getting ready for a beach day turns into something a little more complicated after you ask gojo for one small favor.
a/n: i've been in such a writing slump lately, so i'm sorry i've been a little inactive 😭 i've been trying to ease myself back into writing instead of forcing it, and this little gojo blurb somehow made it out of the drafts. i hope you guys enjoy it!
he's sprawled across the hotel bed, one arm over his eyes, dramatically sighing while you finish getting ready.
"you almost done?" he calls, dragging out every syllable.
you crack the bathroom door open.
"satoru?"
"hm?"
"um... can you help me?"
he pushes himself up, fully expecting a question about sunscreen or sunglasses—until he steps around the corner and sees you.
his thoughts stop.
you're standing with your back to him, one hand holding the front of your bikini in place while the strings hang loose.
"can you tie it?" you ask, gesturing over your shoulder. "i can't reach."
for once, satoru gojo is completely silent
"... cat got your tongue?" you tease.
he huffs out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"you wait until now to test my self-control?"
you grin. " i just need a knot."
"yeah," he mutters, stepping closer, "that's the problem."
his fingers brush your back as he gathers the strings
warm.
steady.
and absolutely betraying how fast his heart is beating.
"you always this nervous?" you ask lightly.
"i'm not nervous." it comes out softer than he meant.
you glance over your shoulder, clearly unconvinced.
he focuses on the knot instead.
loop. pull. cross. anything to keep his eyes down.
"there," he says.
the bow is neat.
secure.
his hands linger for a moment before he lets them fall.
"you can look now," you laugh.
"i was looking."
"oh, i noticed."
"... didn't say i was sorry."
when you finally turn around, his eyes meet yours.
long enough for his grin to falter.
long enough for him to realize he is in wayy more trouble than he thought.
he clears his throat, slipping his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose.
"...let's go to the beach."
you tilt your head.
"what happened to all that confidence?"
he opens the door, holding it for you with that familiar crooked smile.
"i left it in the bathroom."
you laugh, slipping your hand into his as you walk past him.
by the time you make it to the beach, his arm is around your waist before anyone else has the chance to look twice.
Sukuna turned out to be a lot less brave when you dragged him into a lingerie store.
✦. cw : fluff
The initiative was yours. Entirely and completely.
Because if you’d left it up to Sukuna, the whole “updating your wardrobe” process would’ve come down to one single thing: he would’ve just yanked off whatever you were wearing with his teeth, shredded it to pieces, and then licked his lips in satisfaction while staring at your outraged face.
“You said it was old and you were sick of it,” he would’ve sneered. “So I helped.”
But today is different. Today, you’re the one leading him into the store.
You feel how his hand, usually holding yours with lazy ease but still firm, suddenly tightens when the glass doors of the boutique slide open with a soft hiss, letting out a wave of air-conditioned coolness laced with the sickly sweet scent of vanilla and jasmine.
Sukuna stops dead at the entrance.
His gaze, heavy and oppressive, slowly drifts across the space as he tries to process what exactly he’s looking at.
Lace. Silk. Satin.
Bras in every color and cut, displayed on mannequins with perfect bodies, hanging in neat rows on racks, and stacked enticingly on the shelves.
Panties, thongs, boyshorts, briefs, tangas, tiny, almost weightless scraps of fabric that honestly don’t even look like enough material to make one proper piece of clothing...
Sukuna looks like he’s just been forced into an enemy lair packed with traps.
You bite back a smile.
“Welcome! Looking for anything special?” an overly cheerful sales associate immediately swoops in on the two of you.
“Thanks, we’re just looking for now,” you answer for both of you, already feeling Sukuna turning into a statue behind your back.
He, a broad-shouldered man towering a good two heads above you, the kind of man who makes some people’s knees buckle just from one glance, is now very noticeably hunching his shoulders, trying to make himself look smaller.
Sukuna ducks his head further into his shoulders when you tug him along into the maze of racks. His eyes dart around too fast, too nervously, like he’s terrified someone might catch him looking at a red lace set.
When you let go of his hand to step over to a display of pieces that caught your eye the moment you walked in, he visibly glitches. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him stare at his suddenly empty hand for a couple of seconds before sharply shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. Then the other one into the other pocket.
His shoulders rise even higher, and now Sukuna is just standing in the middle of the aisle, dark and brooding as a storm cloud, looking for all the world like a giant abandoned dog whose owner tied him up outside a supermarket.
“Look how cute this one is,” you mumble under your breath, running your fingers over soft pale blue satin. “Or this one, with the little beads...”
You slip a sky-blue bra off the hanger, delicate lace trimming the edges, and hold it up against yourself as you turn to face him.
“Well?”
Sukuna shifts that heavy gaze to you, looks at the little thing in your hands, then at you, and one corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly. Mild confusion mixed with skepticism.
He doesn’t say a word, but you understand perfectly.
He doesn’t like it.
Without a word, Sukuna takes you by the shoulder and gently but insistently turns you around, nudging you onward toward the next rows.
“Too cute?” you mutter.
Sukuna gives you a flat look that answers everything.
“Okay, got it,” you snort, hanging the blue bra back up.
You keep moving along the racks, stopping every now and then to show him one thing, then another.
He watches a fuchsia lace set with complete indifference, while a black one with little metal rings earns the slightest flick of his brow. But when you reach the section with the most scandalous lingerie, the kind made of thin strips of fabric and strings, Sukuna stops on his own.
You pick up something that vaguely resembles a bra, two tiny triangles of sheer mesh connected by a delicate chain, and hold it against yourself.
“What about this?”
Sukuna says nothing.
He just stares at the contraption, and a look crosses his face that you’ve never seen before. His lips twist faintly, his brows drawing together. He looks from the “set” to you, then back to it again, and you can practically see the question spinning in his head about whether this is actually clothing.
“Why the hell?” is the only thing that leaves his lips.
You snort with laughter, hang the “spiderweb” back up, and drag him onward.
Eventually, you gather up a decent stack of more or less normal sets, at least by your standards, and disappear into the fitting room.
“You stay here,” you toss over your shoulder as you slip behind the heavy curtain.
A second later, you hear a muffled sound full of dark irritation and resignation:
“Tch.”
The fitting goes on as expected.
You turn in front of the mirror, checking how one set fits, then another. And when you get to the last one, black, with thin straps, you realize you got the size wrong.
The panties from the set fit perfectly, but the bra is too small.
“Sukuna!” you call, poking your head out from behind the heavy curtain, and there he is.
He’s standing with one shoulder against the wall, staring absentmindedly at his nails. The second he hears your voice, he jerks and looks at you like you’ve just saved him from dying of boredom.
The relief on his face is almost insulting.
“I grabbed the wrong size...”
You hold out the black bra to him. Sukuna takes it like it’s not a piece of women’s clothing, but a live grenade with the pin already pulled. He turns and heads straight back into the store before you even finish explaining.
He doesn’t need instructions.
He’s a grown man.
He can figure it out.
Sukuna reaches the right rack.
Stops.
Looks at the hangers where the exact same model is hanging. Looks at the tiny tags with numbers and letters. Looks at the hangers again. There’s a flicker of confusion in his eyes that he tries to crush under pure stubbornness.
Sukuna stands there for too long.
One minute. Two...
His brows knit together into a deep crease between them. He flips through the hangers, but mindlessly, just to keep his hands occupied. And that’s exactly when the sales associate catches up to him.
“Can I help you?”
Sukuna freezes. Slowly, he turns his head toward her, trying to hide the faint panic under a mask of arrogance.
“What size are you looking for?” the sales associate presses.
Sukuna says nothing.
His jaw clenches so hard the muscles in it jump.
He looks at the tag in his hand again, then at the girl, then somewhere off to the side, like he’s searching for an escape route. And then he does something so insane that if you’d seen it, your jaw would’ve hit the floor and you would’ve smacked him.
Slowly, like it physically pains him, Sukuna raises both hands in front of him. His palms, big and broad with long fingers, curl slightly like he’s holding something... like he’s trying to show her the size of your breasts.
“Like... about this size,” he says, voice low but steady.
Absurd.
The sales associate lets out a confused:
“Huh?”
Her eyes dart from his hands to his face and back again.
“You... um... maybe you should ask the girl who came in with you?”
A heavy silence settles in the air.
Sukuna drills her with a look, but inside, you know for a fact, he has already cursed the day he agreed to come here with you.
Without saying another word, he sharply turns, snatches the first bra he sees off a hanger, completely different model, by the way, and marches back with determined steps, nearly taking out a mannequin on the way.
Sukuna yanks the curtain aside and, without looking at you, shoves a black lace bra into your hands.
“Here.”
You look at him. Then at the tag. Then back at him.
Sukuna stands there staring hard at the floor, waiting.
“Honey,” you start as gently as possible. “That’s still not my size. And it’s a different model.”
His shoulders visibly drop.
He exhales in a way that sounds almost doomed, enough that you nearly feel bad for him.
“What exactly am I looking for?” he grits out through his teeth without meeting your eyes. “Tell me. I’ll remember.”
You clearly and slowly spell it out: model, color, size. He listens, and you can see his lips moving, silently repeating it to himself.
Then he nods and leaves.
A couple of minutes later, Sukuna comes back with a victorious but still slightly shell-shocked look and hands you the correct one.
“This?” There’s tension in his voice.
“This,” you smile. “Thank you.”
His gaze drops, just for a second, to where the black straps cut across your skin.
Sukuna looks away, his gaze skimming over the floor and off to the side before he mutters:
“Need help?” he asks, and it sounds almost innocent, if you didn’t know him better. “C’mere. I’ll do it,” he grumbles, and without waiting for permission, decisively parts the curtain and wedges himself into the cramped fitting room with you.
Sukuna, being Sukuna, a man who’s seen you naked, touched you, fucked you hundreds of times, of course can’t just walk away. His pride took a hit during this little trip, and now he needs to feel like he’s back on familiar territory.
The tiny fitting room gets hot instantly.
His body fills up the whole space, looming over you. In the mirror across from you, you can see his unreadable face, but his eyes...
His eyes say more than enough.
“Tighten the straps for me, please,” you ask. “A little tighter.”
Sukuna swallows, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob.
He steps closer.
His fingers settle on your waist, thumbs brushing your skin in slow, absent strokes before they drift higher, toward the clasps. He fumbles with the hooks, and the feel of his breath brushing the back of your neck sends goosebumps racing down your spine.
When the straps are finally tightened, he doesn’t take his hands away. If anything, his palms settle against your hips, his fingers curling just a little, stroking the skin where the edge of your panties meets your body.
The touch isn’t possessive. Not rough.
If anything, it’s almost careful.
Like he’s forgotten where he is for a second.
Almost… mesmerized.
“All done?”
“All done,” his voice comes out low, roughened.
You can feel his chest pressing against your back.
“Sukuna,” you breathe, already feeling heat flood your cheeks. “Out.”
You lightly jab him in the chest with your elbow. Sukuna braces himself, clearly not wanting to leave, but then he huffs something under his breath and finally slips back out behind the curtain, leaving behind nothing but a faint dizziness.
You exhale, trying to calm your racing heart.
A minute passes. Then two.
You’re already assuming he’s just standing outside waiting when suddenly the curtain jerks again. His head pokes back inside. On his face is a strange mix of pride, faint embarrassment, and some almost boyish hope.
In his hands is something that makes you stumble over your own irritation.
It’s a set in a deep wine-dark shade of silk, trimmed with the finest lace. The panties are barely more than a few interwoven strands of lace, the bra isn’t much better, and on top of that there are a couple of straps meant to wrap around your waist and thighs.
It’s an upgraded version of that set he’d stared at so skeptically in the beginning.
“This one,” he says with a nod.
Sukuna doesn’t ask what you think.
He just holds the set out to you, but you can still see the silent question in his eyes.
Well? Did I do good? Do you like it?
He picked this out himself. For you.
You have to bite the inside of your cheek not to smile.
Something warm and dangerously soft twists in your chest.
“It’s beautiful,” you say sincerely, and his face softens just a little.
Ten minutes later, the two of you are standing at the register.
The price the cashier rings up makes you internally flinch, but Sukuna doesn’t even look at the display. He silently hands over his card, radiating calm like none of this concerns him in the slightest.
He pays, takes the bag, and then reaches for your hand. This time, his grip is steady again, possessive, as he leads you toward the exit. Outside, the evening air cools the heat in your flushed face.
“I thought you liked tearing my lingerie apart,” you tease as the two of you head for the car. “You always do.”
Sukuna stops, glances down at you for a second, squinting.
“Not this time,” he says, voice low and smooth. He leans down to your ear, and his hot breath burns against your skin. “This time, I’m just gonna peel it off you nice and slow. Just like you always ask.”
Sukuna straightens like he didn’t just ruin your ability to think, smug as ever, then tugs you toward the car while your cheeks still burn...
Do not repost, copy, plagiarize, translate, or feed my work into AI in any form!)
Summary: When Jake Seresin realizes he’s in love with his best friend—you—he does what any emotionally repressed Navy pilot might do: sets you up with other guys instead. But after three bad dates, a paper airplane, and one squad-intervention later, Jake finally stops playing Cupid—and starts being honest.
Jake “Hangman” Seresin x reader
Word count: 13.6k
A/N: This was in fact loosely inspired by “10 things i hate about you” but it was also inspired by this one book i read a very long time ago that kinda had the same vibe, not sure what the name was it was at least 5-6 years ago but i still think about it sometimes 💔 also omg?? i think this is the longest thing i’ve ever written! just a disclaimer this was written almost 2 months ago, it was apart of my test subjects before i released “honor & duty”. ALSO MIGHT LOWK MAKE A HANGMAN MULTIVERSE TOO??
Warnings: Second person POV, slow burn, mutual pining, slight sa scene (just a bit of inappropriate touching), jealousy, bad date scenarios (including one with a taken guy), light swearing, emotional tension, one knee-drop romantic gesture, meddling squad behavior, and one very flustered Hangman trying his best.
pt 2
There were a few things you’d come to accept as non-negotiable truths during your time at Top Gun:
Coffee tasted best when stolen from Rooster’s thermos.
Phoenix and Fanboy would always argue like siblings during preflight.
And Jake Seresin—Hangman himself—couldn’t mind his own damn business to save his life.
You were midway through a morning briefing, half-listening to Cyclone run through upcoming mission simulations, when Jake leaned over just enough to whisper out of the side of his mouth.
“You know, I heard Supply Guy is single again.”
You didn’t even turn your head. “And I heard you should shut up before Cyclone catches you talking.”
Jake grinned, unbothered. “Just trying to help. I’d hate for your roster to run dry.”
You gave him a side-glare sharp enough to slice steel.
Across the room, Phoenix stifled a laugh.
The air in the briefing room was its usual mix of cold coffee, jet fuel, and pure, unfiltered sarcasm. Jake Seresin lounged in a rolling chair near you, boots kicked up onto the empty seat beside him, arms crossed over his chest like he hadn’t a care in the world. His sunglasses were still on. Inside. Because, of course, they were.
“Y’know, Hangman,” Rooster drawled from the front row, “it’s called a briefing. You’re supposed to look at the screen, not just bask in your own reflection.”
Jake tipped his sunglasses down just enough to make eye contact. “I multitask.”
“You can’t spell ‘team’ without ‘me’,” Fanboy muttered, not even looking up from the protein bar he was dissecting with a spork.
“Not how spelling works,” Payback shot back, smirking.
In front of him, you were half-paying attention, flipping through a file with one ear tuned into the mission rundown and the other eavesdropping on the squad’s banter. Bob sat next to you, pressed shoulder to shoulder like always, posture straight and focused—but when Hangman piped up again, you felt Bob shift subtly beside you, like he was biting back a grin.
“Some of us,” Jake said, lifting his voice just a little, “don’t need to memorize the brief. We are the plan.”
“You are insufferable,” Phoenix replied flatly, finally turning toward him with a look that could’ve knocked a lesser man on his ass.
“Didn’t hear a no,” Jake replied with a wink.
Coyote groaned. “I swear to god, if this is how today’s going to go…”
It was how today was going to go.
You’d all been grounded the past week for maintenance drills and mission prep, so the tension in the squad was ramping up like coiled wire. Too much time on the ground made everyone itchy. Especially pilots.
By the time the briefing was about to end, you were already winding down from the tactical talk, scribbling a note in your logbook. Bob leaned toward you, voice quiet.
“You flying lead today?”
You nodded. “Rooster’s wing, but I’ve got lead. Try not to make me look bad.”
His smile was small but genuine. “You could fly solo and still make us all look bad.”
“Flattery gets you… nothing,” you teased, “Except maybe some snacks in the ready room.”
Bob’s face lit up like you’d just promised him classified intel and a hug.
-
Cyclone dismissed you all fifteen minutes later, and as you filed out into the hallway, Jake was still going.
