanket over your legs, pulls you into his side like it’s the most natural thing. You curl into him without thinking, head on his chest, one leg thrown over his, his arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.

It’s breaking every unspoken rule you ever pretended to have. No kissing during sex? Broken.   No staying over? About to be shattered. No feelings? Laughable at this point. His heartbeat is steady under your ear, his body warm and solid. The movie drones on, but you’re lulled by the rise and fall of his breathing, the faint scent of his skin, the way his hand keeps drifting up to play with your hair. Your eyes grow heavy.

At some point, you drift off. You don’t feel him carry you, but you stir just enough to register being lifted, cradled against his bare chest as he walks down the hall. He lays you down in his bed, his bed, not the guest room, not the couch, and pulls the covers up over you. The mattress dips as he slides in beside you, shirtless, skin still warm from earlier.

He hesitates for a second, then shifts closer. One arm slips under your neck, the other drapes over your waist, pulling you back against him. You’re half-asleep, but you feel him press a soft kiss to the back of your shoulder, just once, barely there, like he thinks you won’t notice.

You do. He settles in, breath evening out against your hair.  The rules? Completely demolished. And neither of you minds even a little.

You wake up slowly. Not jolting. Not startled. Just drifting upward, consciousness heavy and warm and disoriented. The room smells like him, clean, familiar, faintly comforting, and for one blissful second, you don’t remember why that matters. Then you shift. Your arm brushes warm skin. Bare skin. Your eyes snap open.

Jake is right there. Shirtless. Asleep on his back, one arm thrown over his head, hair a mess, lashes resting against his cheeks like he has no idea he’s about to ruin your entire emotional stability before breakfast. Your heart drops straight into your stomach.

Oh. Oh no. You lie there, frozen, staring at the rise and fall of his chest. The memory of last night creeps in slowly, him pulling the blanket over you, murmuring something soft you were too hazy to respond to, the careful way he tucked you in like you mattered. Like this wasn’t just sex. Your pulse spikes.

Because the rules, they are absolutely, catastrophically gone.

You glance around the room like it might confirm this is a dream. His room is quiet, peaceful. Morning light spills across the bed, catching on his collarbones, the faint marks on his skin you absolutely should not be noticing. But you are. You definitely are. Your chest tightens. This isn’t panic because he’s hot. It’s panic because this feels… intimate. Because he stayed. Because he tucked you in. Because you woke up next to him like this is normal. Like this could be something. As if sensing your stare, Jake shifts. You freeze again.

He blinks awake slowly, eyes unfocused for a second, then they land on you. Recognition dawns. And instead of smugness, instead of cocky teasing, his expression softens.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep. Your heart absolutely betrays you. “Hi,” you reply, too fast. There’s a beat. Then another. Neither of you moves. You’re acutely aware of the silence. Of the space between you that feels too small and too large at the same time.

Jake exhales quietly and rubs a hand down his face. “You okay?” That simple question nearly ends you. You nod. Then immediately shake your head. “I—yeah. I mean. I don’t know.”

He pushes himself up on one elbow, sheet slipping lower without him noticing. “We can talk,” he says gently. “Or not. Whatever you need.”

You stare at him. That’s when it really hits. This isn’t a wingman. This isn’t a hookup. This isn’t rules and distance and pretending. This is Jake Sim, shirtless in the morning light, asking how you feel. And suddenly, the scariest thought of all settles into your chest: You don’t want the rules back.

You just don’t know what replaces them. You don’t talk about it. That’s the unspoken agreement as you both stumble around his apartment, half-awake and aggressively pretending last night didn’t fundamentally alter your brain chemistry. You borrow a hoodie. He pulls on the first jeans he finds. Someone nearly brushes teeth with the wrong toothbrush and pretends it didn’t happen. It’s fine. Totally fine.

You rush out together, hair still messy, fingers still a little too aware of each other’s presence as you speed-walk across campus like you’re late for a crime scene. The thing you don’t notice at first? You don’t look at anyone else. Not the guy by the café who usually makes you double-take. Not the flirty senior from psych. Not even out of habit.

Your attention stays glued forward, toward Jake’s shoulder, his stupid profile, the way he keeps matching his pace to yours without thinking. You only realize it when,“Oh my god.”

You both freeze. Your friends are already there. Sitting. Watching. Waiting. Their eyes flick from your borrowed hoodie… to Jake’s rumpled hair… to the way you walked in together like a matched set.

Then, a very loud, very unnecessary wolf whistle.

“WOOOO,” someone hollers. “LOOK AT YOU TWO.”

Another adds, “Messy hair? Together? In THIS economy?”

Your soul leaves your body. Jake, meanwhile, smirks like he’s been training for this moment his whole life. You glare at them. Hard. “If any of you make one more sound, I will commit violence before my first lecture.” That only makes it worse.

“So,” your friend grins, chin propped on her hand, “you guys are basically together now, right?”

Jake drops into the seat beside you, entirely too relaxed. “Basically?” he repeats, amused.

You elbow him. Hard. He only laughs. “Wow,” someone says. “Didn’t know campus housing allowed sleepovers with benefits.”

You choke. “We did NOT—”

Jake leans back, arms crossed, absolutely enjoying this. “Relax. Let them have their fun.”

You shoot him a look. “You are not helping.”

“I think I’m helping plenty,” he replies, eyes sparkling. “You’re very convincing when you’re angry.”

Your friends are eating this up. One of them fans herself dramatically. “The tension. The denial. The way you walked in like you just finished a third act reconciliation.”

Another wolf whistle. You bury your face in your hands. Jake nudges your knee under the table, voice low, teasing. “Hey. Could be worse.”

You peek at him. “How?”

“They could think we’re married.”

He flashes that grin again. Your heart does something deeply inconvenient. You straighten, glare around the table, and announce, “For the record, we are not together.”

Jake hums. “Didn’t say we were.” Your friends exchange looks. The oh-this-is-going-to-be-fun kind. You sigh, already exhausted. This is going to be a long semester. And judging by Jake’s smug expression, he’s going to enjoy every second of it. 

By the end of the day, you’re exhausted. Not academically. Emotionally. Everywhere you go, someone looks at you. Whispers. Grins. One person actually has the audacity to say, “Morning-after glow looks good on you.”

You consider homicide. Jake, of course, is thriving. He doesn’t deny anything. Doesn’t confirm anything either. Just exists beside you like a smug little storm cloud, shoulders brushing yours in hallways, knee nudging yours under desks, voice dropping every time he talks to you like it’s a private joke.

At one point, during lecture, he leans over and murmurs, “Relax. You’re doing great.” You hiss back, “You are the reason I’m suffering.” He only smiles wider. By afternoon, you’re so tired you barely react when someone whistles again as you pass by.

Jake does, though. He glances at you, then deliberately, deliberately, winks. Slow. Lazy. Criminal. Your stomach flips. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. You know exactly what it means. Another… session.

You drop your head back against the wall and sigh, long and dramatic. “You are ruining my life.”

Jake laughs, low and warm, leaning in just enough for you to feel it. “Funny,” he says. “You didn’t seem that miserable last time.”

You glare at him. “You are unbearable.”

“Mm,” he hums, eyes dragging over your face like he’s memorizing it. “Yet here you are.”

You hate that he’s right. Hate that the idea of later tonight makes your pulse jump. Hate that you already know you won’t say no. Hate that when he walks ahead of you, he glances back just to make sure you’re following. You are. Every time. And the worst part? When he flashes that stupid, knowing grin again, you don’t even bother pretending you don’t like it. Time skips quietly.

Not abruptly. Not cleanly. It slips, soft and strange, like it doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that something has shifted. You’re on your bed now, sheets rumpled beneath you, the room still warm with the aftermath of him, of Jake, even though nothing explicit lingers. There’s no proof he was here except the way the air feels heavier, fuller, like it hasn’t caught up yet. Except for the faint crease in the pillow where his arm had been. Except for the way your body still feels tuned to his, like it forgot how to exist alone.

He had to leave for practice. He’d said it like it was no big deal, like it didn’t fracture something in your chest when he glanced at the clock and groaned under his breath.

“Shit,” he’d muttered, rubbing his face. “I’m late.” You’d tried to play it cool. Tried not to let it show.

“Rain check?” he’d asked, already leaning down to kiss you anyway, already smiling like he knew you wouldn’t say no.

One kiss turned into five. Five turned into him crowding you gently against the door, hands braced on either side of your head, not trapping you, just there. Grounding. His mouth was softer then, slower, lingering like he was trying to commit the shape of you to memory. Like leaving wasn’t just inconvenient, it hurt.

You’d laughed, giddy and stupid, when he pressed one last kiss to your forehead, thumb brushing your temple like it belonged there.

“Get dressed,” he’d murmured. “You’ll catch a cold.” As if he wasn’t the reason your knees still felt weak. As if he hadn’t unraveled you just by staying a little too long. Now he’s gone.

And you’re staring at the ceiling, heart doing that slow, aching thud it’s been doing more and more lately. Not sharp pain. Worse. The kind that settles in and refuses to leave. This, whatever this is, has stopped feeling like pretending. Your phone sits beside you on the bed. Earlier, it buzzed, his name lighting up the screen like it belonged there.

Jake: text me when you get up Jake: eat something Jake: don’t skip class 🙄

You’d smiled at that. Actually smiled. The kind that pulls at your cheeks before you can stop it. The kind that lingers after the screen goes dark. The kind that makes your chest feel warm and unbearably tight all at once. That’s when it hits you. Not like a thunderclap. Not dramatically. Quietly. Honestly. Irrevocably.

You’re in love with him. Not the playboy reputation. Not the teasing smirk everyone talks about. Not even the way he touches you like it’s instinct, like his hands always know where to go. Him. The way he tucks you in without being asked. The way his voice softens when he thinks you’re upset, even when he pretends not to notice. The way he stays, really stays, even when every rule you never officially agreed on says he shouldn’t. And that’s the problem.

Because Jake Sim does not fall in love. Jake Sim leaves. Jake Sim runs. Jake Sim breaks hearts and laughs it off like it never mattered.

You roll onto your side, curling in on yourself, hugging a pillow to your chest like it might anchor you. Like it might replace the weight of his arm, the quiet reassurance of his presence. This is going to end badly. You can feel it in your bones, in the way every kiss feels like it means too much, in the way his absence already aches like a missing limb, in the way your heart has quietly, stupidly decided this is worth the risk.

You stare at the wall, then close your eyes. And despite everything, despite what you know about him, despite what you know about yourself, you still hope you’re wrong. You hope, just a little, that this time will be different. That he won’t run. That when it starts to hurt, he’ll stay.

And that hope? That’s what scares you the most. Oh, he’s absolutely not okay either. Jake sits in his car long after practice ends. Engine off. Lights dark. The parking lot emptying out one car at a time until it’s just him and the hum of cooling metal. His phone is face-down on the passenger seat like it might burn him if he looks at it too long. Like if he sees your name again, something in him will crack all the way open. His chest still hasn’t settled.

He keeps replaying the way you looked at him before he left, soft, a little dazed, hair mussed, eyes warm in a way that scared the hell out of him. The way you smiled like you trusted him. Like he was safe. Like he wasn’t a mistake waiting to happen. That’s the problem.

You feel safe. Not exciting-safe. Not fun-safe. Real safe. Quiet safe. Stay-safe. The kind that doesn’t let him hide. He presses his forehead to the steering wheel and exhales shakily, breath fogging the glass for a second before disappearing. His hands are still buzzing, like they don’t know what to do without you under them, curled into him like it was instinct.

He hates the quiet. He’s never been good at this part, the after. The stillness. The thinking. The realizing. When things stop moving, when the noise fades, when there’s nothing left to distract him from the weight in his chest, that’s when it gets dangerous. He tells himself it’s just sex. Just comfort. Just two people blowing off steam. That’s the script. He knows it by heart. Has lived by it for years.

But scripts don’t include the way you tucked your feet under his thigh like you belonged there. Scripts don’t include the way you laughed into his shoulder like the world wasn’t sharp. Scripts don’t include the way leaving your place felt wrong in his bones, like he was walking away from something fragile and alive. His phone buzzes.

The sound is too loud in the quiet car. He freezes. Then flips it over despite himself.

You: did you make it?

His chest tightens immediately, sharp, sudden, like someone reached inside and squeezed. He stares at the message longer than necessary. He types.  Deletes. Types again.

Jake: yeah Jake: u eat?

God. He groans softly and lets his head fall back against the seat. He sounds like a fucking idiot. Like someone’s boyfriend. Like someone who cares. He stares up at the roof of the car, jaw clenched so tight it aches. He can still feel you under his hands. The way you curled into him without thinking. The way you sighed, quiet, content, like you belonged there. Like being with him didn’t cost you anything.

That’s when it hits him. Not all at once. Not dramatically. In pieces. He doesn’t want anyone else touching you. Doesn’t want anyone else making you laugh like that.Doesn’t want anyone else seeing you soft and unguarded and real.

And worse, he doesn’t want to be the guy who ruins this. Which means he already has. “Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face, fingers dragging down hard like he can physically pull himself together if he tries hard enough. This was supposed to be simple. Rules. Distance.No feelings.

Something contained. Something temporary. Something he could walk away from without looking back. But every time he leaves your place, it feels wrong. Like he’s abandoning something unfinished. Like he’s choosing the familiar ache of running over the terrifying possibility of staying.

He picks up his phone again, thumb hovering over your name.

He wants to say something. Anything. Wants to tell you to stop looking at him like that because it makes him want things he can’t afford to want. Wants to tell you that you’re dangerous to him in the quietest way possible. Wants to tell you that he doesn’t trust himself not to fall all the way if you keep letting him stay. Instead, he does what he always does. He chooses restraint dressed up as responsibility.

Jake: get some sleep Jake: see you tomorrow

He stares at the sent messages like they’re a lie he’s practicing believing. Then he finally starts the car. The engine roars to life too loud in the empty lot, heart pounding just as hard, like it’s betraying him with every beat. As he pulls out, hands steady on the wheel despite everything inside him unraveling, he knows.

This is going to hurt. Because he’s already falling. And Jake Sim has never been good at landing. He almost turns the car around. It’s stupid, he knows that. Reckless. The kind of impulsive, heart-first decision he’s spent years training himself not to make. The kind that ruins carefully constructed exits. The kind that leads to explanations, expectations, things he doesn’t know how to survive.

But he’s barely halfway down the block when his hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, chest caving in like his lungs forgot their job. The road blurs for a second, headlights streaking, and suddenly all he can see is you. Barefoot on your bed. Hair everywhere. Eyes warm. Open. Trusting. Smiling at him like he wasn’t a bad ending waiting to happen.

“Don’t,” he mutters to himself, voice rough, like if he says it out loud it’ll hold. The car slows. The engine hum drops. His foot eases off the gas without permission. For half a second, half a fucking second, he lets himself imagine it.

Pulling back into your driveway. Killing the engine. Walking up to your door like an idiot with nothing rehearsed. Knocking. You opening it, confused, soft, maybe smiling like you always do when you see him. Him saying something honest for once. Saying he can’t stop thinking about you. Saying he doesn’t know how to do this without fucking it up. Saying he’s scared because you feel like something he could actually lose. Saying he wants more, and that wanting you feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing how to land.

His turn signal clicks. Once. Twice. His heart is pounding so loud it’s almost painful, like it’s begging him to choose differently. Then fear wins. It always does. He exhales sharply, jaw locking, and forces the wheel straight like it’s an act of violence. The car accelerates, the street disappearing behind him, and the relief that follows is hollow and sickening. He drives away like a coward. Heart still racing. Chest burning. Knowing, deep down, that this is the part where he fucks it up.

—

The next day, he’s unbearable. Not loud-unbearable. Worse. Sharp. Edged. Like he’s made of glass and anyone who touches him is going to bleed. Practice is a mess. His body’s there, but his head’s somewhere else, back in your room, back at the door he didn’t knock on, back in the moment he chose running because it was easier than staying.

“Jake, chill,” one of his friends laughs when he misses an easy shot. “You’re off today.”

“Don’t tell me to chill,” Jake snaps, voice harsher than he means it, but not apologetic either.

The laughter dies immediately. Someone mutters, “Damn,” under their breath. Another guy avoids his eyes altogether. Jake doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t soften it. Doesn’t even realize how tight his fists are until his nails dig into his palms.

The looks his friends exchange say everything. Oh. He’s gone. This is new. He pushes everyone away like they’re obstacles, like they’re in the way of something he refuses to name. Like if he lets anyone close, they’ll see the cracks forming. Until you show up. You don’t announce yourself. Don’t demand his attention. You just step into his space like you always do, quiet, familiar, grounding. Like you belong there.

“Hey,” you say softly. Something in him gives. Just a fraction. Just enough. His shoulders drop, barely noticeable, but real. His jaw unclenches. His eyes flick over you immediately, searching, automatic, instinctive, like he’s checking for damage he’s responsible for. “What?” he asks, already softer, already undone.

