warnings: mentions of death, dreaming/hallucinations, hospitals, kissing, underworld, arguing, mentions of ghosts/lost souls, bossy Jake, SMUT 18+, oral (f. rec.), unprotected sex, sex on a throne, riding, god/goddess thing, the L word
masterlist
You come back to the world one sound at a time.
The first is the steady hiss of machines breathing for you. Then the heart monitor, asking its mechanical question again and again– Beep. Beep. Beep.
The air smells like bleach and metal. The light feels too clean, too sharp to be real. You lie still because you’re afraid to move, afraid that if you do, the ceiling will melt into black water and you’ll be back there– where the air tasted like stormlight and silence had a pulse.
White tiles. The taste of blood and static in your mouth. The bed beneath you hums faintly, vibrating through your bones. You tell yourself it’s just the morphine, or the engines of the world restarting around you.
There was a dream. You remember it too clearly for it to be one. Marble halls stretching forever. A river that moved without sound. And a man– if you can call him that– made of shadow and grief, who looked at you like he’d been waiting a lifetime to say your name.
You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat. The sound comes out broken, unfamiliar. A nurse slips in– a blur of scrubs, perfume, forced warmth. “Good morning,” she says. “You gave us quite a scare.” You want to ask how long but your tongue feels too heavy. She answers anyway, “Three days. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Lucky.
You almost ask her if she heard it too– the hum– but you stop yourself. Because it’s still there, underneath the soft chatter of the ward. A deep vibration, like the world itself breathing too close to your ear.
When the nurse leaves, you stare at the window.
The blinds are half-drawn, sunlight split into bars.
You catch your reflection in the glass– pale, tired, stitched back together.
And then it blinks a heartbeat after you do.
—
You tell them you’re fine. You tell them you just want to go home. The doctors talk about rest and observation and follow-up appointments, but you nod and sign whatever they hand you, because all you want is silence that doesn’t smell like antiseptic.
Outside, the air tastes too alive. Cars rush by. People laugh into their phones. The world hasn’t noticed that you left it. You almost wish it had.
Your apartment is exactly the way you left it– keys in the bowl, a half-finished cup of coffee gone to mold, laundry folded but never put away. It should be comforting. Instead, it feels staged, like someone built a replica of your life while you were gone.
You touch the back of a chair, a book on the table, the chipped rim of your favorite mug– just to make sure they’re solid. They are. But they don’t feel real.
The hum hasn’t followed you. That’s what you tell yourself. You put on music– something soft, human, a voice to fill the air. You stand under the shower until the hot water runs cold. You cook something, but it tastes like ash, so you throw it away. You sit on the couch and watch the city lights flicker through the blinds, one heartbeat at a time.
Normal. You keep saying it in your head. Normal, normal, normal.
But when you close your eyes, you see the river again. And the memory of his voice isn’t fading like dreams should– it’s clarifying, sharpening, as if you’re remembering something that actually happened. You almost whisper his name, just to get it out of your mouth. You don’t.
You turn off the lamp. The apartment settles. The refrigerator hums. Pipes knock. You breathe, and for a moment, you believe the silence.
“You woke up.”
You spin.
He’s standing there in the dark, half-shadow, half-light– exactly as you remember him, but impossibly real.
—
Your heart is beating uncontrollably, your hands are shaking. You can feel the blood drain from your face.
“You're real,” you whisper.
He tilts his head, just slightly, “Disappointed?”
You look away, staring down at the floor. You look around the apartment, looking for anything to ground you. “Is this the part where you tell me I'm dead again?"
The corner of his mouth twitches, “No,” he says calmly, “You're not dead. But you're not alive, either.”
You huff a humorless laugh, “I figured you'd say something like that.”
He takes a step forward, slow, deliberate, “I’ve waited thousands of years for you. Not even… knowing if you were real.”
You look back up at him, “What?”
“The balance,” he says, softly, “The warmth. The light.”
You stare, your hands still shaking. You swallow, “I think those painkillers are still in my system,” you say quietly.
He gives you a wry smirk, “You use humor because you're afraid.”
“Yeah,” you admit, “The Grim Reaper shows up in my living room after I was fully convinced I hallucinated you in my dreams. I'm terrified."
He straightens up slightly, “I'm not a reaper, darling.”
You frown, “Death?”
He lifts his shoulder in a casual shrug, “The God of Death.”
You let out a laugh, ugly and short, “And you're in my apartment?”
He stares at you, “What do you think the balance means?” You open your mouth to speak, shut it, and give him a weak shrug. His lips curl, slow and arrogant, almost. “You were made to rule beside me.”
Your heart stops. Your breathing stops. You don't blink, you don't move. You can't. Finally, you manage to take a deep breath, “I don't believe that.”
“You will,” he says, certain, “You couldn't pass through, Y/n. You couldn't come back. You belong there.”
You want to yell at him, to tell him he's lying, that he needs to go and leave you alone. But… it doesn't feel wrong. Everything he says is right, like it makes sense. You shake your head despite that feeling, “It was a dream.”
He grins, “I'm real.”
You hold your breath and count a few beats, crossing your arms over your chest for a false sense of security. “How do I know that?”
He doesn’t respond for a moment, he just watches you. “Come here.”
You freeze even further, “Why?” It comes out as a whisper.
He gives you a look, “I can come over there.” He smiles, just barely, “But you're already on the verge of hyperventilating.”
You swallow, “Fine. Just– Don't… don't move.”
He nods, standing eerily still. Just like he did in your dreams. You take a deep breath, and take a step toward him. He watches, his eyes dark, as you slowly, finally stand in front of him.
You hate how real he looks this close. A tiny scar on his cheek, the smoothness of his skin. “What?” You ask, your heart pounding out of your chest.
“Kiss me.”
Your eyes widen, “What?”
“Just like you did in that room,” he says, voice low, “You wanted me to feel, Y/n. Now it's your turn.”
You huff a laugh, “That was– That wasn't real.”
“It was.”
You stare at him in disbelief, your eyes unwittingly flitting down to his lips. You glare at him, exasperated. “Fine,” you mutter, your voice sharper than you intend. Your fingers twitch at your sides, almost trembling. “If it’s going to make you stop… whatever you’re doing.”
He tilts his head, eyebrow raised, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “That’s the spirit,” he says, voice smooth, teasing.
You take a step forward, heart hammering, hands clenching. Impulse overrides reason. One hand shoots out, gripping his collar, pulling him toward you. His breath catches just slightly. Your lips collide with his, hesitant at first, as if testing the reality of him. Then, as your frustration melts into need, the kiss deepens, urgent and messy, both of you leaning into it. You pull back for air, resting your forehead against his, voice rough and breathless. “Happy now?”
He smirks, the corner of his mouth tugging up, and brushes a hand through your hair. “Very,” he murmurs. “But I think you might want to finish this.”
You huff, exasperated, but the tension in your body screams yes. You grab him again, more deliberately this time, and kiss him harder, letting all your disbelief, annoyance, and desire pour into it.