“I’m just saying, I’ve got a gift. A sixth sense for chemistry.”
“That’s a choice,” Jake shot back, fixing the collar of his flight suit. “I’m out here doing the Lord’s work. Playing Cupid.”
Fanboy groaned. “God, not this again.”
“You don’t even believe in monogamy,” Phoenix said, crossing her arms as she walked backward in front of you all.
“I believe in giving people a little push,” Jake replied. “Like matchmaking. Strategically. For morale.”
“Since when do you care about morale?” Coyote snorted.
Jake pointed at you. “Since she’s been moping around base like she lost a bet.”
“I haven’t been moping,” you argued, though you knew exactly what he was referencing. One shitty date with a comms officer and suddenly Hangman was acting like he needed to fix your whole life.
“You’ve been quiet,” Bob added from your other side, his tone gentle. “Quieter than usual.”
“I’m allowed to have quiet days.”
Jake leaned in again, smirking. “Or maybe you just need someone to make some noise in your life.”
Phoenix punched his arm. “Back off, Casanova.”
-
The pre-flight was smooth. You were zipping up your G-suit when Jake wandered over to your jet, dragging Coyote along like an accessory.
“Need help strapping in, sweetheart?” he asked, leaning against the wing like a car salesman trying too hard.
You gave him a flat look. “Only if you want a wrench to the temple.”
Coyote snorted.
“I was just saying,” Jake continued, completely undeterred, “you’re the picture of confidence. Someone should be here to appreciate it.”
“Jake,” Bob called from a few feet away, arms crossed as he leaned against your jet’s ladder. “You hit on her one more time and the plane might spontaneously combust just to escape the cringe.”
“Ohhh,” Rooster added as he approached, dragging his helmet in one hand. “Burned by Baby on Board. Rough morning for you, Seresin.”
Jake grinned lazily. “Hey, you all mock now, but when I’m the best man at her wedding? You’ll wish you were as charming.”
You raised a brow. “You volunteering?”
“Best man? Groom? I’m flexible.”
You groaned. Bob muttered under his breath, “Flexible like your ego.”
-
You all made your way toward the flight deck, helmets in hand, the morning sun bouncing off the tarmac. The simulation was in forty-five minutes, and you were itching to get in the air—partially because it was the one place where Jake couldn’t talk your ear off.
The air was different on base lately.
It wasn’t just the hotter-than-usual summer, or the fact that everyone had started sneaking ice pops from the freezer in the officer’s lounge. There was something else. A shift.
Everyone was restless. The mission load had eased slightly, giving you all more downtime. And when Top Gun pilots had too much downtime? Stupid things happened.
Betting pools. Pranks. Unnecessary competitions.
And, in this case: matchmaking.
Jake’s obsession had started as a joke—something he said after your third bad date in two months. But now, it was gaining momentum. He’d already made one match between a junior lieutenant and a flight mechanic (they’d gone on two coffee dates and then ghosted each other, but Jake claimed it was a success). And now, unfortunately, you were in his line of fire.
But what you didn’t know—what none of you knew—was that the boys had made a bet.
It started that night. A few hours after debrief, Rooster invited the squad over for drinks and poker.
-
Rooster’s house smelled like beer and leftover pizza, and Jake was already two whiskeys in when the idea started forming.
“Admit it,” he said, shuffling cards with a flourish. “I could get her a date that lasts longer than a week.”
“You think you could find her the right guy?” Fanboy asked, incredulous. “You’re the worst person to set anyone up.”
“I have charm.”
“You have trauma,” Payback muttered.
Jake smirked, unfazed. “I’m serious. She’s just… picky. And I know her type.”
Coyote raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what’s her type?”
Jake sipped his drink. “Someone with a sense of humor. Smart, but not arrogant. Good with their hands. Probably someone in uniform.”
“So… you,” Rooster said dryly.
Everyone laughed.
Jake rolled his eyes. “No. She’d hate dating me.”
“You sure?” Bob asked quietly, brows lifted.
Jake hesitated. “Yeah. She’d kill me before the first appetizer.”
“Let’s make it interesting,” Fanboy said, leaning forward. “Twenty bucks each. You pick someone—set her up. If it lasts more than five dates, you win. If not? We keep the cash.”
“Make it fifty,” Jake challenged.
The boys stared at him.
“Confident much?” Coyote said.
Jake shrugged. “She’s my friend. I know what she needs.”
The pot grew to $300. Jake grinned.
-
You had no idea what you’d just become the center of.
But the next morning, when Jake asked casually if you’d ever considered dating that guy from supply again, you should’ve known something was up.
The next morning broke clear and sharp over the base, the sun spilling golden through the narrow slats of your blinds. You were still half tangled in the remnants of a restless sleep when your phone buzzed with a text.
Jake: “Hey. So… you ever thought about dating supply?”
You blinked, sitting up, the question feeling more like a prank than a genuine suggestion. Jake Seresin, your self-appointed Cupid, was already in full swing.
You typed back with a dry smile:
You: “You’re starting early.”
-
The squad gathered for the morning briefing in the usual cramped room, the air thick with anticipation and the faint smell of burnt coffee. Cyclone was rattling off last-minute mission details when Jake sidled up next to you again, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips.
The morning sun had barely crept above the hangar roof when the squad gathered for the day’s briefing. The cramped room hummed with quiet anticipation, punctuated by the rustle of flight suits and the faint buzz of comm chatter filtering through the air vents. Cyclone’s voice was all business, drilling through the mission simulation details like a machine.
But no one was really paying full attention—not you, and certainly not Jake Seresin.
Leaning against the wall beside you, Jake’s eyes gleamed with that familiar spark of mischief. “Alright, today’s the day,” he whispered, a grin tugging at his lips. “My matchmaking game is officially live.”
You rolled your eyes but fought a smile. Jake had been on this ridiculous kick since last night at Rooster’s, practically bursting with excitement over the stupid bet with the boys. You weren’t sure whether to be amused or mildly concerned.
“Seriously, dude, give it a rest,” you muttered, but he just shrugged and turned back to the briefing.
-
Once dismissed, the squad filtered out toward their jets, the metallic clang of helmets and gear blending with the distant roar of engines warming up. The familiar adrenaline spike coursed through your veins as you slid into your cockpit, fingers expertly running over the controls. Flying was always your sanctuary—the one place where Jake’s antics faded into white noise.
That was until your comm crackled with Rooster’s voice, thick with mock warning. “Hey, Hangman, keep your eyes on your wingman today. No matchmaking during maneuvers. We’ve got enough chaos as it is.”
Jake’s tone answered back, playful and teasing, “I’m just out here doing the Lord’s work. Somebody’s gotta fix this mess.”
You chuckled softly, settling into formation as the jets lifted off in perfect synchrony. The sky was a crystal blue canvas, the sun gleaming on your visor as you sliced through the air.
Flying helped.
Whatever chaos lingered on the ground got swept away the moment you lifted off. You and Rooster made clean turns, slicing through the California sky like it owed you something. Over comms, you could hear the easy banter between Payback and Fanboy, the static-muted smirks between Phoenix and Bob.
Jake, of course, never stopped talking.
“Hey, Bagman,” Phoenix called out mid-loop. “You miss basic training where they teach you how to shut up?”
“You love it,” he fired back.
“I’d love silence.”
“Don’t lie to yourself.”
It was all clockwork—banter, barrel rolls, and bullshit. But it was in the rhythm, in the instinctive trust that came from knowing every one of them would be there when it counted, that you found your balance.
You didn’t realize you were smiling until Bob’s voice came over the comm.
“You’re humming.”
“Shut up, Bob.”
“You’re humming over the intercom. I think that’s a first.”
Jake’s voice cut in, “She’s humming because I’m inspiring.”
Bob immediately: “I’m ejecting.”
-
Back on the ground after a flawless simulation, the squad dispersed toward the mess hall in a slow, hungry shuffle. The air was thick with post-flight energy—half adrenaline, half exhaustion—and someone behind you (probably Rooster) was humming the Top Gun anthem under his breath like he did after every mission.
You were barely through the door, already scoping out whether the snack bar had restocked the decent granola bars, when Jake popped up beside you like a damn prairie dog.
“Hey,” he said, voice pitched low, too casual to actually be casual.
You side-eyed him. “What now?”
He hesitated. That alone was enough to make you stop walking.
Jake Seresin? Hesitating? That was new.
He rubbed the back of his neck, expression a strange mix of nerves and smug determination. Like a kid about to admit they broke a window and that it was totally worth it.
“You remember the supply officer? The one from last week?”
You frowned. “Yeah. What about him?”
Jake cleared his throat. “Well… I might’ve, uh, invited him out for dinner. As part of my… project.”
You blinked. “Project?”
“Matchmaking,” he said, like duh. “Obviously.”
You laughed. Loud enough that two airmen passing by looked over.
“Jake, you can’t just ‘invite’ people for dates like it’s a mandatory training exercise.”
He shrugged, attempting nonchalance but failing miserably. “It’s not an official date. Just… a social outing. A vibe check.”
“A vibe check?”
“I figured I’d do some of the heavy lifting,” he continued, walking beside you now as you made your way toward the salad bar. “Save you the trouble of awkward small talk. If it’s a bust, you can blame me. If it works, you’re welcome.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You do realize this is borderline insane?”
“Borderline charming,” he corrected.
“Borderline manipulative.”
“Potato, po-tah-to,” he said, waving a hand.
You stopped at the drink cooler, opening the door with more force than necessary. “Let me get this straight. You, without telling me, set me up with someone I barely know, because you think you know better?”
Jake looked smug. “Yeah. And you’re gonna love it.”
Before you could respond—probably with something that would’ve gotten you written up—Phoenix slid between you both like she’d been waiting for the right moment to intervene.
“You owe me five bucks,” she said to Jake, grabbing a Gatorade from the cooler behind you.
Jake’s smile faltered. “You bet on this?”
“Obviously.” She winked at you. “I said you’d go off on him the second he opened his matchmaking mouth.”
You glared at them both. “This entire squad is feral.”
Fanboy appeared from behind the soda machine, his tray already stacked with two grilled cheese sandwiches and a mountain of fries. “Hey, are we still on for movie night?”
“Depends,” you muttered, eyeing Jake. “Is it a movie I pick, or one Hangman picks based on who he’s trying to set me up with?”
“Ouch,” Jake said, clutching his chest. “You wound me.”
“She’s got a point,” Coyote added, showing up just in time to steal a fry off Fanboy’s tray. “You’re making this personal crusade way too obvious.”
Jake’s eyes flicked to you for a second. “It’s not personal. I just think she deserves someone solid.”
“Uh-huh,” Phoenix said, sipping her drink like she wasn’t starting a fire with every word. “And definitely not you.”
He grinned, sharp and defensive. “Exactly.”
You narrowed your eyes.
You weren’t blind. You’d known Jake for years—flown with him, fought with him, gotten blackout drunk with him during Coyote’s infamous Vegas birthday weekend. You knew what he looked like when he was bluffing.
And this?
This was a bluff. One he’d doubled down on way too hard to back out of now.
“Fine,” you said slowly, popping the lid on your water bottle. “I’ll go. One dinner. But if this guy’s weird or tries to tell me about his crypto portfolio, I’m blaming you.”
Jake grinned like he’d won something. “Deal.”
Phoenix shook her head as she walked off. “You’re playing with fire, Hangman.”
Jake called after her. “Lucky for me, I like the burn.”
-
Movie night started like they all did—overcrowded, under-supplied, and dangerously close to devolving into chaos.
Rooster was balancing a tangled knot of wires in one hand and a half-eaten slice of pizza in the other, muttering something about HDMI adapters and “government-issued bullshit tech.” His ancient projector—the one that had survived deployments, sandstorms, and one very unfortunate encounter with tequila in San Diego—was propped up on two old aviation textbooks and a can of Pringles.
Fanboy arrived ten minutes late and unapologetically smug, cradling a six-pack of Dr. Pepper like it was a rare treasure. “Don’t worry,” he declared loudly, “I saved movie night. Again.”
“No one asked you to,” Phoenix called from where she was elbow-deep in a duffel bag looking for her Captain America fleece blanket.
“Democracy asked me to,” Fanboy retorted. “You’re welcome.”
Bob, sweet dependable Bob, came bearing the only thing anyone actually appreciated—cookies. His sister in Lemoore had mailed him two Tupperware containers filled with snickerdoodles, peanut butter blondies, and something suspiciously green that no one questioned. The second the plastic lids came off, the room collectively moaned like it had just been released from purgatory.
Jake, of course, brought nothing but opinions. And himself. Both in equally large supply.
“Who voted for Hot Fuzz?” he asked, hands on his hips like an outraged PTA mom.
“Me,” you said flatly.
“And me,” Bob added, already curled into the arm of the couch with a cookie in hand, quietly smug.
Jake turned toward you like you’d personally betrayed him. “We could’ve watched John Wick, and you went with British satire?”
“I’m sorry,” you said, completely unapologetic. “Are you anti-cornetto trilogy?”
Jake blinked. “I’m anti-being-bored.”
“Then maybe don’t bring the same six stories about your exes to every hangout,” Phoenix muttered.
“Rude,” Jake replied, not denying it.
The lights dimmed. Rooster finally got the projector to cast a halfway decent image against the white wall, and Payback threw a sock at him when the subtitles didn’t match the audio. Someone screamed “SHOTGUN!” for the beanbag chair that had mysteriously migrated from Coyote’s room. Popcorn flew. The floor space vanished in seconds.
You wound up sprawled beside Bob, your back against a floor cushion that may or may not have once belonged to Hangman before it got appropriated during a game night standoff. Your sock-clad toes brushed against Bob’s shin; he didn’t even flinch, just nudged a peanut butter blondie toward you in a wordless offer.
You took it.
Coyote wandered in halfway through the opening credits carrying two slices of pizza stacked on top of each other, looked at the chaos in the room, and just sighed. “This is why we don’t have nice things.”
“You’re just mad I got the last slice of Hawaiian,” Fanboy sang from the corner.
“We talked about pineapple on pizza,” Coyote said darkly.
Meanwhile, the movie hit its stride—quick edits, dramatic zooms, jokes that landed even harder because everyone in the room had already memorized the lines.
“Point Break or Bad Boys II?” Jake called out in his best Nick Frost impression.
“Which one do you think I’ll prefer?” Rooster responded instantly from across the room, already grinning.
Payback lobbed popcorn at them both. “If y’all quote this whole damn movie, I’m leaving.”
“You say that every week,” Phoenix said, rolling her eyes. “And then you fall asleep halfway through with your mouth open.”
“It’s part of my charm.”
Jake flopped onto the arm of the couch behind you, like gravity had simply decided that spot belonged to him. His knee brushed your shoulder, lingering a second longer than necessary, and you didn’t shift away.
“You good?” he asked, voice pitched low so the others wouldn’t hear.
You tilted your head back, craning to look at him upside-down. “Define good.”
His lips twitched. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”
You hummed. “Depends.”
“On?”
You gave him a saccharine smile. “Whether this guy turns out to be a serial killer.”
Jake laughed, and it was real—low and sheepish. “He’s not. I promise. He’s a little weird, maybe. But not murder-y.”
“Solid endorsement.”
“You asked me to look out for you,” he said, still smiling, but there was something beneath it—something quieter. “That’s what I’m doing.”
You stared at him, upside-down still, and for just a second the playful banter faded into something else. Something more loaded.
Your gaze held his for a second too long. Then you looked away, your neck aching a little from the angle. You shifted your weight back into the couch cushion.
“Just don’t make this a habit,” you muttered.
Jake didn’t answer right away. You felt him move behind you—his elbow brushing the back of your hair as he leaned forward slightly.
“Would it be so bad if I did?”
The question hung in the air.
It wasn’t flirtatious, not really. There wasn’t that usual drawl to it. He wasn’t playing this time. There was no smirk. No teasing. Just… curiosity. And something softer underneath it that he probably didn’t even realize had slipped through.
You glanced at him again, your expression unreadable. And for the first time, Jake actually looked unsure.
Before either of you could say anything else, Coyote and Phoenix started arguing across the room about whether or not Nicholas Angel—Simon Pegg’s character—was technically the villain of the movie.
“I’m just saying,” Phoenix started, “he ruins everyone’s fun.”
“By solving murders,” Coyote countered.
“You can’t prove Timothy Dalton didn’t have a point!”
You let their voices fill the room. Let the squad’s laughter and the chaos and the comfort of familiarity drown out the tension curling low in your chest.
Because the truth?
You didn’t hate the attention. You didn’t hate the way Jake always checked in, or the way he always saved you a spot without saying anything, or how he laughed harder when you were around. You didn’t hate any of it.
You just didn’t want to think too hard about why it mattered that it came from him.
Not yet.
-
The next morning arrived with zero fanfare and a whole lot of regret.