“You okay?” you ask. The concern in your voice hits him harder than any confrontation could.

He scoffs, forcing a shrug. “Yeah. Fine.” You don’t believe him. He knows you don’t. That’s the problem, you never do.

“Jake,” you start, hesitant, careful. “About… us—”

Panic spikes. He cuts you off before you can finish, before you can say something he won’t be able to undo. “There is no us,” he says too fast, too clean, like he practiced it in the mirror. “We agreed on that, remember?”

Your face stills. Not dramatic. Not angry. Just… quiet.

“Oh,” you say after a beat, voice small but steady. “Right. I just thought—”

He looks away immediately, like he can’t stand to see what that did to you. “That’s the problem,” he mutters. “Thinking.” The silence that follows is brutal. It presses in, heavy and suffocating, full of everything he’s too scared to say and everything you’re finally starting to understand. His friends watch from a distance, pretending not to, because it’s obvious now, painfully obvious.

You’re the only one who can calm him. And you’re the one thing he won’t let himself keep. You step back, nodding once, like you’re accepting something you already knew but hoped you were wrong about.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Then… see you around.” You turn to leave. Jake watches you go.

Doesn’t call your name. Doesn’t stop you. Just stands there, jaw tight, chest aching like he ripped something vital out of himself and pretended it was necessary. And the worst part? He knows. The moment he didn’t turn that car around, the moment he chose fear over honesty, was the moment he started losing you.

And no amount of running has ever saved him from that. You go for a walk because staying still feels like suffocating.

Your body needs motion, air, distance, something to keep your thoughts from closing in on themselves. The streetlights blur past as you walk without direction, hands shoved into your pockets, shoulders tense like you’re bracing for impact. Your phone is face-down in your pocket, but you swear you can feel its weight. Like Jake’s name might burn straight through the fabric if you let it. You haven’t texted him. Haven’t not texted him either. You’re suspended in that awful in-between where every thought circles back to him whether you want it to or not. The way he dodged you. The way his voice hardened the second you said us.The way it still softened when he looked at you, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo his mouth was trying to send.

It hurts in a quiet, persistent way. Not sharp. Worse. Like longing with nowhere to go. Like something alive inside you pacing against its ribs. You don’t even realize you’ve slowed until a familiar voice says your name. You stop. Turn.

Your ex stands a few feet away, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture tentative, like he’s testing unstable ground. He looks the same. Too familiar. Too easy to place in a past you worked hard to survive.

“Hey,” he says. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

For a split second, your heart jumps, pure muscle memory. Then the ache evaporates, replaced by something hot and electric. Rage. It floods you all at once. Every sleepless night.  Every moment you twisted yourself smaller to keep the peace. Every time you were made to feel like wanting more was asking for too much.

“What do you want?” you ask flatly.

He blinks, thrown off. “Wow. Okay. I just—”

“No,” you cut in, voice shaking despite yourself. “You don’t get to just walk up to me like nothing happened.”

“I was just trying to talk,” he says, already defensive. “We didn’t exactly end on great terms.”

“That was your choice,” you snap. “You made it very clear where I stood.”

“That’s not fair—”

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “Leave me alone.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re being dramatic.”

That word hits like a match to gasoline. “Dramatic?” you repeat, stepping closer, hands curling into fists. “You disappear. You lie. You make me feel like I’m asking for too much, and now you think you get to show up and rewrite it?”

People pass by. Someone glances over, then looks away. You don’t care. “I don’t owe you closure,” you say, voice firm now, steady in a way that surprises even you. “I don’t owe you anything. So walk away.”

He stares at you, stunned, pride and guilt flickering across his face like competing signals. “Fine,” he mutters at last. “Whatever. You’ve changed.”

“Good,” you say. “That was the point.” He leaves. Your hands are shaking by the time you turn away, chest heaving, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. It takes a second for the anger to drain, long enough for the aftermath to crash in and leave you hollow.

You’re exhausted. And then, you see him. Jake stands across the street. Still. Rigid. Like he’s been carved into the concrete. His eyes are locked on you, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle ticking. He didn’t hear the words. Didn’t need to. He saw enough, the proximity, the intensity, the way your ex stood too close. The way you didn’t walk away immediately. Something dark moves through Jake’s expression. Possessive. Afraid. Angry.

He moves before you can stop him. “Jake—” you start, but he’s already there, voice sharp as broken glass.

“What the hell was that?”

Your stomach drops. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in. “Don’t lie to me.”

Lie?

“I wasn’t—” You force a breath. “He came up to me. I told him to leave.”

Jake laughs, bitter and disbelieving. “Yeah? Looked real convincing from where I was standing.”

That hurts more than you expect. More than the accusation itself. “You think I’d do that?” you ask quietly.

His eyes flicker, just for a second. Doubt. Fear. Then he hardens again, like softness is dangerous. “I don’t know what you’d do,” he says. “You don’t exactly talk to me anymore, remember?”

“That’s because every time I try, you shut me out,” you shoot back. “You don’t get to act like you care now.”

“I do care,” he snaps, stepping closer. Too close. His voice drops, rough and dangerous. “That’s the problem.”

Silence crashes between you. Heavy. Public. Exposed. “That’s not fair,” you say, voice shaking. “You don’t know what was said.”

“No,” Jake fires back. “But I know how this ends.”

You stare at him, hurt flashing across your face. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“Oh, don’t I?” His jaw clenches. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I was just the rebound.”

The silence is deafening. People walk past. A car honks somewhere. The world keeps moving like this isn’t your chest splitting open on the sidewalk. Jake drags a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “You want to know what it looked like?” he says. “It looked like you going back to him. Like I was an idiot for thinking—”

“For thinking what?” you demand. He stops. Because whatever he was about to say terrifies him. His mouth opens. Closes. “Forget it,” he mutters. “This was a mistake.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “So that’s it?”

“This—” he gestures between you, helpless and furious all at once. “This is exactly why I didn’t want more.” Something inside you goes cold.

“You assumed,” you say softly. “You didn’t even ask.”

His eyes flash. “Because I already know how this ends.”

“Then you don’t know me at all,” you whisper. That one lands. Jake flinches like you slapped him. For a moment, just a fragile, unbearable moment, it looks like he might say something. Something real. Something honest. Like he might finally choose differently.

“I see how it is,” Jake starts, trying to focus anywhere but on your teary gaze, “All you wanted was sex.” Your eyes are glossy. Angry. Wounded.

“How dare you,” you whisper.

Jake falters. “I—”

“No,” you cut in, voice breaking. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to push me away, dodge every conversation, pretend I don’t matter, and then explode the second someone else talks to me.”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. “You don’t want me,” you continue, tears spilling now. “But you don’t want anyone else to have me either.”

“That’s not—” he starts, then stops. Because it is. And he hates himself for it.

“You made rules,” you say softly. “And then you broke them. And now you’re punishing me for it.” Jake swallows hard, eyes burning.

“I was wrong,” he says, voice low, rough. “About everything.”

You shake your head, wiping at your cheeks. “Too late.”

The words land heavier than any insult. You step back, shaking your head, tears spilling freely now. “You don’t get to want me only when it’s convenient. You don’t get to pull me close and then act shocked when I fall.”

“I never asked you to—”

“Yes, you did,” you interrupt, voice rising. “Every time you held my hand. Every time you stayed. Every time you looked at me like I was more.” His shoulders slump, breath shuddering out of him. You turn away, wiping your cheeks furiously. “I’m done.”

Jake’s heart stutters. “Wait—”

You face him one last time. “You said no feelings,” you say quietly. He swallows. “Then stop making me feel things.”

Jake’s heart lurches. “Don’t—”

“Please,” you whisper. “Just… don’t follow me.” You turn and walk away, shoulders trembling. Jake stands there, frozen, watching you disappear into the crowd. And for the first time since this all started, he doesn’t chase you. Because he knows. This isn’t flirting. This isn’t tension. This is the moment he finally broke something he can’t undo.

After the break, Jake does what he’s always done when things get hard. He disappears into noise. He tells himself it’s fine, that this is normal, that this is who he’s always been. He shows up to parties like muscle memory, like instinct. Someone texts him an address, a vague pull up, and he goes without thinking. Music rattles through cheap speakers. Lights strobe. Alcohol burns its way down his throat.

He laughs at the right moments. He throws an arm around someone’s shoulders when they pull him close. He lets people assume things about him because assumptions are easier than explanations. But something is off.

It hits him the first night he realizes he’s sober enough to notice how hollow everything feels. The bass is pounding so loud the floor vibrates, but inside his head, nothing. No rush. No buzz. No spark. Just this flat, empty quiet that makes his chest feel too big for his lungs. He leans against a kitchen counter slick with spilled drinks, watching people dance like they’re weightless. A girl presses into his side, shouting something in his ear. He nods like he heard her.

He didn’t. Another hand slips into his, fingers lacing easily, confidently. Normally, he’d respond without thinking, pull her closer, let the night go where it always goes. Instead, his first thought is you. The way you stand too close when you’re nervous. The way your laugh comes out crooked when something genuinely surprises you. The look on your face when he said, There is no us. His stomach turns.

“Hey,” the girl says, smiling up at him. “You okay?”

Jake pulls his hand back gently. “Yeah. I’m—uh. I’m good.”

She blinks. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He forces a smile. “Just tired.” That word, tired, starts following him everywhere. He leaves early. The next party, same thing. He shows up, stays an hour, maybe two. Drinks less. Watches more. Leaves without saying goodbye. People notice.

“Bro, you ghosting your own reputation now?” someone jokes.

“You used to be fun,” another says, half-laughing, half-confused.

Jake shrugs. “Guess I’m evolving.”

But he isn’t. He’s unraveling. He starts checking his phone compulsively, unlocking it without realizing, thumb hovering over your name before he locks it again. He tells himself he’s not waiting for anything, but the disappointment still hits every time the screen stays empty.

Back at his place, the silence is unbearable. No music. No voices. Just the hum of the fridge, the ticking of time he can’t outrun. He lies on his bed staring at the ceiling, replaying moments he didn’t realize mattered so much while they were happening. The way you used to steal his hoodies. The way you looked at him when he got quiet, not annoyed, not demanding, just concerned. The night on the sidewalk replays on a loop. Your voice. Your eyes. You don’t know me at all.

The words lodge somewhere deep, festering. Because the worst part? He thinks you might be right.

—

You try to do the healthy thing. You don’t sit around waiting for him to come back. You don’t reread old messages. You don’t let yourself spiral every time your phone buzzes.

You say yes when someone asks you out. Heeseung is easy in a way Jake never was. He texts ahead of time. Asks what kind of coffee you like. Actually listens to the answer. When you meet, he smiles like he’s genuinely happy you showed up, like it wasn’t a given. The first time you sit across from him, the conversation flows without effort. He tells stories that wander and circle back on themselves. You laugh. You relax.

It feels… safe. And that scares you a little. The second hangout stretches longer than you expect. You walk side by side, hands occasionally brushing, and he always lets you decide whether it turns into something more. You tell yourself this is good.

This is what moving on looks like. But Jake is everywhere. In the way Heeseung laughs too softly, like he’s careful not to take up too much space. In the way he waits before touching you, like he’s afraid of crossing a line you never drew. In the way he looks at you like he wants approval instead of certainty.

Jake never waited. Jake assumed you’d be there. Jake took space like it belonged to him. Jake scared you and thrilled you and hurt you in ways that felt real. On your third hangout, when Heeseung finally calls it out, you almost feel relieved.

He leans back, studying you with a knowing look. “Okay,” he says. “I have to ask.”

Your stomach tightens. “Ask what?”

“Whoever came before me,” he says lightly. “Because you keep smiling like you’re comparing me to someone I’m not even competing with.” You choke on your drink, coughing, mortified. “I’m not—” He grins. “You absolutely are.” You drop your forehead to the table, groaning. “I’m so sorry.” “Don’t be,” he says easily. “I’m just the-” he pauses, “Replacement goldfish.” You snort, “Why would you call yourself that?” He scans your face, eyes softening once again, “You’re human. And very obviously still in love.” You lift your head, eyes searching his face. “That doesn’t bother you?” He shrugs. “I knew what this was when I asked you out. I just wanted to be sure you knew.” That honesty stings more than anger would’ve. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you say quietly. “Then don’t lie to yourself,” he replies. “That’s how people get collateral damage.”

You nod, throat tight, because he’s right. He grins. “Look, you don’t have to tell me the name. Or actually, please do. I live for the tea.” You laugh despite yourself, head dropping to the table.

Jake sees you together by accident. He’s heading somewhere he doesn’t even want to be, hoodie pulled low, earbuds in with nothing playing. He turns a corner, and there you are. Walking beside someone else. Talking. Laughing. You look… lighter.

Like the weight he dropped didn’t crush you the way he assumed it would. Something breaks open in his chest. He stands there longer than he should, watching the way you tilt your head when you listen, the way your smile comes easier around someone who doesn’t make you second-guess yourself. He turns away before you see him. That night, he stays in.

He scrolls through his phone until his eyes ache, old texts, stupid memes, half-serious promises neither of you realized were fragile. Finally, in the quiet, he lets the truth surface. “I fucked up.” There’s no one to hear it. No one to soften it. He assumed. He panicked. He chose distance because closeness scared him. And now he knows, really knows, what he lost. Whether it’s too late or not doesn’t even matter anymore.  He’s utterly, devastatingly in love with you. To the point where he went ahead and got his whole life turned upside down. For the first time, Jake Sim is painfully, terrifyingly certain.

And certainty, he’s learning, hurts like hell. Jake wakes up knowing. Not the slow, creeping realization that usually follows regret. Not the kind that waits for coffee or daylight to soften it. This is instant. Violent. Absolute. It hits him so hard he has to sit up, feet on the floor, elbows braced on his knees like the weight of it might knock him over if he doesn’t anchor himself. His hands tangle in his hair, grip tight, breath stuttering once, twice, before it steadies.

He’s in love. There’s no room to negotiate with the thought. No loopholes. No maybes. It isn’t dramatic in the way movies sell it. It’s quieter than that. Cleaner. Terrifyingly simple. You are it.

Not the convenient kind of affection he’s always been good at. Not the easy heat of bodies and laughter and temporary distraction. This is the kind that rearranges things. That reaches backward and forward at the same time and suddenly makes everything else feel like rehearsal. Every hookup before you fades into static, faces blur, memories flatten, sensations lose color. It all feels like noise he mistook for music.

And then you happened. And now there’s no un-knowing it. Jake exhales, slow and steady, and for once he doesn’t argue with himself. He doesn’t list reasons this is a bad idea. He doesn’t tell himself he’s late or stupid or doomed to mess it up again. He moves. That’s the difference.

He pulls on the first hoodie he can find, yesterday’s, probably, and grabs his keys, heart already racing like it knows where this is going. The mirror catches him for half a second: hair a mess, eyes bright and terrified and alive in a way he hasn’t seen in himself for weeks. “Okay,” he murmurs to no one. “Okay.” Find you. Tell you. Fix this, if fixing is still allowed.

Campus stretches out in front of him, familiar paths suddenly charged with urgency. He walks fast, then faster, like if he slows down he might lose nerve. Your coffee spot is first. The barista shakes her head apologetically. “Not today.” Library next. He scans tables, corners, stairwells, nothing.

He jogs to your lecture hall, breathless by the time he gets there. Empty seats. A professor packing up notes. You didn’t show. A flicker of fear tries to worm its way in. He doesn’t let it. He keeps going. He asks people who barely know him, people who know you better, people who only recognize his face from around. Someone jokes, Thought you two were inseparable, and for once, it doesn’t sting. It just fuels him. “Have you seen her?”  “Earlier maybe?”  “No? Okay, thanks.”

Hour bleeds into hour. The sky shifts. His legs ache. His phone stays stubbornly silent in his pocket, and every unanswered question presses a little heavier on his chest. What if he missed you? What if this realization came a day too late? By the time the sun starts sinking, spilling gold and pink across the buildings, he slows, not because he’s given up, but because he’s tired in that bone-deep way that comes from caring too much. He stops outside a building without really knowing why.

Breathing hard. Hands on his hips. Staring up at nothing. “Jake.” He looks up. Giselle. She’s watching him like she’s been waiting, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her eyes flick over him, sweat-damp hoodie, flushed face, the unmistakable look of someone mid-reckoning.

“Well,” she says finally. “You look like hell.”

He huffs a weak laugh. “Feel worse.”

That earns him a small smile. Then it fades, replaced by something gentler. More serious. Without ceremony, she steps forward and presses a folded piece of paper into his palm. “No questions,” she says before he can speak. “No spiraling. Just, go.”

He blinks at her. “What—”

“Jake,” she cuts in, softer now. “Don’t mess this up.” And then she’s gone, walking away like she just handed him something precious and trusts him not to drop it. His fingers tremble as he unfolds the note. Small handwriting. Familiar. Uneven. rooftop.