You pull back suddenly, all but shoving him away when it starts to feel too real. He doesn't move, doesn't speak. You take a step back, your fingers pressing to your lips. You can't look at him.
The silence is almost overwhelming.
You finally square your shoulders, dropping your hand and looking up at him, “See? Nothing.”
He grins at that, narrowing his eyes slightly, “Nothing?”
You shake your head, taking a step back when he takes one forward. “Nothing.”
He hums, taking another step, and you match it once again with one back. You take another one for good measure, flinching when your back hits the wall. He has you effectively cornered now, and you hate that the warmth rushing through you isn't fear.
You press your hands against the wall, an attempt at holding yourself up.
“What are you doing?”
“Do you remember my name?” He asks, ignoring your question completely. He reaches up, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger.
You do. You nod wordlessly.
“Say it,” he murmurs, “Say my name.”
He leans in, his nose is brushing against yours and you find it hard to breathe in a way you hate to enjoy.
“Jake,” you whisper, weaker than you had intended.
His lips are on yours before you can process it, swallowing down the gasp you let out. Your hands grab into him, though you're not sure if it's to pull him closer or push him away. You hold onto him, one hand in his hair and the other gripping his shirt.
He presses you closer to the wall, parting your lips with the tip of his tongue. You whimper when his tongue ghosts over yours, just enough to tease.
He parts from you with a soft smacking sound, pressing his forehead to yours. You breathe heavy, your chest rising and falling.
“Does it feel real now?” He asks softly.
You huff a breath– an exasperated attempt at a laugh, “Yeah.”
“Come with me,” he says, his hand moving to the back of your head, holding you so sweetly you want to combust.
You frown lightly, pulling back enough to look at his face, “Jake–”
He places a finger over your lips, “Come with me. Please.”
You swallow heavily. “And do what?”
He shakes his head, “Exist. Just exist.”
You run your tongue over your lips, your fingers fidgeting with the necklaces draped across his chest. “I'm not what you think I am.”
“You are,” he assures you, running his fingers lightly through your hair, “You will be. I know you will be.”
You nod your head slowly, hesitant at first, “Okay.”
His eyes somehow brighten and darken at the same time, and he nods. He takes your hand in his, and you feel the room start to spin.
You squeeze your eyes shut tight, holding onto him as tight as you can. The wind picks up, spinning around you, wild and catastrophic. All sound disappears, you feel as if you're floating through air, before it all goes still.
—
It isn't the same.
It's… brighter. There's color and life in the Underworld now.
You follow him deeper, each step sinking into the ground that pulses like living flesh beneath your feet. The air smells sweet and sharp at once– like fire and rain, like blooming flowers you can’t name. Light doesn’t fall here; it breathes, spilling from veins in the rocks, from the petals of impossible plants, from creatures whose eyes glitter like stars.
A river winds beside you, its water shimmering with colors you can’t describe. You lean closer, entranced, and it ripples at your touch– responding, almost… aware. A warm, subtle hum vibrates through the air, through your bones, as though the world itself is exhaling.
He doesn’t let go of your hand. Not once. His grip is firm, grounding, and yet… there’s a weight behind it that makes your pulse stutter. He doesn’t speak, but the way he moves– confident, silent, untouchably regal– says more than words ever could.
The palace… It's not dark and sullen like in your dream. The black shines like stars in the sky, shimmering and almost glowing.
You let out a soft breath, reverent and in absolute awe. “It's… Different.”
“You're here,” he says softly, leading you through the doorway, “It's… how it’s supposed to be.”
You say nothing else, taking it in as he leads you up the stairs, the same stairs from your dream. Your heart skips a beat as he leads you to your room, the room you first kissed him in.
The house is still, not shuddering or shifting as it did before. You aren't sure if you imagined that or if it was at peace now.
“What do I do?” You ask quietly.
He lets go of your hand finally, waving his hand toward the stone fireplace. You watch in amazement as a fire suddenly appears, blazing and crackling in the fireplace.
“You're free to do whatever,” he says softly, “Anything you wish.”
You huff a laugh at that, crossing your arms, “What do you do?”
He gives you a half smile, “Oversee the dead.”
“Oh,” you breathe the word, “Right. Forgot about that.”
“It's… You're not a prisoner here, Y/n,” he says, his voice quiet, low.
“What am I?” You ask teasingly.
He hesitates, “You… you’re not just anyone. You’re the Goddess of Death, Y/n. Made to walk between worlds, to balance life and oblivion. With me.”
Your heart catches, your chest tightens, and your mind races. “Wait… me? Goddess? I–”
“Yes,” he interrupts, stepping closer, his dark eyes burning with certainty. “You were never meant to be ordinary. Your soul… it was forged to rule beside me, to temper the end with mercy, with understanding. Without you, the balance fractures.”
You stumble back, overwhelmed, the weight of his words pressing down on you. “I don’t even know how to– how to do that. I’m… human. I’m just–”
“Human?” he whispers, his smile sharp, almost predatory. “Human doesn’t survive the edge of death and return as you did. You came back for a reason. You were chosen.”
Your gaze falls to the floor, trembling. The hum of the Underworld pulses louder now, vibrating through the ground, through your bones, through you. It feels alive. Hungry.
“What if I refuse?” you ask, voice barely audible.
He tilts his head, the shadows around him thickening, curling like smoke. “Then everything you know will crumble. Life… death… even the worlds in between. Nothing will hold.”
You swallow hard. The enormity of it presses against your chest. “And if I accept?”
His eyes soften, the darkness retreating slightly, leaving only something devastatingly sincere. “Then you’ll be mine to guide, mine to protect. Together, we’ll hold the balance… or watch it unravel.”
The air grows heavier. He reaches for you again, slow, deliberate, and the ground beneath you quivers like it recognizes your destiny.
“Do you understand what this means?” he asks, voice low, almost intimate.
“I… think I do,” you whisper, though your words taste like doubt.
He leans closer, the shadows of his face nearly swallowing yours. “Good. Because there’s no turning back now.”
—
You find him in the garden– if you can even call it that. It’s not made of anything you recognize. The trees bleed light instead of sap, and the flowers hum when the wind brushes them. The air smells like storms and memory.
He’s standing near a column of obsidian, speaking with one of the attendants– pale, ghostly things that drift more than walk. His voice is low, patient, but the moment you step into the light, his head turns toward you like he felt you before he saw you.
“Y/n,” he says, tone even. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
You roll your eyes. “You say that every day.”
“Because you don’t listen any day.”
You grin faintly. “Then maybe the problem is in your delivery.”
The attendant vanishes like smoke, wisely excusing itself. Jake exhales slowly, turning to you fully, arms crossing over his chest. He looks infuriatingly composed– the calm of a storm before it hits.
“What did you do?” he asks.
“Why do you assume I did something?”
“Because the walls are humming like they’re nervous,” he says dryly. “And that only happens when you’ve been… experimenting.”