Not regret over anything you had done, but regret in the shape of Jake Seresin’s smirking face as he leaned against the edge of the table in the mess hall, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just offered you up like tribute the night before.
“So,” he said, drawing the word out, “you excited?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, halfway through your oatmeal. “Excited for what?”
Jake blinked, all innocence. “Tonight. Dinner. Supply officer.”
Fanboy perked up from across the table. “Wait. You’re going out with the walking spreadsheet?”
Rooster choked on his juice. “The one who alphabetizes the peanut butter?”
You gave Jake a look that could have melted steel. “You told everyone?”
Jake had the audacity to look affronted. “I didn’t tell them. I just—mentioned it.”
Phoenix leaned in, grinning like she smelled blood in the water. “Did you also mention that she was strong-armed into this by you?”
Jake shrugged. “It’s not coercion. It’s encouragement.”
“Encouragement usually involves enthusiasm,” you muttered. “Not bribery and peer pressure.”
“I didn’t bribe you.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘If you go, I’ll never bring up that time you accidentally FaceTimed me from the bath again.’”
Fanboy nearly spit out his coffee. “What?”
Jake held up his hands. “Not what it sounds like.”
You stood, grabbing your tray and ignoring the stares. “You’re all children.”
Phoenix cackled. “Be sure to send us a group text if he turns out to be a taxidermist.”
Jake called after you, “He’s a very normal guy! You’ll have a great time!”
You didn’t respond. But you did flip him off on your way out of the mess.
-
It was 7:00pm sharp when you arrived at the seafood place Jake had suggested—off-base, casual enough to avoid dress uniforms but nice enough to warrant eyeliner. The place had string lights, polished wood tables, and the kind of menu where everything came with a “reduction” of something or other.
You spotted your date—Mike, the supply officer—before he spotted you. He was seated in a booth, already halfway through a glass of water, his posture too perfect and his shirt just a little too tucked-in.
“Hey,” you said as you slid into the seat across from him.
His face lit up with the same earnest enthusiasm he’d had when you’d signed for your new flight gloves last week. “Hi! You made it!”
You smiled politely. “Yeah. I guess I did.”
Conversation started off… fine.
He asked about your squadron, complimented your call sign (which he’d mispronounced twice), and talked about how he’d minored in aviation logistics at Purdue. He had a laugh that was technically charming, and a habit of straightening the salt shaker every time he leaned forward.
He wasn’t creepy. Or mean. Or even weird, really.
But the longer you sat across from him, the more glaringly obvious it became that this was not going to be the beginning of anything remotely romantic.
Your brain betrayed you somewhere between the appetizers and the main course. Because all you could think about was Jake.
Jake, who never sat that straight. Jake, who never got through a meal without sharing food off someone else’s plate. Jake, who once made up a fake call sign for Rooster just to mess with a group of visiting officers (“It’s ‘Cockadoodle-Doom,’ sir, and he earned it.”).
Jake, who had set you up on this date. Who had pushed you toward it with that easy smile and the kind of confidence that only someone with absolutely no self-awareness could manage.
“So,” Mike said, snapping you out of your daze, “are you into board games?”
You blinked. “Board games?”
“Yeah. I host a game night sometimes. We do Settlers of Catan and Terraforming Mars. I’ve got an expansion pack for Wingspan that adds European birds.”
You took a sip of your drink. “That’s… specific.”
Mike grinned. “You’d like it. You seem like someone who appreciates rules.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That’s not usually what people say about me.”
He looked slightly panicked. “I meant—like… structure. Not in a bad way!”
You laughed once, politely. Then glanced at the time on your phone.
Still forty minutes to go, if you were being generous.
-
Back on base, Jake was restless.
Bob watched him pace from the armchair, where he was trying to read. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the rug.”
Jake ignored him, turning toward the window like he could somehow see the restaurant from there. “You think she’s having fun?”
Bob didn’t look up. “You mean the girl you tried to pawn off like an Amazon package?”
“I didn’t pawn her off.”
“You did. It was weird. You should’ve just asked her out yourself.”
Jake froze. “I don’t— That’s not what this is.”
Bob finally looked up. “Isn’t it?”
Jake didn’t answer.
Didn’t have one, honestly.
-
By the time you made it back to your place, you were tired in a way that had nothing to do with your day. Mike had walked you to your car like a gentleman and given you a hug that lasted half a second too long.
“You’re really cool,” he’d said earnestly, eyes hopeful.
You’d smiled and thanked him.
And then you’d sat in your car for five full minutes, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, wondering what the hell you were doing.
Your phone buzzed.
Jake: “So… still alive? Didn’t join a cult?”
You stared at it. Debated. Then typed back:
You: “Barely. He asked if I wanted to see his board game collection.”
Jake’s reply came instantly.
Jake: “That sounds like a euphemism.”
You: “It wasn’t.”
Jake: “That somehow makes it worse.”
You smiled in spite of yourself. Tossed your phone onto the passenger seat beside you. The night was still. Quiet.
And the only thing louder than the silence was the thought you’d been trying to avoid since the moment Jake first brought this whole “project” up.
Why was he so interested in trying to get you to date?
And why was HE of all people on your mind all of a sudden?
-
The squad didn’t do boredom well.
Two days after movie night and that god awful date, Phoenix convinced half of you to join a beach volleyball tournament on base. You weren’t even sure how it had been sanctioned—maybe the C.O. was just as restless as the rest of you—but suddenly there were nets set up just past the tarmac, and someone had roped off court boundaries with neon cones and caution tape.
You showed up in gym shorts and a tank top, hair pulled back and sunscreen barely rubbed in. Bob handed you a water bottle as you arrived, his cheeks pink from the heat despite the early hour.
“Phoenix and Rooster already claimed each other,” he said. “So I guess you’re stuck with me.”
“Poor thing,” you teased, bumping your shoulder into his.
He just smiled—calm, steady Bob—and tugged his cap lower against the sun. You loved flying with him. Loved hanging out with him. Sometimes you thought maybe you loved everything about Bob, full stop.
Fanboy was the one who brought the speaker. Of course. He queued up a playlist titled “Top Gun Top Hits” that had everything from Kenny Loggins to Doja Cat. By the time the first game started, Rooster was dancing between points and Phoenix had already spiked a serve into Hangman’s chest.
“That one was for your ego,” she said, tossing the ball back over the net.
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you,” Jake shot back.
You and Bob held your own, surprisingly enough. You weren’t flashy, but you had good instincts. And Bob was sneaky—he didn’t talk much during games, but he always seemed to know where to be.
“Okay, that was kind of hot,” you admitted after he dove for a save and landed in the sand.
He just looked up at you, winded and flushed. “You like that?”
You did. Too much. And maybe Jake noticed, because suddenly he was rotating in as your opponent with a little too much enthusiasm.
Afterward, you collapsed on a towel with Phoenix, both of you gulping water and yelling at Coyote for eating all the orange slices.
“This is why we can’t have nice things,” Phoenix muttered.
“Yeah, well, next time bring more,” he shot back, mouth full.
By late afternoon, the squad scattered—some toward the showers, some to grab food, and Jake? Jake lingered.
“You’re free tomorrow night, right?” he asked, nudging your foot with his.
You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he said innocently. “Just… remember that avionics tech from the hangar? The one with the buzz cut and the arm tattoo?”
“The one who said Star Wars is overrated?”
Jake winced. “Okay, so he’s not perfect. But he’s free. And I figured—just a quick drink. Harmless.”
You groaned. “Why are you like this?”
“It’s for morale,” he said smugly, already walking backward toward the barracks. “And entertainment.”
-
The bar was dim and vaguely sticky, tucked into a side street just outside the base gates. It smelled like old beer and buffalo sauce, the kind of place that tried to pass itself off as “divey” in a charming way but never quite nailed the charm. Off-duty personnel clustered at the high tables, uniforms swapped out for jeans and team shirts, most pretending not to watch the pilots coming and going like it wasn’t their entertainment for the night. Country music played over the speakers—loud but not loud enough to cover the clink of bottles and the low buzz of half-drunken conversations.
Trevor—aka Buzz Cut Guy—was already seated at a corner booth when you walked in. You spotted him instantly. Tight black t-shirt, designer watch, one leg sprawled out too far into the walkway like he wanted people to trip over him. His cologne hit you before his smile did: something aggressively masculine, the kind of scent that tried too hard to say I lift without any actual lifting.
He stood when you approached, teeth flashing in a grin that felt more practiced than warm. “You must be Jake’s friend,” he said, sliding a hand across the table and pulling out your chair with the sort of flair that implied he’d rehearsed it.
“He said you’d probably try to bail.”
You raised a brow, pausing halfway into the seat. “That’s a weird opener.”
Trevor chuckled like that was somehow endearing. “Just messing. I’m good at reading people.”
You doubted that.
Still, you sat. Mostly because you didn’t want to give Jake the satisfaction of knowing you almost turned around and left the second you saw that buzzcut and smug expression in person.
“Figured I’d keep it casual tonight,” Trevor said, nodding to the waitress as she came over. “Can I get you something? Beer, wine, appletini?”
You blinked. “I’ll just take a ginger ale, thanks.”
He raised an eyebrow. “No alcohol? That’s cute.”
Your jaw clenched. “Or maybe I just have early drills tomorrow and don’t want to show up hungover. Wild, I know.”
Trevor shrugged, unbothered. “Your call. I’m off tomorrow. I usually am. Perks of being indispensable.”
Oh boy.
It only got worse.
Trevor was, admittedly, attractive in the technical sense. Broad shoulders, straight teeth, a tattoo of what looked like a circuit board wrapping around his bicep—but every sentence out of his mouth made you question how many brain cells it took to put on deodorant in the morning.
“I’m kind of a genius with electronics,” he said, not even a full five minutes into the conversation. “Like, borderline savant. I rewired my mom’s entire security system when I was sixteen. She still doesn’t know how I did it.”
You nodded slowly, sipping your ginger ale like it was spiked with the patience of a saint. “Impressive.”
“I don’t get why people worship Maverick, honestly,” he continued, tipping his beer toward you like you’d agree. “Bit of a burnout vibe, don’t you think? Washed up. Always breaking the rules.”
You blinked. “You do realize everyone in my squad reports to him, right?”
He waved that off. “Yeah, but come on. You really think he’s still got it? Dude’s a relic.”
You forced a smile, digging your nails into the underside of the table. “So what made you join avionics if you’re such a prodigy?”
“I could totally be a pilot if I wanted. I just don’t want to deal with all the bullshit training. So much red tape, man. You guys live in the cockpit, but I live in reality.”
It was almost impressive—how quickly someone could become more unbearable with every word. You found yourself cataloging the signs like a checklist: talks over you, check. Makes his job sound harder than yours, check. Thinks The Matrix was “based on real science,” check.
“Oh, and don’t get me started on women who fly. No offense,” he said, glancing at you with that same fake grin. “Just seems like a tough gig. Like, do they even make helmets that small?”
You blinked. Slowly. “Excuse me?”
“Kidding,” he said quickly, hands up. “Joking. Lighten up.”
You had lasted thirty-seven minutes. You decided to be generous and make it to forty. Not because he deserved it, but because walking out before the forty-minute mark would just give Jake ammo to say I told you so.
You nursed your ginger ale. You let him talk. You imagined throwing his phone into the jukebox. And finally—finally—you stood.
“Well,” you said, pushing your chair back with a polite smile that barely masked the storm brewing in your chest. “This has been… something.”
Trevor stood too, reaching for your hand like he thought this was going well. “This was nice. Maybe next time you let me pick the music. Jake says you like weird stuff.”
You pulled your hand back. “Jake’s never heard me complain about music.”
Trevor blinked. “You sure? He said—”
“I’m sure,” you said firmly, already turning for the door. “Thanks for the ginger ale.”
The second you stepped outside into the cool night air, you exhaled like you’d just surfaced from a dive. Your boots hit the sidewalk harder than necessary as you made your way toward the parking lot, fingers already curled around your phone.
Jake 🙄
So??
You stared at the text. A dozen responses came to mind, ranging from sarcastic to profane, but you settled for closing your phone without replying. Not yet.
Let him sweat.
-
It was the kind of late afternoon where everyone lingered in the hangar instead of showering—half still suited up, half in undershirts, flopped on crates or leaning against the wing of Rooster’s F/A-18. No one had the energy to leave yet, and unfortunately for you, that gave them plenty of energy to gossip.
“You’re awfully quiet today,” Phoenix said, cracking open a water bottle and tossing another one at you. “That bad?”
You caught it with one hand and gave her a look. “It wasn’t good.”
“Oh, do tell,” Fanboy said, perking up immediately. “We’ve been waiting for the post-mortem.”
Jake, of course, chose that moment to walk in, sunglasses still on despite being indoors and half the sunlight gone. “Here we go,” he muttered, under his breath but not low enough to go unheard.
You ignored him and sat on an ammo crate. “Okay, well. His cologne could’ve killed a small animal.”
Coyote winced. “Yikes.”
“Buzzcut Guy didn’t pass the vibe check?” Rooster asked, adjusting his backwards cap. “I thought Jake said he was ‘normal enough to survive a night with her.’”
You turned slowly. “He said that?”
Jake held up his hands. “In my defense, I said it in confidence to Rooster.”
Phoenix raised her brows. “So you knew he was questionable and still sent her out there?”
“I didn’t know he was that questionable!” Jake protested, finally removing his sunglasses and hooking them onto his collar. “I mean—how bad could it have been?”
You looked at him flatly. “He said, and I quote, ‘Do they even make helmets that small for female pilots?’”
There was a beat of silence. Then—
“Noooooo,” Payback said, wheezing.
Fanboy doubled over like he’d been physically struck. “Nooo shot. Jake. Jake.”
Even Rooster looked horrified. “He said that to your face?”
“Loudly,” you said, sipping your water. “Like he thought it was charming.”
Phoenix’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “He sounds like a national treasure. Jake, where do you find these guys? Do they have a club? Is there a pool you dip into specifically marked ‘do not recommend’?”
Jake looked genuinely pained. “Okay, first of all, Trevor didn’t say any of that shit when we were at the gym.”
“Because of course you recruit men at the gym,” Phoenix said.
“Next you’ll be setting her up with a guy who thinks ‘Top Gun’ was a documentary,” Payback added.
Jake looked at you, eyes a little sharper now. “So what—you’re mad at me again?”
You shrugged. “Not mad. Just impressed you managed to pick someone even worse than the last one.”
Fanboy raised a hand like he was in class. “Question: how do you keep managing to top yourself? Is this a long game to ruin her faith in men so she just gives up and settles for you?”
The squad howled.
Jake’s jaw clenched. “That’s not—”
“I mean,” Rooster said casually, spinning a socket wrench in his fingers. “You do seem to care a whole lot about who she ends up with.”
“Because I’m trying to help,” Jake snapped.
“Help yourself into her pants?” Phoenix offered, deadpan.
“That’s not—oh my god,” Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
You watched him, letting the squad’s laughter drown out the weird warmth under your skin. Jake wasn’t looking at you now, not directly. His ears had gone a little pink.
“Just admit you’re bad at this,” you said calmly, tossing your empty bottle into a nearby bin.
Jake scowled. “You know what? Fine. I’ll do better next time.”
“Oh no,” Rooster said. “There’s gonna be a next time?”
Jake ignored him. “Give me one more shot. I’ve got someone in mind already.”
Coyote looked alarmed. “He said that like a man about to suggest someone who drinks Monster for breakfast.”
Phoenix put her face in her hands. “This is gonna be another ‘I swear he’s normal’ guy, isn’t it?”
You crossed your arms, amused despite yourself. “Is this how you flirt? Just slow psychological warfare until I give up?”
Jake met your gaze. This time, his expression softened. “I could stop if you asked me to.”
You held his stare for a second too long—again—and didn’t reply.
Fanboy clapped his hands. “Alright! Next date pool starts now! Who wants to put money on this one lasting less than thirty minutes?”
“I’m giving her fifteen,” Phoenix said.
“Ten,” said Coyote.
Jake looked around, scandalized. “You guys are actual traitors.”
“Traitors with taste,” Rooster added.
The squad fell back into their banter, placing increasingly dramatic bets, and you let it wash over you—grateful, at least, for the distraction. But as Jake sat beside you on the crate, a little quieter now, you didn’t miss the way his knee bumped yours.
And stayed there.
You glanced back at Jake, who was pretending to be interested in the banter going on with Rooster and Payback, but his knee was still casually brushing yours. Your chest tightened, a weird mix of comfort and something unspoken hanging in the air.
“Alright, Cupid,” you said, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “If you’re so confident, when’s my next ‘date’?”
Jake gave you a mock offended look. “Whoa, slow down. You’re making it sound like I’m some kind of serial dater.”
“Well, you are definitely the reason I’m meeting these characters.” You smirked. “And don’t think I forgot that you specifically picked Buzz Cut Guy.”