His heart kicks hard, sudden and bright. The rooftop. Of course it is. A laugh breaks out of him, quiet, breathless, disbelieving. Relief washes through him so strong it almost knocks him off balance. He doesn’t hesitate. He takes the stairs two at a time, legs burning, lungs protesting, every step lighter than the last. With each floor, the fear shifts, not disappearing, but sharpening into something clean. Hope.

Not the fragile kind. The determined kind.

Because for the first time since everything fell apart, he isn’t guessing. He isn’t assuming. He isn’t running away. He knows where you are. He knows what he feels. And when he reaches the door at the top, hand hovering over the handle, heart steady despite the chaos, he knows exactly what he’s going to say.

He bursts onto the rooftop like he ran the whole way up. Because he did. The door bangs shut behind him, echoing louder than it should, and for a second he just… folds. Hands on his knees, breath tearing in and out of his chest like he sprinted straight through his own fear. His hoodie clings to him, hair wrecked by wind and sweat and panic, eyes wild in a way that makes it painfully obvious he didn’t rehearse a single word of this.

He straightens too fast when he spots you. You’re by the railing. Arms folded tight. Spine straight. Guard fully, unmistakably up. The wind tugs at your hair, lifting strands across your face like the world itself is urging you to turn away from him. “Hey,” you say carefully. Not softly. Not coldly. Carefully.

That almost destroys him. “Hi—fuck—hi,” he says, immediately rubbing the back of his neck, pacing one step to the side before catching himself. He looks like a caged animal who suddenly realized the door is open and doesn’t know whether to bolt or beg. “Okay. Um. I—yeah. I’m bad at this. Like, criminally bad.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

He winces. “I deserved that. I know. Irony. Laugh later, please.”

He drags a hand down his face, eyes darting everywhere except you, like if he looks too directly he might lose his nerve. That stops you for half a second. He notices. He swallows, shoulders slumping like he’s already stripping away every defense he owns. “I’m not here to be charming,” he says quietly. “I’m not here to talk my way out of anything. I don’t get to do that anymore.”

You don’t respond. So he keeps going. “I messed up,” he says, blunt and unfiltered. “I didn’t just mess up, I hurt you. I assumed. I projected. I saw what I was afraid of instead of what was actually happening, and then I punished you for it.”

Your jaw tightens. Jake sees it and immediately lifts his hands, not surrender, not dramatics. Just honesty. “No, please, don’t shut down,” he says quickly. “You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t have to say anything. Just… let me say this without running away for once.” The wind hums between you. After a long beat, you give a small nod. It feels like mercy. He exhales, shaky and relieved and terrified all at once.

“I’ve spent my whole life leaving first,” he admits. “Before things get real. Before people can see the parts of me that don’t know what the hell they’re doing. And with you… being with you wasn’t scary because it might end.” His voice cracks. “It was scary because it mattered.”

You turn your head slightly, just enough that he knows you’re listening. “When I saw you with your ex,” he continues, voice rough, “I didn’t even ask. I didn’t trust you. I didn’t trust us. I just… decided the ending for both of us like I always do.” He laughs once, humorless, pained. “I tell myself I’m self-aware, but really I just run with better excuses.”

You finally look at him. Really look. His eyes are glassy. Red-rimmed. Open in a way you’ve never seen before. “I went back to partying because that’s what I know,” he says. “Noise. Distraction. People who don’t ask anything of me. And it felt empty. Every single time. I’d be in a room full of people and all I could think was, she would hate this. Or she’d make fun of me for this. Or she’d be laughing right now.” His voice drops. “I missed you in rooms you weren’t even in.”

Your throat tightens despite yourself. “I don’t get to ask you to trust me,” he says quietly. “I broke that. I don’t get to pretend my fear is an excuse. It’s just… a flaw I need to own.” He steps closer, slow, deliberate, but stops a full foot away, like he’s terrified of crossing a line he hasn’t earned the right to cross. “But I am in love with you,” he says. No jokes. No smile. “And I don’t want to be the guy who almost loved you because he was too scared to stay.”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “Jake, you don’t understand how much that hurt.”

“I do,” he says immediately. “I do now. I replayed your face over and over, the way you looked at me when I didn’t even give you the benefit of a question. And if you tell me you can’t do this again, I’ll accept it. I swear I will.” That’s new.

“But if there’s even a sliver of a chance,” he continues, voice breaking, “I’ll do the work. I’ll say the scary things out loud. I’ll stay when my instinct is to bolt. I’ll earn it, slowly. Properly.”

You turn away, gripping the railing hard, blinking rapidly as the city stretches out below you. You remember every lonely night. Every second-guess. Every time you wondered if you were asking for too much just by wanting him to stay. Jake doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t rush you. He just stands there, heart on the floor between you.

“I don’t want rules,” he adds softly. “I don’t want pretending. I don’t want to keep you at arm’s length so I feel safe. I want the version of you who calls me out. Who scares me a little. Who makes me better even when I don’t want to be.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I am… a lot.”

“I know,” he says instantly. “I want all of it.”

Silence again. But this one feels different. You turn back to him slowly. Your eyes search his face, not for charm, not for confidence, but for cracks. You find only sincerity.

“If you do this again,” you say quietly, voice trembling, “if you shut me out or assume the worst or leave without a conversation—”

“I won’t,” he says. Not rushed. Not desperate. Grounded. “And if I ever feel like I’m about to, I’ll tell you. Even if it makes me look weak. Especially then.”

You search his face for bravado. There is none. Only sincerity. Only Jake, unguarded, terrified, in love. You step closer. “God,” you murmur, “you’re such an idiot.”

Relief floods his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling through tears. “But you’re my idiot.”

His laugh breaks, half sob, half disbelief, as he pulls you into his arms, holding you like he’s afraid the world might try to take you away again. You step forward. Just one step. Jake doesn’t move until you’re close enough that he’s sure this is real. And this time, he stays. He doesn’t hesitate this time. No pulling away. No second-guessing. No fear winning at the last second.

Jake steps into your space and kisses you first. It’s not rushed, it’s intentional. Like he’s been holding this back for weeks and finally lets himself have it. His hand cups your jaw, thumb warm against your cheek as his lips slot against yours, slow and deep and sure.

You breathe out a soft sound before you can stop yourself. That’s all it takes. His other hand slides into your hair, fingers tangling there like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. He groans quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating straight through you, pulling you closer without even trying.

Your hands clutch at his hoodie, heart racing, every nerve lighting up. He kisses you like he means it this time. Like this isn’t practice. Like this isn’t pretend. Your breathing turns uneven, soft little exhales slipping between kisses, and Jake has to pull back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes dark, chest rising fast.

“Fuck,” he whispers, smiling like he’s overwhelmed in the best way. “You’re killing me.” You laugh softly, breathless. “You started it.” He leans in again, slower now, softer, pressing one more kiss to your lips, then your cheek, then your forehead like he’s grounding himself. This time, when he holds you, there’s no rule breaking. No guilt. No running. Just the certainty that whatever this is, it’s real.

His mouth finds your neck again almost immediately, warm and unhurried, lips trailing down the same path he’s already claimed tonight. You feel the gentle scrape of his teeth, the promise of another mark, and your breath hitches. “Not here,” you whisper, voice soft but firm, fingers threading through his hair to guide him back up.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t argue. Just pulls away with a low, amused hum, eyes dark and sparkling with mischief. In one smooth motion he scoops you up, arms under your thighs, your legs wrapping around his waist like they belong there. You let out a surprised laugh that turns into a half-hearted squeak when he starts walking toward the door.

“Hey—wait, my—”  

The protest barely leaves your mouth before his hand comes down on your ass in a sharp, playful spank. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make heat bloom across your skin and a startled giggle burst out of you. “Shh,” he murmurs against your ear, grin wicked. “You’re coming with me.”

You bury your face in his neck, laughing into his skin as he strides across the rooftop, surprisingly balanced. The door clicks shut behind you, cool night air hitting your flushed cheeks as he strides toward his car parked haphazardly in the driveway. He sets you down only long enough to yank the passenger door open, but the second you’re in the seat he’s crowding in after you for one more quick, hungry kiss before jogging around to the driver’s side.

The engine roars to life.   He throws it into gear.   And then he floors it. The car surges forward, tires chirping against the pavement, and you both burst out laughing, wild, breathless, uncontrollable, like two high teenagers who just stole the night and don’t plan on giving it back. His right hand immediately finds your thigh, fingers splaying wide, possessive and warm through the thin fabric of whatever you’re still wearing (or not wearing). He squeezes once, then strokes upward in lazy, distracting circles, thumb brushing higher every few seconds just to make you squirm.

You’re both giggling like idiots. He’s speeding, way over the limit, taking corners a little too fast, windows cracked so the wind whips through your hair. Streetlights streak past in golden blurs. Every time you glance over at him, he’s already looking back, eyes bright, smile crooked and reckless and so stupidly in love it makes your chest ache.

“Slow down, you maniac,” you manage between laughs, but your hand covers his on your thigh, pressing it harder against you instead of pushing it away.

“Not a chance,” he shoots back, voice rough with joy. “Gotta get you home before I pull over and finish what I started.” You throw your head back against the seat, laughing louder, the sound mixing with the roar of the engine and the music he cranked up without asking. His thumb keeps tracing slow patterns on your inner thigh. Your fingers lace through his.  

The city lights flash by. Your heart races faster than the car. And for once, neither of you is pretending this is anything less than everything. The second the front door clicks shut behind you, Jake doesn’t set you down. He keeps you wrapped around him, legs locked at his ankles, arms slung around his neck, and spins so your back slams against the cool wood of the door with just enough force to knock the breath out of you in the best way. Your laugh turns into a gasp as he presses himself flush against you, pinning you there with the solid weight of his body.

His mouth crashes into yours before you can even catch your breath, sloppy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and shared exhales. It’s not gentle. It’s starving. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers digging into his shoulders, tugging at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer like you’re trying to crawl inside his skin. He grinds up against you, slow and deliberate at first, then harder, his bulge thick and straining through his sweatpants, dragging delicious friction right where you need it. You moan into his mouth, hips rolling instinctively to meet every roll of his, the rhythm filthy and perfect. The door rattles faintly with every thrust of his hips.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans against your lips, voice wrecked and low. “Been thinking about this the whole drive.”

His hand slides down between your bodies, rough and sure, slipping under the waistband of whatever you’re still wearing, shorts, panties, doesn’t matter. Fingers find you slick and ready, and he doesn’t tease. He cups you fully, palm pressing against your clit while two fingers slide through your folds, rubbing slow, firm circles that make your thighs shake around his waist.

You whimper, head falling back against the door, and that’s when his mouth moves to your neck. He latches on immediately, hot, open-mouthed kisses turning into hard sucks, teeth scraping just enough to sting before he soothes with his tongue. He’s marking you again, deliberate and possessive, each pull of his lips drawing a fresh bruise to the surface while his fingers keep working you in steady, maddening strokes. Your hips buck into his hand, chasing more, and every time you moan his name it seems to spur him on harder.

“Love these sounds,” he mutters against your throat, voice vibrating through your skin. “Love how wet you get for me.” Another hard suck right below your ear, another bloom of purple blooming under his mouth, and you’re arching, grinding down on his bulge and his fingers at the same time, the door creaking under the force of it all. You’re both a mess already, lips swollen, breathing ragged, clothes half-askew, and you haven’t even made it past the entryway. He doesn’t seem to care. Neither do you.

Not when he’s kissing you like this, touching you like this, claiming you like this. The night’s just getting started. He bridal-carries you the rest of the way down the hall like you weigh nothing, strong arms secure under your thighs and back, your legs dangling over one elbow while your arms loop around his neck. Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently, and you can’t resist pressing open-mouthed kisses along the side of his throat, slow, deliberate, tasting the salt of his skin and the faint thrum of his pulse. Every time your lips brush the spot just below his ear, he lets out a low, rumbling groan that vibrates through his chest and into yours.

“Keep doing that,” he mutters, voice gravel-rough, “and we’re not making it to the bed.” You smile against his neck and nip lightly in answer, earning another deep sound and the way his grip tightens like he’s fighting not to drop you right there in the hallway.

He kicks the bedroom door open with his foot, strides inside, and lowers you onto the mattress with surprising gentleness, easing you down like something precious instead of the frantic heat you both carried through the front door. The sheets are cool against your back, a sharp contrast to the fever of his skin as he hovers over you for a second, breathing hard, eyes roaming your face like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment.

Then he moves. Hands quick but careful, he strips the rest of your clothes away, shirt tugged over your head, bra unhooked and tossed somewhere in the dark, shorts and panties sliding down your legs in one smooth pull. You’re bare beneath him now, completely exposed, and he doesn’t rush to cover you with his body.

He sits back on his heels between your thighs, hands braced on either side of your hips, and just… looks.

His gaze drags over you slowly, hungry, reverent, almost pained. Chest rising and falling fast. Eyes dark and glassy. He closes them for a beat, like the sight of you is too much, jaw clenching as he exhales a shaky curse. “Fuck,” he breathes, voice cracking on the word. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

He says it like a confession, like something he’s been carrying around for too long and can finally let out. His eyes open again, softer now, and he leans down, palms sliding up the outsides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin there. “Been thinking about you like this,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “spread out on my bed, looking at me like that… Jesus.”

One hand moves to your cheek, thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip while the other stays on your hip, grounding you both. He’s still fully dressed, sweatpants low on his hips, shirt rumpled, and the contrast makes the moment feel even more raw, more intimate. He lowers himself slowly, covering you with his weight, forearms bracketing your head as he kisses you deep and unhurried. When he pulls back just enough to speak, his forehead rests against yours. “I could look at you forever,” he whispers, the words so quiet they almost get lost between your breaths.

And the way he’s holding you, gentle but possessive, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go, says he means every single one.

He doesn’t rush. After stripping the last of your clothes, Jake settles between your thighs again, eyes never leaving yours as he lowers himself. His hands find yours first, fingers sliding between yours, lacing tight, palms pressing together like he needs the anchor. You squeeze back instinctively, and the small, intimate connection makes your chest tighten even before his mouth touches you.

Then he does. His tongue parts you slow and deliberate, a long, flat stroke from entrance to clit that has your back arching off the bed. He groans low against you at the first taste, the vibration shooting straight through your core. He doesn’t tease long, he dives in like he’s been starving for this, lips closing around your clit, sucking gently while his tongue flicks in perfect, relentless rhythm. All the while, his fingers stay locked with yours, grip firm, thumb stroking over your knuckles in soft, steady circles. It’s grounding. Tender. Filthy contrast to the way his mouth is devouring you.

When two of his fingers slide inside, thick, curling just right against that spot that makes your toes curl, he keeps the pace slow at first, letting you feel every inch, every drag. Then he picks up, matching the rhythm of his tongue, pumping deep and steady while he sucks harder on your clit.

Your moans turn broken, hips rolling up to meet him, and he lets you, encourages it, free hand sliding up to press your thigh wider, opening you more for him. The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and perfect, and every time you whimper his name, he answers with a muffled groan against your pussy.

You come hard, shattering, thighs clamping around his head, fingers squeezing his so tight it probably hurts. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away, just works you through it with softer licks, slower thrusts of his fingers, drawing out every aftershock until you’re trembling, oversensitive, gasping for air.

Only then does he lift his head, lips slick and swollen, eyes dark and glassy with want. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, soft, reverent, before rising up on his knees. He shoves his sweatpants down in one rough motion, kicking them off. His cock springs free, thick, flushed dark, the tip angry red and glistening with precome. He wraps a hand around himself, gives a few slow, firm pumps, spreading the slickness down his length while staring down at you like you’re the only thing that exists. “Fuck… look at you,” he breathes again, voice wrecked. “So pretty when you come for me.”

He leans over you, bracing one hand beside your head, the other guiding himself. The blunt head nudges your entrance, hot, slippery, teasing just the slightest stretch. He doesn’t push in yet. Just rocks there, letting you feel him, letting the anticipation build until you’re whimpering, hips lifting toward him. Eyes locked on yours, he murmurs, low and rough, “Tell me you want it, baby.” You don’t even hesitate. “I want it. I want you.”

That’s all he needs. He pushes in slow, inch by thick inch, stretching you open, filling you so perfectly your breath catches. When he’s buried to the hilt, hips flush against yours, he stills for a second, forehead dropping to yours, breathing hard. “God,” he rasps, voice trembling just a little. “You feel… so fucking good.”

Then he starts to move. He starts slow, deep, deliberate rolls of his hips that bury him to the hilt every time, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with a slick, satisfying drag that makes you both gasp into each other’s mouths. It’s pounding, yes, hard enough that the headboard taps the wall in steady rhythm, hard enough that your thighs tremble around his waist and your nails rake down his back, but it’s so much more than that.