You glance away, biting back a smile. “I didn’t do much.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Define ‘much.’ ”
“I tried to talk to the souls in the eastern halls.”
His expression sharpens. “You what?”
You shrug, defensive. “They were whispering. I wanted to know why.”
“They whisper because that’s all they can do,” he says, tone clipped. “You’re not meant to interfere with them.”
“Why not? They’re–” you gesture vaguely, “–people.”
“They were people.”
You stare at him. “So that’s it? Just because they’re dead, they don’t matter?”
His jaw tightens, but his voice stays calm. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you mean,” you counter, stepping closer. “You talk about balance and mercy, but you keep them here like ghosts in a waiting room. Do you even see them, Jake?”
Something flickers in his expression– a flash of irritation, faint but unmistakable. It’s the first time you’ve seen him truly unsettled.
“Careful,” he says quietly. “You don’t understand what you’re accusing me of.”
“Then help me understand!” you snap, the frustration finally bubbling over. “You tell me I’m supposed to rule with you, but you never show me anything real. You keep me walking in circles.”
He exhales slowly, eyes closing for a moment like he’s counting the seconds between his patience and his temper. When he opens them again, the calm is still there– but barely.
“Because if you saw everything, you’d break,” he says softly. “You still think in mortal terms. You want to save every soul, to comfort every ghost, and that–” he gestures to you, voice low but edged, “–that compassion is exactly what destroys gods.”
You stare at him, stunned. “So I’m supposed to not care?”
“You’re supposed to endure,” he says.
You shake your head, anger simmering. “No. I won’t become something cold just because it’s easier for you.”
He goes very still at that– too still. The air around him changes. The light from the trees dims just slightly, as if the realm itself is holding its breath. When he speaks again, his tone is perfectly calm, perfectly measured.
“Do you have any idea,” he says, each word deliberate, “how long I’ve held this realm together? How many centuries I’ve spent making sure the dead rest instead of scream? You think it’s cruelty. It’s mercy.”
Your throat tightens. “Then maybe mercy isn’t what you think it is.”
Silence.
His eyes flick toward you, and for a heartbeat, you feel it– a pulse of power that brushes your skin like a warning, enough to remind you what he is.
Then, just as quickly, it fades.
He sighs, rubbing his temple, and the motion is almost human again. “You frustrate me,” he admits finally, and it sounds almost like a confession. “You twist every word until it bleeds.”
You blink, startled– not by the words, but by the tone. He’s not angry. He’s tired. “Maybe you should stop trying to control every breath I take,” you murmur.
He looks up at you, and for the first time, there’s a hint of a smile– thin, dangerous, but real. “If I did that,” he says softly, “you’d stop being the thing that makes this place alive.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
He turns away then, his cloak whispering against the glowing grass. “Don’t touch the eastern halls again,” he says, his voice returning to that quiet command that leaves no room for argument.
And yet, beneath it, there’s something else– something he’s trying not to say.
You cross your arms, calling after him, “You know, for someone who claims to be a god, you’re terrible at asking for help.”
He stops mid-step, his shoulders tense.
When he glances back at you, his expression is unreadable– calm again, perfectly calm– but his eyes burn with restrained exasperation.
“Y/n,” he says with infuriating patience, “one day, that mouth of yours will start a war.”
You smirk. “Then you’d better be on my side.”
For a moment, he looks like he might smile again, but instead he just shakes his head and disappears into the shadows, leaving the air faintly trembling where he stood.
And for the first time since you arrived, the hum of the Underworld feels like laughter.
—
The Underworld has grown quieter.
Or maybe it’s just him.
You don’t see Jake for what feels like days– though time here stretches like melted glass, so it could be hours or centuries. The attendants keep their distance, and even the hum in the air feels subdued, waiting.
He’s not avoiding you– not exactly. He’s just… absent. And you’re not built to sit still. So when one of the attendants slips that he’s “tending to the eastern halls,” you don’t hesitate. You slip away before they can protest.
—
The halls there are colder, darker– the kind of quiet that feels personal. Shadows cling to the edges of the marble, and the air hums with faint whispers you can’t quite understand. You find him standing by one of the great doors, half-shrouded in shadow. His hands are clasped behind his back, posture perfect as always. You almost hate how calm he looks. Almost.
“Jake.”
He doesn’t turn right away. “You shouldn’t be here.”
You grin faintly. "You said I'm free to do as I wished.”
Now he turns– slow, deliberate. His expression is unreadable, but his tone is all restraint. “You think this is amusing?”
“A little,” you admit. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Mm-hm. With your dead people. Right.” You step closer, brushing your fingers over one of the carved walls. The stone hums under your touch, alive, aware. “You know, I'm starting to think you don’t want me around.”
His jaw tightens. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I don’t know, you vanish for days, the walls stop humming when you’re gone–”
“Y/n.” His voice cuts clean through the air– not loud, but sharp enough to silence you. “This realm isn’t a toy. Every part of it listens to you now. You can’t just wander wherever you please.”
You tilt your head, unbothered. “I wasn’t wandering. I was looking for you.”
He exhales through his nose, that kind of quiet sigh that feels like the edge of laughter if he wasn’t so irritated. “You have an extraordinary talent for testing my patience.”
“Thank you.”
He gives you a look– the kind that would level a lesser being– but there’s a flicker of something else there too. Amusement. Exasperated fondness, maybe. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.” You flash him a small, smug smile.
He shakes his head and turns, motioning for you to follow. “You’re coming back with me.”
“Oh, am I in trouble?” you tease as you fall into step beside him.
“Do you ever stop talking?” he mutters, though his tone stays maddeningly even.
“Not when you’re this easy to rile up.”
He glances sideways at you– one sharp look that could freeze rivers– but the corner of his mouth betrays him, twitching slightly before he smooths it away. “You have no idea what kind of power you’re walking beside, and you still insist on taunting it.”
“Pretty sure I do,” you say lightly. “You’re just too polite to smite me.”
He huffs– a sound dangerously close to a laugh– and keeps walking. “You mistake my restraint for indulgence.”
“Oh, no. I’m fully aware you’re indulging me.”
That earns you silence, but it’s not cold this time. It’s thick with something unsaid. When you reach the main hall again, he finally stops, turning to face you.
“Do not go back there alone,” he says, voice quiet but weighted. “I won’t warn you again.”
You give him your most innocent look. “Of course.”
“Y/n–”
“Would I lie to you?” you interrupt sweetly.
“Yes.”
You grin. He exhales, closing his eyes for a moment like he’s trying to center himself. When he opens them again, the calm is back in full force– divine, practiced, unshakable. “You are impossible.”
You say nothing, but you brush against him as you pass by, maybe on purpose. He watches you go, and though he doesn’t say it, the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth says enough. You can feel his gaze on your back all the way down the hall, steady, quiet, resigned.
And the hum of the Underworld follows you again, warm and alive, like it’s laughing with you.