Jake shrugged, the grin never leaving his face. “Quality control.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, quality control right into the dumpster.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping an octave. “Hey, I’m trying here. It’s a process.”
You caught the glint in his eyes—the same one you’d seen during briefings, in the heat of missions, and now here, in the middle of all this ridiculous squad chaos. It was easier to tease him, easier to laugh, but your heart hammered with every accidental touch, every shared glance.
“Just… try not to kill me with your ‘dates,’” you teased.
Jake’s smile softened. “No promises.”
For a moment, the noise around you faded, the room shrinking until it was just the two of you—two friends tangled in something neither of you was quite ready to name.
Then Rooster shouted from across the room, “Hey, you lovebirds, quit hogging the crate!”
Jake’s knee finally slid away, but the spark between you lingered.
“Come on,” you said, standing and stretching. “Let’s see what disaster you have planned next.”
Jake was already on his feet, quick on the comeback. “Oh, it’s going to be legendary.”
You laughed, feeling the familiar warmth of the squad around you and something a little more dangerous simmering just beneath the surface.
-
The next morning, the base was buzzing with its usual hum—pilots prepping for missions, techs bustling through equipment checks, and the faint scent of strong coffee drifting from the mess hall. You were sitting at one of the picnic tables outside, scrolling through your phone when Jake strolled up, his flight jacket casually slung over one shoulder.
“Hey,” he said, dropping into the seat across from you with that familiar smirk. “So, about dinner last night…”
You arched a brow. “What about it?”
Jake rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flickering sideways like he was debating how much to spill. “Trevor wasn’t exactly my best pick.”
You chuckled, setting your phone down. “That’s one way to put it.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I thought he’d be better. But then again, I guess it’s hard to find someone who doesn’t suck.”
You snorted. “Thanks for the glowing endorsement.”
Jake grinned. “I’m just saying, your standards are high.”
Before you could respond, Payback and Fanboy appeared nearby, carrying trays loaded with breakfast. Payback gave you a knowing look.
“Talking about your love life again?” he teased, plopping down beside Jake.
“Only because Jake here is apparently moonlighting as a matchmaker,” you shot back, rolling your eyes.
Jake defended himself. “Hey, I’m just trying to help. And I’ve got a new candidate lined up.”
“Oh god,” you groaned, half-exasperated, half-amused.
Rooster wandered over, catching the tail end of the conversation. “Another date?”
Jake nodded, eyes twinkling. “Yep. This one’s different. Supposedly a real stand-up guy. Name’s Marcus.”
“Marcus,” you repeated slowly, trying the name out. “Sounds promising.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jake said, waving a hand. “He’s a cop. Good with his hands, apparently.”
You squinted at him. “How do you know all this?”
Jake smirked. “Let’s just say I do my research.”
The squad chuckled, settling into easy banter as you all ate.
-
The restaurant was dimly lit with an ambiance that felt more like an exclusive lounge than a casual dinner spot. Soft jazz floated through the air, blending with the quiet clinks of silverware and murmurs of other diners. You sat at a small, candlelit table across from Marcus, the cop Jake had set you up with. From the start, you knew this was going to be a challenge, but nothing prepared you for how quickly it spiraled.
Marcus smiled with that easy confidence cops often carried—the kind that told you he was used to getting his way. His eyes lingered a little too long, and the way he spoke felt less like a genuine conversation and more like an interrogation.
“So, Jake thinks we’ll hit it off,” Marcus began, swirling his glass of red wine with practiced ease. “Apparently, he’s a big fan of mixing things up.”
You smiled politely. “Yeah, Jake has his own ways.”
He chuckled but didn’t take the hint to dial it back. “So, what do you do for fun? I mean, besides dating mystery men?”
You raised an eyebrow but answered carefully. “I’m pretty into my work. Flying missions, training. It keeps me busy.”
Marcus nodded as if that was expected. “I get it. Structure, discipline. I’m all about rules myself.”
You tried to steer the conversation to something more neutral, but the undertone grew heavier.
“You know,” Marcus said, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping an octave, “a woman like you probably likes a man who knows what he wants. Someone who takes charge. Makes decisions.”
You felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. “I’m pretty capable of making my own decisions.”
Marcus smirked, clearly amused. “Sure, but there’s something nice about a guy who can show you the way. Keep things simple.”
You shifted in your seat, trying to maintain your composure. The subtle power play was becoming obvious.
“So, what’s your idea of a perfect date?” Marcus asked, but it wasn’t a question so much as a challenge.
You shook your head slightly, feeling the conversation close in. “Honestly, I just want someone who respects me.”
Marcus’s smirk faded just a little. “Respect’s earned, you know.”
At that moment, Marcus’s hand slid from the table, moving slowly until it landed on your thigh. The contact was light but unmistakably deliberate.
You froze, your stomach twisting. “Marcus…”
He didn’t withdraw his hand. Instead, he let it drift further back, brushing the curve of your hip, and then—before you could react—he gave a quick, possessive squeeze on your lower back.
Your breath caught, and your polite smile hardened. You pulled your chair back slightly, creating distance.
“Look, I don’t know what Jake told you about me,” you said quietly but firmly, “but I’m not here to be touched without consent.”
Marcus’s face tightened for a moment, a flicker of irritation crossing his features, but he masked it with a forced laugh.
“Hey, I’m just trying to show you I’m interested.”
You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “Interest isn’t physical if it makes me uncomfortable.”
The rest of the meal was a blur of awkward silences and forced smiles, each minute stretching longer than the last. Your mind raced for a way out, but you were trapped by the formalities and the restaurant’s watchful eyes.
Finally, you excused yourself, mumbling something about the restroom.
Inside, you locked the door behind you and pressed your back against the cold surface. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of adrenaline and frustration flooding your senses.
You pulled out your phone, fingers trembling as you fumbled to unlock it. Your breath hitched as you typed the message again, trying to keep your voice steady despite the knot twisting tighter in your stomach.
You: Jake, please come get me. Marcus is… not what I expected. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m about to lose it.
The silence stretched. Then your phone buzzed.
Jake: Hang tight. I’m leaving now. Don’t do anything stupid.
You exhaled shakily, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. But you couldn’t help the worry gnawing at you.
A few minutes later, your phone rang. You answered quickly.
“Jake,” you whispered, voice cracking.
“Hey,” Jake’s voice was low but tight, laced with anger and concern. “What the hell’s going on?”
You bit your lip, suddenly feeling small. “Marcus… he crossed a line. I told him to stop, but he—he touched me.”
There was a long pause on the other end. Then Jake’s voice dropped, deadly serious.
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine. Just… uncomfortable. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Goddammit,” Jake muttered, his frustration clear. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve stopped this before it even started.”
You pressed your forehead against the cool bathroom wall, trying to calm your racing heart. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”
“I should’ve. I’m on my way, alright? Just stay put. Locked door, no matter what.”
“I will,” you whispered.
Jake’s voice softened for a moment. “I’ll be there soon. You’re not alone.”
As the call ended, you pressed the phone to your chest, letting the sound of Jake’s promise settle in. Somewhere between fear and relief, you realized you trusted him more than anyone else right now — and that maybe this ridiculous matchmaking project was turning into something a lot more complicated.
Steeling yourself, you took a deep breath, glanced at your phone’s screen — Jake had texted back, I’m waiting outside. Don’t say a word until you get here.
You slipped out of the bathroom door quietly, heart thumping so loud you thought it might give you away. The restaurant’s dining room buzzed with muffled conversation and clinking glasses. You ducked behind a pillar, weaving past tables with your eyes on the exit.
The cool night air hit your face as you slipped out the side door, the city sounds washing over you in relief. And there he was—Jake, leaning casually against his car, arms crossed, watching the street like a sentinel.
“You made it,” he said softly, voice just for you.
You barely nodded, sliding into the passenger seat before he even opened the door. The car smelled faintly of leather and pine-scented air freshener, oddly comforting in the tension of the moment.
Then, out of nowhere, the front door of the restaurant slammed open and Marcus stomped outside, scanning every shadow.
“Where the hell did she go?” Marcus growled, voice thick with frustration.
Jake’s eyes narrowed, and before you could blink, he pulled the door closed and locked it with a quiet click.
“Hide,” Jake hissed, pulling the seatbelt tight.
You ducked lower, barely able to keep from laughing as Marcus prowled past the car, his angry muttering unmistakable.
Jake cracked a grin. “Looks like your charming date doesn’t have a clue.”
You giggled, the absurdity of the situation hitting you. “Yeah, real smooth.”
As Marcus circled the block, you and Jake exchanged amused looks, the kind that said, Can you believe this guy?
A laugh escaped you, and Jake’s grin widened until it was all teeth and mischief.
“You know,” Jake said, voice dropping a notch, “we make a pretty good team.”
Your eyes met his in the dim glow of the dashboard, and suddenly the air shifted — the easy humor melting into something softer, something more electric.
Jake’s gaze lingered on you, warmth pooling in his eyes like a silent confession.
“Uh…” he cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “I should probably drop you home now.”
You nodded, cheeks flushed for reasons beyond the cold night air.
Jake started the engine and pulled away, the city lights blurring past the windows.
“I’m sorry you had to put up with that asshole,” he said quietly.
You reached over, squeezing his hand. “Thanks for saving me.”
He glanced your way, that grin teasing the corners of his mouth.
You laughed softly, the tension finally unwinding as the car hummed along the quiet streets.
-
The car pulled up outside your place—a modest, familiar building that felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of the night. Jake cut the engine and glanced over at you, his expression softer now, the easy teasing replaced by genuine concern.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, voice low.
You nodded, but didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, you reached into your bag, pulling out the small jacket you’d tossed over your shoulders earlier. The cold was creeping in now, but you barely noticed.
Jake stepped out and walked around to your side, opening the door. You hesitated for a moment, then slipped out, the night air cool against your skin.
You stood side by side on the sidewalk, the silence between you thick but not uncomfortable. It was as if the city itself had paused to let this moment breathe.
Finally, Jake broke the quiet.
“Next time, i’ll leg you pick out the date,” he said with a small, crooked smile.
You laughed softly, the sound mingling with the distant hum of streetlights and passing cars.
“Deal,” you whispered.
He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Neither of you said more, but the weight of everything unspoken hung in the air—something tender, something promising.
With a final look, you turned toward your door, and Jake watched you go, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.
-
Two days after the restaurant escape, everything felt a little brighter. The sky over base was stupidly blue, the coffee in your hand was criminally good, and for once, your morning wasn’t crawling with tension. Instead, you walked through the hangar bay doors with a little spring in your step, humming under your breath, the lid of your cup pressed to your smile.
Bob was the first to notice.
“Wow,” he said, blinking behind his glasses as you passed him. “Someone’s chipper this morning.”
You smirked, biting back a reply as you took your usual seat beside Phoenix on the toolbox near the main maintenance station. She leaned toward you immediately, squinting. “Okay, what gives? You look like you’re about to break into song.”
Fanboy glanced up from where he was trying to fix the squad’s broken coffee machine. “Please don’t. I haven’t had caffeine in three hours. I might actually cry.”
You held up your cup in mock apology. “I had mine already.”
“Traitor,” he muttered.
Jake looked up from where he was half-bent over a clipboard with Rooster. The second he saw you—your smile, the little crinkle at the corners of your eyes—he felt something twist in his chest. He didn’t say anything, just watched as you took another sip and tried not to grin too hard.
You were glowing. Genuinely glowing.
And it wasn’t because of him.
Coyote joined the group, tossing a wrench onto a nearby cart. “Alright, spill. You’re grinning like you just found out Maverick’s paying off everyone’s student loans.”
You glanced around at all their faces—expectant, amused—and finally caved.
“I met someone,” you said.
Jake’s clipboard snapped shut in his hands. No one else noticed, but his jaw ticked.
Rooster tilted his head. “When?”
“This morning. At a coffee shop, just off base,” you said, twirling your cup slowly. “I was in line, and we started chatting. He’s… funny. Really charming. Works in environmental science or something.”
Phoenix raised a brow. “So not in the military?”
“Nope.”
“Already a green flag,” Fanboy said under his breath.
You laughed. “Right? And he asked me out.”
Jake’s stomach dropped.
You kept talking, unaware of the spiral unraveling behind his practiced expression. “We’re getting dinner tonight. He suggested this little Thai place near the beach. Said it’s his favorite spot.”
“He’s got good taste,” Phoenix said.
“He sounds promising,” Rooster added. “Better than Buzzcut and Cop Guy.”
You winced. “God, don’t remind me.”
“Wait,” Fanboy said, lifting his head. “You’re saying this one might actually be decent?”
“I think so,” you said softly. “He seems… different. It’s not just about looks or whatever. There’s something about him.”
Jake was frozen. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t nod. He was staring at the floor like it held the answers to every single one of his bad decisions.
Because it had just hit him—like a missile to the gut—that he didn’t want to see you smiling like that because of someone else.
He’d wanted it to be him all along.
And now you were going on a date with someone who hadn’t made a complete ass of himself in front of you. Someone you were actually excited about. Someone who made you glow.
Jake couldn’t breathe.
Phoenix noticed the change in his posture and gave him a strange look, but he stood before she could say anything.
“I, uh… I gotta check something in the breakroom,” he muttered, walking off without meeting anyone’s eyes.
Phoenix frowned. “The breakroom?”
Bob glanced at Rooster, then at Fanboy. “We don’t even keep anything in there anymore.”
Rooster sighed. “He’s losing it.”
-
Later That Night
Bob’s place was already filled with the scent of pizza and the low hum of music when the squad filtered in. There was a pile of shoes near the door, two half-full coolers, and a lopsided stack of movies no one would watch.
Jake sat on the couch, beer in hand, eyes glazed over as the rest of the squad cracked open drinks and teased Fanboy for trying to light the fire pit with a lighter too small for the job.
“She’s not here, you know,” Coyote said, flopping onto the other side of the couch.
Jake didn’t reply.
“She’s probably having the time of her life right now,” Fanboy said with a smirk, strolling past with a handful of chips.
“Let it go, man,” Rooster added, nudging Jake’s leg. “We’ve accepted the fact that you’re the world’s worst matchmaker.”
Phoenix dropped down beside them and rolled her eyes. “It’s actually impressive how bad those dates were. I mean, come on—Buzzcut? Marcus?”
Jake took a long sip of beer. “They weren’t that bad.”
“They were terrible,” Phoenix replied. “And now she found someone by accident. Coffee Shop Guy is already in the lead.”
That was the moment her phone buzzed on the table.
Phoenix didn’t look at it right away. She was in the middle of tossing a gummy worm at Rooster’s head. But when it lit up again, and again, she finally picked it up.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh my god.”
Everyone paused.
She turned her phone around and held it out. “Look.”
It was a photo. Taken an hour ago, timestamped. You were on the pier, sitting on the railing, hair blowing in the breeze. Ice cream cone in hand. Laughing. Glowing.
Next to you, a guy. Not Buzzcut. Not Marcus. Someone new. Handsome. Casual arm on the back of your bench.
He looked just as happy.
Jake felt like the air had been knocked out of him.
“That’s him?” Bob asked, peering over her shoulder.
“I guess so,” Phoenix muttered. “My friend saw her and sent this. I had my phone on DND. This was taken, like, an hour ago.”
Jake stood up so fast the couch shook.
“Jake?” Rooster asked.
Jake stared at the picture. And then, before anyone could stop him—
“I love her.”
Everyone froze.
Phoenix blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”
Jake ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “I freaking love her. And I’ve been setting her up with losers because I didn’t want to admit it. But I love her.”
Rooster dropped his beer. “Dude.”
Fanboy choked. “WHAT?”
Coyote threw a pillow at him. “You moron! You let her go on four dates?”
“I KNOW,” Jake groaned.
Phoenix stood up. “You have to tell her. Like now.”
“But she’s with him. Look at them!” Jake pointed at the photo. “They’re probably planning their damn wedding.”
“No,” Bob said calmly. “They’re eating ice cream.”
“We need to find her,” Phoenix decided, grabbing her keys. “Now.”
-
“You want to what?”
Rooster stared at Jake like he’d just suggested they storm the Pentagon in flip-flops and Hawaiian shirts.
Jake stood in the center of Bob’s living room, hair sticking up in every direction, chest heaving with chaotic energy and pure desperation. “A paper airplane. I’m writing her a message. On a damn paper airplane.”
Silence.
Then Fanboy, holding a beer and looking deeply unimpressed, said flatly, “What the hell kind of third-grade rom-com fantasy are we living in right now?”
“I’m serious,” Jake barked. “She told me once—like a year ago—that if someone ever gave her a paper airplane with something meaningful written on it, she’d cry. Happy cry. She said she’d marry them on the spot.”
Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “Wait. She really said that?”