It’s making love. Every thrust feels like he’s trying to fuse himself to you, like he’s pouring everything unspoken into the way he moves inside you. His forehead stays pressed to yours between kisses, breaths mingling, eyes locked when they’re not fluttering shut from the intensity.

He kisses you constantly. Deep, open-mouthed ones that swallow your moans. Soft, lingering ones against the corner of your mouth when you’re both catching air. Quick, desperate pecks when the pleasure spikes too sharp and he needs to ground himself. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, the tip of your nose, then crashes back to your lips like he can’t stay away for more than a second.

“God, baby,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice wrecked and thick with emotion. “You feel… everything.”

One hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threaded through your hair, holding you close so he can kiss you deeper while the other slides down to grip your hip, angling you just right so every stroke hits that perfect spot inside you. You arch up to meet him, legs tightening around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him harder, deeper. The pace builds, faster, more insistent, but never frantic. It’s purposeful. Reverent. Like he’s savoring every second of being connected to you this completely.

You kiss him through your rising moans, tongues sliding, teeth grazing, sharing every shaky breath. When your climax starts to coil tight, you whimper his name against his lips, and he answers by kissing you harder, swallowing the sound, hips snapping with more force now, chasing both your releases together. “Come with me,” he breathes into your mouth, voice trembling. “Please, want to feel you.” You do. The wave crashes over you at the same time it hits him, your walls fluttering and clenching around him, pulling a broken groan from his throat as he buries himself deep and comes hard, pulsing inside you, hips stuttering through the aftershocks. He doesn’t pull out right away.

He stays there, softening slowly, still kissing you, lazy, sweet, exhausted presses of lips while your heartbeats slow together. His hand strokes your hair back from your damp forehead. Another soft kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth again, like he’s addicted to the taste of you. When he finally eases out and rolls to the side, he pulls you with him, tucking you against his chest, legs tangled, arms wrapped tight like he’s never letting go. No words. Just the quiet sound of your breathing, the gentle brush of his lips against your hair every few seconds, and the unspoken truth settling over both of you like a blanket: This isn’t casual anymore. It never really was. And neither of you wants it to be.

He stays buried inside you for a long, quiet moment after you both come down, breathing together, hearts hammering in tandem. Then he eases out slowly, careful, like he’s afraid of breaking the spell. He doesn’t rush to move away, instead he gathers you close, rolling so you’re tucked against his chest, legs tangled, skin still flushed and damp. Jake presses the softest kiss to your forehead. Then another. And another. Slow, lingering ones that feel like promises. His lips trail down to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your eye, everywhere he can reach without letting you go. “You okay, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked in the best way. His hand strokes down your spine, gentle, soothing, then back up again. “Need anything? Water? A blanket? Me to never let you go?”

You smile against his collarbone, too blissed-out to speak right away, and he takes that as answer enough. He shifts just enough to reach the nightstand, grabs a soft towel he must’ve left there earlier, and starts cleaning you up with careful, reverent touches. No hurry. No awkwardness. Just tender swipes, his thumb brushing your inner thigh like he’s memorizing the feel of you. 

When he’s done, he pulls the covers over both of you, cocooning you in warmth. Then his hands find your shoulders, strong fingers kneading slow, deep circles into the muscles there, working out the tension you didn’t even realize you were holding. He moves to your back next, palms gliding down either side of your spine, thumbs pressing into the small of your back in perfect pressure. Every touch is attentive, caring, like he’s trying to pour every ounce of softness he has into you.

You melt under his hands, eyes fluttering closed. He keeps going, massaging your arms, your hands, even threading his fingers through yours to rub gentle circles into your palms. The whole time he’s murmuring little things against your hair—“You’re so beautiful,” “You did so good for me,” “I’ve got you”—quiet, almost to himself, like he can’t help it. After a while, when your breathing has slowed and the room feels impossibly still, he presses one more kiss to your forehead. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, really look, eyes soft, vulnerable, a little scared in the most honest way. He swallows. Takes a breath. “So…” His voice is quiet, almost shy. His thumb traces the curve of your cheek. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

The question hangs there, simple and huge. No games. No pretense. Just Jake, shirtless, hair a mess, heart on full display, asking the thing you’ve both been circling for months. His eyes search yours, hopeful and terrified all at once, like he’s bracing for whatever comes next. But the way he’s still holding you, still touching you like you’re the most precious thing in his world, already tells you the answer he’s hoping for.  And the way your heart is pounding, the way every part of you feels safe and wanted and seen in his arms, tells you the answer you want to give.

“Like that’s a question.” You scoff, pulling Jake in for a kiss. You feel his lips curl up against yours as he slides the blanket over both of you. 

The words hang between you, soft and serious in the quiet glow of his bedside lamp. Jake’s still holding you close, one hand lazily tracing circles on your bare back, the other tucked under your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops touching you. You can’t help the slow, teasing grin that spreads across your face. “So…” you murmur, voice playful, dragging the word out. “Big bad Jake, the guy who used to have girls blowing up his phone every weekend… officially a simp now?” He lets out a low, breathy laugh that rumbles through his chest and into yours. Doesn’t even try to deny it. Just pulls you tighter, nose brushing your temple. “Yeah,” he says simply. “Hundred percent. Full simp status. No take-backs.” You laugh softly, poking his side. “Look at you. Deleting dating apps, carrying me around like a princess, asking me to be your girlfriend with those big puppy eyes. Who even are you?”

He catches your teasing finger, brings it to his lips and kisses the tip. “You ruined me,” he says, voice dropping quieter, more serious now. His eyes find yours in the dim light, steady and unguarded. “And I’m glad.” The teasing dies on your tongue. Something warm and overwhelming blooms in your chest instead. He shifts, rolling you both so you’re lying on top of him, his arms caging you gently against his chest. His thumb brushes your bottom lip. “I was never really a playboy, you know,” he whispers, like it’s a secret he’s been keeping even from himself. “Just… waiting. For someone who made everything else feel like noise. For you.”

You swallow hard, blinking against the sudden sting behind your eyes. Before you can say anything, he reaches over to the nightstand, grabs his phone, and unlocks it one-handed. You watch as he opens the folder of dating apps, ones you know he hasn’t touched in months anyway, and starts deleting them. One by one. No hesitation. No dramatic speech. Just quiet, final taps until the screen is empty. When the last one’s gone, he tosses the phone somewhere across the bed and pulls you down for a slow, deep kiss. “Done,” he murmurs against your mouth. “No more waiting.”

Later, after more lazy kisses, after you’ve both caught your breath again, you slip out of bed on wobbly legs, claiming you need water. Instead you spot his favorite black hoodie slung over the chair, still smelling faintly of his cologne and rain from earlier. You steal it without asking. Pull it over your head, sleeves swallowing your hands, hem hitting mid-thigh. When you turn around, he’s leaning against the headboard watching you, eyes soft and stupidly fond. “Looks better on you,” he says. You crawl back into bed, straddling his lap, hoodie bunching up around your hips. He immediately slides his hands underneath, warm palms settling on your bare skin like they belong there. The next morning, when you finally leave his place, hand in hand, fingers laced tight, you don’t even make it ten steps into the usual coffee shop before chaos erupts.

Your mutual friends are already there, sprawled across the corner booth. The second they spot you walking in together, properly holding hands, the table explodes. “No fucking way—” “Are you serious?!” “FINALLY—” Someone (probably Jay) actually screams into his coffee cup. Another (definitely Heeseung) starts fake-crying dramatically into Sunghoon’s shoulder while Sunghoon just smirks like he knew this was coming since day one.

Jake doesn’t even blush. Just pulls you closer to his side, chin resting on top of your head, and flips them all off with his free hand. “Shut up,” he says, but he’s grinning so wide it’s useless. “She’s mine now. Deal with it.” You bury your face in his chest, laughing, hoodie sleeves flapping as you try to hide. Later, when the teasing dies down and everyone’s distracted arguing over what to order, Jake ducks his head, lips brushing your ear. “Still think I’m a simp?” he whispers. You turn just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” you whisper back. “My simp.” He hums, pleased, and tightens his arm around your waist. “Good,” he says simply. And that’s it. No more rules. No more pretending. Just you and Jake, ruined for anyone else, and perfectly okay with it. It was crazy. Stupid. But it was love. Crazy, Stupid, Love

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[jayflrt]

implausible deniability

❝ don't spin this on me. this is about you getting turned on by your best friend's sister, you freak. ❞

PAIRING ▸ jake sim x fem!reader

GENRES ▸ smut, crack, fluff, college au, brother's best friend au, academic rivals to lovers au

WARNINGS ▸ profanity, alcohol, weed, lots of banter, sexual tension, dry humping, dirty talk, teasing, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (m. receiving), semi public sex, jayhoon bullying jake

SUMMARY ▸ in which jake comes to the horrifying realization that he might have somewhat of a masochistic streak. case in point: he can't stop himself from getting turned on whenever you argue with him.

WORD COUNT ▸ 12,657 words

PLAYLIST ▸ sweet lies by exo • damn right by jennie, childish gambino, kali uchis • red angel by s.e.s. • thirsty by tinashe

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ this was written on a whim because of that weverse live clip of jake nerding out lol hope u like it!!

JAKE SIM WAS CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING A MAJOR PREDICAMENT THAT PROBABLY WOULDN’T SURVIVE MOST FRIENDSHIPS.

To preface, when it came down to it, he respected Lee Heeseung a whole lot (although he would rather die than admit this out loud). There was something special about having a childhood friend—someone who was there for him at the awkward stages of puberty and lowest points of his life—and Jake would’ve been a fool to ever take that for granted. For their tight-knit friendship to carry into university made their bond irreplaceable to Jake. He genuinely trusted that he and Heeseung would be friends even when they were old and cheating at bingo together in a retirement home. 

That being said, the chances of that happening were looking bleak now that you, Heeseung’s younger sister, were constantly occupying a space in Jake’s head that was reserved for something more… impure.

It was strictly lust; however, that somehow made matters much worse because how could he possibly lust after his best friend’s sister? If it was some complicated emotion like love, then at least Jake could tuck his heart away and hide his feelings until the day he died. 

Hiding a boner, though—that was difficult. 

Even more so because you were in the same Engineering & Society seminar as Jake, and since the course was structured for small group debates, the two of you were often at each other’s throats in heated arguments. Of course, Jake tried to approach you as civilly as possible, so their professor believed the intense back-and-forth was simply a healthy dialogue, but neither of you would back down once it started. 

The problem only made itself clear last month, despite how many excuses Jake made for himself to deny your involvement. It took him three more weeks to accept that his hard-ons were your doing and not simply a standing ovation out of respect for the debate (which was one of his worst possible reasons, to be honest). 

And the cherry on top was that they always happened when you two were quarreling.

You two could be insults deep in what was supposed to be a casual discussion about greenwashing in product engineering, and Jake would, without fail, feel all the blood rush to his dick until it was uncomfortably stiff.

Unsexy thoughts, unsexy thoughts, unsexy thoughts, he kept chanting to himself, attempting to force an image in his head of Heeseung kicking his sorry ass. Unfortunately, it did very little to prove effective against the scarily overwhelming libido that tented his pants. 

Jake was ashamed to admit that he was also mildly turned on by the idea of being caught, which made absolutely no sense because that was also his biggest fear.

So, to summarize, Jake now found himself horny in situations where:

he was pissed off

he was in the middle of a heated argument

he was potentially going to get beat up

It wasn’t looking good for him, to say the least.

Now, there was a justifiable reason as to why Jake was under the assumption that Heeseung was going to punch the living daylights out of him. Although you were only a year younger than your brother, he was awfully protective of you because a little sister was all he ever wanted. 

Back when they were middle schoolers, running over to each other’s houses across the street to show each other their new comic books, Heeseung would always bring you around. Jake had nothing going on in his head but Spider-Man and legos back then, so he wasn’t very pleased with you constantly trailing behind them like a lost puppy. Naturally, that led to you and Jake often bickering about your annoying, lingering presence. 

The last time Jake ever complained about you hanging around them was when he blew up on you for following them to the corner store. That place was practically their sanctuary back then. The 99 cent AriZona iced tea was like uncut cocaine to him. The fact that you, a mere fifth grader, encroached on their safe haven was an insult—a disgrace! The reputation of the fine establishment simply didn't allow for puny elementary kids to come and go as they pleased (in Jake’s head, at least). 

“Quit following us, Y/N,” eleven-year-old Jake muttered back then, throwing you a glower over his shoulder. “Don’t you have other friends to bother?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, I can tell, so stop trying to steal mine.” 

Although you were all pigtails and Barbie dolls back then, you were surprisingly sharp-tongued for an elementary schooler. “Sure, Jake. You can have my brother and the rest of your imaginary friends.”

He wasn’t even the type to get angry. In fact, Jake had glowing reviews about his personality; moms loved him, the guys always picked him first for sports teams, and he even caught the attention of some of the girls at school. It wasn’t like him to get so riled up over something so small and petty, but he always happened to blow his top when it came to you.

It was rather unbecoming of him (considering Park Sunghoon later deemed him Mommy’s Little Misogynist for this one), but Jake was boiling with so much anger that he wound up chugging the rest of his iced tea in one go, crumpling up the aluminum into a disc, and throwing the empty can straight at your forehead. The force of his throw, normally reserved for intense sessions of Four Square on the playground, left behind an angry red mark that quickly brought you to tears. 

Before Jake could even stutter out an apology, he was met with a blow to his gut that had him doubling over Heeseung’s fist. It was then that Jake realized that his friend did not take any disrespect toward his sister lightly. 

This carried on into high school, too, where Jake got to witness Heeseung hunt down your first ever boyfriend for cheating on you. It was quite the scene, full of threats and rather creative insults, but Jake realized that he was only let off the hook because of his close friendship with Heeseung. 

Over the years, he learned he could bicker with you all he wanted—Heeseung finally realized that you could stand up for yourself—but to lust after you so shamelessly was a death wish. It was the pinnacle of disrespect toward you. If your brother ever found out, Jake was a dead man. 

That was why he was now fiercely determined to get through the rest of his seminar without having to cross his legs and hide the deplorable tension in his jeans. 

Today, he prepared himself by starting his day off with a bowl of Corn Flakes, intended to curb sexual desires by John Harvey Kellogg himself. Then, he devoured a handful of graham crackers before class, which Jake wasn't quite sure would be useful as an anaphrodisiac, but it was worth a shot. Actually, he wasn't very confident with either of these options, but desperate times called for desperate measures. 

The question they were tackling today was whether engineers were to be held accountable for how their inventions were used, such as facial recognition for surveillance or military drones. Thought-provoking, for sure. Jake made a mental note to discuss it with the professor at office hours—anything he could do to suck up to the guy to compensate for his crass behavior during discussions. 

“You can’t just start something potentially dangerous and walk away from the consequences,” you claimed, that challenging look in your eyes daring anyone to speak against you. 

Usually, no one other than Jake dared to oppose you, so the silence that followed after was thick with anticipation, stuck in their throats like honey. Your gaze met Jake’s for a split second, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. He would usually be standing up by now, but he didn’t feel the need to. To be quite honest, Jake agreed with your point this time, so there was no reason for him to come up with some half-baked counterargument for the sake of participating. Plus, it was far too risky to argue with you; he was already determinedly set on making it through this class without his blood rushing to rather inappropriate regions.

Still, the way you were looking at him, waiting for him to argue back with those sickeningly adorable eyes, had him rising to his feet, anyway. What a weak-willed man he was. Sunghoon would laugh right in his face.

“But if someone misuses the technology, that’s on them, not the people who created it,” he countered, surprisingly convincing for someone who didn’t believe a word he was saying. “The engineers can’t control how their technology is used once it’s sold to whoever.”

“But don’t you see how technology’s being used? You really think mass surveillance keeps improving because engineers are just super passionate about innovation? It’s all about the money, isn’t it?” He could hear the emotion rising in your voice; you were just an overly-passionate person when it came to these things, but you sucked in a breath to collect yourself. “If they know the harm their inventions cause and keep going, they should be held accountable for what they make!”

This was honestly ridiculous. Jake fully agreed with you, yet here he was, scrambling to think of a rebuttal so that he could watch the irritation grow on your face. 

“Then what about the ones built with good intentions? Should they be held responsible because their honest work was manipulated?”

“Impact over intent,” you replied with a firmness intended to shut him up. “Honest work only goes so far. Would you be okay with the vision for your product getting warped into something else entirely?”

“So, you think if someone designed tracking features on a health app or some shit, they should be held responsible if that data gets sold or used by the government?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I think.”

Well, yeah, that checked out. 

Jake raised a brow. “How are they supposed to know? Most engineers are working on small parts of these big projects.”

“Seriously? Look at Boeing! All these sloppy engineering decisions resulted in those plane crashes.” There was a hint of venom in your tone and your eyes were sharp. Jake could tell you were getting to that level of frustration that he couldn’t help but get excited over. “Over three hundred people died because of plain negligence. Who’s to blame, then?”

