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Warnings: tipsy/drunk reader, the reader feels cocky, slap that peach
Words: 447
Prompt for January 20th: “If anyone walks in, that’s on you.”
A/N: Written for @societynsoelsscribbles - JanuaryJumbleScribbles.
“No, let me do this,” you whined. “Please, I need to tell him his ass looks hot in those jeans. This is my chance to get my hands on him.”
Sierra had her hands full keeping you from leaving the restrooms. You saw Jax Teller, your high school crush, flirt with yet another woman, and started to drown your jealousy in booze.
“Y/N, he’s not worth it. Everyone in town knows he’s only playing with the girls he’s dating. Stop wasting your time on yearning for his ungrateful ass. You’re not a one-and-done kind of woman.”
“It’s a nice ass,” you angrily slurred. “Why doesn’t he let me grope his ass, Sierra? Am I not pretty enough?”
Sierra shook her head at your antics. “Y/N, you are beautiful, and you know it. But you don’t want to give your heart to someone who’ll stomp all over it.”
You pouted, clinging to the cool tile wall for support. “If I tell him how I feel, maybe he’ll stop flirting with other women. Or at least let me squeeze it once. For closure.”
Sierra and you both giggled at your words. “Shush, not so loud. If anyone walks in, that’s on you. We sneaked into their clubhouse for you to take a look at him. Now, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“No.” You stomped your foot. “I’ll talk to him and tell him he’s a bad man for ignoring me. I’d touch him much better than these women.”
Storming out of the restroom, you walked straight toward Jax, swaying slightly. Sierra tried to grab your arm, but it was too late. Jax was heading your way, that irresistible smirk on his face.
He stopped right in front of you, dipping his head to glance at your friend. “What do we have here?” Jax asked, staring you down. “Cat got your tongue, Y/N?”
You swayed even harder, close to Jax, and he laughed when you pointed at his crotch. “You’re flirting with anyone but me. From now on, I don’t like you anymore.”
“She’s had a little too much,” Sierra nervously chuckled. “I couldn’t stop her from sneaking into your clubhouse. I’m sorry. I’ll bring her home now.”
“It’s late, and the streets are dangerous these days. You are welcome to stay in our guest room. And this little firecracker will come with me.”
“You think I’ll leave you alone with my friend while she’s drunk.” Sierra stood her ground against Jax. “I don’t think so.”
You quickly moved around Jax to grope his ass. You smacked one cheek before grabbing your friend’s hand, squealing. “Mission accomplished.”
You ran off before Jax could react. “I guess it’s my turn now…”
Summary: Some moments aren’t taken—they’re given. What begins as a choice becomes something deeper, as distance dissolves and trust takes shape in the quiet spaces between them.
The answer leaves your mouth on instinct. Clean. Certain. No strategic delay. No teasing deflection. Just truth. Something shifts in his face when he hears it. Not surprise. Not triumph.
Something quieter. Relief, maybe. He reaches for your bag and starts toward his car.
You blink, then follow. “I’ll just drive myself.”
He doesn’t break stride. “Mm. No.”
You stop beside your car. “Excuse me?”
He turns then, “I indulged that once.”
His hand finds the small of your back as he guides you the rest of the way to his car. He opens the passenger door.
“Not happening again.”
You stare at him. “That is wildly controlling.”
“It’s preventative.” His tone is clinical, the same one he uses at work.
“Against what?” you ask, rolling your eyes playfully.
“You getting ideas.”
You laugh despite yourself and step closer. “Stubborn old man.”
At that, he finally looks amused. The kind he tries not to show.
“You love it.”
The answer arrives in your chest before it reaches your mouth. Unfortunately, he notices everything.
You lift your chin. “Debatable.”
“Not really.” He says.
He waits beside the open passenger door, entirely too sure of himself. You should resist longer. For principle. For dignity. Instead, you slide into the seat. He leans in, hand still on the door. Too close for one brief second.
His voice is a low, smug murmur.
“Thought so.”
Then he shuts your door and walks to the driver’s side.
The drive is different from the others. No destination mystery. No need for conversation to fill uncertainty. Morning gathers slowly around you in pale gold light and quiet streets still half-asleep. Your pulse has not recovered from the garage. Neither, apparently, has your ability to behave normally. You’re hyperaware of everything. The line of his hands on the wheel. The quiet focus on his face. The fact that one of you could speak at any moment—
But neither does.
At a red light, his hand leaves the wheel and lands palm-up on the center console.
An offering. Simple. Unceremonious. Your chest tightens. You place your hand in his.
His fingers close immediately. Warm. Certain. The light turns green.
He drives one-handed without comment.
You look out the window because looking at him feels too revealing.
“This is very smug of you,” you say softly.
“What is?”
“You knew that would work.”
“I hoped,” he admits.
You turn toward him. “That sounds suspiciously humble.”
“I’m evolving,” he says, almost proud.
You laugh under your breath. His thumb moves once across your knuckles. The gesture nearly derails your nervous system.
The neighborhood changes gradually.
Less traffic. Wider streets. Porch lights clicking off as houses begin to wake.