“She was drunk,” Jake admitted, pacing like a man on the edge. “We were playing Truth or Drink, and she was tipsy off two margaritas. She said it was the kind of gesture no one makes anymore—personal, sweet, thoughtful. Like… actually knowing her. Not just pretending.”
Bob, from the armchair, blinked slowly. “You realize that means she probably meant it.”
Jake nodded fast, almost frantic. “Exactly. That’s why I have to do it.”
Rooster tossed a piece of junk mail at him. “Here, use this—wait. Never mind. That’s a Domino’s coupon.”
Coyote reached into his backpack and chucked a half-used notebook across the room. “Use this. But don’t waste the back pages—I have my gym log in there.”
Phoenix snatched a pen off the coffee table and pointed it at Jake like she was about to knight him. “Write from the heart. But don’t be cringe. I swear to god, if you start it with ‘Dear beautiful,’ I’m lighting you and the paper on fire.”
“Noted,” Jake muttered, sitting down like he was about to defuse a bomb instead of write on lined paper. His knee bounced. His fingers drummed. The notebook sat in his lap, untouched, and the squad stared like they were watching a live soap opera unfold on Bravo.
“Bro,” Fanboy said. “Just start with her name.”
“I’m not writing her a letter,” Jake said. “Not like that. I’m writing… pieces. Memories. Stuff I wish I’d done right.”
Bob tilted his head. “Like a patchwork confession?”
“Exactly,” Jake murmured, flipping the notebook open to a clean page and clicking the pen. “Things I should’ve said. Dates I should’ve taken her on. Dumb moments I should’ve known mattered.”
He began writing.
For a long time, the only sound was the soft scratch of the pen and the occasional beer bottle clinking against the coffee table. Jake’s brows furrowed, his mouth tugged into a tight line as he scribbled fast, pausing only to cross something out or shake his head at himself.
One by one, the squad wandered closer, like a group of nosy aunties pretending not to read over his shoulder.
On the top right corner, Jake wrote:
should’ve asked you to be my date to Coyote’s promotion party — you looked so good that night I forgot my own damn name
In the center:
remember that diner in El Centro? I should’ve asked for your number before we even got our food
I should’ve kissed you on the tarmac after that night flight
I should’ve told you that your laugh ruins me
Near the fold:
I kept trying to set you up with guys who weren’t me
because if I admitted I wanted to be the guy — and you didn’t feel the same — I’d never come back from it
Near the tip:
I want to take you on real dates
the kind with car karaoke and milkshakes and pulling you closer on the couch when the movie gets boring
the kind that end with you in my sweatshirt
Near the tail:
I’ve been in love with you since that time you punched Rooster in the arm for making fun of Bob’s playlist
I should’ve told you
I didn’t
I’m sorry
In the bottom left corner, nearly hidden:
I don’t deserve a second chance
but if you gave me one
I swear to god I’d never waste it
By the time he finished, the squad had gone quiet.
Jake exhaled hard through his nose, like the act of putting it all down on paper had taken something out of him. He stared at the page. Folded it. Creased it carefully, like it was a sacred artifact. With practiced fingers, he turned the notebook page into a perfect paper airplane and held it in both hands, like it might break.
Fanboy looked dumbfounded. “Okay, I take back all the slander. That was not stick figure energy.”
Jake stood up slowly, paper airplane in hand, and said—more to himself than anyone else—“I’m giving it to her tonight. I don’t care if it makes me look insane.”
Phoenix grinned. “You already look insane. But also? Kinda hot.”
“I hate how much I’m rooting for you,” Rooster muttered.
Coyote clapped Jake on the shoulder. “Let’s go find her, man. You made your plane. Time to fly it.”
Jake groaned. “That was awful.”
“Thank you, I try,” Coyote said with a wink.
And just like that, the mission was a go. Paper airplane loaded. Feelings confessed. The squad ready to take on the world—or at least the city—in the name of rom-com chaos.
Next stop: the pier.
If she was still there.
If Jake wasn’t already too late.
-
The paper airplane sat on the coffee table like it held nuclear launch codes. Jake didn’t take his eyes off it.
“It’s not even that late,” he muttered, already pacing again. “They could still be at the pier. Maybe walking around or eating somewhere else nearby.”
Phoenix pointed at the picture on her phone again. “Okay, but which pier? That’s the problem. This could be anywhere. There are like seven piers in the county.”
Rooster squinted at the photo. “Zoom in on that sign behind them. The one next to the bench.”
She did, dragging her fingers across the screen. The image was grainy, and the lighting was terrible, but you could just barely make out a few blurry letters.
Fanboy tilted his head like a confused puppy. “That says ‘Pelican something.’ Pelican Wharf? Pelican Bay?”
Bob perked up. “Pelican Point. That’s a real place—it’s by the old marina past the naval museum. There’s a pier right next to it, with that same kind of bench. I’ve been there with my mom.”
Coyote grinned. “Bob, you beautiful genius.”
Jake was already grabbing his keys. “I’m going. I’ll drive out there. If she’s not there, I’ll keep looking.”
Rooster held out a hand like a crossing guard. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can’t just drive off into the night like it’s a Nicholas Sparks movie.”
“I absolutely can,” Jake said, and then paused. “And technically, it’s more like 10 Things I Hate About You.”
Phoenix raised a brow. “So, what? You’re Heath Ledger now?”
Jake pointed at her dramatically. “If the shoe fits, baby.”
Coyote clapped his hands once. “Alright, alright. Let’s not waste time. Jake, you take your truck and go to Pelican Point. If she’s not there, call us.”
Fanboy stood up too. “Wait—we should track her location.”
Everyone turned.
“She shares it with Phoenix!” he added quickly. “Remember when we all went camping and she said if she got murdered in the woods, she wanted someone to find her body?”
Phoenix nodded. “Yeah. I still have her on Find My Friends.”
She pulled up the app. “Okay, last ping was almost two hours ago. But—” She tilted the phone. “—she’s not at Pelican Point anymore.”
Jake frowned. “Where is she?”
Phoenix zoomed in, and then frowned too. “Uh…she’s home.”
A beat of silence passed.
“Wait,” Bob said slowly, “so she’s not on the pier anymore?”
Phoenix shook her head. “Nope. She’s back at her place.”
Fanboy looked around. “So…should we tell Jake not to go?”
“No,” Jake said instantly. “I’m still going. I’ll check the pier just in case the location’s lagging, and if she’s not there, I’m heading to her house.”
Phoenix crossed her arms. “And what’s the plan? You’re just gonna knock on the door and say what? ‘Hi, sorry all your dates sucked. Turns out it’s because I like you?’”
Jake didn’t blink. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
Bob smiled softly. “Don’t forget the airplane.”
Jake grabbed it from the table with a reverence normally reserved for flags and championship rings. He looked at the squad, still wide-eyed and vibrating like a caffeinated hummingbird.
“I have to try,” he said, voice low. “Because if she actually liked this guy—if he’s good to her and he makes her smile like that—and I just sit back and let her be with him, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
Rooster groaned into his hands. “God, you’re in deep.”
Phoenix threw him his hoodie. “Go. But call us if she’s not there.”
Fanboy pointed at the airplane. “And don’t chicken out. That thing’s not gonna launch itself.”
Jake nodded. He turned and made it to the door.
Then paused.
“…You guys coming?” he asked, glancing back.
The squad looked at each other.
And then, like a slow-building mutiny, they all stood.
“We’ll follow you in Rooster’s Bronco,” Coyote said. “But from a distance.”
“We want to see what happens,” Phoenix added. “And make sure you don’t wimp out.”
Bob stood too, grabbing his car keys like they were tactical gear. “Also, if it goes badly, you’ll need backup.”
Jake huffed a disbelieving laugh. “You guys are insane.”
Rooster patted his shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”
They poured out into the night like a small military unit on a love-fueled recon mission. Jake climbed into his truck. The squad piled into two cars behind him. The paper airplane sat on the dashboard like a little talisman.
Operation: Find the Girl was officially underway.
-
Jake’s headlights swept across the gravel lot as he pulled up to the edge of Pelican Point. The pier jutted out into the water like a dark, jagged silhouette against the horizon, the last traces of sunset bleeding into the sky. He threw the truck into park, killed the engine, and stepped out into the warm coastal air.
The wind coming off the ocean hit him like a wall—salty, humid, and just cool enough to feel cinematic. His boots crunched over old wood planks as he walked the length of the pier, scanning every shadow, every bench, every corner where a couple might still be wrapped up in each other.
But it was empty.
No laughter. No clinking silverware from the food shack that had already shut down. No dimly lit photo booth glowing in the background. Just the creaking of wood and the soft lap of waves beneath him.
Jake let out a long, slow breath. “Shit.”
He stood at the railing for a second, holding the paper airplane in both hands, his fingers tightening around the folded wings. The edges were soft now—creased from where he’d clutched it all the way here. His pulse thrummed in his ears.
He glanced down at it again, rereading the scrawled notes across the wings and tail:
“Wish I took you to that rooftop jazz bar instead of setting you up with Trevor.”
“Should’ve kissed you after that night on the beach.”
“You looked so happy at the wedding last spring. I wanted to be the reason.”
“I like you. God, I like you so much it makes me feel twelve.”
He swallowed. Looked out at the water. Then grabbed his phone and hit Phoenix’s name.
She picked up on the first ring.
“Not there?” she asked, no preamble.
“Nope.” Jake dragged a hand through his hair. “Pier’s dead. Not a soul in sight except two drunk teenagers making out on the stairs.”
“Gross.”
“She’s not here, Phoenix.”
“I told you she was home—”
“I know, but I had to check.”
Behind her, he could already hear chaos brewing. Rooster shouting something about Google Maps, Coyote yelling at Fanboy to stop touching the AC controls.
Then Phoenix must’ve put the call on speaker, because suddenly the whole squad was in his ear.
“Abort mission?” Rooster asked.
“No,” Jake snapped. “Not aborting.”
“Then what’s the play?” Fanboy demanded.
“She’s at home. You gonna just roll up and throw the airplane at her window like a boombox?”
“Not a bad idea,” Coyote muttered. “Very Say Anything. Classic.”
Jake turned and leaned his back against the railing, staring up at the sky. “I don’t know, man. I feel like I missed the window. She’s probably sitting on the couch right now with this guy, talking about how great the date was.”
Silence.
Then Bob’s voice came in, quieter. “If that were true, she wouldn’t be home alone.”
Jake blinked. “What?”
“I mean,” Bob said, “if the date went that well, wouldn’t he still be with her? Or at least walking her to the door, staying for a drink, texting her right now? You think she’d really be sitting there by herself?”
Jake said nothing, chewing the inside of his cheek.
“She’s not texting,” Phoenix added. “I can see the read receipts. Last message she sent was a meme about a raccoon eating french fries. That was two hours ago, so your best hope is that she’s not sitting on that couch and making out with that gorgeous man right now”
Rooster groaned. “Why do you know this much about her phone activity?”
“Because I care, Bradley.”
Jake pushed off the railing. “Okay. Okay. I’m going. I’m heading to her place.”
“Hell yeah,” Coyote said immediately.
“Good,” Phoenix added. “And this time, don’t chicken out. Don’t make a joke. Don’t try to flirt your way around it.”
“Be honest,” Bob said gently. “If this is your one shot, take it seriously.”
Jake looked at the paper airplane one more time. Ran his thumb over the wing that read: “Wish I’d told you the truth sooner.”
He nodded to no one.
“On it.”
He hung up.
The squad, for once, didn’t say anything else.
Back in the truck, he laid the airplane carefully on the passenger seat, like it was more fragile than it looked. And for the first time all night, Jake Seresin wasn’t overthinking the landing. He was just aiming straight and trusting the wind.
-
Jake didn’t remember the drive to your place.
Somewhere between the pier and the turnoff to your street, his brain just… blanked. He barely noticed the green lights, the low hum of country radio still buzzing through the truck’s speakers, or the way his hands clenched the steering wheel so tight his knuckles cracked.
All he knew was that the paper airplane sat on the passenger seat like it held his whole heart.
He hadn’t even realized how fast he was driving until he practically skidded up to the curb outside your place, tires whispering against the pavement. His boots hit the ground hard, truck door slamming behind him.
He took the steps two at a time.
Then three.
And then he was there — fist raised, pounding on your front door like it owed him money.
“Open up!” he barked. “Come on, come on—”
He was still muttering to himself when the door opened.
And then you were there.
In a hoodie. Hair pulled back. Eyes glassy.
You looked… wrecked.
And Jake’s voice immediately faltered.
“I—I was gonna—” He waved a hand around like it could pull the words out of the air. “Shit, sorry, I know it’s late, I just—listen, I should’ve said something a long time ago, I was stupid, I thought I was helping you but I was just—God, I’ve been in love with you since that day at the hangar when you made fun of my playlist—”
“Jake.”
“I know you probably hate me,” he rushed on, words tumbling out. “But I had to try, okay? I had to say something before it was too late. I don’t care about the other guys, I don’t care about Coffee shop guy or whatever his name was, I care about you, and I swear to God if you tell me to leave I will—but just let me say this first—”
“Jake.”
You cut in again, softer this time.
He finally looked at you—really looked.
And the words died on his tongue.
You weren’t just tired. You weren’t just annoyed he’d shown up unannounced.
You were upset.
Something in your expression cracked like porcelain under pressure. Eyes rimmed pink, lower lip trembling, arms folded around yourself like armor.
Jake’s chest tightened.
“What happened?” he asked, voice low now. “Are you okay?”
You swallowed hard and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.
“I left the date early,” you muttered. “He—he has a girlfriend.”
Jake blinked. “What?”
You laughed, bitter and broken. “Yeah. She showed up halfway through. Started yelling at him. Apparently this is a thing he does. Picks up girls at coffee shops and sees how long he can keep the lie going.”
Jake’s jaw clenched. “I’m gonna kill him.”
You didn’t answer.
Just stared down at the floor like it held the last shred of your dignity.
And that’s when Jake’s whole demeanor shifted.
The flustered panic drained from his face. The tension in his shoulders melted, replaced with something raw and real and steady. He took one careful step forward, then another, until he was right in front of you.
You didn’t flinch when his hand cupped your cheek. You just leaned into it—soft and broken and trusting.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
You shook your head. “It’s not your fault.”
“I think it is,” he said. “I think if I’d said something sooner, you never would’ve gone on that date.”
Silence stretched between you.
And then Jake reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the folded paper airplane.
“I was gonna just give you this,” he murmured. “Let it speak for me. But now I think you deserve more than a folded-up piece of notebook paper.”
He stepped back.
And then—to your absolute shock—he dropped to one knee on your porch.
“Jake—?”
“Don’t freak out,” he said quickly. “I’m not proposing. Not unless you want me to, in which case I’ll go grab a ring pop from the gas station, we can make it official.”
You snorted despite yourself.
He smiled.
Then he held the airplane out in both hands like an offering.
“I wrote everything I should’ve said,” he said quietly. “Everything I didn’t say when I should’ve. It’s all there. Every missed chance. Every almost. Every wish.”
Your fingers brushed the paper.
Jake’s voice wavered, just slightly.
“I thought if I couldn’t find the right words… maybe I could fold them.”
You didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just stood there, stunned, holding the paper like it might shatter if you breathed wrong.
“I know it’s late,” Jake added. “I know I’m late. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend every day making up for the days I didn’t say the right thing.”
You blinked fast, trying to keep the tears in.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” you whispered.
Jake stood.
“I was scared,” he said honestly. “Because once I told you… it’d be real. And if you didn’t feel the same, I don’t know if I could’ve stood next to you every day pretending it didn’t kill me.”
He looked at you.
And something cracked open inside you.
You didn’t even think. Just stepped forward, dropped the paper airplane gently to the porch, and reached for his collar.
Jake barely had time to register the movement before your mouth was on his.
The kiss was everything.
Long-overdue and breathless. Gentle and feral. All teeth and tears and tangled hands in hair and whispered promises between gasps.
When you finally pulled back, Jake was grinning like a fool, forehead pressed to yours.
And then—
A honk.
From the street.
You turned, squinting into the dark—
And saw two parked cars.
One held Fanboy half hanging out the window, fist pumping in the air.
The other had Phoenix leaning on the horn and Rooster hanging a “FINALLY!” sign out the passenger side.
Jake groaned. “Oh my god.”
“They followed you?”
“I hate them so much.”
“I love them,” you corrected, grabbing the paper airplane and tucking it close to your heart. “And I think I love you.”
Jake blinked.
Then grinned.
“Yeah?” he whispered.
You kissed him again.
Longer this time.
From the cars, a chorus of victorious whooping erupted—cheers, clapping, and at least one bottle of champagne being popped (probably Coyote’s doing).
But Jake didn’t hear any of it.
He was too busy falling into the kiss like it was his softest landing yet.
