pilot jones, jordan poole
jordan's hand was warm, even through the sleeves. he didn’t say anything when he reached across the console, just rested his fingers on the side of your knee like he forgot how to be still. the joint was gone by now, burnt to ash in the cupholder with the other clips. outside, the town of milwaukee was dark and frozen, the windows fogged with breath and the strong smell of weed.
he looked over at you with that dumb smile. the one that barely showed teeth. the one that meant he was too high to say what he was really thinking. “you know you’re my girl, right?” he said softly. it was sincere, like it wasn't just the drugs talking through him.
you didn’t answer at first. just looked at him, watched the way the streetlight carved his cheek in gold. he wasn’t serious, not all the way. jordan said things like that all the time, and you never knew if it was because he meant them or because he wanted you to.
you nodded anyway. his smile got lazy, heavier. and when he leaned across the seat to your lips, you leaned too.
the kiss was warm and hazy. not perfect, but not careless. he kissed you like he liked the way your lips moved, as if he was listening with his mouth. his fingers slid up under the edge of your jacket, grazing skin in a way that made your stomach tighten. he always touched you like that. he didn’t want to ask permission out loud but was still giving you the chance to say no. you didn’t say no, you never did.
the car was too small for the way your body curled into his. he tasted like weed and cinnamon gum and something syrupy that must’ve been on your lip gloss. he kissed you harder when you grabbed the side of his hoodie. he let out a soft breath when your thigh pressed against his.
“when i make it,” he said against your mouth, “you better still answer when i call.”
you pulled back just enough to look at him. “i will,” you whispered with a grin.
in the moment, you meant it.
the apartment smelled like too many things. cheap michigan weed, axe body spray, leftover takeout. the kind of scent that got into your hair, clung to the folds of your hoodie, made your eyes sting if the windows stayed shut too long. it was hard to get rid of it, but you were scrubbing it from the kitchen counters until your fingertips were red.
jordan was on the couch again, hoodie half off to reveal his bare stomach, one sock, a lighter flicking between his fingers like he was bored of everything. his knee bounced absentmindedly, the tv was on low playing something he didn't even remember putting on.
“jordan,” you said from the kitchen doorway, voice sharper than you meant it to be. “can you not smoke in here? the windows aren't even open..”
he didn’t look at you. just hummed, the joint dangling from his lips. he took a deep inhale, letting the ash dip into the rolling tray on the coffee table.
“what if my mom came over?” you finally snapped, letting your precense linger in the space between the kitchen and the living room.
“she won’t,” he muttered around the joint, puff of smoke escaping with his words. his eyes were fixated on the tv still.
“you don’t know that.”
“she don’t like me anyway.”
“that’s not the point.”
he finally turned his head, eyes red, lips parted like he had a comeback ready but wasn’t sure it was worth saying. he took the joint out of his mouth, licking his lips before he finally spoke. “what’s the point then?”
“the point is this isn’t a trap house,” you snapped, arms crossed now. the rag was still wet and strong with product, offsetting the aroma in the room. “and you’re not some burnout who peaked at seventeen.”
his face shifted now. it was slow, subtle. like you hit something he wasn’t expecting. his jaw shifted, goatee following the movements. “you think that’s what i am?”
“no, but sometimes you act like it.”
silence dropped between you both, hot and loud. the joint burned out on the table beside him, smoke curling into the ceiling fan that wasn’t spinning.
he leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice low now. “you know how many people in this city are waiting for me to fuck up?”
“so don’t give them the satisfaction.”
he laughed once, bitterly, not amused.
“it’s easy for you to say. you’re not the one everyone’s watching.”
“i am watching you,” you said, stepping closer. “i’ve been watching you. i’ve seen every time you skip a workout to get high. every time you blow off your brother, your coach, your trainer. you think this little hustle’s getting you by, but it’s getting you stuck.”
his hands fidgeted in his lap. he always did that when he was losing the argument.
“i’m not stuck,” he said. “i’m just not rushing. scouts know who i am. they’re watching my tapes. i just-”
“you’re scared.”
he stood up fast, shoulders tense, voice rising. his expressive eyebrows furrowed. “i’m not scared.” he half murmurred, as if he was trying to convince himself.
“yes, you are.”
he got up, and you stared at him, chest tight. he was taller now, broader. the same boy who once cried in your lap when he had a bad trip, now couldn’t look you in the eye without flinching. he blinked at you, letting your words fill the air. something flickered in his expression, just for a second. nobody moved, just silence. stale air, the hum of the tv filling in the cracks.