—
The water had gone cold long before you remembered to get out. You'd lost track of time again– if time even existed here. The bath wasn’t like the ones you remembered from the mortal world. The water shimmers faintly, flecks of gold drifting through it like captured sunlight, and the air smells faintly of myrrh and rain.
When you finally rise, it clings to you like silk, sliding down your skin in rivulets that sparkled as they fell. Someone– probably one of the attendants– had left a folded stack of clothes on the stone bench beside the bath.
You reach for them without thinking, and then freeze. They aren’t the dark, severe clothes Jake usually wore. These are… beautiful.
Soft fabrics, light as air. Dresses in shades of pale lavender, deep blue, a green that reminded you of new leaves after rain– and one, tucked near the bottom, the color of sunlight. Gold-threaded yellow, simple but warm, the fabric whispering against your fingers as if it wanted to be worn.
You stare at them for a long time, an uncomfortable realization stirring. Someone had chosen these. Not an attendant. Him.
You can see it in the details– each one matched some half-forgotten color you’d worn before, some small thing he shouldn’t have remembered.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, half-laughing to yourself.
Still, your hand goes to the yellow one. The fabric catches the light from the fire, glowing like trapped daylight. It wasn’t what you’d ever think to wear here, in this place of shadows– but maybe that was the point.
You slip it on. It fits perfectly. Of course it does.
—
You find him in one of the upper halls, surrounded by a slow drift of pale smoke and parchment. He’s standing by a long table scattered with candles, reading something written in a language you can’t begin to decipher.
He doesn’t look up at first. The weight of him filled the room long before his gaze found you.
“Jake,” you say, leaning against the doorway.
He makes a small sound– acknowledgment, irritation, maybe both. “You should be resting.”
You roll your eyes. “You say that every time I do something you don’t approve of.”
He doesn't even glance up. “And yet you never take the hint.”
You cross the room, the soft hem of the yellow dress brushing against your ankles. “Maybe if you paid more attention, I wouldn’t have to seek it elsewhere.”
That makes him look up. Slowly. Deliberately. His gaze finds you– and stops. The faintest shift in the air follows, like the Underworld itself had inhaled. His eyes travel from your bare shoulders down the golden fabric, his expression unreadable, too careful.
“That’s new,” he says finally, voice low.
You tilt your head. “It was just lying around.”
“I see.” His mouth twitches, just barely. “And you chose that color.”
“It was the only one that didn’t feel like it belonged at a funeral.”
He almost smiles, “You think I chose them for mourning?”
“I think you chose them,” you say pointedly. “Which is… a little strange, considering you barely talk to me lately.”
He sets the parchment down with slow precision. “You’ve had enough excitement for one lifetime. You needed space.”
“I needed you to stop vanishing every time I breathe wrong,” you counter, stepping closer. The light caught on the gold of the dress, spilling warmth between you. “You tell me I belong here, but you treat me like some fragile mortal souvenir you’re afraid to touch.”
His eyes darken, though his tone stays maddeningly calm. “I treat you as someone who doesn’t yet understand what she’s become.”
You smile, soft and sharp. “Then maybe you should help me understand instead of hiding behind your paperwork.”
That earns you silence. The kind that hummed, that filled the air with something thick and charged. He steps closer, slow, each movement deliberate. “You’re wearing sunlight,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “In the heart of the dead.”
“Maybe I wanted to see if you’d notice.”
His gaze flicks up to meet yours. “Oh, I noticed.”
You lift your chin, feigning nonchalance even as your pulse betrays you. “Good. Because you’re not giving me nearly enough attention.”
That makes something dangerous flicker across his face– amusement, yes, but undercut with something darker, older. His hand lifts, hovering just shy of your jaw, not touching, not yet.
“If I gave you all the attention you demanded,” he says quietly, “the world would stop moving.”
You smile, leaning forward just enough to make him inhale. “Then maybe it deserves a pause.”
He lets out a low breath, the corner of his mouth curling in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re starting to sound like a goddess.”
“Maybe I’m starting to believe you,” you whisper.
The air between you trembles– alive, expectant.
Then, just when you thought he might close the distance, he steps back, the spell breaking like smoke. “You want attention?” He murmurs, grabbing your hand, “You'll have it.”
You blink and you're not in the same room. The throne room waits for you, vast and silent. Columns of obsidian rise into endless shadow, the air thick with power. The floor gleams like still water, reflecting the flicker of a hundred unseen flames. You can feel the hum of the realm under your feet– steady, alive, listening.
He says nothing as he leads you in. His hand is warm around yours, grounding, unyielding. When you reach the base of the dais, he finally releases you, stepping forward into the circle of light that spills over the throne. You’ve seen it before, but never like this. Tonight, it seems to breathe. He turns to you, gaze unreadable, and gestures to the seat. “Sit,” he says quietly.
You hesitate. “That’s your place.”
He shakes his head once. “Tonight, it’s yours.”
Something in his tone– low, even, but edged with something deeper– sends a pulse of heat through your chest. You ascend the steps slowly, every sound amplified in the silence, and lower yourself into the throne. The stone is cool at first, but it warms beneath you, as though the seat itself recognizes its new occupant.
He remains standing at the base of the dais, looking up at you. For the first time since you’ve known him, the weight between you feels… reversed.
“Comfortable?” he asks. His voice is deceptively calm.
You manage a small, crooked smile. “I don’t think anyone’s supposed to be comfortable here.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer, “but you belong here.”
The words strike something inside you– too much truth, too much gravity. You want to look away, but he’s already climbing the steps. You brace yourself for him to stand beside you, but he doesn’t.
He stops in front of you.
And then, without a word, he lowers himself– slowly, deliberately– onto his knees.
Your breath catches.
The sound that fills the air isn’t from him– it’s from the realm itself. The hum rises, resonant and low, the kind of sound that feels like it’s coming from inside your own chest. You grip the arms of the throne, unsure whether to pull away or reach for him.
“Jake,” you whisper. It’s all you can manage.
He looks up at you, and there’s nothing distant in his eyes now. No god, no shadow. Just the raw, impossible weight of someone who’s spent centuries waiting to kneel exactly here.
“You asked for my attention,” he says softly. “This is what it looks like.”
You swallow, your heart beating too fast. “What are you doing?”
His lips curve faintly, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Remembering my place.”
The air thickens. The glow of the throne seems to pulse, the veins of silver in the stone brightening until you feel light radiating through you, from you. You can’t move. You don’t dare.
He reaches out– not touching, not quite– but his fingers hover near your knee, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the air. The tension hums between you, charged and trembling.
“Do you see now?” he murmurs. “You are not beside me. You are above me. Always have been.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s not–”
“It is.” His voice is reverent, dangerous. “And the world has been waiting for you to remember.”
You want to speak, to break the spell, but his fingers ghost along your ankle, trailing up your calf. You can feel the hem of the dress being lifted with his touch, and you whisper his name again. A warning, a question, you don't know.
He lifts the fabric over your knee, his palm warm and rough against your skin. And he leans in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.