Can i ask... hsr men with a reader who always calls them by their name, when the reader suddenly uses a pet name, an intimate one at that out of nowhere? Like, would they ignore would they get flustered or stuff?
“Call Me That Again and I’m Yours”
Synopsis: They’ve always known you as someone steady—reliable, composed, respectful. Names were a boundary you never crossed. Until you did.
Suddenly, a soft pet name slips from your lips—they can only respond in the only way they know how.
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Caelus x Reader, Argenti x Reader, Romantic Tension, Emotional Vulnerability, Subtle Fluff, Soft Pet Names, Slow burn/Sudden Intimacy, Banter turning Tender, Hurt/Comfort (esp. for Mydei and Sunday), Stoic Men Unraveling, Subtext and Suppressed Feelings, Unexpected Reactions.
A/N: I might have to do multiple parts of this req, so let me know which characters you wanna see next! :DD
You’d always called him Aventurine—not Kakavasha, never anything soft. Just Aventurine. Clean, professional, distant. Even during your playful banter or those late-night strategy sessions when his voice dipped and his eyes lingered a little too long, you’d kept the line firm.
But tonight, as he adjusted the roulette brooch on his collar, you walked past him, leaned in, and murmured, “Looking sharp tonight, darling.”
He froze. For precisely 0.5 seconds—a brief hitch in his well-oiled persona. His fingers paused mid-adjustment, and the ever-present grin twitched, faltered… then curved into something slower. Something far more dangerous.
“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking to yours like dice clattering on velvet. “Did my ears deceive me, or have you just raised the stakes?”
You arched a brow, amused. “I figured it was time to gamble a little.”
His smile widened, but you saw it then—the faint crack in his composure. The way his hand ghosted behind his back, fingers twitching in the air like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you closer or push you away. That name—it wasn’t just cute. It was intimate. Dangerous. It threatened the mask he so carefully wore.
“Careful,” he whispered, stepping closer until your breath caught. “Use that word again, and I might start to think you mean it.”
You smiled back, just as daring. “Maybe I do.”
And just like that, for once, you’d left him unsure who was winning.
“Sunday, we need to address the guest list again. The ceremony’s balance will collapse if—”
“—We include the North Sector delegates, yes,” he interrupted gently, hands folded, gaze serene. “I am already aware.”
You sighed, scribbling notes. Same old Sunday—graceful, poised, untouchable.
“Fine, love, but if this flops, I’m blaming you.”
Silence.
You didn’t catch it at first. His reaction was… almost imperceptible. The pen stilled between his gloved fingers. His eyes flicked toward you with the smallest shift of light. There was no smile, no obvious response, but something behind his gaze unraveled—like a ripple across still water.
“…‘Love’?” he repeated quietly, voice low, measured.
You looked up, unsure if you should laugh it off. “It just slipped.”
“I see.”
He returned to his work, posture perfect—but you noticed he hadn’t written a word since. His mind was elsewhere. The halo above his head shimmered subtly, like it pulsed in time with his heart.
It wasn’t embarrassment. It was something deeper. As if the word had struck a chord he’d long buried—something warm, painful, human.
“…You shouldn’t use a word like that lightly,” he finally said, glancing at you again.
“And if I didn’t?”
His lips parted, then closed. No answer. But his gloved hand slowly reached over and rested on yours, just for a moment. A silent concession. A rare flicker of vulnerability.
You'd breached something sacred—and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull away or fall in.
You found him alone after the skirmish, sitting on the edge of a ruined stone altar, cape torn, armor dusted with ash. The blood wasn’t his, but it stained his hands all the same.
“Mydei,” you called softly, approaching him through the rubble.
He didn’t look up. “I told you to stay with the others.”
“I don’t take orders well.”
A pause. Then a sigh—more relief than exasperation. His eyes finally met yours, heavy with exhaustion and something else: grief he didn’t voice, names he couldn’t forget.
You reached out, thumb brushing a line of red from his jaw. “You’re safe… Beloved.”
He blinked.
“Say that again.”
You tilted your head. “Beloved?”
He stood, slowly, towering, not in a threatening way—but like the weight of that word shifted the battlefield under your feet. He stepped closer until you had to tilt your head to meet his gaze.
“No one’s called me that since…” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Since before the sea swallowed me whole.”
You swallowed. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” he said, reaching out with a hand trembling with restraint. “No, don’t stop.”
In a world where titles were earned through blood and legacy, beloved was the one name he’d longed for but never dared to claim.
You gave it freely—and that was the one war he didn’t know how to fight.
Dan Heng stood silently in the Archives, eyes scanning over glowing data logs. You approached, hands behind your back, watching the way the soft blue light played across his features.
“Dan Heng,” you said as usual. He hummed softly, acknowledging you without turning.
You reached his side, pretending to study the data, but your focus was on the curve of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.
“I brought you some tea. Thought you could use a break, darling.”
The word slipped out, soft and syrupy.
Dan Heng froze.
His grip on the datapad faltered. He didn’t look at you immediately, but his ears turned a vivid shade of pink.
“…What did you call me?” he asked, tone low, almost cautious.
You played innocent. “Hmm? Oh, nothing, Dan Heng.”
He finally turned, eyes narrowed, a faint flush still lingering on his cheeks. “You did. Say it again.”
You tilted your head, grinning. “Darling?”
He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath, trying to maintain composure. He failed spectacularly. The calm, cool Dan Heng couldn’t meet your eyes for a solid thirty seconds.
But when he finally did, he stepped closer.
“…If you’re going to say things like that,” he murmured, voice softer now, “Don’t be surprised when I stop pretending I’m unaffected.”
You and Caelus had been walking side by side after a mission, stars glittering above. You laughed about something he’d said, casually bumping your shoulder against his.
“You always do this, Caelus,” you said, teasing. “Charging in like you’ve got plot armor or something.”
“I mean, I might,” he joked. “Main character energy and all.”
You rolled your eyes. “Sure thing, love.”
The moment the word left your lips, silence fell.
Caelus tripped over his own foot.
He caught himself quickly, turning to you with wide eyes. “Wait. Did you just call me—?”
“I did,” you confirmed with a sly grin. “Something wrong with that, love?”
His expression shifted, uncertain whether to be flustered or flattered. He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks blooming with color.
“I… No. I mean, it’s not wrong. Just. Unexpected.”
You nudged him again. “You’re cute when you’re trying not to smile.”
“I’m not trying not to smile,” he said quickly, then failed to hide the shy grin tugging at his lips. “Okay, maybe I am. Call me that again.”
The battlefield was quiet now, monsters defeated, the sunset casting golden hues across the ruins. Argenti stood tall, brushing dust from his armor with knightly grace.
You approached, hands behind your back.
“Argenti, you were amazing back there,” you praised, as always.
He nodded humbly. “Merely fulfilling my duty to Beauty and righteousness.”
You smiled. “Of course, beloved.”
Argenti blinked.
The word echoed.
He turned to you slowly, as if unsure he’d heard correctly. “Beloved…?”
You tilted your head, eyes innocent. “Yes?”
He pressed a hand to his chest, lips parting slightly in astonishment. “You honor me with such a name… Are you certain… I am worthy of it?”
“You’ve always been worthy,” you said softly.
He took your hand, kneeling with a reverent grace, eyes shining. “Then allow me to dedicate not only my blade but my heart to you. For Beauty may guide me, but you, my beloved, inspire me.”
You laughed, a little flustered yourself now.
Leave it to Argenti to turn one pet name into a poetic vow.
Summary: After the exam, the diner, the hickey, and everything that happened in the apartment, going to the bar together should be simple. It is not. Because walking in with Jack’s hand in yours means letting people see what the two of you have stopped pretending not to want. Taylor has questions. Claire has comments. Robby has absolutely no ability to behave. And Jack, unfortunately, has decided to wear a backwards hat and make being publicly claimed everyone else’s problem. But for once, you do not let go.
Warnings: 18+ series, minors dni, sexual references, post-smut softness, public relationship reveal, handholding, teasing, jealous Jack, possessive undertones, Claire being Claire, Robby being Robby, Taylor being emotionally invested, alcohol/drinking, bar setting, dancing, pool-table flirting, backwards hat as emotional warfare, “wife” jokes, soft public affection, kissing, big feelings disguised as banter, no explicit smut in this chapter.
Author's Note: Lovelies… we made it. This chapter feels like such a beautiful ending point for Jack and the reader’s main arc. They started as rivals who could barely survive sharing an apartment, and now they’re walking into a bar hand in hand, flirting over pool, letting people see them, and choosing not to let go. I’m not saying goodbye to them forever because I adore them too much, and if people want more, I’d be very open to bonus scenes/snapshots from this universe. But as far as the main emotional arc goes, this felt like the right place to leave them: together. seen. not hiding. Thank you for loving these two with me. genuinely. This series has meant so much to write.
It made you feel human again, at least. Warm water, clean skin, Jack’s hands careful at your waist when you stepped around him in the small bathroom, his mouth pressing once to your shoulder before he reached for the soap like that was a normal thing now.
Like any of this was normal.
By the time you made it back to your room, your hair was damp at the ends, and your body still felt loose in a way that made getting dressed feel vaguely unfair.
Jack had gone to his room to change.
You tried very hard not to think about that.
You failed almost immediately.
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the bathroom fan and the old pipes clicking somewhere in the wall. You stood in front of your dresser for too long, towel wrapped around you, staring at clothes like you had never been responsible for dressing yourself before.
The bar.
Taylor. Ethan. Claire.
Jack’s hand in yours.
Not hiding.
Your stomach flipped.
You picked the jeans first.
Light wash. High-waisted. Fitted enough to be dangerous without looking like you had tried too hard.
Then the white top.
Then the black leather jacket.
You looked at yourself in the mirror and immediately regretted having eyes.
Because you looked good.
Which was somehow worse.
It made the whole thing feel intentional. It made the decision feel real. Like you were getting dressed to be seen, not just by everyone at the bar, but by him.
Especially by him.
You were still adjusting the hem of your top when Jack knocked once on the open doorframe.
“You decent?” he asked.
You looked at him in the mirror. “Since when do you care?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Trying out manners.”
“Don’t,” you said. “It’s unsettling.”
He stepped into the doorway then, and every clever thing in your head went blank.
Because Jack Abbot was standing there in jeans, a dark shirt, and a backwards baseball cap.
Backwards.
Like an act of violence.
Like a personal attack.
Like he had woken up that morning and decided you did not deserve peace.
Your hand froze at the hem of your jacket.
Jack noticed immediately.
His eyes moved over your face, then down, taking in the white top, the jeans, the jacket, before coming back to your eyes with a look that made your pulse trip.
“What?” he asked.
You stared at the hat.
Then at him.
Then back at the hat, because apparently you were weak and had no interest in pretending otherwise.
“No,” you said.
Jack’s brow lifted. “No?”
You stepped closer before you could think better of it, your eyes catching on the damp curls poking out from beneath the edge of the cap.
Soft.
Reddish-brown.
Still wet from the shower.
Your hand lifted before you could stop it.
Jack went still when your fingers brushed one curl near his temple.
Your stomach flipped.
“No,” you said again, quieter this time. “Not fair, Abbot.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “My hair is wet.”
You touched the curl again, then the brim of the cap. “Mm-hmm.”
You looked up at him. “Like you’re not actively trying to seduce me.”
His smile started slowly.
Too slowly.
The kind of smile that meant he had heard every word and intended to keep it.
“I’m standing here,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re standing here in my room with wet curls under a backwards hat.”
His gaze dipped to your mouth. “That’s seduction?”
“Don’t be cute,” you said.
“I wasn’t trying to be cute,” he said.
You clicked your tongue. “Liar.”
Jack’s hand settled at your waist, thumb pressing once through the leather of your jacket. “You think I’m cute?”
You gave him a flat look. “That is not what I said.”
His smile deepened. “It’s what I heard.”
“You have selective hearing,” you said, shaking your head.
“Only when it benefits me,” he said.
You tried to roll your eyes, but your fingers were still touching the damp curl at his temple, and Jack’s attention had gone soft around the edges because of it.
That ruined the eye roll completely.
His voice came lower. “You like the hat.”
You swallowed. “Unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately,” Jack repeated.
“Yes,” you said. “It’s inconvenient.”
His thumb moved once at your waist. “For who?”
“For me,” you said. “Obviously.”
His mouth curved again, pleased in that quiet way that made you want to kiss him and shove him at the same time.
Then his gaze moved over you.
Not fast.
Not subtle.
The white top. The jeans. The leather jacket. Your hair, still soft from the shower.
Your skin prickled beneath his attention.
“What?” you asked.
Jack’s eyes came back to yours as his hand moved once at your waist. “You look good.”
Your chest tightened.
No tease.
No joke.
Just that.
You looked down, suddenly too aware of the fitted white top beneath the jacket, the high waist of your jeans, the fact that you had chosen this outfit knowing exactly whose eyes you wanted on you first.
Jack saw that too.
His voice softened. “Hey.”
You looked back up.
His hand slid lower from your waist to your hip, not pulling you closer, just keeping you there.
“You look good,” Jack said again.
Your throat tightened. “So do you.”
His mouth curved. “The hat?”
You touched the brim again. “Don’t push it.”
Jack’s smile got worse. “Noted.”
“It’s not the hat,” you said.
He arched a brow. “No?”
You let your eyes move over him once, just enough to be honest and just enough to make his jaw shift.
Then you looked back at the cap.
“It’s mostly the hat,” you said.
Jack huffed a laugh, soft and surprised, and the sound landed somewhere dangerous in your chest.
For a second, neither of you moved.
You were standing in your room, freshly showered, dressed to go out, close enough to touch, close enough to change your minds. The bar was waiting. Taylor and Ethan were waiting. Claire was probably already somewhere deciding how to make things uncomfortable.
And Jack was here, looking at you like he still could not quite believe you had agreed to be seen with him.
Not separately.
Not accidentally.
Together.
Your fingers slipped from the brim of his hat to the front of his shirt, smoothing a wrinkle that did not need smoothing.
Jack watched the movement.
“You ready?” he asked.
You inhaled once, then nodded. “Yeah.”
His eyes searched yours. “Yeah?”
You gave him a small smile. “I’m ready.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “That sounded almost convincing.”
“It was convincing,” you said.
Jack hummed. “Mm.”
You looked up at him, at the damp curls beneath the backwards hat, at the amused curve of his mouth, at the way he was standing close enough to ruin all your good intentions.
Then your fingers tightened lightly in the front of his shirt.
“I’m ready,” you said. “It’d be a shame not to show you off when you look like this.”
Jack went still.
His mouth parted slightly before he caught it, and for one beautiful second, Jack Abbot looked completely, helplessly pleased.
Then he looked away.
Your eyes widened. “Did you just blush?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “No.”
You stepped closer. “You did.”
“I didn’t,” he said.
You smiled. “Abbot.”
His eyes came back to yours, narrowed now, but the corner of his mouth had given him away. “Careful.”
You smiled. “No.”
Jack’s hand found yours.
No question this time.
No careful request.
You had already said yes.
His fingers threaded through yours, warm and sure, and your pulse jumped anyway.
His thumb moved once over yours. “Still okay?”
You looked down at your joined hands.
Then back at him.
“Yeah,” you said. “Still okay.”
Jack’s expression softened, but only for a second before the almost-smile came back.
“Good,” he said.
You groaned. “And now you’re saying that on purpose.”
He opened the bedroom door with his free hand. “I’ve said it on purpose every time.”
You stopped walking.
Jack stopped too, glancing back at you.
Your eyes narrowed. “Every time?”
His smile was slow.
Devastating.
“Every time,” Jack said.
You stared at him.
Then pointed toward the hall. “Bar. Now. Before I make poor choices.”
Jack squeezed your hand once.
Then he pulled you gently toward the door.
You followed him out, still holding his hand, still trying not to smile.
The bar was already half-swallowed by med students when you got there.
It happened after finals every year, apparently. Not officially. Not with flyers or sign-ups or anyone responsible enough to reserve space. People just finished exams, changed clothes, and ended up at McCarthy’s because it was close to campus, cheap enough to justify, and willing to tolerate the particular volume of people who had spent too many weeks memorizing pathways and slowly losing their minds.
By the time Jack opened the door, the place was warm with noise.
Someone from the year above you was losing loudly at darts. A cluster of fourth-years had taken over the booths near the back. Two second-years were arguing at the bar about whether they had passed renal. Someone had started feeding dollar bills into the jukebox with the manic determination of a person who had not slept properly since October.
And then there was you.
Standing in the doorway with Jack Abbot’s hand wrapped around yours.
For half a second, no one noticed.
Then Taylor looked up from the high-top near the back.
Her straw stopped halfway to her mouth.
Her eyes dropped to your joined hands.
Then her face changed.
Slowly.
Delightedly.
“Oh my God,” Taylor said.
Ethan turned in his chair. “What?”
Taylor slapped his arm without looking away from you. “Oh my God.”