He turns onto a quiet block lined with brick townhomes and old trees lit by early sun.
Of course, he lives somewhere orderly and annoyingly charming.
He parks. Neither of you moves right away. The engine clicks into silence. Your joined hands remain between you. This feels different suddenly. Not the garage. Not a date. Not a stolen moment between shifts. A threshold. You feel it in your throat. He looks at you then. Really looks.
“If you’ve changed your mind,” he says quietly, “that’s allowed.”
The steadiness of the offer affects you more than pressure ever could.
You squeeze his hand once. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
Something in his jaw eases. “Good.”
You smile. “That was dangerously sincere.”
“No,” he says, opening his door. “Important.”
You sit there for half a second, wrecked by consistency.
Then follow him into the morning.
The first thing you think when he opens the door is: Of course. Of course, it looks like this. Clean lines. Warm wood. Soft gray walls catching the early light. A place for everything, and everything exactly where it belongs. Not sterile. Not impersonal. Just intentional.
The entryway opens into a quiet, open living space with tall windows and the kind of calm that feels designed rather than accidental.
A leather chair angled beside a bookshelf. A couch that looks expensive but is actually lived in.
A kitchen, and visible beyond it, orderly counters, knives aligned, nothing unnecessary left out.
You step inside slowly. He takes your bag without comment and sets it near the door.
No clutter. No chaos. No evidence of a man surviving on caffeine and adrenaline.
You turn in a slow circle. “This is aggressive.”
He closes the door behind you. “That’s not a description.”
“It’s extremely organized.”
“It’s clean.” He says.
“It’s intimidatingly clean.” You press.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You own six kinds of flour.”
“That is expertise.” Your tone is defensive.
“That is hoarding with better branding.” He says before moving further into the house.
You smile despite yourself and follow him in. The room changes as you look closer.
The details reveal themselves gradually. A throw blanket folded over the couch arm, softened from use. Bookshelves lined with medicine texts beside novels with bent spines. A ceramic mug on the coffee table with a chipped handle, clearly kept anyway.
A framed photo tucked between books.
Jack, younger. Softer somehow. Standing beside a woman with an easy smile, his hand at her waist. Their love is visible even in stillness.
You don’t need to ask. You glance back at him. He’s already looking at you. And for the first time since you arrived, he seems uncertain. Not ashamed. Not guarded. Just briefly unsteady. Like he’s braced for the wrong kind of silence.
Your chest tightens. “That’s your wife.”
A beat.
“Yes.”
You look back at the photo. “She looks lovely.”
Something shifts in his face. “She was.”
Silence settles gently.
Then you step closer. “I’d never expect you to forget about her.”
The room goes still. Visible relief moves through him so quickly he can’t hide it. Not dramatic. Just the release of something he’d been carrying alone. Something in his face softens in a way you’ve never seen before. Not polished. Not careful. Just open. For one suspended second, neither of you moves.
Then you turn gently toward the kitchen, giving him space to choose what comes next.
“Well,” you say lightly, “at least now I know you’re capable of owning a blanket.”
“It came with the couch.”
“Liar.”
That gets a real smile. Brief. Worth everything.
He walks past you toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”
You follow automatically. “Obviously.”
His coffee setup is annoyingly impressive. Grinder. Scale. Kettle. Beans in labeled jars.
You stare. “This is absurd.”
“It’s competent.” He corrects.
“It’s a shrine.” You say in disbelief.
“It’s coffee.”
You laugh softly and lean against the counter while he moves through the process with practiced ease.
Measured. Economical. Precise. Even making coffee looks unfairly attractive on him. He glances up once. Catches you watching. You do not look away quickly enough.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“That’s false.”
You fold your arms. “I’m reevaluating how irritatingly capable you are.”
“Take your time.”
He steps closer with your mug in hand.
Too close for a simple handoff. The cup settles into your palm. His fingers remain there one second longer than necessary. Heat travels up your wrist.
“You’re tired,” he says quietly.
“So are you.”
“Yes.”
Neither of you moves. Morning light stretches across the counter between you. The house is silent around you. No alarms. No overhead pages. No one else needs anything.
Just the two of you.
And the open door you already walked through.
He makes breakfast like neither of you has anywhere else to be, which feels impossible.
Because exhaustion hums low in your bones.
Because the last forty-eight hours have held an entire lifetime of emotional events.
Because you’re standing in his kitchen in wrinkled scrubs and yesterday’s mascara, watching him crack eggs into a bowl like this is ordinary.
And somehow—
it almost is.
You sit on one of the counter stools, mug warming your hands, while he moves through the kitchen with quiet efficiency. Pan heating. Bread toasting. Coffee refilled before you realize you need it.
No wasted motion. No performance. Just competence softened by morning light.
You watch shamelessly.
He notices, of course.
“You’re staring.”
You don’t even pretend to deny it. “I like the view.”
That earns a chuckle. “Do you?”
“Yes.” You lift your mug, entirely serious. “It should be illegal to look that good doing something as simple as making breakfast.”
Your gaze drifts pointedly over him once.