Your hands are gripping tightly to the stone armrests, your chest is heaving. He doesn’t move right away. His breath ghosts over your skin, warm and reverent, as though he’s waiting for your permission to continue. The air between you hums, alive with the pulse of something ancient and unspoken.
When he finally moves, it’s unhurried– his hand tracing a slow, deliberate path along your calf, his thumb drawing idle circles as though memorizing the shape of you. His gaze never leaves your face.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks quietly. “My attention… like this?”
Your chest rises with a shaky breath. The hum of the throne feels like it’s coming from inside you now, low and resonant.
“Yes,” you whisper.
He closes his eyes for a moment, as if the word itself steadies him. Then he bends lower, pressing another kiss– slower this time– just above where his last one lingered. His lips barely part, warm and certain, a vow given in silence.
Another follows, higher still, tracing a line that feels both question and devotion. Each touch is deliberate, restrained, and achingly careful, as if he’s afraid that too much might break the fragile gravity between you.
By the time his breath reaches the edge of your thigh, you can’t tell where the warmth ends– his or yours. The realm seems to pulse with you both, light ebbing and flowing like breath.
He pauses, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes.
“Still what you want?” he murmurs.
You nod– barely more than a tremor– and his answering smile is small, reverent, dangerous.
He lowers his head once more. The throne glows brighter, and the world tilts softly out of focus the second his mouth touches your aching clit. Your entire body nearly collapses in on itself. He grabs your thighs, pulling you tighter to him, lifting your legs over his shoulders.
He's somehow still reverent, the way he works at you– warm kisses, achingly slow drags of his tongue, gentle and hungry.
Your head falls back against the stone with a dull thud, one that you know might hurt later, but you can't be bothered to care right now. He circles his tongue around your entrance, and your hand goes to his hair without thought. Your fingers tighten when he teases, just barely pushing into you, before he licks his way back to your clit.
“Oh my God,” you breathe out, earning a hum from him, right against your aching bud.
He wraps his lips around you at the same time he pulls you impossibly closer to him.
It feels almost wrong– the God of Death himself on his knees, almost worshipping you as you sit in his throne. It only adds to the feeling building inside of you– each swipe of his tongue, each suckle of his lips, bringing you closer and closer to your impending finish.
He uses his hold on you to move your hips, up and down, moving you against his mouth. You're breathing hard, your chest rising and falling and your limbs are shaking.
It sounds as lewd as it looks, soft smacking and wet slurping noises that make your cheeks burn from near shame.
It starts slow– as a subtle stirring, a current rising quietly beneath the surface, gentle and insistent, threading through every fiber of your being.
You manage his name, a soft sigh that breathes out of you. He nearly growls against you, eating at you in earnest, as if he needs it more than you do. And maybe he does.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, and without warning for either of you, your orgasm crashes through you.
Your thighs tighten around his head as it hits you, like a wave crashing in the ocean. You're drug under the water, all senses fuzzy, focused on the pleasure coursing through you. You know you're crying out, noises you'd normally be too ashamed to make falling from your lips.
It gets to be too much, and your palm is pressing against his forehead, pushing him back just enough for you to recover. He runs his tongue over his lips, his eyes as dark and hungry as before he began. You're still spread open in front of him, your limbs weak and jelly-like.
Your hand falls away from his forehead, and your chest heaves as you fight to catch your breath. He takes that opportunity to lean back in, pressing a single kiss to your throbbing clit. Your thighs clench, and you let out a broken whimper.
It only spurs him on, it seems. His tongue runs along the length of your slit, before he presses it into your slick hole, just enough to taste.
You lift your hand, but he intercepts it with his own, tangling your fingers together as he licks over you, as if he's not letting a single drop of your arousal go to waste.
He finally rises up, your thighs falling to loosely fit around around his waist, and he pulls you to him in a heated kiss.
He nips your bottom lip, suckling at it gently, before he pulls back, a hand at the nape of your neck keeping you held in place. He presses his forehead against yours, his own heavy breathing a result of restraint.
“I wanna fuck you,” he whispers, pecking a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth, “So bad.”
You nod rapidly, your hands falling to the waistband of his pants, “Do it.”
He breathes in sharply, pulling back just enough, “I can't–”
“You can,” you argue, already popping the button open. Your fingers have just grabbed the zipper and his hand closes over yours.
“Not here,” he says softly, “Not like this– Like we have some point to prove–”
“We don't,” you interrupt, “I want you, you want me– That's it.”
He looks at you like you're about to destroy him, his jaw tight, “You're gonna be the death of me.” He lifts his hand anyway, allowing you to yank the zipper down.
“Can the God of Death die?” You ask, letting your hands fall away when he moves to stand, one with you settled back in the throne, and him hovering over you.
“No,” he answers, “That'd be kind of ironic, wouldn't it?”
Before you can respond, he's picking you up, flipping the two of you around until you're settled in his lap, a knee on either side of him.
Your face heats, and you almost feel embarrassed. You've never been on top! How do you tell that to him?
It must have been written clear as day on your face, because he pets sweetly at your hair, “Don't overthink it,” he whispers, “I'll help you.”
You nod, gasping when he lifts you up just enough. You hadn't even known he'd already freed himself from his underwear– if he wore any– until you feel the head of him slowly gliding along your soaked heat. He positions himself at your entrance, a hand on your hip lowering you onto him. Your eyes widen as your walls stretch around him, squeezing as you take him in.
You lower until you're completely sitting on his lap. Your hands grab onto his shoulders as you try to settle yourself. You can feel yourself tightening and pulsing around him, relaxing as you adjust to him. You let your head fall forward, resting against his collarbone.
His hands are running up and down your back, soothing and comforting, as he gives you time to get used to him.
“You feel so good,” he whispers, his mouth at your ear, “So fucking wet and warm.” You huff a breath, embarrassment and arousal flooding through you. “You were made for me,” he says softly.
You nod at that, shaky and weak. You felt… whole. Complete. Like Jake was the missing puzzle piece you needed. Not just his dick, but Jake himself. Like this moment was meant to happen.
You push yourself up to face him, “Help me,” you ask softly.
He nods gently, his hands falling to your hips. You know the basics of it– you've seen enough porn and heard enough pointers– but you wanted him to enjoy it. You didn't want to be clueless.
He lifts you up, just a little, before he pushes you back down, “Just like this, honey.” You move your hips up and down, following his hands pushing and pulling. He stops moving you, letting you slowly move on your own. “That's it,” he whispers, his eyes watching where you met him.
You work up to a good rhythm, one that isn't too fast or too slow, and he begins rocking you back and forth. You let out a shuddery breath as your clit rubs just right against his public bone on every upward shift.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, your hands tightening in his shirt.
“That's right baby… I am,” he says, an arrogant grin on his lips– he knew you hadn't intended it that way. But it makes you clench around him regardless.
Your legs are growing tired, the muscles burning as you fuck yourself on him, but you don't want to give up. It feels too good, he feels too good, and you really like doing this.