Ethan followed her gaze.
His eyes widened. “Oh my God.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over yours.
You glanced up at him.
His mouth was trying very hard not to move.
Failing.
That helped more than it should have.
From somewhere near the pool table, Robby’s voice cut through the noise.
“No way,” Robby said.
You looked over.
Robby was standing with two people you recognized vaguely from the year above you, beer in one hand, pool cue in the other, his face lit with the exhausted satisfaction of a man who had been waiting for justice.
Taylor made a delighted sound from the high-top. “You knew?”
Robby looked at her. “I have eyes.”
Ethan leaned back in his chair. “I also have eyes, and somehow I feel behind.”
Taylor patted his arm without looking away from you and Jack. “That’s because you use yours incorrectly.”
Then Robby’s eyes dropped to your joined hands.
His expression shifted into theatrical concern.
“Wait,” Robby said. “Does this mean I can’t flirt with her anymore?”
“Yes,” Jack said.
“No,” you said at the exact same time.
The silence lasted half a second.
Then Robby’s entire face lit up.
“Oh, excellent,” Robby said.
Jack turned his head slowly toward you.
His eyes narrowed. “No?”
You shrugged. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
Jack went still.
Actually still.
His mouth parted slightly before he caught it, and then he looked away.
Your eyes widened. “Did you just blush?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “No.”
You stepped closer, still holding his hand. “You did.”
Robby leaned against the pool cue, delighted beyond reason. “This is the best night of my life.”
Jack looked at him. “It’s about to be your last.”
Robby lifted both hands, still grinning. “Worth it.”
You squeezed Jack’s hand. “See? Cute.”
Jack looked back at you, his eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth had given him away.
“Careful,” Jack said.
You smiled. “No.”
Claire’s eyes flicked from your face to Jack’s hand around yours.
For one second, her smile did not quite make it.
Then she recovered.
“Well,” Claire said lightly. “That answers a few questions.”
Your fingers twitched.
Jack felt it.
This time, you tightened your grip before fear could make the decision for you.
His thumb brushed once over yours.
There.
Still here.
You looked at Claire and smiled.
“Yeah,” you said. “I guess it does.”
Taylor made a small strangled sound into her drink.
Ethan looked between you and Jack like he was trying to decide whether he was allowed to react yet.
Jack exhaled through his nose, then looked down at you.
His hand was still around yours.
Your hand was still around his.
The room was still loud, still crowded, still full of people who knew both of you well enough to understand that this meant something.
And you had not let go.
Jack’s thumb moved once over yours.
“You want a drink?” he asked.
You looked up at him, still fighting a smile. “You buying?”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’m asking.”
You tilted your head. “Vodka cranberry.”
Jack nodded once. “And water.”
Your smile dropped. “That was not part of my order.”
“It is now,” Jack said.
You stared at him. “Bossy.”
His eyes warmed. “Hydrated.”
“Bossy,” you said again.
Jack leaned closer, his mouth near your ear. “Both.”
Your stomach flipped.
You hated him.
You absolutely hated him.
You smiled anyway.
Jack left you at the edge of the high-top with one last squeeze of your hand before heading toward the bar.
You watched him go.
Which was a mistake.
A terrible one.
Because the backwards hat was no less destructive from behind, and now you had the added problem of knowing he was walking away to buy you a drink and water like some kind of annoyingly responsible fantasy.
Taylor leaned across the table immediately. “Okay.”
You looked at her. “No.”
Taylor’s eyes were wide and bright. “Yes.”
Ethan glanced between the two of you. “Am I supposed to leave?”
Taylor did not look away from you. “No.”
You pointed at Ethan. “Yes.”
Ethan sat back. “Conflicting instructions.”
Taylor ignored him completely. “How long?”
Your stomach flipped. “How long what?”
Taylor gave you a look. “Do not insult me after the day I’ve had.”
You glanced toward the bar.
Jack was standing with one elbow near the counter, talking to the bartender. His shoulders were relaxed, but his head turned slightly, like some part of him was still keeping track of you across the room.
That did something awful to your chest.
Taylor followed your gaze.
Her expression softened for half a second.
“Oh,” Taylor said.
You looked back at her quickly. “Don’t.”
Taylor’s voice went gentler. “You’re happy.”
Your mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
That was worse than teasing.
Much worse.
Ethan’s face softened too, like he had not meant to witness something real but was trying to be careful with it now that he had.
You looked down at the table. “Do not make this emotional.”
Taylor straightened immediately. “Fine. Did you sleep with him?”
Ethan choked on nothing. “Taylor.”
Taylor waved a hand at him. “Shut up.”
Your eyes widened. “You cannot just ask that.”
Taylor leaned closer. “I absolutely can.”
Ethan looked deeply uncomfortable. “I don’t need to know this.”
Taylor kept her eyes on you. “No one is talking to you.”
You tried to hold your face still.
You really did.
But your mouth betrayed you.
Just a little.
Taylor saw it instantly.
Her lips parted. “Oh my God.”
Ethan covered his face with one hand. “I hate it here.”
Taylor slapped his arm without looking away from you. “Be quiet. This is everything.”
You pressed your lips together.
Taylor’s voice dropped, urgent and delighted. “How was it?”
Ethan’s hand lowered. “Absolutely not.”
You looked at him. “Cover your ears.”
Ethan stared at you. “I’m twenty-six years old.”
Taylor pointed at him. “Cover your ears.”
Ethan looked between you both, then groaned and covered his ears with both hands. “I am being bullied.”
You leaned toward Taylor.
Taylor leaned in too, practically humming with anticipation.
You did not say it out loud.
You only mouthed the words.
Oh.
My.
God.
Taylor’s entire body reacted.
She made a sound so high and delighted that three people at the next table looked over.
Jack looked over too.
Of course he did.
From the bar, his eyes found you immediately.
Then Taylor.
Then Ethan, who was still sitting there with his hands clamped over his ears.
Jack’s brows drew together.
You straightened too fast.
Taylor slapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.
Ethan lowered his hands. “Is it over?”
Jack’s gaze narrowed slightly from across the room.
You smiled at him.
Too innocent.
He did not look convinced.
Taylor leaned closer, voice barely contained. “He knows.”
Ethan looked tired. “I don’t know what’s happening, and I still know too much.”
Jack accepted two glasses from the bartender.
One drink.
One water.
Taylor watched him start back toward the table. “He got you water.”
You sighed. “He said it was part of the order.”
Ethan nodded solemnly. “That tracks.”
Jack returned a second later, setting the vodka cranberry in front of you first, then the water beside it.
You looked at the water.
Then at him.
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Hydrated.”
You picked up the drink instead. “Bossy.”
His hand settled at the small of your back, warm through the leather of your jacket. “Both.”
Taylor made a small sound into her glass.
You took a sip of your drink to hide your smile.
Jack’s thumb moved once against your back.
Small.
Private.
Still somehow very public.
Your pulse jumped.
Claire watched from the other side of the table, quiet in a way that felt too deliberate. Her eyes moved from Jack’s hand on your back to the drink he had brought you, then to the water, then back to your face.
You met her gaze.
For once, you did not look away.
Claire’s smile came slowly. “So. This is new.”
Your fingers tightened around your glass.
Jack’s hand stilled at your back, but he did not answer for you.
He waited.
That mattered more than you wanted it to.
You tilted your head. “Is it?”
Taylor’s eyebrows shot up.
Ethan looked down into his drink like it might provide guidance.
Claire’s smile sharpened by a fraction. “It looks new.”
You could feel Jack beside you.
Steady.
Warm.
Not stepping in.
Not stepping away.
Your hand moved before you could overthink it, leaving your glass on the table and finding his where it rested near your hip.
His fingers opened for yours immediately.
You looked at Claire and smiled. “Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”
Taylor bit down on her straw.
Ethan stared into the middle distance.
Jack did not say anything.
He did not need to.
His thumb moved once over your fingers, and you knew he was smiling without having to look.
Claire’s expression held for one more second.
Then she laughed lightly. “Apparently not.”
Your hand stayed in Jack’s.
His hand stayed at your back.
And for the first time all night, the attention did not make you want to run.
It made you want to lean into him.
So you did.
Just a little.
Jack felt it immediately.
His arm shifted behind you, settling more securely at your waist.
No hesitation.
No question.
Just there.
And you let him.
Then Taylor’s hand shot across the table and wrapped around your wrist.
“Come dance with me,” Taylor said.
Your eyes widened. “Taylor.”
Taylor slid off her stool, already pulling you with her. “Finals are over, and I need to move before my bones remember what sitting in a library chair felt like.”
Ethan lifted his glass slightly. “That was the most medical thing you’ve ever said.”
Taylor pointed at him over her shoulder. “Thank you.”
Jack’s arm loosened from your waist, but his hand stayed at your back for one second longer, like he was checking whether you wanted him to intervene.
You looked up at him.
He was already watching you.
Waiting.
Your stomach softened.
“I’ll be fine,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I know.”
Taylor tugged your hand again. “Come on. Before you both start looking at each other like that again.”
Jack’s mouth almost moved.
You let Taylor pull you away before you could ask what kind of face you had been making.
The song was loud.
Ridiculous.
Perfect.
Taylor spun toward you, hair flying over her shoulder, eyes bright with the kind of post-finals mania that probably should have worried someone.
“This is insane,” Taylor said over the music.
You laughed. “The dancing?”
Taylor grabbed both your hands. “No. You and Abbot.”
Your gaze betrayed you immediately.
Across the room, Jack had taken your place at the edge of the high-top. Your drink sat beside his hand. Your water was in his other hand because apparently he had accepted his assignment as hydration supervisor with alarming seriousness.
His eyes were on you.
Of course they were.
He leaned back against the table, backwards hat low enough to make the whole thing unfair, one hand wrapped around your water like it mattered.
Taylor followed your gaze.
Her expression softened beneath the teasing.
“You look happy,” Taylor said.
Your throat tightened.
You looked back at her quickly. “Don’t.”
Taylor’s smile warmed. “I’m not doing anything.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re looking at me like that.”
Taylor tilted her head. “Like what?”
“Like you’re about to say something sincere,” you said.
Taylor squeezed your hands once. “Fine. I won’t.”
You smiled. “Thank you.”
Taylor spun you under her arm with absolutely no rhythm. “For at least thirty seconds.”
You laughed so hard you nearly stumbled.
Jack straightened immediately.
You caught the movement over Taylor’s shoulder, and the laugh slipped out of you again, softer this time.
Taylor turned to look, then looked back at you with delight all over her face.
“Oh, that was cute,” Taylor said.
You pointed at her. “Do not call him cute.”
Taylor’s eyes flicked back to Jack, who was now pretending he had not almost crossed the bar because you stumbled half an inch. “He is kind of cute.”
“He would hate that,” you said.
Taylor smiled. “I know.”
The song shifted into something faster, and Taylor cheered, pulling you closer to the little crowd near the jukebox. You let her. For the first time all night, maybe all semester, you let yourself be ridiculous without measuring it first.
You danced.
You laughed.
You forgot, for nearly thirty whole seconds, to worry about who was watching.
Then Taylor spun away from you to shout something at a classmate, and you turned back toward the table.
Jack was gone.
Your stomach dropped before you could reason with it.
Then a hand touched your waist from behind.
Warm.
Familiar.
Steady.
You knew him before you turned.
Jack leaned close enough for his voice to reach your ear over the music. “Drink.”
You looked down.
He was holding out your water.
You turned in his hand, smiling before you could stop yourself. “You came all the way over here for that?”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Hydration is important.”
“You are ridiculous,” you said.
His eyes moved over your face. “You’re warm.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not diagnose me on the dance floor.”
“I’m not diagnosing,” Jack said. “I’m observing.”
You took the water from him. “I hate that word.”
His hand stayed at your waist while you drank.
Not possessive enough to make a show of it.
Not casual enough to be mistaken for anything else.
Just there.
Taylor appeared beside you, breathless and grinning. “Oh good. Supplies.”
Jack glanced at her. “You want water too?”
Taylor blinked.
Then her face softened into something almost dangerous. “That is annoyingly sweet.”
Jack looked uncomfortable immediately. “It’s water.”
You smiled into your glass. “He gets weird when people notice he’s nice.”
Taylor’s eyes widened. “Noted.”
Jack looked at you. “You’re both very loud.”
Taylor nodded. “And yet you walked over here.”
Jack’s hand pressed once at your waist. “For her.”
Taylor closed her mouth, but the smile stayed.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your finger, then lifted to your face. “You ready to come back?”
You looked at Taylor.
Taylor was already backing away with both hands raised.
“Go,” Taylor said. “I need a minute.”
You rolled your eyes, but when Jack offered his hand, you took it.
Of course you took it.
His fingers closed around yours, and he led you back through the crowd, careful without making it obvious. His body moved slightly ahead of yours through the busiest part, shoulder clearing space, hand firm around yours.
By the time you reached the high-top again, your drink was still waiting beside his.
And so was the look on Claire’s face.
Not sharp exactly.
Just watching.
Measuring.
You felt the old instinct flicker.
The urge to pull your hand free before anyone could make the choice feel too big.
Jack’s fingers tightened around yours.
Once.
A question.
You looked up at him.
He did not say anything.
He did not need to.
You held on.
Then you reached for your drink with your free hand and leaned into his side like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Robby lifted his pool cue from near the far table and pointed it toward you.
“You two playing or standing there looking married all night?” Robby called.
Your drink paused halfway to your mouth.
Jack’s hand stilled at your waist.
Taylor made a quiet sound beside you.
Ethan looked down into his glass like he was trying not to witness the fallout.
You turned slowly toward Robby. “Looking what?”
Robby’s grin widened from across the room. “Comfortable. I said comfortable.”
Jack looked at him. “That is not what you said.”
Robby leaned both hands on the top of his cue. “Must be the acoustics.”
You felt Jack’s fingers press once at your hip, subtle enough that no one else would catch it.
You caught it.
Because apparently every part of you was tuned to him now.
Robby nodded toward the pool table. “Come on. We need two more.”
Taylor stepped away from the high-top immediately. “I’m in.”
Ethan lifted one hand. “I am not.”
Taylor looked at him. “No one asked you yet.”
Ethan lowered his hand. “Preemptive boundary.”
Robby pointed the cue at him. “Fair.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Jack’s mouth curved faintly beside you.
Robby pointed the cue at Jack next. “Abbot. You’re with me.”
Jack glanced at the table. “Am I?”
Robby gave him a flat look. “Yes. I’m not playing against you. I’d like to enjoy my evening.”
Taylor’s eyebrows rose. “That good?”
Jack’s expression stayed neutral. “Not really.”
Robby snorted. “Liar.”
You looked up at Jack immediately.
Jack looked down at you. “What?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Not really?”
His mouth barely moved. “I’ve played before.”
Robby looked at you. “He’s good.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. “He exaggerates.”
Robby pointed at Jack without looking away from you. “He also lies when he thinks modesty will make him less annoying.”
Taylor nodded once. “That tracks.”
Jack glanced at her. “Does it?”
Taylor gave him a bright smile. “Yes.”
Robby moved around the table and started gathering the balls. “Teams are me and Abbot versus you two.”
Taylor slid in beside you. “Perfect.”
You looked at Jack.
Jack’s eyes warmed slightly.
Your stomach flipped.
Terrible.
Absolutely terrible.
Robby caught the look and immediately pointed the cue between you.
“No,” Robby said.
You blinked. “No?”
Robby looked at Jack. “No helping her.”
Jack’s brow lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”
Robby set the triangle on the table. “You were thinking it.”
Jack’s mouth almost moved. “You don’t know that.”
Robby looked at him. “I know you.”
Ethan pulled out a stool near the wall and sat down. “I’m just happy to be uninvolved.”
Robby glanced at him. “You’re keeping score.”
Ethan stared. “I have been involved against my will.”
You stepped toward the pool table, cue in hand, trying not to smile.
Jack stayed near the opposite side, leaning one hip against the table while Robby finished racking. The backwards hat was still low over his brow, damp curls slipping beneath the edge of it, and the whole thing continued to be personally inconvenient.
You looked away first.
Barely.
Jack noticed.
His mouth curved.
Robby noticed too.
“Abbot,” Robby said, his voice already tired.
Jack looked at him. “What?”
Robby pointed the cue at you. “Stop looking at your wife and break.”
You choked.
Taylor’s hand flew to her mouth.
Ethan, seated on a stool near the wall, stared very hard at his drink.
Jack’s head turned slowly toward Robby.
Robby lifted one shoulder, badly hiding a smile. “Roommate. Partner. Whatever we’re calling it.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Jack glanced at you.
You tried very hard to keep your face neutral.
You failed.
His expression softened before he could stop it.
Robby groaned. “We are going to lose.”
Taylor picked up her cue. “I support that.”
Robby looked at her. “You would.”