“I just wanna ask where you think the line should be drawn,” he said. “If we hold every single engineer accountable for how their work gets used, then no one’s gonna build anything. You just end up driving them all into a corner.”

“Are you trying to be an engineer for the money, or are you in it for meaningful work?”

“Uh… yeah, the meaningful work, of course.” And the six-figure starting salary. That was beside the point, though. 

“Then shouldn’t you be approaching what you create with some more tact? You can’t just mindlessly build whatever without thinking beyond your creation.”

“Are we still talking about engineers here, or are you just coming for me now?”

“Well, if the shoe fits.”

“The most I’ve done is code a calculator. I don’t think the government’s interested.”

“I’m clearly not talking about that. I’m talking about—”

“This is a seminar, Y/N. We’re supposed to be talking about society here.”

“Are you not part of society anymore, Jake? I sincerely apologize for assuming.” There was nothing sincere about your tone, though. “What? You’ve got nothing else to say?”

And, like clockwork, there was that telltale strain once again as Jake felt his chest grow hot. He reached behind him to grab the head of his chair and sit back down, slowly crossing one leg over the other. You frowned as you watched him concede, and Jake felt rather pathetic that everyone was under the impression that he surrendered. There was a chill in the room—whether it was from a draft or the tension from the conversation, he couldn’t tell. 

“I think I’m done, but I agree with you, by the way,” he said, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Just wanted to participate.”

A few snickers rose from some of their classmates. You scoffed, partly out of amusement and partly out of exasperation, and slumped back in your seat with your arms crossed. The seething look on your face wasn’t doing him any favors, nor did the Corn Flakes and graham crackers, apparently.

“Okay, good stuff, good stuff,” said Jay Park, Jake’s longtime friend and current TA for the semester. “Anyone who isn’t Y/N or Jake wanna give it a go? Hopefully without making the rest of us painfully uncomfortable.”

He unfortunately had to bear witness to every single one of the showdowns between you and Jake, but he always kept his mouth shut in front of Heeseung because, as Jay put it, the feud between the two was “too messy to escalate.” Jake was just glad he didn’t have to resort to blackmail to shut Jay up. 

It turned out that people were, in fact, willing to participate as long as you and Jake weren’t involved. Jake got to sit back for the rest of class and grit his teeth, willing his hard-on to go away before they were all dismissed. What made that quite the feat was the fact that you kept watching him for the rest of class with calculating eyes, as if you were peering into his very soul.

By the time class ended, Jake felt relief flood his chest. He needed to get a mile away from you before your eye contact made his situation a whole lot worse. As he was zipping his backpack back up, Jake saw your perfectly manicured fingernail dragging across the grain of his desk through the corner of his eye. 

You were standing right in front of him. 

He looked up, alarmed. From behind you, Jay, who was about to approach him, was backing up slowly, shooting his friend a grimace and opting to duck out the door instead. As the last few people in the classroom were filing out, Jake realized he was now left alone with you. 

Fuck.

Jake cleared his throat. “Can I help you?”

“You can start by explaining why you keep going out of your way to get on my bad side,” you said. “If you agreed with me that entire time, why were you purposely trying to piss me off?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it going out of my way,” he retorted. “Class participation is a requirement. All I did was stand up.”

“And refute every single point you believed in?”

He clicked his tongue. “What can I say? I do it for the love of the game.”

“Uh-huh.” Completely unconvinced, you looked him up and down. Your demand was simple, yet downright mortifying: “Uncross your legs.”

Jake froze. 

“Odd request, don’t you think?” 

Your gaze dropped for a split second—not long enough for it to be obvious, but Jake caught it in time. “I don’t think so. We’ve known each other since, like, forever. I think we’re at the point where I can make odd requests.”

He felt his mouth going dry. What were you even on about? Sure, Jake was probably close to you in a forced proximity sort of way, but that didn’t mean you two were suddenly buddy-buddy. You two were close in the sense that Jake went to your high school graduation (as per Heeseung’s invite, of course) and drove you to your tennis practices whenever your brother was busy—not whatever this was. 

But who was he kidding? Nothing about this conversation screamed buddy-buddy. You were clearly onto him, and all Jake could do was think of every sad movie he’d ever watched to get rid of the growing erection in his pants. 

Jake swallowed thickly. “You want me to uncross my legs,” he stated matter-of-factly, and you snorted. 

“What, didn’t hear it the first time?”

“Can’t do that,” was all could say in response—strained, like something was lodged in his throat.

“You can’t… move your leg?”

“Nope—arthritis.”

“Arthritis,” you repeated blankly.

“Yeah. Runs in my family.”

You shook your head, seeing right through his attempt to steer the conversation back into calmer waters. “You’re a terrible liar, Jake.”

“Really? I thought I was doing a pretty good job earlier.”

“Mmhm. A real Oscar-winning performance for someone arguing against his own opinion—truly,” you said. “Also, you’re stalling.”

“Here,” he bit out, and slowly—deliberately—Jake uncrossed his legs for you to see. The bulge in his pants had effectively gone down with much mental gymnastics, and you simply stared down at his groin with a frown settling on your lips. “Happy now, you pervert?”

All you did was look at him with a beady gaze, raising a perfectly arched brow before pulling your phone out of your bag. Jake could only return a look of absolute bewilderment as you flipped your hair over your shoulder and tapped away furiously, the glow from the screen illuminating your features just enough for you to look even more radiant.

“I see. So, uh… Heeseung’s gonna be out of town for his hockey tournament and I need a ride to Kazuha’s place tonight. She’s throwing this huge party, and I was planning on pregaming before I head over, but I’m not about to drunk drive, for obvious reasons.” You wouldn’t even look up as you spoke, keeping your eyes trained on the text messages that seemed to be delivering in a flurry. Notification after notification—Jesus, would it kill you to turn your ringer off? “Pick me up at eight?”

Jake blinked slowly—a few more times, for good measure. He couldn’t believe his ears. You just grilled him to a crisp, and now you were acting as if nothing happened? He was fighting his own blood from pumping to his dick, and you were just casually changing the topic?

But—whatever. As long as the attention wasn’t on his crotch anymore, he could roll with this. 

He scowled. “Kazuha’s? Hey, I’m not your chauffeur.”

But you were already walking out the door. “Yeah, yeah. So, eight?”

A retired sigh fell from his lips. “Sure—fine, whatever. I’ll be there.”

In a happy world, Jake’s schedule was packed with classes all day so that he wouldn’t have to run into Heeseung right after that not-so-fun encounter with you.

In the real world, however, Jake’s schedule was specifically structured so that he and Heeseung had the same breaks between classes. They planned this out well in advance so that they could meet up once they were done with class. Of course, this didn't always work out because of overlapping course times, but the two of them happened to luck out this semester (although it wasn't exactly working in Jake’s favor right now). Just as he walked out of his classroom, his friend was making his way down the hallway to get to him.

“Yo,” Heeseung greeted. He had his hockey stick slung over his shoulder; for weekend tournaments like these, Heeseung would usually leave campus early so that he could commute before nightfall. “I thought you’d be at our table already. Jay isn’t with you?”

“I was hanging back for, uh… homework help,” he lied, hoping it came out smooth enough to convince his friend.

“Couldn’t you just ask Jay?”

Well, he had a point there. Jake settled for saying, “Nah. Fuck that guy.”

To his relief, Heeseung just laughed. “Yeah, true. That fucker goes on for hours if you get him to start explaining something. I asked him one question about my calc homework the other night, and I swear the sun was coming up by the time he was done.”

“That’s why you come to me first.”

“I tried. Your ass was knocked out, so all I had was Jay.” Then, Heeseung added, “By the way, since I’m gonna be out this weekend, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Yeah?”

“Y/N said she needed a ride to this… I don’t know—I guess Danielle’s sorority’s hosting something? A charity event or some shit like that. Anyway, I won’t be here, but she needs a ride. Are you free? It’s Saturday evening.”

“I’m already—” Jake stopped himself. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to disclose the minor detail that he was also going to be driving you to Kazuha’s party tonight. As hard as he racked his brain for an excuse, he couldn’t think of anything productive he’d be doing the next day. “Yeah, it’s no problem.”

“Appreciate it, man,” Heeseung said, thumping Jake’s chest with the back of his hand. 

Their chatter continued out of the science building, pushing open the doors to be hit with a gust of cold wind. Heeseung then stopped dead in his tracks, looking down at his phone before throwing his head back in exasperation.

“Coach wants us to meet in the gym before we leave,” he told Jake with a resigned shrug. “I’ll see you on Monday, okay? Tell Sunghoon and Jay I said bye.”

The one thing Jake despised in the world was saying goodbye to people. He got far too emotional over a gesture that really wasn’t that dramatic, and he hated how seriously he took them. Still, acting as if he was a normal person who knew how to act normally about such matters, he clapped his friend on the back and wished him good luck before watching him walk off. 

Seriously, he felt like a military wife sending off his husband.

When Jake found the table that Sunghoon and Jay were sitting at, scarfing down their sandwiches at record speed. Jake dropped his bag on the ground and collapsed into the seat next to Sunghoon. He reached over to grab one of Jay’s curly fries, twirling it around in his finger before he nibbled on it. 

“Heeseung’s gone,” he told them.

“Oh. His tournament?” Jay took an obnoxiously loud sip from his drink. “You phrased that like he died.”

“He said bye.”

Sunghoon nodded wistfully. “He will be missed—mostly ‘cause he always does the dishes. Now we’re responsible. Ugh.”

With his elbow on the table and chin sunk into his palm, Jake nodded along to Sunghoon’s words, still stuck in some strange sort of daze.

Sunghoon shot him a questioning look before turning to Jay. “Okay, I'll bite: What’s up with Sadness?”

“Dunno.” Jay covered his mouth to finish chewing the rest of his bite. “He and Y/N were getting into it during class today.” He looked up from his food to turn back to Jake. “What happened after she cornered you after class?”

“Cornered?” Sunghoon asked with sudden intrigue. 

To state his concerns as vaguely as possible, Jake groaned feebly into his hands and said, “I’m in deep shit, you guys.”

The two men were dumbfounded to hear Jake Sim, who had a shiny record of being a perfect son and perfect student all his life, make such a claim. (Well, perfect enough to make his parents proud; there were surely several imperfections that wouldn’t earn Jake his Perfect Son badge if they were ever to find out. Exhibit A: whatever was happening to him because of you.) Not once had he gotten a detention or even a warning. Jake was a poster child all his life, which was why he felt especially embarrassed that he was acting so shamefully when it came to you.

“You didn’t make her cry, right?” Jay asked.

“No!” he exclaimed. In fact, you almost made him cry. “I just…” He sighed and straightened up, his voice taking on an edge of seriousness. “You can’t tell Heeseung.”

Jay raised a brow. “What’d you do, throw a book at her?”

Sunghoon let out a low whistle. “Mommy’s Little Misogynist strikes again.”

“I got a boner, okay?” Jake blurted out, sick of their mindless assumptions, even though his confession was probably a one-way ticket to the deepest circle of Hell. 

At first, there was silence. Then, a scream—an obnoxious, garbled sort of scream that Jake almost thought was a squawk. Sunghoon and Jay doubled over in laughter, dropping their sandwiches to swat at each other as they were unable to contain themselves. Jake sat there for a good two minutes, a deadpan expression on his face while he waited for them to calm down. 

“A boner?” Sunghoon clarified, a Cheshire-like grin plastered across his face. “A stiffy? A hard-on? An erec—?”

“Okay, Merriam-Webster, I don’t need every single synonym,” Jake snapped. “But, yes, I’ve been getting hard during class because of her, it’s—”

Jay spluttered out, “Been—!” And then they exploded into a fit of laughter again, collapsing into each other and wheezing from the absolute joy of their friend’s humiliation. With tears now spilling from his waterline, Jay rose up and pointed a finger at Sunghoon in utter glee. “Multiple times!”

“Multiple times!” Sunghoon cried back, pounding his fist on the table.

Jake was not amused in the slightest. “Okay, I feel like you guys are just overreacting now.”

It took Sunghoon and Jay quite a few minutes to pull themselves together after laughing hysterically for what felt like forever, so Jake took it upon himself to steal a couple more of Jay’s fries as revenge. 

“It’s fine, dude, seriously,” Sunghoon placated, as if he hadn’t been losing it moments earlier. He sucked in a deep breath to collect himself while Jay’s shoulders were still shaking.

“You guys were just making fun of me!”

“Did we laugh? Yes. Do we think you’re kind of a freak? Also yes.” Sunghoon shrugged. “But do we have your back? No.”

At that, Jay straightened up. “I think you messed that up.”

“I think so, too.”

“I’d assume we do have his back.”

“Should I change it to—”

“Okay! I get what you’re saying—very heartwarming, I think,” Jake interjected. “But am I seriously in the wrong here? No matter how much Y/N pisses me off sometimes, I’d never want to disrespect her. It feels weird, you know… getting hard over her, of all people. I mean, she’s Heeseung’s sister!”

“So you popped a boner over her—who cares?” Sunghoon placated. Jake fought back the urge to roll his eyes; they clearly cared when they were cackling like hyenas. “I’ve gotten hard in situations I probably shouldn’t get hard in. It happens to the best of us. It’s fine.”

“What kind of situations?” Jake questioned.

“Don’t spin this on me. This is about you get turned on by your best friend’s sister, you freak.”

“But you said it was fine!”

“That was before you pissed me off. Now I’ve changed my mind: Heeseung’s gonna kick your nasty ass straight to Hell.”

Frustrated, Jake tugged a hand through his dark hair. “Jay, do you have anything to contribute? Preferably anything that shuts Sunghoon up.”

“I knew this day would come.” Jay wiped the stray tears from under his eyes with his thumb. “See, Jake, when a man and a woman, or a man and a man, or a woman and a woman, or a person and a per—”

“Yes, I’m aware of all the possibilities on the spectrum,” Jake interjected. “Continue.”

“When a man and a woman love each other very much, they—”

“Oh my God,” Jake cut in once again, digging the heels of his palms into the hollows of his eyes. “I’m a grown man. I don’t need the sex talk—and I’m not gonna have sex with her, either!”

“You’re not?”

“No!”

“You don’t think she’s hot?”

“Well—I… I mean—that’s no reason—”

“You’re not getting a boner over someone you’re not physically attracted to, that’s for sure,” Jay said, clearly tired of his friend by now.

“I’m calling for plausible deniability,” Jake announced.

“Implausible. Vetoed.”

“Wait,” Sunghoon chimed in before looking at Jay, “how did you not notice?”

“Notice what?”

“His boner, dude.”

“Are you crazy? I have better things to do than stare at Jake’s dick all class,” Jay answered. Recollection seemed to hit him like a slap, his hand raising halfway to his mouth. “Actually… now that I think about it, I did think it was weird that you sat back down before you finished your debate… and your legs were crossed for the rest of class!”

(“So you did stare at Jake’s dick all class,” Sunghoon said.)

Jake threw him a withering look. “Yeah, I know. That’s probably why she caught me.”

Sunghoon’s jaw froze mid-bite, and without any respect to the onions that were falling off his bread, he dropped his sandwich and exclaimed, “She caught you?” Jay, who was equally as shocked, seemed to also be struggling to hide how gleeful he was about the drama. 

“Well, almost,” he corrected. “It was more of a suspicion, but I didn’t give in—and I called her a pervert! It feels good to win.”

“Cool! What’d you win?” The unexpected voice nearly made Jake jump; thanks to years of working on a collected composure, though, chills ran up his spine instead. Sunghoon and Jay were both caught off guard, too, judging by their nearly imperceptible jolts that had them pulling their shoulders back. 

He turned to see you with a hand on your hip, a curious smile on your lips. If his expression didn’t give it away, surely knocking over Jay’s curly fries was a sure sign of Jake’s nervousness. 

“Uh… League? League match—nothing important—yeah, um… so—what’re you—what’re you doing here?”

Real smooth, Jake.

Jay, who looked as if the scene before him was physically painful to witness, valiantly chimed in to save Jake’s skin, “Are you looking for Heeseung? He already left for his tournament.”

“Nope,” you said, walking over to stand behind Jake so you could card your fingers through his hair. He remained frightfully still and tried not to think about your fingernails against his skin. Your sharp, manicured fingernails… dragging across his—okay, his mind really needed to stop wandering. “I have a quiz next class, so I came here to ask for a calculator. I'll return it ASAP—promise.”

Jake’s TI-83 was most definitely tucked away in his backpack, but he was reluctant to move with the way you were running your fingers through his hair. Albeit how he had to fight to keep his mind out of the gutter, Jake could also admit that this was rather… soothing. He could stay like this all afternoon and he wouldn’t mind at all.

Sunghoon started, “Oh, I’ve got—”

“I got it,” Jake, with a deep edge of unease, spoke over his friend. Sunghoon didn’t seem to look upset about being cut off, though; in fact, the senior was trying to hide a growing smirk that he had to cover with his hand. Jake dug into his backpack, sifting through each of the pockets haphazardly, before pulling out his graphing calculator and handing it to you. “You can just give it back to me later.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll find an opportunity,” you replied before turning on your heel. “See you guys later!”