“You're doing so good,” he murmurs, his thumb moving to tease over your clit. You jerk slightly, the bud sensitive and aching, and he grins.
He hasn't looked away from you since you started moving, and it's intense. His eyes are almost black, his skin is flushed, and he looks almost human in a way you've never seen on him before.
“Jake–” You try to warn him you can keep going, that your burning thighs are almost too much, but he grabs your hips tighter and begins moving you. Your eyes widen when his own hips fuck up into you, meeting you halfway with harsh, wild thrusts.
The head of his cock is dragging along your walls, nudging against that sensitive, spongy spot that makes your walls tighten and your breath catch.
You're hands are tight in his shirt, so tight you're worried you might tear the stitching, but neither of you care about it.
Not when you're so close you feel as if you might explode. It surges like liquid fire, rising in waves that shimmer through every vein and thought, a current both fierce and tender.
"Jake– Fuck–"
Colors seem sharper, sounds richer, as if the air itself hums with the pulse of something vast and intimate. Time melts, folding in on itself, and each heartbeat is a drum calling through your body, through your mind, through the quiet corners of awareness.
"Come for me," he demands, nearly breathless, "Come on, darling. Let me have it– Come for me."
You hit your end with a loud sob, your entire body tightening. There is a soaring weightlessness, a tremor that runs from your core to your fingertips, and then, suddenly, it blooms and spills outward, a radiant flash of light and warmth.
You can't move, you're almost frozen in place aside from the tremors and twitches wracking through your body. You're loud again, cries and moans escaping your lips and you can't find it in yourself to care. Not when he's fucking you through it, ensuring you feel every bit of what he wants you to have.
"Good job, angel," he saus, voice low, "Good fucking girl. You did so good." It verges too much, but his jaw is tight and you know he's almost there with you. You roll your hips, rocking against him as he fucks into you.
“Come on,” you breathe, fighting through the haze and the weakness threatening to overtake you.
His grip on you tightens, his hips stutter, and he reaches his end with a groan of your name. He pulls you tightly to him, his hips slowing as he works through his release.
You press soft kisses to his hair, ones that match the ones he's pressing to your chest, just above the top of your dress. You both stay like that for a moment, kissing and touching softly and sweetly in the afterglow.
He finally raises his head, his hand cradling your face in his palm, “How's that for attention?” He says with the ghost of a grin.
You huff a laugh, your chest heaving against his, “That was… perfect.”
He brushes his thumb over your cheekbone, his grin deepening into something steadier, more sure. “Good. Because I meant every second of it,” he says, his voice low and certain, like he’s staking a quiet claim.
His gaze doesn’t waver– dark, intent, tracing your face like it belongs to him already. “You don’t have to say anything back,” he murmurs, thumb sliding along your jaw. “I know how you are. I can wait for you to catch up. But just so you know…” He leans in, his breath brushing your lips. “I love you.”
You feel your heart stutter, the words sinking deep. He means them– not in a fleeting way, but in a way that roots itself. You can see it in the way he looks at you, like he’s memorizing every heartbeat.
“You don’t have to wait,” you whisper, your hand finding the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair. “I already do.”
His expression shifts– satisfaction flickering in his eyes, something dark and reverent all at once. “Yeah?” he breathes, a small, knowing smile tugging at his mouth. “Good.”
You let out a soft laugh, brushing your nose against his. “Yeah,” you echo, and he hums low in approval before kissing you again– slow, sure, and claiming– until there’s nothing left between you but warmth and the steady rhythm of his heart against yours.
warnings: death, mentions of death, car crash, dying, refusing to die, arguing with the grim reaper, spooky stuff, seeing things, hearing things, nightmares, kinda coercion into accepting death?, Underworld, one little angry kiss, lemme know if i missed any!
a/n: this is kinda another silly little idea i had for spooky season! it's only 2 parts bcz i can't stfu but i hope yall enjoy it and love it as much as i do! <3
masterlist
The last thing you remember is the sound.
The screech of tires. Shattering glass. The sickening crunch of metal folding in on itself.
You remember the flash of headlights– too bright, too close– your hands white-knuckled on the wheel, your chest locking tight with that final, primal fear before everything went black.
Then the hum. The steady, mechanical beeping.
Now you’re here. Hooked up to wires and tubes, the air heavy with antiseptic and that faint electric buzz from the machines beside your hospital bed.
The light above burns through your eyelids when you blink. Everything is too sharp, too white. The ache behind your eyes pulses in time with your heartbeat.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
The voice is smooth. Low. And far too close. Your head snaps toward the sound. A man sits casually in the visitor’s chair, one leg propped on the edge of your bed like he owns the place. His black suit fits like sin, gleaming rings on his fingers catching the harsh light. The open collar of his shirt reveals a pale expanse of chest and a tangle of silver chains that whisper when he moves.
His face… it’s wrong in a way that makes you stare. Too perfect. Too still. Like a statue that decided to start breathing. Eyes dark and cold– eyes that look like they’ve watched entire worlds collapse without blinking.
Your pulse stutters. The monitor tattles on you, beeping faster.
“Who the hell are you?” The words scrape out, half a whisper, half a threat you don’t feel brave enough to make.
He looks almost offended. “I’m Death.”
You blink. Once. Twice. Then you laugh– sharp, humorless. “Sure you are.”
His mouth twists. “You don’t believe me?”
You glance toward the call button, weighing your odds. He doesn’t miss it.
“By all means,” he says, tone dry as ash. “But they won’t see me. No one will.” He leans back in the chair, tilting his head just slightly, that faint smirk curling his lips. “They’ll just think you’ve lost your mind.”
You freeze, fingers hovering over the button.
He sighs, almost bored. “You were supposed to die tonight. Instant. Neat and simple. But here you are.” His gaze drifts over you, curious and irritated all at once. “Alive.”
Your heart kicks harder. The machine keeps pace.
“Yeah, well,” you manage, voice shaking only a little, “guess your schedule’s off.”
That earns a sharp look. His eyes flash, too bright for a second, too inhuman. “I don’t make mistakes.”
“Then maybe you made one now.” You sink back against the mattress, glaring despite the tremor in your hands. “Either way, I’m not dead, so you can take your paperwork and leave.”
Silence stretches, thick and electric. Then he smiles. Slowly. “You’re infuriating.”
“Likewise.”
He studies you like he’s not sure whether to admire you or destroy you. “You shouldn’t be able to talk to me.”
“Lucky me, I guess.”
The smile fades, replaced by something darker. “No,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Unlucky.”
You don’t know why, but the word lands cold in your gut.
A knock jolts you, sharp and ordinary, and when the door opens, the sterile brightness of the hospital floods in. A nurse bustles inside, cheerful, clipboard in hand.
You tear your gaze from the man in the chair– Death, or whatever he is– half expecting him to vanish. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, watching, that impossible stillness breaking only when he arches an eyebrow.
“Good morning!” the nurse says, too bright. “How are we feeling today?”
You open your mouth, but the words stumble. “Uh–”
“She’s disoriented,” Death murmurs.