Jack picked up the cue ball and set it in place. “I haven’t done anything.”
Robby gave him a flat look. “That is objectively untrue.”
Jack ignored him and bent over the table to line up his shot.
Which was unfortunate.
Because you had survived the handholding, the water, the low voice near your ear, and the backwards hat from several dangerous angles already.
But Jack leaning over a pool table in jeans, one hand braced on the felt, looking focused and calm and unfairly competent?
That felt excessive.
Jack broke.
Cleanly.
Hard.
The crack of the cue ball split through the bar noise, and the balls scattered across the felt with sharp little snaps of color. Two stripes dropped into opposite pockets.
Ethan looked up from his drink. “Not really, he said.”
Jack straightened and passed the cue to Robby. “I said I’d played before.”
Robby accepted the cue. “And I said you lie when you think modesty will make you less annoying.”
Taylor leaned toward you. “He’s very annoying.”
You did not look away from Jack. “I noticed.”
Jack’s eyes found yours across the table.
His mouth barely curved.
Your pulse jumped.
Robby pointed his cue toward you. “You’re up.”
You stepped toward the table. “Great.”
Taylor patted your shoulder. “We believe in you.”
Robby leaned against his cue. “I don’t.”
You gave him a look. “Rude.”
Robby lifted one shoulder. “Competitive.”
You leaned over the table and tried to choose a shot.
Immediately, the problem became clear.
You had no shot.
You had no plan.
You had Jack watching from across the table with his stupid backwards hat and his stupid mouth and his stupid eyes, and apparently that was enough to erase every rule of pool you had ever learned.
You adjusted your grip on the cue.
Wrong, apparently.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand.
His brows drew together.
Robby saw it immediately.
“No,” Robby said.
Jack looked at him. “What?”
Robby pointed the cue at him. “Do not coach her.”
Jack’s expression stayed calm. “I wasn’t.”
Robby’s eyes narrowed. “You were about to.”
Jack glanced back at your hand. “She’s holding it wrong.”
Robby threw out one hand. “That is coaching.”
You looked over your shoulder at Jack. “I’m holding it wrong?”
Jack’s gaze shifted to yours. “A little.”
Robby stepped between you as much as a pool table allowed. “No. Absolutely not.”
Taylor leaned on her cue, delighted. “I vote we allow it.”
Robby looked at her. “Of course you do. You benefit.”
Ethan raised a hand from his stool. “For the record, I support whatever ends the game fastest.”
Robby ignored him and looked at Jack. “You are on my team.”
Jack’s eyes were still on your hand. “I know.”
Robby pointed at you. “Then stop helping her.”
Jack finally looked at him. “It’s one shot.”
Robby stared. “That is exactly how betrayal starts.”
You looked from Robby to Jack.
Then you lifted one shoulder. “I mean, I do want to win.”
Robby turned toward you. “You are playing against him.”
You smiled. “That sounds like his problem.”
Taylor laughed under her breath.
Jack pushed away from the table.
Robby’s face fell. “Abbot.”
Jack came around the table anyway, slow and unbothered. “You’re being dramatic.”
Robby watched him go. “I am being abandoned.”
Jack stopped beside you, close but not touching yet. “Do you want help?”
There it was again.
Waiting.
Asking.
Making it impossible to pretend any of this was casual.
You nodded once. “Yes.”
Jack’s gaze warmed. “Okay.”
That one word did not deserve to hit the way it did.
It did anyway.
You leaned over the felt again, cue in hand, trying very hard to remember how to breathe.
Jack stepped behind you.
His hand settled lightly over yours on the cue, warm and steady. His other hand came to your waist, guiding you into place without crowding you.
You forgot the entire concept of pool.
Completely.
Robby made a wounded sound from across the table. “I hate this.”
Taylor looked at him. “I love this.”
Jack leaned closer, his voice brushing near your ear. “Line it up.”
You stared at the cue ball. “I’m trying.”
Jack adjusted your fingers. “Loosen your grip.”
You swallowed. “You’re standing very close.”
His hand tightened once over yours. “I know.”
Your stomach flipped.
Robby pointed at Jack. “That sounded unnecessary.”
Jack did not look away from the table. “It was instructional.”
Taylor pressed her lips together.
Jack shifted your hand again, slow and precise, his fingers moving yours like he had all the patience in the world.
You had none.
Not with his chest near your back.
Not with his hand at your waist.
Not with his mouth near your ear and that stupid backwards hat brushing almost against your temple.
“You’re distracting me,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved close enough that you could hear it. “I haven’t done anything.”
You glanced back at him. “You wore the hat.”
His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.
Then he looked back at the table.
“Shoot,” Jack said.
You tried.
You really did.
The cue hit the ball.
The ball rolled forward, kissed another ball at a deeply unimpressive angle, and drifted lazily toward the rail.
Nothing went in.
Nothing even came close.
The table went quiet for half a second.
Then Ethan nodded from his stool. “That was almost pool.”
Taylor pointed at him. “Be supportive.”
Ethan nodded again. “Supportively almost pool.”
You straightened, still painfully aware of Jack behind you. “I hate all of you.”
Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Not all of us.”
You turned your head slowly.
He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
You stared at him. “You’re on thin ice.”
Jack’s brow lifted. “Because of the coaching?”
You reached up and touched one curl that had escaped beneath his cap. “Because of this.”
Jack went still.
Immediately.
Your fingers brushed the curl once, gentle and deliberate.
His expression changed before he could stop it.
Small.
Soft.
Completely unfair.
Taylor went quiet across the table.
Robby went quiet too, which was much more alarming.
Jack’s voice came lower. “You done?”
You let your fingers linger for one second longer. “Not sure yet.”
His jaw shifted.
Your pulse jumped.
Then Robby cleared his throat loudly.
You stepped away before Jack could say anything else.
Not far.
Just enough.
Jack’s fingers brushed yours before he let go.
Small.
Brief.
Enough.
Robby stepped up to the table, muttering under his breath. “I should have picked Ethan.”
Ethan looked up from his stool. “I heard that.”
Robby leaned over the table to study his shot. “Good.”
Taylor crossed her arms beside you. “Rude.”
Ethan pointed toward the table. “Thank you.”
Robby took his shot and missed by less than an inch.
Taylor’s smile turned bright. “Tragic.”
Robby straightened slowly. “The table is warped.”
Jack glanced at the table. “It isn’t.”
Robby pointed his cue at him. “You’re on my team.”
Jack picked up his own cue. “That doesn’t make the table warped.”
Robby looked at you and Taylor. “Do you see what I’m dealing with?”
Taylor nodded gravely. “A man with principles.”
Robby’s expression flattened. “A man with poor priorities.”
Jack ignored him and moved around the table, studying the layout with quiet focus.
You watched him.
That was your first mistake.
Because Jack Abbot concentrating was a problem.
Jack Abbot concentrating while holding a pool cue, in jeans, with his backwards hat still sitting low over his curls, was a much larger problem.
He bent over the table to line up his shot.
Your mouth went dry.
Taylor leaned in beside you, her voice low. “You okay?”
You did not look away from Jack. “No.”
Taylor followed your gaze.
Then she pressed her lips together. “Understandable.”
Jack drew the cue back.
Robby stood near the corner pocket, watching the table with too much seriousness. “Do not miss this.”
Jack kept his eyes on the shot. “That was the plan.”
Robby nodded once. “Good plan.”
You stared at the backwards hat.
A terrible idea arrived fully formed.
You stepped closer.
Taylor noticed immediately.
Her eyes widened.
You lifted one finger to your mouth.
Taylor turned her face away and pressed her lips together, like silence had become physically painful.
Jack still had not looked up.
The cue moved forward.
So did you.
Your hand darted out, quick and sure, and you stole the hat right off his head.
Jack missed.
Completely.
The cue ball rolled sideways, bumped uselessly against the rail, and stopped there like it had lost the will to participate.
For one second, no one moved.
Jack stayed bent over the table.
His curls had sprung free, messy and still a little damp at the ends.
That was almost worse than the hat.
Slowly, Jack straightened.
You put the hat on your own head.
Backwards.
Robby stared at the cue ball. “What just happened?”
Taylor’s voice came too bright. “Sports.”
Ethan looked up from his score napkin. “Is that a foul?”
Robby pointed at you. “That has to be a foul.”
You adjusted the brim of the hat. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Jack turned toward you.
His eyes moved over your face.
Then the hat.
Then your mouth.
Then the hat again.
Your stomach flipped.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Give it back.”
You lifted your brows. “No.”
Robby looked between you and Jack. “Abbot.”
Jack did not look away from you. “What?”
Robby pointed at the table. “We are trying to win.”
Jack’s gaze stayed fixed on you beneath the brim of his own stolen hat. “I’m aware.”
Robby dragged a hand down his face. “I picked the wrong partner.”
Jack stepped closer to you.
Not much.
Just enough.
“You distracted me,” Jack said.
You smiled. “Did I?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You know you did.”
You touched the brim of the hat. “Maybe you should focus better.”
Taylor made a tiny sound behind you.
Jack heard it.
You knew he heard it because the corner of his mouth almost moved.
Almost.
His hand came to your waist, light but certain.
Your pulse jumped.
Jack’s voice dropped. “Careful.”
You looked up at him. “You keep saying that.”
His thumb pressed once through the leather of your jacket. “You keep ignoring me.”
You tilted your head. “Maybe I like the hat.”
Jack’s gaze flicked up to it again.
His expression changed.
Small.
Sharp.
Devastating.
“That’s worse,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. “What is?”
His eyes returned to yours. “You in my hat.”
Taylor turned away completely.
Ethan looked down at his napkin like it could save him.
Robby stared at Jack in open betrayal. “We are losing because of this.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Probably.”
Robby threw one hand out. “He admits it.”
You smiled up at Jack, fingers still on the brim of his hat.
Jack stared at you like the rest of the bar had gone quiet.
Like he had forgotten the game.
Like he had forgotten to care.
Then Robby cleared his throat loudly.
Jack finally blinked.
Robby pointed his cue toward the table. “Can we return to the part where you remember what team you’re on?”
Jack’s hand stayed at your waist.
His eyes stayed on yours.
“I know what team I’m on,” Jack said.
The words were quiet.
Too quiet.
Your smile faded a little.
Not gone.
Just softer.
Taylor stopped pretending not to listen.
Ethan slowly lowered his napkin.
Robby stared at Jack for half a second.
Then he looked at you.
“Oh, that’s disgusting,” Robby said.
Taylor pressed a hand to her chest. “That was romantic.”
Ethan nodded once. “Both.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly.
You reached up and took the hat off your head, then stepped closer and put it back on him yourself.
Your fingers lingered at the brim.
Jack let you.
Of course he did.
You adjusted the cap until it sat right again, then brushed one loose curl near his temple.
His expression softened before he could stop it.
Jack’s voice came quieter. “Better?”
You looked at him, close enough now that the noise of the bar felt far away. “Not even a little.”
His mouth almost curved.
Robby groaned from the other side of the table. “I hate this game.”
Taylor smiled. “I love this game.”
Jack’s hand slipped from your waist only when you stepped back toward Taylor.
Even then, his fingers brushed yours before he let go.
Small.
Brief.
Enough.
And this time, when Claire glanced over from the high-top, you did not pretend not to notice.
You only smiled and picked up your cue.
The pool game dissolved after that.
Not officially.
No one declared it over.
Robby made one more shot, missed, and blamed Jack with the righteous fury of a man betrayed by love. Taylor laughed so hard she nearly dropped her cue. Ethan wrote something else on his napkin and refused to show anyone.
Jack stayed close.
Not constantly touching you.
That would have been easier to dismiss, somehow.
Instead, it was worse.
His hand at your lower back when someone moved behind you. His fingers brushing yours when he passed you your drink. His knee nudging yours beneath the high-top after everyone migrated back toward the table. The quiet, steady way he kept finding you in the room.
Every time, you let him.
Every time, he noticed.
Eventually, the bar got louder.
Someone fed more quarters into the jukebox. A group of second-years cheered over a darts game near the wall. Taylor had been pulled into a conversation with someone from your physiology lab, and Robby was telling Ethan a story with enough hand gestures to make everyone nearby lean away from his beer.
Claire was still there.
Still watching sometimes.
But it did not matter the way it had earlier.
Not as much.
Not when Jack’s hand found yours beneath the table and stayed there.
You looked down at your joined hands.
His thumb moved once over yours.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
You looked up at him. “Still asking?”
His mouth barely curved. “Yeah.”
Your chest tightened.
The noise pressed in around you, warm and crowded and bright, and suddenly you wanted air.
Not because you were panicking.
Not because you wanted to run.
Because you wanted one quiet minute with him where no one else could look at the shape of this before you understood it yourself.
You leaned closer so he could hear you. “Can we go outside for a second?”
Jack’s expression changed immediately.
Careful.
Attentive.
“Yeah,” Jack said, already standing. “Come on.”
His hand stayed around yours as he led you through the crowd.
He moved slightly ahead of you in the busiest part, shoulder angling through the crush of bodies, his grip steady but not tight. You followed him past the high-top, past the jukebox, past Robby, who noticed and opened his mouth.
Taylor caught Robby’s sleeve before he could speak.
Robby looked at her.
Taylor shook her head once.
For once in his life, Robby listened.
Jack pushed the door open, and the night air hit you all at once.
Cool.
Sharp.
Quiet compared to the bar behind you.
The music dulled as the door swung shut, leaving only the muffled beat through the wall and the distant sound of traffic down the street.
You took a breath.
Then another.
Jack stepped beside you on the sidewalk, close enough that his arm brushed yours.
He did not ask right away.
He gave you a second first.
That almost made it worse.
You looked out at the street, at the blur of passing headlights, at the amber glow spilling across the pavement from the bar windows.
Jack’s hand found yours at your side, his fingers sliding between yours like they belonged there.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
You looked at him. “Still asking?”
“Probably for the rest of my life,” Jack said.
Then he went still.
Like he had heard himself a second too late.
Your breath caught.
The street noise softened around you. Music pulsed faintly through the bar door behind him, muffled and distant, but all you could hear was the quiet after his words.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
Careful.
Too careful now.
Like he was waiting to find out whether he had said too much.
Your fingers tightened around his.
Then you stepped closer, rose onto your toes, and kissed him.
Jack did not move for half a second.
Then his hand came to your waist, his breath leaving him against your mouth as he kissed you back.
Softly.
Carefully.
Like the answer had gotten to him before the meaning did.
When you pulled back, his eyes opened slowly.
You were still close enough that your mouth brushed his when you spoke.
“Okay,” you said.
Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “Okay?”
You nodded, your fingers still curled in his shirt. “For the rest of your life.”
His expression changed.
Just a little.
Enough to make your chest hurt.
Then his hand slid along your back beneath the jacket, warm and steady.
“You sure?” Jack asked.
You smiled faintly. “Still asking?”
His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “Yeah.”
You touched the curl near his temple, the one still refusing to behave beneath the backwards hat.
When your high-powered marketing career goes up in flames, you find yourself back in Texas and out of options—until your old childhood friend Tommy offers you a job at his family’s growing construction company. The only catch? His older brother Joel, the project manager with a chip on his shoulder and zero patience for your city-slicker attitude.
You clash instantly: you’re clever, confident, and painfully corporate. He’s quiet, rugged, and set in his ways. You push his buttons. He pushes back harder. But somewhere between long meetings, late nights, resurfacing memories, and hurt, along with one very unexpected work trip… the tension starts to shift.
What begins as bickering turns into banter. Glances linger. Walls crack. And neither of you is quite sure when things started to change.
♡ Side Stories (Don't read if you want spoilers!) :
T&C: HOLIDAYS OFF
Christmas fluff, post-main story, slight spoilers if you really read into it, family fluff
T&C: FIRST LOVE
Prequel Story, Raymond's POV, so much fluff it hurts, pregnancy, baby Joel
T&C: DRESS HIM UP
Sequel Story, family fluff, date-night prep, Joel's POV
T&C: LEARN IN MORE WAYS
Sequel Story, family fluff, almost smut, SC's POV, graduation season, parental fluff
T&C: HOLD US
Sequel Story, family angst, first-time parents, Joel's POV, near-death experience
♡ Fan-Extras:
♡ Moodboards, Fan Spotify playlist by @broknedits
♡ Fan edits by @evcrmoree
♡ Joel and Reader's son fanart, baby!Sarah + young!Joel by @krispykattv
♡ Happy couple things fanart, Chapter 29, Young!Joel's animal, Raymond + Lorraine + Baby Joel, Clause 37 Flashback, 13years!Joel+Sarah (mostly oc x t&c!Joel) by @hoziersguitarr
♡ Family Tree (contains spoilers), SC's plane ticket by @honey-moon-13
♡ Moodboards by @onlythehobi/@dilf-docs
♡ Fan Spotify Playlist by Justin