After their goodbyes, the three boys lapsed into silence. Jake wondered if they were all thinking about that interaction with you and how strange it was. The three of them took high school graduation pictures with you, went over for Thanksgiving dinner at your house, and even awkwardly lingered about in Victoria’s Secret while you were trying on bras—but this? This change in behavior was something none of them would’ve ever expected from you.

Sunghoon was the first to break the silence, saying, “That was weird.”

“Indeed,” Jay agreed, perplexed. 

“She was all over you,” Sunghoon observed. “Like, I’m almost convinced that Y/N was replaced with a horny clone last night.”

“Jake, at this rate, you might—”

“Don’t say it,” Jake pleaded. “Don’t say anything about me and her. I swear, I just need to get back on Tinder or something, and I’ll forget all about Y/N—probably.”

Jay gave his shoulder a weak punch. “Yeah, I believe you, man.” 

He did not, however, sound like he believed in his friend at all. 

Jake didn’t quite fit the partying archetype.

Heeseung was a social butterfly, Jay and Sunghoon could get by as long as they could slip away to recharge from time to time, but Jake always looked for a way to get out of such events. Whether it was a project or a supposed family emergency, he played any card he could—although it was usually a fruitless attempt. Plus, Jake was strictly herbal; he wasn’t a big drinker like his friends were, especially when it came to his mortal enemy (Everclear). 

So, now, while he was watching you stumble down your driveway to get into the passenger seat of his car, Jake was already trying to do the math in his head to calculate when he’d be back in the comfort of his room. 

Tonight, you were dressed up a little more than usual. Your strappy black stilettos were dangerously high, and paired with the little black skirt that stopped halfway down your thighs, Jake found it difficult to pull his gaze away from you. 

“How’re you getting back home?” he asked as he pulled out of your driveway. Jake recalled several occasions where Heeseung had to do a U-turn to pick you up from Kazuha’s, so he was quite familiar with the route. “Uber?”

“—and he was trying to get with me, even though I know he has a girlfriend! Isn’t that crazy? I literally have the same lab section as her, like, I could walk up to her and tell her everything. Are men just stupid? Like, I can literally ruin his relationship—I mean, he pretty much did that on his own—but I could just expedite the process, you know? Ugh, and he wasn't even cute—so mid, like, not my type at all,” the lilting voice through your phone kept rattling on.

You shot Jake an apologetic look before you kept trying to calm down Hanni Pham, who he often saw you with. Well, he supposed small talk was out of the question now, which Jake didn’t mind one bit. Still, lowering the volume of Kendrick Lamar’s new album just to listen to Hanni’s incessant ranting for the rest of the ride was starting to drive Jake insane. 

Finally, you made a quick excuse to Hanni before ending the call, and Jake waited a few more moments before he raised the volume again. He kept his eyes trained on the road, for if they wandered in your direction, Jake was sure he wouldn’t get away with crossing his legs in this situation.

“You didn’t have to hang up,” he said.

“I didn’t?” You gave him a knowing look. “You kept looking over at me like you were in agony, so I thought I’d put you out of your misery.”

A sheepish grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “Thanks for that. Who’s the guy she was talking about, anyway?”

“Wow, so now you wanna hear more?”

He shrugged. “You could at least repay me for the ride by entertaining me.”

“Entertaining you?” This time, you were grinning. Jake felt a bit nervous as you leaned over the center console. “If you want entertainment, then come to Kazuha’s with me.”

“Really?” Jake kept his tone light as he looked for street parking, and then he pulled over to the sidewalk to let you out. You had the door half-open, looking at him expectantly. “I’ll pass, then. Have fun.”

You leveled him with a glower. “You’re seriously not coming?”

“I’ve got, uh, homework.”

“Homework? It’s a Friday night, Jake. Just do it over the weekend.”

“Just get inside already, Y/N. It’s cold.”

“Fine,” you said, curt. There was little gratitude in your tone when you added, “Thanks for the ride,” and flung the door shut, too.

Jake sat back with a sigh, hoping that the solitude would aid in unclouding his judgement. He couldn’t just go to that party with you; things were weird between you two, and that was only putting it as simply as he could. But, on the other hand, maybe he should’ve just gone. There was no harm in showing face for a while, and it wasn't like Kazuha was a complete stranger, either. 

He let one opportunity fall right through his fingers; another presented itself right in front of Jake.

Your phone.

You left it on the seat before you left, whether it was intentional or not. The polaroid of you, Hanni, and Danielle showed through the back of its clear case, and Jake stared at your (admittedly charming) smile before he unbuckled his seatbelt in defeat.

One hour. That was all he’d give himself in there. 

He was sure the duration of his decision-making process wouldn’t keep him from catching up to you in time, but that wasn’t the case at all. Jake couldn’t spot you at all, not even after he did a lap around the first floor. You must’ve noticed your phone was missing by now, so where were you? 

Cramped, narrow hallways. Blaring music. Flashing lights. Sweaty people packed together. The lingering stench of booze.

It was dreadful.

Jake had to take a break in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop where someone’s bluetooth speaker was blowing out his eardrums. To his knowledge, Kazuha was renting next to an elderly couple with low tolerance for noise. How she could get away with throwing parties like these was beyond Jake. 

“Oh, shit,” a familiar voice called out. “You’re here, too? Thank fuck.”

Jake turned to see Choi Beomgyu walking over to him, cradling a red solo cup. Perfect. Jake was dreading the very idea of being sober right now, and he knew Beomgyu would have the fix he needed. Last time he saw Beomgyu, the guy was canisters deep in whippets; it would’ve been impossible to tell he was conscious if his hand didn’t keep inching inside of Jake’s bag of chips.

“I was supposed to sell Yeonjun some weed, but where the fuck is he?” Beomgyu went on to complain, setting his empty cup down and flicking it across the counter with little care. “When’d you get here? Just now?”

“Yeah, have you seen Y/N?” Jake shouted over the music. Beomgyu gave him a little shake of the head, and a weary breath escaped Jake’s lips. His eyebrows lifted as he then suggested, “Smoke break?”

“Hell yeah.”

It just so happened that Jake was already breaking his one hour rule. At one minute past his self-mandated curfew, he was not in a state to be driving at all. 

All thanks to Beomgyu, he was blazed out of his mind now, moving through the house with an air of indifference this time. Normally, Jake felt like his brain was buzzing constantly, like a hurricane that never stopped raging. But when that sweet Mary Jane filled his lungs, he felt more in control of himself. It felt almost as if he was underwater, weightless and drifting along with the current. For someone who swam desperately his whole life, he liked that he could just float. 

And, because the universe apparently decided that weed was the answer to all of Jake’s problems, he eventually wandered back into the kitchen and found you.

Minor problem: There was a man right next to you.

But Jake, floating about in a blissful daze, strolled right up to you without a second thought about interrupting your conversation. 

“... fucked up how she curves, it’s usually—oh, what the hell?” You did a double-take when you saw Jake walk up beside you, noticing his red and glassy eyes almost instantly. Your attention was immediately pulled from the unmemorable man beside you, which was not good because this was a horrible time to stroke Jake’s ego, and you grabbed onto the sleeve of his leather jacket. He took a step back to avoid your drink sloshing onto his clothes. “I thought you went home!”

Another minor (or maybe major) problem that Jake forgot about prior to his smoke break: Weed only made it easier for him to get turned on.

That—coupled with standing so close to you—was sure to be disastrous.

“Had to return this,” he answered, holding up your phone, which you snatched at record speed. You were going on about how forgetful you were before Jake asked, “Were you two busy? I can leave.”

“Oh, uh, we were just talking,” you said, looking between Jake and the other dude (whose name still remained a mystery) a couple of times before clearing your throat. The guy, who earlier had a hopeful glint in his eyes, seemed to wilt a bit. In a more cheerful tone, you added, “He’s an old classmate. We both had Robbins for O-chem.”

Robbins for O-chem. Sounded like a cheap excuse to talk you up, was what Jake thought. Last year he had physics with Kim Minji, but he wasn’t cornering her in the living room to talk about the good old days of wave mechanics.

Jake gave you a smug look. “Robbins? What was that about the curve, then?”

“Someone scored a hundred and screwed the rest of us up.” You scoffed. “Always that one kid.”

“Ah. That was me.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, that’s why I didn’t show anyone my score—except Jay, but he said he felt sick looking at it.”

“I feel sick hearing about it. You should’ve just kept that to yourself forever.”

That was the plan, actually, but Jake strangely felt the need to impress you in comparison to Background Character #1 and his unremarkable presence. Well, considering all he achieved was pissing you off, he supposed it wasn’t going too well.

“That was the plan.” Slightly miffed, he leaned back against the counter with his arms folded over his chest. “But I earned that hundred. I didn’t sleep for three whole days to study for that final.”

“Oh, boo-hoo. I stayed up, too—and got a sixty.” 

Jake simply shrugged. “You passed the class, didn’t you? That’s all that matters.”

“Easy for you to say! You got a perfect score!”

“I don’t think that—”

But you weren’t backing down, cutting Jake off to ask, “What’d you put for the cyclobutene question?”

Jake scowled at you. He thought one or two drinks in your system would calm you down, the same way weed did for him, but you were pushier than ever. 

By now, he also realized that Guy-whose-face-he-now-forgot was long gone. He probably realized that there was no hope in trying to hit on you after seeing how your full attention was captivated by Jake. He wasn’t trying to boast—he was just calling it like he saw it. 

“Seriously? That was a whole year ago, Y/N.” 

He felt the weight of your incredulous stare. “But you remember your answer, don’t you?”

To be honest, he did. 

“Conrotatory ring opening under thermal conditions,” he answered after a minute of spacing off to remember what he put down (and ignore your blatant staring). “Four pi electrons.”

“Wait, no, then it wouldn’t follow the Woodward-Hoffman rules. 4n would be antiaromatic in the transition state, so it would be forced to be a disrotatory mo—”

“Nope, the 4n system makes it conrotatory. Disrotatory would misalign the orbitals. Dude, I’m telling you, I remember it perfectly. I drew it out and everything.”

You opened and closed your mouth a few times, and Jake found great pleasure in watching you flounder for a response. Moreover, he was starting to imagine very dangerous things that involved his body pressed up against yours—preferably somewhere private, but he was almost tempted to pull you closer right now.

“But… but then the cis product—”

“Stays as is,” Jake finished for you. “I can even draw the diagram for you. I’m sure there’s a paper and pen somewhere.”

“Ugh, don’t bother. I’m pissed off.” You shook your head, frustrated, and a lazy smile stretched across Jake’s face. “Why are you so smart when…” 

It took him a moment to even notice that you stopped in the middle of your sentence, dragging the syllabus an octave deeper than usual. Jake thought that he finally pushed you to your limit, that you were going to stop talking to him altogether, but the reality was much, much worse.

You jabbed your elbow sharply into his side, hard enough to make him wince in pain. 

“Okay, ow. What’s—?” Then he looked down.

Oh.

Jake’s lips parted, framing an apology that he couldn’t bring himself to utter. He was caught somewhere between alarm and shame, hardly able to move as the cold reality sank in that you just saw his growing bulge. 

It was dark enough so that only you were aware of it, but fuck, Jake couldn’t even get himself out of this one.

He looked down at you to say something—anything that would save him from this horrible situation, really—but there were no words to explain himself. Jake looked helplessly to the side for some escape route out of this situation, or perhaps even his Deus ex Machina: Beomgyu. Before he could open his mouth, you smoothly stepped in front of Jake, effectively cornering him in the kitchen and shielding him from onlookers.

Heroic, truly—except your thigh was now pressing firmly against the tent in his pants.

His blood ran cold when he saw the twinkle in your eyes, as if you were getting a kick out of this. Meanwhile, Jake made a mental apology to Jay and Sunghoon, who were going to be very disappointed that Jake didn’t take any steps toward forgetting all about you. It proved rather difficult when you were as intoxicating as the drugs in his system. 

“I fucking knew it,” you whispered, triumph tugging your lips into a smirk. “You were hard during class today, too, weren’t you?”

This time, Jake was the one at a loss for words, flailing for any excuse that would defuse the tension, but he was already a lost cause. In less than twenty-four hours, Jake managed to expose his deepest, darkest secret to the one person who was never supposed to find out. All he could do now was accept slow, torturous suffering as the jaws of social suicide ripped into him. 

“Y/N, p-please, I can—”

You threw your head back to laugh, delighted. “What? Are you trying to apologize for a boner?”

He stammered, “No—I mean, yes—but… I…” One more brush of your leg against his clothed cock had Jake holding onto your shoulders, trying to keep his lust at bay. “Y/N, stop. You’re Heeseung’s sister.”

“Excellent observation. Wouldn’t have figured that one out.”

“I mean, this”—he gestured between him and you—“isn’t gonna work out.”

You blinked. “Why not?”

“W-what do you mean, why not? Heeseung and I have been friends for years. I can’t just… I can’t do that to—”

“Oh, give it a rest. Why are you even bringing him up right now?” you asked in a snippy voice, waving his qualms off. 

“Because—”

“Anyway, I’ve put together a little theory, and I think I’m right.”

Jake raised his brows at that, slightly intrigued to what you could’ve possibly pieced together in the past twelve hours. If it had anything to do with why he was getting turned on, he was certain that you would be completely off the mark.

“You get horny when we argue, don’t you?” you asked.

Oh, so you were spot on. Fantastic.

He let out a desperate, wanting breath, trying to cover it up as a sound of misery. The kitchen was mostly cleared out since everyone gathered in the living room to play beer pong, but Jake lowered his voice to speak, anyway. 

“Pretty much. Nothing sexual—just attracted to the mind, is all. Debates can be stimulating, you know?”

“Nothing sexual about your dick getting hard?”

In a rather strangled voice, he answered, “Normal physiological reaction, really.”

He felt your hand smooth over his chest, your fingers splaying out before you dragged your hand lower and lower. He shivered as he felt your fingertips run across his abs, tracing each groove of muscle before your hand dipped to the front of his pants. Jake screwed his eyes shut when your palm pressed against his stiff, aching cock.

You simpered. “Really? So you don’t need my help getting you off?”

He suppressed a growl at the back of his throat, opting to loop his fingers in your belt loops and pull you closer instead. “Don’t.”

“Hm?”

“Not here. We’re in public.”

But your other hand was snaking around his neck, playing with the ends of his dark hair that fell to his nape. Jake could feel his body trembling as he restrained himself from holding you close and kissing you like his life depended on it.

I shouldn’t, he told himself, forcing the words to burn into his skull (and still, they would not stick). I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t—

But, fuck, the way you were looking at him. It was enough to drive a sane man to the brink of madness.

Well, Jake presumed he had always been a bit out of his mind when it came to you.

After an unsteady breath, Jake slid one hand up your waist, up your arm, and then across your shoulder to hold your neck. Your chest swelled before you leaned into his touch. Jake found his thumb straying from where his hand cradled your jaw. He traced the outline of your lips with careful precision, charting each curve and line in his course.

He kissed you once, light and fleeting—just enough to taste you. 

The sweet second of contact lost its grace soon after. He wet his lips, chasing what was left of your lipstick. With one more look into your eyes, all the nerves that gripped him seemed to melt away in a breath. Jake held your gaze before reaching up to hold the sides of your face and pulling you in for a searing kiss. It had been merely one taste—one press of his lips against yours—and jagged splinters of desperation tore into him, burying deep in his flesh.

Jake, with a heavy heart, wished he could formally apologize to everyone who was bearing witness to their sloppy makeout session. He simply couldn’t help that you were both intoxicated, turned on, and extremely riled up from bickering. He shoved his tongue past your lips, messy and eager, sating a hunger that had him starved for longer than he thought.

It soon slipped Jake’s mind entirely that he was making out with you in the kitchen. His cock throbbed in his jeans, pulsating each time your hips made contact with his. You were slowly rolling your hips over his—subtle enough to go undetected, but it was driving him wild. Honestly, though, if Jake truly wanted to stop you from moving against him that way, he would’ve let go of your hip by now. 

You were an insanely good kisser. Jake felt a small pang of jealousy upon recollecting all the times he witnessed you kissing someone before him—your first boyfriend, your senior prom date, your college situationships. He never thought too deeply about how he felt in the moment, but it was like he had locked up all those messy feelings bordering on jealousy. They were all spilling out now, like a crack in the dam, threatening to make Jake feel something for you that he hadn't felt before. 

He broke from the kiss to leave gentle pecks along your jawline and down your neck, each one leaving you sighing happily. “Let’s go upstairs, yeah?” he whispered against the shell of your ear, leaving a featherlight kiss in its wake. His drawl was stronger when he lowered his voice to a murmur, “Don’t go shy on me now, sweetheart.”

“Shy? I’m not shy.”