You glare at him, but the nurse doesn’t even flinch. “Bit of a scare last night,” the nurse continues, flipping through her notes. “You’re very lucky. The doctors say it’s a miracle, actually. Just a mild concussion. No fractures, no internal bleeding. You’ll probably be sore for a few days, but you’re clear to go home.”
You blink, the words barely registering. “Home?”
She smiles, tucking the clipboard under her arm. “Mhm. Discharge papers will be ready within the hour. Someone must really be looking out for you.”
You feel Death shift beside the bed. The air tightens, sharp with something cold.
The nurse doesn’t notice. “We’ll have you unhooked in just a bit, sweetheart. Rest easy.” She pats your arm gently, then turns and walks out, humming under her breath.
The door closes.And the silence that follows feels like the moment before a storm hits. You don’t dare look at him right away. You can feel him staring. When you finally do, the look on his face could freeze blood. Gone is the smirk, the lazy amusement. His jaw is tight, his eyes fire.
“A miracle,” he repeats, voice low, dangerous. “That’s what they’re calling it?”
You swallow, forcing a shaky laugh. “Guess so. Sorry to disappoint your… harvest schedule.”
His head turns sharply toward you, and you flinch before you can stop yourself. “You should not be here,” he says, and for the first time there’s something beneath the anger– something like disbelief. “You were mine. I felt it.”
The words dig under your skin, make the air feel too thin. “Yeah, well, guess I slipped through your fingers.”
He stands. The movement is slow, deliberate, and the temperature in the room seems to drop with it. The shadows near the walls stretch, like they’re leaning toward him.
“No one slips through.” His voice isn’t human now, echoed, layered with something vast and ancient that your mind doesn’t want to understand.
You grip the blanket tighter, pulse hammering in your throat. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
He leans closer, bracing a hand on the rail of your bed. His presence hums through the air, heavy, magnetic. “You don’t belong in this room. You don’t belong in this world anymore.”
“Too bad,” you whisper, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “I kind of like breathing.”
He studies you for a long, terrible moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
Then softer, almost curious, “Let’s see how long that lasts.”
For a heartbeat, neither of you move.
The air feels brittle, humming with static and cold. You can hear the faint tick of the heart monitor, but even that sound seems distant– like it’s trying not to draw attention.
His hand still rests on the metal railing of your bed, fingers adorned with those polished rings that glint with a dull, unnatural sheen. His expression has shifted again, not furious, not mocking, just still. Watching. Calculating.
Then, without looking away, he murmurs,
“Enjoy your miracle while it lasts.”
You open your mouth to say something– anything– but the room seems to fold in on itself. The shadows pull tighter, the hum of the machines warps into a low ringing tone.
And then he’s gone.
No sound. No motion. Just absence.
The air rushes back into your lungs like you’d been holding your breath the whole time. The temperature crawls upward, warmth returning slowly to your fingers. The monitor’s beeping steadies again.
You glance around, half expecting him to be leaning against the wall or perched on the chair again, smirking. But the room is empty. Just you. Just the machines.
For a moment, you think you imagined it all.
But the faint scent of smoke and something cold– like rain on stone– lingers in the air.
You sink back into the bed, dragging a shaking hand down your face. The blanket rustles under your fingers, grounding you in something real. And you lie there, staring at the sterile ceiling, every light in the room suddenly too bright, too alive, too temporary.
—
The world feels too bright. Every color screams. The sunlight off the hospital windows claws at your eyes. People talk and laugh and exist, and all of it feels… wrong.
You sign the discharge forms. The pen trembles in your hand. The nurse smiles, chirps something about a “miracle recovery.” You mumble a thank-you that tastes like metal and walk out before she can see your hands shaking.
The air outside bites– too cold, too clean. You should feel alive.
You don’t.
—
Your apartment greets you with stale air and silence. The key sticks in the lock. You shove it harder than you need to, mutter something under your breath, and the sound echoes back too loud, like the room’s listening. You flip every light switch on your way to the living room. Too bright. Still not enough.
You sit on the couch, and try to breathe.
You’re fine.
You’re fine.
The TV hums to life, static crackling before the image sharpens to a news anchor mid-sentence. The sound glitches, drawn out, distorted, like someone dragging metal teeth across glass. You grab the remote. Smack it once. The screen freezes. A face flickers through the snow of static– his face. Perfect. Still. Eyes like empty wells. You blink hard, and it’s gone.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Losing it. Cool.”
The lights flicker. Once. Twice.
Then his voice– smooth, low, and wrong– slides out of the shadows behind you.
“You shouldn’t have left that bed.”
You jolt, whip around–
He’s there. Leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting hours. The same black suit. The same impossible stillness.
“Jesus–”
“Not him,” he interrupts, a faint smile curling. “Wrong department.”
You stand, heart jackhammering, trying to sound steady. “Get out of my apartment.”
“You think this place still belongs to you?”He steps closer. Shadows follow him like smoke. “You died, love. Everything after that is… borrowed.”
You cross your arms because it’s something to do with your hands. “Yeah, well, I’m still using it, so you can take your cosmic eviction notice and shove it.”
He laughs softly. It’s beautiful. Terrible. The sound makes your ribs ache. “You don’t understand. You’re not supposed to feel anything. Not hunger, not heat, not fear.” His gaze drifts over you like a caress made of knives. “And yet, here you are. Pretending.”
“I’m living,” you snap. “Something you clearly wouldn’t know about.”
That smile fades. His head tilts. “You call this living? The noise in your head? The way the air tastes wrong? You feel it, don’t you?”
Your throat tightens. You don’t answer.
He moves closer, close enough that the lights buzz and dim. His presence hums against your skin, electric and cold.
“You’re rotting from the inside,” he murmurs. “Your soul is trying to finish what I started. I can make it stop. Peacefully. Painlessly.”
“Wow,” you say, voice trembling only a little. “You really suck at bedside manner.”
“I’m offering mercy.”
“And I’m saying no.”
His eyes flash, the faintest ripple of something vast behind them. “You don’t get to say no.”
You take a step back. “Watch me.”
For a moment, he just stares at you. The silence between you stretches, alive and poisonous.
Then he smiles again– but this one’s colder, thinner. The kind that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You think you’re alive because you’re strong,” he says softly. “You’re alive because something went wrong. A glitch. A heartbeat that refused to stop. But that won’t last.” He leans closer, close enough that you can feel the air bend around him. “Soon, you’ll beg me to finish what I started.”
You swallow hard, forcing your expression into something that looks like defiance. “Don’t hold your breath.”
“I never do.”
And then he’s gone.
No sound. No warning. Just the faint smell of burnt air and the static hum left in his wake.
You stand in the middle of the living room, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight your nails cut into your palms. The TV flickers again. In the reflection of the black screen, your face stares back– and for half a second, it smiles when you don’t.
—
You don’t sleep that night. Not really.