“you still love me?” he asked, quieter.
you didn’t answer him at first, not with words.
something about the way he was looking at you. his bloodshot eyes, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, mouth a little parted like he was still waiting to be forgiven for things he hadn’t admitted to yet, it broke something in you. maybe it was the way the question sat there between you both, too real, too naked, like he’d only asked it because he already knew the answer and wanted to hear it sting.
you crossed the space first. just a step, maybe two. he didn’t move, but his eyes followed you. you could feel his breath shift. the air was thick with it, with the way neither of you knew how to hold the silence without making it worse.
“jordan,” you whispered, like his name was the only soft thing left in the room.
his hand moved first, not fast, but firm, fingers curling around the side of your jaw. his touch was rough with nerves, warm from the couch heat, and it grounded you just long enough to kiss him back. his mouth met yours like it needed somewhere to go. lips open, breath hot, the kind of kiss that left no space between gasping and taking. your hands tangled in his hoodie, pulling him closer, his other hand sliding down your side until it caught at your hip. he kissed like he wanted to forget what you just said. and you let him.
his tongue dragged slow, then faster, messy, like he wasn’t sure what rhythm to fall into but he didn’t want to stop long enough to figure it out. your teeth clinked once, awkward, and you both paused, breathing hard, foreheads touching.
his body pushed you gently back, and suddenly you were against the arm of the couch, knees bent, breath caught in your throat. his hand slid under your thigh and pulled it around his waist, his lips still brushing yours between words he wasn’t saying.
the kiss slowed again. softer now. quieter, like a lie you both needed to believe in, just for tonight.
it was junior year now. the frat house was already full. not shoulder to shoulder, but enough bodies to make the walls hum. you didn’t know what frat this was, or who was hosting it. probably some older guy from the rugby team, or a grad student with leftover student loans and an aux cord. but someone said jordan might be around, and you’d already said you didn’t care, twice, out loud, and still came.
he was on the couch when you found him. you’d done a lap, grabbed a drink, smiled at someone you used to hook up with, but when your eyes finally landed on the corner by the window, there he was. jordan anthony poole.
his hoodie was pulled over his head, but the brand new chain peeked out anyway. he looked looser than you remembered, like he took up more space now without meaning to. someone handed him a blunt and he shook his head, laughing like he didn’t need it tonight.
you didn’t move, just stood against the opposite wall, drink in your hand, watching the way his fingers flexed over the cup. he looked up and saw you. he didn’t flinch, just blinked like he wasn’t sure if you were real or not.
“damn,” he said, walking toward you with that slow, uneven swagger. “i thought you moved to switzerland or something.”
“just up the hill,” you said.
he smiled with that little half-smirk you used to kiss off his face.
“still feel like you left,” he said.
“you were the one who left.”
“i had to. they wanted me.”
silence again. the music changed to a bass line you didn’t recognize.
“so how’s golden state?” you asked, eyes scanning him.
he ran a hand over the back of his neck. “fast, loud. everyone’s bigger than you think. everyone’s better. i thought i was gonna be the flashy one, but nah. they got all-stars in every corner.”
“and you?”
he met your eyes. “still figuring out where i fit.”
you didn’t say anything, just sipped your drink.
“the first week, i slept on the couch of some assistant coach,” he said, like he had to confess it. “i didn’t even know how to order room service. i called my mom every night, then stopped when she started crying on the phone.”
“you could’ve called me,” you said. it came out too easy.
he stared, the space between you closed by something unspoken.
“yeah,” he said quietly. “i know.”
someone bumped past him. a laugh echoed from the hallway. neither of you looked away.
“you remember how you used to,” he paused, eyes flicking to your mouth. “used to tuck your feet under you on the passenger seat? i still think about that. shit like that sticks.”
you smiled, barely.
“you’re drunk,” you said.
“not really, or not enough.” he sipped again, then looked down at his cup. “you were like, i don’t know. like a little copilot or something. kept me from crashing too hard.”
your breath caught a little.
“pilot jones,” he said suddenly, joking. your smile disappeared, just for a second. he noticed and his smirk faded with it.
“that was dumb. i didn’t mean it like-”
“i know how you meant it,” you said softly.
he looked at you then, like really looked. and for a second, you weren’t at some college party, and he wasn’t some almost-famous kid with a guaranteed contract.
you were just two people standing in the middle of a house that smelled like beer and regret, trying to remember how it felt to fit inside each other’s world.
he reached out, hand attempting to grab at you. your wrist, your waist, anything to ground himself back to you. but you stepped back first.
“see you around, poole.”
you didn’t wait for his reply. he didn’t chase you, he never did. you were just his pilot jones.