“Oh, yeah? Look me in the eyes, then.”

“Shut… shut up—and follow behind me, unless you want everyone here seeing your di—”

“Okay, that’s enough.”

You, being his knight in shining armor now, led the way upstairs, allowing for Jake to stand directly behind you and hide his boner. He kept his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, trying to focus on anything but the nape of your neck. Having his bulge pressed up against your body was making his senses go haywire.

(Also—and he wasn’t quite brave enough to admit this to himself just yet—he kind of wanted to lace his fingers with yours.)

Jake hastily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was sure he must’ve looked like an absolute douchebag walking around like that, considering the amount of lipstick he had just rubbed off. 

The first empty room was theirs for the taking. Jake sported a wolfish grin as he closed the door to whoever’s bedroom they locked themselves in. You, however, looked uncertain.

“I’d feel bad doing it on their bed,” you confessed.

Jake, who didn’t realize he was going to encounter a moral dilemma amidst getting his dick wet, blinked slowly.

“That’s true,” he agreed. Sure, yeah, he would probably kill his friends if any of them hooked up with someone in his bed. Jake made his way to you slowly; at first, you didn’t budge, but then you let him walk you backward once he grabbed your hips. “I wouldn’t feel as bad doing it against their wall, though.”

Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, as if you were about to peel it right off him. “Then how about I suck you off first? Make up for all those debates?”

“Really?” he spluttered out, gawking at you as you turned him around so that his back was against the wall.

You hastily undid the buttons on his jeans, all the while maintaining eye contact with him. “You’re too cute. Don’t tell me you weren’t waiting for this.”

His gaze darkened slightly.

He joined you immediately in getting rid of his pants. Jake couldn’t help but let out a blissful sigh as he pulled his boxers down and his cock sprang up. Seeing you slide down to your knees to wrap your hands around his length nearly made his knees buckle under him. His hand moved to the back of your head, tangling his fingers through your hair.

Just like that, Jake Sim lost all willpower to keep himself away from Lee Heeseung’s sister.

“I don’t know if I can fit all of it in my mouth,” you told him, lips ghosting the tip of his cock. 

“That’s okay, baby.” He tightened his grip in your hair. “Take however much you can.”

You started with a gentle kiss to his tip, and it was enough to make Jake shudder. He watched you in wonderment, eyes glued to your mouth and how his cock disappeared past your lips. With one hand holding onto his hip for leverage, you ducked your head to lick from base to tip, running your tongue along a rather thick vein that wrapped around the side. 

Jake was thankful for the pounding music below; although he prided himself on his self-control (prior to Y/Ngate), he was never good at being quiet in the throes of pleasure. Slowly, you sucked on the tip, earning a drawn-out moan from Jake that he hardly bothered muffling. 

And then, you were hollowing your cheeks to take more of him in, and a flicker of intensity flashed in his eyes when he felt his cock hit the back of your mouth. Jake had to hold onto the nearby dresser for support, his knuckles going white. You gagged a little as his head brushed against your uvula, and then a few tears sprang in your eyes.

Jake watched them pool at your waterline, and he wiped at them with his thumb, cooing at you sympathetically. 

“Just like that, baby,” he murmured, stifling a groan. He closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the back of your head to thrust into your mouth—careful, experimental. “Ah—fuck, your mouth feels so fucking good.”

Despite the unbelievably erotic image of you blowing him, Jake could also detect some smugness. As you bobbed your head, each motion driving Jake closer and closer to a release, you could pick up on the effect you were having on him.

His eyes, glazed over with lust, were threatening to roll back, but he was determined to keep them on you now. He couldn’t get enough of watching how you were taking him in, how you were so quick to pleasure him.

Then, as Jake felt heat burning under his skin, he gently pulled back, holding your jaw securely to keep you from chasing his cock. You looked up at him with a frown, head cocked to the side.

“What’s wrong?” you asked as he wordlessly helped you back up to your feet.

Jake switched your positions, backing you into the wall again. He slid his hand under your thigh, pulling it up so that your leg wrapped around his hip. 

“My turn,” he said. “I’d rather be inside you when I cum.”

A needy little moan escaped your lips, and suddenly the both of you were a mess of hands, clawing and tearing to get each other’s clothes off. You yanked at Jake’s shirt, shoving it up and over his head, and he didn’t let it go unnoticed that your gaze dropped to the lines of his chest. You didn’t get much time to ogle, though, because Jake was quick to get rid of your clothes next, even snapping your bra off in one go. Your underwear, however, was pulled down with slow reverence. Jake had to take a minute to admire your breathtaking body in all its glory.

He never imagined this. All this overwhelming passion. Your body pressed flush against his—no walls up between either of you. 

Jake almost felt like all of this was dreamlike as his finger skimmed your folds, moving to rub your clit in a slow, languid motion. A shaky whine fell from your lips. 

“You’re already soaked, sweetheart,” he said. He slipped a finger inside you as you were opening your mouth, and your words died on your tongue. “You’re just as filthy as me, aren’t you?”

All he got in response was another petulant whine, like music to his ears. Jake added another finger, pumping it inside you while his thumb pressed against your clit. You squirmed in his hold, but Jake held you steady, keeping you pinned to the wall as he fingered your cunt. 

“I thought about this so many times,” you gasped out, much to Jake’s surprise. He raised a brow while speeding up his ministrations. This only made it harder for you to get your words out coherently, so it took you a while to add, “Thought about you fucking me after those stupid arguments, just like this.”

Jake, a simple man, wasn’t built to handle such words; he would’ve come on the spot, untouched, if he wasn’t so eager to bury his cock in you.

Jake guided his cock to your slit, and the two of you moaned simultaneously as he pushed inside you. The room went a little fuzzy for a moment—something high-pitched seemed to be ringing in his ears—and then Jake’s hips met yours, drawing shuddering breaths and whimpers from you two.

Shit. He felt like he was on fire and your every moan was ice. 

Caging you in his grip, he gave a shallow thrust, rousing a gasp from you. In turn, your leg curled tighter around his hip. Jake had to bury his face in your neck to suppress his groans, his hot breath fanning your skin as he littered kisses and bites along your supple skin. He just hoped your makeup could conceal the marks that were blooming along the tender column of your neck.

Another thrust—deeper, this time. He seemed to hit a spot that sent stars glittering behind your eyelids, judging by the dazed look that clouded your expression. 

“M-more,” you begged, your voice catching on the end of the sentence. 

"More? You want more?"

Your response came out in a breath. "Please."

Your hand threaded into his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, like it was all you could hold onto. The position your leg was in was strained at this angle, but you didn’t seem to care, clawing at Jake’s back to keep him closer. 

His tongue slipped into your mouth without hesitation, and he was pretty sure he was getting drunk off the liquor on your tongue. Slowly, like he was taking off the training wheels, Jake’s hips started to move at a steady rhythm—shallow thrusts going deeper and deeper. 

As Jake relentlessly thrusted into you, he left no place untouched, each stroke dragging inside you a little longer. It drew out the prettiest whines from you, so he couldn’t help but tease you a little longer. His otherwise consistent rhythm, however, faltered as you clenched around him tightly. 

“I-I’m close,” you gasped out, pulling from the kiss to watch where his cock disappeared inside you. 

“I've got you, sweetheart,” he replied gently, honey dripping from his words, and Jake held you tightly in his arms as he sped up his pace to bring you closer to your orgasm. 

He was getting there, too—real close, actually. Jake felt like he was unravelling, his nerve endings alight, skin buzzing, and his breath trapped in his lungs. With a couple more thrusts, you shattered with his name on your lips, crying over the music. Jake had to cover your mouth with his hand to keep you quiet, but he couldn’t deny that he was loving how responsive you were. He followed after you with a loud groan, making sure to pull out before his cum spilled all over his hands.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Jake watched as your chest rose and fell for a couple of minutes. He tried to ground himself—convince himself that what just happened wasn’t a dream. 

For the rest of the night, neither of you addressed how the next kiss held something deeper—something that reached beyond lust. Jake was sure you felt it, too, lingering like a secret between your lips, but he wouldn’t dare give that feeling a name just yet.

“Jake would be the type to catch feelings after hooking up.”

Park Sunghoon was the one to make this outrageous statement, effectively snapping Jake out of whatever dreamy daze he was in. Ever since he had sex with you hours ago, Jake couldn’t stop thinking about how you felt around him. He thought FaceTiming his friends would help clear his mind, but he was starting to believe that they were, in fact, the problem.

He didn’t return home immediately. Jake had to pretend like he didn’t just hook up with you when he went downstairs to talk to Kazuha and her very drunk roommates. One of them was so obviously flirting with Jake that you cornered him later to leave a prominent hickey on his collarbone. Then, after he sobered up enough to drive you home, you didn’t seem to have your heart set on getting back; you requested that Jake stop at a parking lot on two separate occasions (during a fifteen minute drive) so that he could eat you out in the backseat.

After that, there was a lot more kissing on the way to your doorstep, a lot of heavy petting as he carried you to your room, and you graciously offered to ride him before he drove back home.

When Jake recounted all of this to Jay and Sunghoon, he left to get himself a midnight snack because they were laughing their heads off for a record-breaking amount of time. It started to feel like a humiliation ritual.

At the end of the call, Jay spouted some bullshit like, “Heeseung won’t even care, trust me.”

Jake refused to even consider that as a possibility, but he vowed to keep his distance from you to make sure last night wouldn’t happen again. (It was important to note that he laughed right after because even he couldn’t believe that.)

Despite the shame that bubbled in Jake’s gut, he had to honor the commitment he made to Heeseung, even though it was a terrible idea to see you again. (No, it’s a wonderful idea! those feel-good neurotransmitters in his stupid, horny brain argued. Viagra in your future! Always prioritize sex! Get laid quick!) So, the next day, there he was—at 5:00 p.m. sharp—parked outside of your house with a sinking feeling that you were going to greet him in a way that would make your older brother faint on the spot.

The sky was splotched with peach and lavender, like a watercolor painting that dried into soft, muted hues. There was a dreamy glow out on the horizon, but when Jake turned to see you walking out of his house, there was the sun—ablaze with brilliant light.

Your eyes caught, and he felt suspended in time for a few seconds. Jake’s stupid, pathetic heart pumped out blood a bit too quickly.

Something was off, though.

You were wearing cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt with Snoopy printed on the front—more fitting for a sleepover than a charity event, no offense. Jake understood that plenty of people prioritized comfort in their outfit choices; although he was quite surprised that you, of all people, would fall in that category. He recalled that blink-182 concert where he had to take turns with Sunghoon to give you a piggyback ride back to the parking lot because you were so damn adamant on wearing your death trap high heels. Your ankles, of course, suffered the consequences.

But maybe this was a good thing. Maybe this meant that you felt comfortable around him… and whoever else was going to be at that charity event, he supposed. 

Would it be so wrong to ask for clarification on the event, though? But what if he came across like he was prying too deeply into your personal life?

No—he would not dare make one comment about it.

So he didn’t. Until he realized that he made a grave mistake.

“A Love Island watch party? Heeseung told me this was a charity event!” Jake exclaimed, utterly baffled.

“Yeah, the winners get a hundred grand,” you replied casually, as if you hadn’t been withholding crucial information that would’ve changed Jake’s mind about following you into the house. “Voting for your favorite couple is basically charity work, if you think about it.”

Jake groaned. This was a set-up, and he was not about to stay over at Danielle’s to watch Love Island, of all shows. 

But then, you leaned over to press a chaste kiss to Jake’s cheek. “If you don’t vote for Nicolandria, you’re dead to me, by the way,” you whispered. Although your choice of words weren’t exactly tempting, Jake found himself unbuckling his seatbelt and following you into the house. The effect you had on him was absurd.

To his surprise, though, he was thoroughly entertained for the night. Sure, he was the only guy in a room full of girls that had enough Stanley cups to beat him to death, but Jake almost felt like he was in his element. When Kim Minji went on a five minute rant to explain why Nicolandria deserved to be the winning couple, Jake was so intrigued that he ended up agreeing to join their Love Island nights until the season ended.

(He later discovered that Love Island released a new episode five days a week, but that somehow didn't change his mind on attending.)

In a tangled mess of feelings and desire, Jake was now making plans to keep seeing you. He only hoped that he could muster up the courage to tell his friend everything before things got serious with you.

Heeseung’s return didn’t change much, to be honest.

Jake was under the impression that he’d be far too paranoid to be messing around with you once your brother was back, but it seemed to be the exact opposite. He couldn’t get enough of you these days. Although you two were keeping things under wraps for now, Jake found it hard to not reach for your hand and think about how it would be if he could keep you by his side for longer. Whenever he woke up in your bed, he wanted time to freeze so that he could hold you until the moon came out again. 

Oh, and their seminars.

You ended up proposing a solution to Jake’s problem. It wasn’t anything very sophisticated, but as soon as class ended, you’d be dragging Jake somewhere private to ease the tension growing in his jeans. 

Or, when he was really done for, Jake would be the one pulling you along. 

“No way,” you mouthed once as Jake grabbed your wrist right as soon as you walked out of the classroom. A smirk was creeping up your lips as you kept your eyes trained on him, effectively cracking through his impassive facade. Jake’s eyes flitted away before you could see any color bloom on his face. “Horny already? And to think I was holding back…”

Jake, who was too busy looking for the closest enclosed space that offered enough privacy, was walking so fast that you were nearly stumbling to keep up with him. He flung open the door to an empty lab. It seemed too risky to simply close the blinds when there was no lock on the door, but there was, however, an equipment room in the back. He pulled you over by the wrist, ushering you inside. 

“Yeah,” he finally replied, turning the lock on the handle, “I was holding back, too.”

And then he fucked you against the door with one hand bruising your waist and the other wrapped around your throat. 

He truly didn’t think this would be the course of his love life. Not that Jake was complaining, but he wished that being with you didn’t involve the daunting feat of confronting Heeseung. Not only could the interaction go disastrously, but Jake was terrified that Heeseung would look at him differently for going after his sister. He didn’t want to be the guy that Heeseung should’ve watched out for.

Jake willed himself to break the news to Heeseung after spending a Friday night with you, curled up on your bed and catching up on the latest season of Love Island. Jake had to admit that he was too deeply invested in the contestants’ storylines. 

While he played with your hair, he heard you ask, “Can you ever see us dating? Like, officially going out?”

“Yeah,” he murmured back. “That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

The first time you told Jake you wanted things to get serious, he outright told you no. However, his body betrayed him when he nodded enthusiastically along with his refusal, making you even more confused. Now, though, Jake was determined to get that conversation with Heeseung out of the way. Leading you on would break his heart more than not getting your brother’s approval.

When Jake decided to fess up to Heeseung, though, he made sure Jay and Sunghoon were right with him. They knew how honest Jake’s intentions were—kind of—and they would surely have his back when it came down to it. 

Unfortunately, he forgot that Jay and Sunghoon were the two worst people for this sort of situation.

“This is the worst boba consistency I’ve ever had,” Sunghoon complained, stabbing at the last of the boba pearls in his taro milk tea. “Sorry, Heeseung, what were you saying? You made the basket or whatever.”

(“Oh, Heeseung, I need to tell you something,” Jake mumbled as quietly as possible, although the wind successfully drowned him out.)

“Close—that would be basketball,” Heeseung replied. “But, yeah, I made the winning goal. Whoever wants to ride my dick is going on a waitlist.”

(“Speaking of…”)

“Shit. Put me on the waitlist,” Sunghoon said. “Priority reservation, please.”

(“Heeseung…”)

“I’ll get to you eventually, Twenty-Six.” 

(“Heeseung?”)

Jay pounded a fist on the table. “Jake has something to say!” After witnessing his friend moping about and mumbling for so long, it was only a matter of time before he snapped. 

Heeseung looked alarmed for a moment before asking, “What’s up?”

Jake only had a few seconds to shoot Jay a death glare before he had to fix his face and explain, “Right, um… I kind of have to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s really not that bad if you think about it.”

“Okay…”

“And, actually, it should be more reassuring that it’s me and not—”

Heeseung scratched the side of his head. “Uh, I’m still gonna need context.”

“I’m, uh… so, I’m…” Jake sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “So, I’m kinda seeing Y/N.”

There it was. The truth was out and Jake could stop skirting around it. He knew it would be near impossible to keep hiding it because Jake discovered that he was becoming far more endeared by you with each coming day. Absolutely terrifying, really, considering that he was already endeared at an incomprehensible level. 

Heeseung’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “You and Y/N?” 

As if the whole thing couldn’t get any more awkward, you walked right out of the boba shop that the four of them were just in. To be fair, Heeseung was the one that called you over because he put in a request for a breakfast wrap after stalking your location, but of course you had to come out right this minute.

“Damn,” you said, scrunching your nose up in distaste. “Garbage boba consistency.”

“Right?!” Sunghoon exclaimed. Jake was starting to think that he should’ve just met up with Heeseung on his own. “We should never go here again."