“Especially after a twelve-hour shift.”
He shakes his head once, but the amusement is there now. “You’re dramatic.”
“But accurate.”
He plates everything with irritating precision. Eggs. Toast. Fruit sliced neatly.
You look down at the plate, then back up at him. “This is suspiciously impressive.”
“It’s breakfast.”
You take a bite. Then another. Then narrow your eyes. “This is annoyingly good.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m trying not to reward you.”
“You failed.”
He eats across from you at the counter, sleeves pushed up, posture relaxed in a way you don’t see at work. No clipped efficiency. No sharpened edges. Just a man in his kitchen after a long shift, sharing breakfast with someone he brought home.
The intimacy of it sneaks up on you.
You set your fork down.
“This feels dangerous.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Important.”
You laugh softly. “Are you ever going to let me win one of these?”
“No.” He responds.
“Straight honesty. Bold.” You quip.
“I’m tired. It affects my filter.” He shrugs with a grin.
You study him over your coffee cup. “You look softer here.”
The words leave before you can edit them.
He goes still for half a second.
Then—
“You look different here, too.”
“How?”
He holds your gaze. “Less braced.”
Something warm and uncomfortable moves through your chest.
You look at him suspiciously. “Was that a compliment?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Possibly.”
You narrow your eyes. “Are you flirting with me?”
He copies your expression. “Maybe.”
You point your fork at him. “Stubborn old man.”
That gets a real smile.
“And yet you agreed to come home with me.”
You nearly choke on your coffee.
Breakfast finishes slowly. Neither of you rushes to clear plates. Neither of you seems eager to break whatever this is.
Eventually, he stands and gathers the dishes.
You slide off the stool to help.
He stops you with one look. “I’ve got it.”
You almost protest, but you’re too tired, so you lean against the counter instead, watching him rinse plates.
Then he glances over his shoulder.
“Do you want to take a shower?”
Your pulse trips so hard it’s almost audible.
You aim for casual and miss entirely. “A shower.”
“Yes.” He turns the faucet off. “We just worked twelve hours in an emergency department.”
Right. Practical. Obviously practical.
Your nervous system refuses to accept this.
“Oh. Right. Hygiene.”
His mouth almost curves. “Correct.”
You set your mug down carefully so he won’t see your hand shake.
“Yeah,” you say, trying for normal. “That sounds good.”
He dries his hands. “Come on.”
And somehow those two simple words feel more dangerous than anything else yet.
He leads you down the hall like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.
As if your pulse is not attempting escape. As if the air between your shoulder blades doesn’t feel charged every time he walks a step ahead of you.
As if the simple fact of following him deeper into his home doesn’t feel strangely intimate all on its own.
The hallway is quiet.
Soft morning light reaches in from the living room behind you.
A closed door you assume is his bedroom.
Another cracked open to what looks like an office.
Then the bathroom at the end.
He flicks on the light and steps aside for you to enter first.
The room is warm tile, clean counters, and neatly folded towels.
Calm. Intentional.
Very him.
You glance around once, nerves making your voice lighter than you feel.
You open the cabinet doors under the sink. Everything is arranged with impossible precision.
You look back at him. “Of course.”
A corner of his mouth lifts.
You turn toward the shower and notice the details there, too.
A built-in bench tucked along one side.
Products are lined neatly within reach.
Practical design woven so naturally into the room that it doesn’t announce itself.
Just part of how he lives.
Part of him.
Your chest tightens for reasons you don’t fully examine.
He reaches for the linen closet and pulls out a fresh towel, then another smaller one, setting both within reach. Then he disappears briefly down the hall and returns with folded clothes draped over one arm.
A soft t-shirt. Drawstring pants.
Clearly his.
He places them beside the towels. “For after.”
The simple thoughtfulness of it nearly undoes you.
The idea of wearing something that smells like him feels far more dangerous than the shower.
Then he opens a drawer. An unopened toothbrush in its packaging. Travel-size face wash.
A spare hair tie.
He places them on the counter beside the sink like it’s nothing.
Your eyes catch on the toothbrush.
Then on him.
“You keep emergency guest supplies?” You grin.
“I keep practical supplies.”
“For random women you bring home after work?” Your tone is teasing, the question isn’t.
His gaze lifts to yours immediately. “No.”
The single word lands with quiet force. Something in the room shifts. You look back at the small collection of things he thought to make easy for someone else.
“You thought ahead.”
A beat.
“Yes.” No performance. No self-congratulations. Just fact.
He reaches past you to turn on the shower, testing the water with his hand before adjusting the temperature.
Then steps back.
“Towels there. Anything else you need is in the cabinet.”
He pauses at the doorway. Respectful distance already returning.
“I’ll let you—”
The thought of the door closing lands harder than expected.
You move before fear can intervene.
“You could stay.” You say.
The words hang there between you.
No teasing. No shield.
Just truth.
He goes still.
For one rare second, genuinely caught off guard. Your pulse pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. You hold his gaze anyway.
“I mean…” You swallow. “If you want to.”
He looks at you like the room has narrowed to one point.