Jake was petrified as Heeseung, completely unfazed by your arrival, stared at Jake in utter disbelief. He couldn’t peel his eyes away, even after you dropped his breakfast wrap onto the table in front of him. “Wait, hold on—before anyone says anything else—did you just say that you’re seeing Y/N? Y/N, my sister?” He practically flung his arm to point at you. “Her?”

Jake swallowed thickly, but you casually answered for him, “Yeah, he is.” 

The air around him thickened, pressing down on his chest like a weight. Jake’s thoughts were spiraling by now, imagining countless scenarios of Heeseung dropping him as a friend and forever plagued by his betrayal. Jake knew his friend deeply, and he knew that when Heeseung was hurt, he’d—

“Nice,” Heeseung drawled, raising his fist so that you could fist-bump it. “About time, too.”

What?

“You’re not mad?” Jake blurted out, floored by the response. Now this was a turn of events that he didn’t prepare for in the countless scenes he practiced in his head. 

“I asked you to drive her to Danielle’s for a reason, dude. She could’ve just taken an Uber.”

“Wait… you were in on this?”

“I wouldn’t say I was in on anything, but I knew she had a thing for you. I was just glad she’s interested in you and not, like, Sunghoon.”

“Hey,” Sunghoon piped up, sounding stung, but he seemed to recover quickly. “I’m saving myself for you, Heeseung.”

“Twenty-six—remember that.”

“See? I told you, you had nothing to worry about,” you said as you slid into the bench next to Jake, reaching over to squeeze his hands. “Now you can stop denying that it’s perfectly fine for us to date.”

“Okay, maybe I was just a little in over my head.” Jake returned a sheepish—and frankly, lovesick—grin, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your temple. Now that Jake had you, despite his friends cringing before him, he didn’t want to let you go.

He could probably also admit to himself that he had liked you all along.

That, he supposed, was what Jay meant about implausible deniability.

AUTHOR'S NOTE ▸ the jake brainrot really got to me this time 🚬 thank you for reading this if you made it all the way here !! i'm so so grateful if you chose to give this fic a chance so i hope you enjoyed :') also contrary to how the summary sounds, jake is too babygirl for me to not make him a loverboy <33 i swear something about him just screams Yearning

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[courire]

ㅤㅤㅤFINALS WEEKㅤㅤ／ㅤㅤ ୨୧ 심재윤

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎🫧 。 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾’𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄 .

𝐁𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐒 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 !jake ♥︎ 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾 !reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎⌗ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎skinship, 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎◜‿◝ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 1227

‘take your freak of a boyfriend back.’

you had received that text from jay an hour ago, and you’re standing in front of your said freak of a boyfriend, who’s half drunk, half stubborn, refusing to let go of your hands.

“jake,” you sigh again, fifth time in a minute probably as his grip tightens. “i have to study,”

“you study all day,” and he almost sounds pathetic, especially with those glassy eyes that are brimming with love and desperation, and the pout— how can you forget. “it’s like you’re dating engineering and not me,”

“that’s not true—”

“you didn’t even pick up my calls,” he even pretends to sniffle, lips jutted out in a pout.

“i put my phone on silent,”

“that’s basically a divorce,” he clings to you like a koala as you help him in, forcing him down to sit on the bed.

you almost laugh at how he looks— flushed and messy, hair askew and eyes looking like they are brimming with tears. he looks at you like you put the stars in the sky, and he continues to look at you when you reach out to unbutton his shirt, slow and gentle.

“you know, i’m nothing without you—” a hiccup, he swallows, and even if you break your ‘no jake till exams end’ rule, you wouldn’t blame yourself.

he’s pretty damn convincing, his pout is dangerous, whines that compel you to give in. he knows just how to bat his lashes and make you give him what he wants.

“sorry baby, finals week,” you say and nods, firm and knowing. he is aware, he knows it’s your finals week. the seven most dreaded days of his life where every second passes in agony.

honestly, it’s his final week too since jake would rather die than go a day without hearing your voice and seeing your pretty face.

but he is here now— begging and wasted, holding your hands like you’d disappear the moment he lets go. “let me stay for the night,”

“jake, i really have to study,” you insist, and he whines, heart breaking and chest collapsing.

this is worse than breakup.

jake could die, literally. he would rather die than not have you— what’s the point of living anyway if he’s going to lose you to fuckass engineering. not only is that boring, it’s not even as good as physics.

“angel, please,” he is sulking even more now. “please, baby,” and he pleads, again. “just one night, please,” and again, non stop, hoping you have mercy on your poor boyfriend and give in.

you feel your resolve breaking but you try to stand your ground.

you know what happens when he stays— study session turns into midnight yapping, then kisses, cuddles, and you get no revision done.

“i’ll be good and sit quietly,” he tries his best to convince you, “i won’t even touch you even though my hands ache to hold you,”

and jake gets possessed by shakespeare when he is drunk. it’s something you noticed just a few weeks ago when he described his love for you like the laws of gravitation.

your gaze meets his eyes and he is giving you his best puppy dog eyes. somewhere behind you, the wind flips the pages of your textbook through the window, and before you know you are already giving up.

“okay— but no touching,” you mumble, resigning, not even trying to act like you can resist his handsome face any longer.

and he beams at your words, eyes lighting up and lips morphing into the prettiest smile. jake feels like he can breath again and well...he does need you like oxygen.

“no touching,” he promises, but little do both of you know that just thirty minutes later, you’d be in the bed in his arms, under the blankets.

from, malenaㅤ i don’t know what this is but live laugh love drunk downbad jake

[boyfhee]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ DEVOTION

爱,⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀───⠀⠀⠀𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝖾 , 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗈.

𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟬─────drunk! jake x fem! reader ， quiet fluff ✶ mentions of crying, kissing, skinship ꕀ 𝑉𝑂𝐺𝑈𝐸 ｡

your eyes settle on the bathroom door when the sound of the flush stops, followed by a few shuffling movements. a sigh and you shift your weight to the left leg, counting down the minutes.

and then your boyfriend walks out— hair tousled, his sweatshirt half tucked in. he gives you a look, something between an apology and a plea, and he already looks sadder than he was.

“you’re still mad at me,” he whispers quietly, taking a seat at the edge of the bed and you grab a towel, moving to stand between his legs and dry his hair.

you don’t know why he thought getting drenched in the rain would make you pity him more.

a sigh. “i am not—”

“yes, you are,” but he barely lets you speak, cutting you off with a desolate whine. “you’ve been quiet for—” a pause as he counts on his fingers. “—five whole minutes,”

it’s making you want to scoff.

this is a grown man in front of you, giving you looks full of desperation, and you shake your head, a faint smile on your lips as you continue to dry his hair with gentle rubs.

your boyfriend is still sulking, more so, in fact.

jake is trying to let a look at you through your devoted movements with his lips morphed in a frown. he is visibly deflated as if his world crashed down on his shoulders— he would argue it’s true.

“how torturous,” you scoff, feeling him lean into your touch with eyes closed and hands on his lap.

“very,” his tone is quiet yet firm. “i’d rather—” he hiccups, hand clutching over his chest. “—die—”

and you slap his shoulder, eyes squinting disapprovingly at his words. “don’t say that!”

a pause.

he looks at you in disbelief, mortified, as if you had stabbed a dagger through his heart. you can swear you see him tearing up, slurring over a few incoherent mumbles before his shiny eyes land onto your face again.

“ouch,” he whimpers and you have to hold yourself from rolling your eyes. “you hate me, you despise me. my life is over,”

despite his words, his hands are settled firm on your hips as if you’re going to disappear if he lets go even for a second.

he buries his face in your stomach, caressing soft and tender patterns on your waist. he pulls you closer when he feels you shiver from the touch of his cold fingertips against the warmth of your skin.

you run your hand on his back, feeling his muscles relax. “don’t be dramatic. and stop crying,”

“you didn’t even kiss me,” he’s looking up at you now, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed. you swear you can see a tear or two sitting on his eyelashes.

you run your fingers through his messy hair, letting out a soft sigh at the exaggerated frown on his lips. “i did,”

“on the forehead,” he frowns even more, heartbreakingly so. “i want to kiss your lips. they’re so pretty,”

you halt in your actions and he is making kissy lips at you, which can also pass as a desperate pout, and your heart skips a beat at how cute he looks, despite the fact that he is looking like a wet puppy lost in the wild.

“you reek of alcohol,” you try to reason with him— or pull his leg, you’re not so sure. his flushed face, half from alcohol and half from crying, is an aching sight to see.

“excuses. you’re breaking up with me,” his lips are jutted out even more now as he awaits your response. a second passes, then another, and he huffs in shock. “you’re not even denying. i’m right, aren’t i? c’mon, you can say it. drop the bomb, i can handle—” another hiccup, or perhaps he is choking on a sob as he inhales sharply. “—i’m a man—”

and then it’s your lips on his.

tender, soft yet firm, like a warm reassurance amidst his hysteria. it’s impossible not to kiss him, you know you were going to give in anyway. you feel his fingers fist over the hem of your top and he lets out a breathy whine against your lips, leaning more into the kiss as if to chase the feeling.

he lets you lead— unlike always, where he is losing himself into you, his lips moving against yours in a messy dance as he loses every sense of control.

you feel the sting of alcohol on your tongue mixed with his airy gasps and needy whines. his hands are shaking as he holds your hips a little tighter, and you can only hold his damp cheeks with tenderness to ground him to reality.

you tug onto his lower lip, drawing another sound from him— you can’t help it, he sounds so pretty. and then you pull back with a last peck, biting back a chuckle at the pout that once again finds its way to his lips.

“i am not breaking up with you,” you see the way his eyes soften at your words, the way he lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

“okay,” he whispers, slow and soft, finding solace in your words. “i love you,”

and he buries his face in your stomach again, refusing to let go. you can swear he mumbles ‘marry me’ against your top— maybe if he asks when he’s sober, you’ll say yes to that too.

[bunhrtd]

CHERISH (MY LOVE) 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻𝗲: 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗴

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄 ' 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 ｡ 𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝖿𝖺𝗋

ᦸ 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗎 ⸝⸝ 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾!𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 🧁 𝗅𝖺𝗐 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍!. 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ⸝⸝ 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖽!𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 ⸝⸝ 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 ⸝⸝ 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗒 ⸝⸝ 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇 ⸝⸝ 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗌 ⸝⸝ 𝗉𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 ⸝⸝ 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗒 ⸝⸝ 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋 ㅤ reblogs&kisses

𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 open . . . . . @firstclassjaylee @rikifangirl @fushigum1 @iiunique

first post im kind of nervy...... please give me a lot of kisses i spent so long on this, also do u guys like the illit ref? who noticed ><

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎previous chapter‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ main post‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎next chapter‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

[hevanmade]

꒰ ⑅ִ۫💭 ྀི 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍

olderbro!jake who buys figurines to bribe you into having sex with him.

“mm, hold on f'me yeah? . .” jake mumbles into your ear, his frame pinning you face down on your desk, one hand fisting your hair, the other digging into your hip. he's ball deep, his thick, veiny cock splitting you open.

you whine, ass up high as he pounds into you faster, the wet squelch of your cunnie echoing throughout your room, slick dripping down your thighs, soaking his balls.

jake doesn't slow down, he just grins, relishing in your sound. he pulls out, his fat tip catching on your rim before sliding back in, stretching you so much it burns so deliciously.

“c'mon baby, i know how much you wanted those figurines. . .” he mutters, voice all rough and teasing, his soft lips brushing your ear, sweat dripping down his forehead, panting as his muscles flexed. your kitty creaming around him, a messy white ring coating his shaft while he thrusts into you.

“nghh. . . please! j-jakey i-im gonna-” jake shoves two fingers into your mouth not letting you finish, forcing his fingers down your throat making you gag and suck on them. “c'mon sis. . . cum for me.” he grunts out, hips never letting up, the desk creaking under his weight as he fucks you dumb, those figurines being kept for safe keeping. meaning you, would have to work really hard them.

[siren-ha]

movie's boring, baby focus on me - S.JY

p: bf!jake x fem!reader sy⸻ jake kept ignoring you by watching some stupid science related movie and so, you decided to take matters into your own hand by fulfilling your need for him.

tw: MDNI!!! grinding, finger-sucking, riding, slapping, dirty talk, calling names (whore and slut), degradation, groping, choking, unprotected sex (they're fictional, you're not... so please dont do it!), cums inside ⸻ wc: 940

You’re both lying on the couch under a blanket, his pretty hands under your hoodie, fingertips gliding over your bare skin while watching a movie.

except, you arent really paying attention on the film thats rolling, like c'mon, who even likes to watch a science-based movie with their partner? definitely not you.

but seems like your boyfriend isnt like that, the way he talked so animatedly about watching this film for over a week, convincing you that itll be really fun with those stupidly cute puppy eyes- you couldnt deny him, i mean who were you to deny your pretty, hot, boyfriend?

and so, you agreed. big mistake. not only you dont understand a thing thats going on but you're also very distracted by his hands tracing lines under the swell of your breast.

jake is too interested in the film and you are too interested in taking him. so after alot of twisting and turning you had some evil plan in mind.

you took a side glance at jake to see that he's still engrossed in his movie. good. you slowly turn and jake's hand twitches a bit and rubs your bare back- its like he's saying he knows whats happening but is just invested in the movie.

you wrap your arms around his neck and straddle his hips, he automatically looks up at you- places a kiss on your nose and returns back to the movie.

you scoff thinking 'fine. lets he how last itll long' while moving forward and burying your face in his neck.

a beat. after a few minutes, you start sucking on his neck- small at first but then started biting to. jake's hands twitch as they hold the bare of your waist.

you can already feel his hardness poking inside of your thigh, 'hah how pathetic' you thought as you slowly starting grinding on his hardness.

his breath hitches, his grip tightens around you. stopping the attack on his neck, you moved back to see the beauty you left behind- faint red bruises which soon he'll take hundreds of photos of.

you look down at him with that needy- hungry eyes face as you lean and kiss him, he kisses you back- his hand no longer inside the hoodie, holds your jaw- tilting it for a better angle.

he moves back muttering, "just a few mins baby, its almost done."

...seriously? does he not notice his hot of a girlfriend is hungry and wants him? you pout as you take his hand which is holding your jaw.

the veiny fingers did nothing but increase your craving for him. you slowly took his index finger into your mouth. sucking and placing kisses on it.

and guess what... no reaction! like how is it physically possible to not give your gf attention when she's fucking sucking your digits?

alright, you had enough. you need to bring the big guns out- literally.

and so, you let your hand drift into his sweatpants and boxers, feeling his hardness. you bring the hot, red length out to see it standing up with precum leaking.

you slowly move up, pushing your panties aside and sink into him.

both of you let out a sigh at that, feeling eachother's warmth. he pulled you closer as you rested your head on his shoulder while he continued watching the movie.

after a few mins of cockwarming him, you start grinding with his length inside.

"shit baby" you hear him mutter as he throws his head back.

and with no other option you whimper, "please mnugh baby, i want you"

"shouldve fucking told me" he says as he starts thrusting slowly into you.

you throw your head back at the thrusts as the blanket covering you both falls off.

one of his hands grips your breast over the hoodie and squeezes it. his thrusts start speeding up as his hand goes over to your throat- not totally choking but holding it hard enough it let just the right amount of air pass through.

"is this what you wanted huh?" he asks, now snapping his hips harder- the room echoing with the tap tap tap sounds.

he tightens the grip on your neck, "fucking couldnt wait, could you? too much of a whore for this cock huh?"

you cant even for a coherent sentence, the room's spinning, his length going into the depths of you is the only thing thats on your mind.

“I asked you a question, baby,” he murmurs, pulling his hand from your throat—only to slap you, not hard, just enough to tilt your head and remind you who’s in control all while thrusting hard into you.

you moan as his tip hits a certain spot in you, "y-yes ah-fuck i-i just wanted you"

"could fucking tell darling, could fucking tell." he rubs softly on your cheek he hit you as he leans and kisses you.

as he moves back, his hands grip your hips, guiding your body to thrust onto him.

"baby i-nnguh i'm close" you whimper, tearing him.

“me too, baby. Let’s cum together—take my load, yeah?”

you nod frantically without hesitation- the pleasure and high getting to you. his thrusts turn erratic. your moans are choked and breathless. the tension coils tighter in your belly, unbearable.

"good fucking slut"

And then it crashes. your body tightens around him, back arching as you fall apart. He follows with a groan, hips pressed flush, buried deep as he cums with you—hot, full, and shaking.

you're both panting, your forehead on his shoulder- his face in your neck, limbs tangled together. the room spins in silence except for your shared breaths.

©siren-ha all writing belong to me. do not copy, modify or repost my works.

siren ✍(◔◡◔): okkkkk, so if u cant tell, jake's hands r the onlyyyyyyy reason for this fic to be out! nd also, this is first ever smut fic......... so, yea!

enhypen taglist: open! comment to be added.

interactions are always appreciated!