You lie on the couch with every light on, wrapped in three blankets you don’t remember pulling from the closet. The TV plays old sitcoms on mute, laugh tracks bubbling up now and then like ghosts of better times.
You doze eventually, but it’s not rest. It’s falling.
You’re in a hallway that stretches too long, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The floor tiles hum beneath your feet. You don’t remember walking here, but your legs ache like you’ve been moving for hours.
There are doors lining the hallway– hospital doors, some cracked open. You pass one and see your own body inside. Pale. Still. Tubes in your arms. Monitors flatlining.
You keep walking.
A second door: your bedroom, lights off, shadows curling along the floor like spilled ink. Something in the dark shifts when you pass, like it's watching. A third door, a mirror. Just a mirror. You slow down. Your reflection doesn’t. It watches you as you move past, grinning wide with blood in its teeth. You stop walking. Turn slowly. The hallway is gone. Just the mirror now. Just you. But not you. "You know it’s coming, don’t you?" Your reflection speaks without moving its mouth. “He doesn’t chase things that want to live. Only things too tired to pretend anymore.” You back away– into something solid.
A hand slides over your mouth. Rings. Cold metal. A whisper in your ear.
“Why wait?”
You wake up gasping, sweat-soaked, nails dug into the couch cushion. The TV is off.
You didn’t turn it off.
The lights in the hallway are out. You left them on. The clock on the microwave flashes 3:33.
And in the reflection on the dark TV screen– he’s sitting in the armchair across from you. You spin around. It’s empty.
You don’t scream. You’re too tired for that. Instead, you wipe your face, stand on unsteady legs, and stomp to the kitchen like you’re going to fight the air itself.
Coffee. That’s what you need. You flick the machine on, hands shaking, jaw clenched. The ritual helps. Grind. Pour. Wait. “Come on,” you mutter to the appliance. ‘I’ve got existential horror to ignore.”
“You’re running out of tricks.”
The voice comes from behind you. Of course it does. You don’t turn this time. You grab the mug and take a long sip. It burns your tongue. Good. Something real.
“Is this the part where you give your big monologue about how I’m circling the drain?” you say, turning slowly. “Save your breath. I’ve heard worse speeches from gas station preachers.”
He stands in the doorway like a shadow that learned how to smile. The kitchen light flickers behind him. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.
“You think humor will save you?” he asks, stepping forward. “You think being difficult makes you strong?”
“No,” you say, sipping again. “I think being a pain in your ass makes me feel better. And right now, that’s enough.”
His expression doesn’t change, but the air does. The hum deepens. The shadows ripple. The walls feel too close, like they’re leaning in to listen.
“Every night, I will come to you. In your dreams. In your mirrors. In the silence between heartbeats. And every time, you will wonder– is this the moment?”
You meet his eyes, even though it makes your spine want to snap in half. “You can haunt me all you want. But I’m not going with you.”
“You will. Eventually.”
“Then you can wait.”
Something flickers in his eyes– not anger, not amusement. Something colder. Older. Like he’s remembering the shape of your bones beneath your skin. “You’re going to get tired,” he says, quiet now. “And when you do… I’ll be the only thing that still makes sense.” Then he’s gone.
No sound. No movement. Just that impossible absence.
You lean on the counter, exhale slowly. Your hands are shaking again. The coffee mug clinks against the tile when you set it down.
In the dark screen of the microwave, your reflection doesn’t move for just a second too long.
You turn away. You don’t look back.
—
You stop sleeping.
You try. You lie down. Close your eyes. Pretend your body isn’t vibrating with that constant electric hum just beneath the skin. Pretend your ears aren’t straining for the sound that always comes when the world gets too quiet. But it’s always there.
The pause. The moment when the world holds its breath. And in that silence– him.
So now you stay up. Too much coffee. Too little food. Jittering, twitching, refusing to blink too long in case you open your eyes and he’s standing right there. You tape over your mirrors. You unplug your TV. You haven’t looked into your reflection in three days. It’s safer that way. You still see him. In windows. In puddles. Sometimes in the way your shadow doesn’t move when you do.
—
There’s a stack of books on your kitchen table.
Not the fun kind. Not witches-with-crystals or “align your aura” blog posts. These are older. Dusty, cracked bindings. Margins scrawled with notes in too many languages. Some pages smell like ash. One book bleeds when you open it. You close that one again fast. This isn’t about belief. It’s about options.
Because if Death is real– if he is real– then maybe something else is, too. Something worse.
Something older. Something that doesn’t want you to die. You're hoping that's a thing. You're hoping it hates him more than you do.
—
He shows up again at 3:12 a.m. You don’t look up. You’re on the floor, cross-legged, surrounded by books and half-drunk coffee, scrawling translations from three dead languages onto the back of an unpaid electric bill.
“You’re exhausting yourself.”
His voice slides across the room like oil on tile. Smooth. Slow. Too calm.
“You’re annoying,” you mutter. “Guess we both have our coping mechanisms.”
You hear the faint creak of the chair as he sits. Same one as last time. Like he owns the place.“You’re not built for this kind of pressure,” he says. “You’ll crack. They all do.”
“Cool story,” you say, not looking at him. “Tell it to someone who didn’t already survive a car crash and a visit from the Grim Reaper.”
He laughs, and the sound makes the air in your lungs feel thin.
“Survive?” he repeats, amused. “Is that what you think this is?” You look up now. You regret it immediately. His eyes are endless. Still and black, but alive with something that stretches far beyond what your mind wants to hold. There’s no humanity there. Just gravity. Pull. End.
“I’m still breathing,” you say quietly. “So yeah. Survival counts.”
“Breathing is not living,” he murmurs. “You’re rotting from the inside out. You think that nausea is stress? You think the hallucinations are just dreams? You’ve started unraveling. You’re slipping.” He leans forward. The light flickers above him, dims slightly. “And all you’re doing is dragging it out.”
Your hands tremble slightly. You grip the paper tighter to hide it. “You always like this with people, or is it just me?”
“You’re not people,” he says. “Not anymore.”
You stand. Slowly. Not because you want to challenge him– because sitting makes you feel small. And you’re too furious to be small right now, “Then what am I?”
He tilts his head, considering. “A corpse in denial.”
You stare at him. Then, “That’s adorable. Did you come up with that in the mirror before you appeared? Practicing your little one-liners?”
His smile vanishes. The room darkens, just slightly. Enough to feel it in your teeth, “You mock because you’re afraid.”
“Damn right I’m afraid,” you snap. “You show up in my house, in my dreams, in my reflection. You talk like the end is inevitable and I’m just some broken clock waiting to stop ticking. Of course I’m afraid.”
You step forward.
He watches you. No movement. Just those eyes, pulling.
“But I’m also pissed. And desperate. And maybe a little insane. And do you know what those three things together make?” Silence. “Unpredictable.”
Something flickers across his face then. Barely there. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Something colder. “You think you can fight Death?”
You look him dead in the eye. “No,” you say. “I think I can inconvenience him.”
He leaves. Just like that. The room exhales when he’s gone. You slide to the floor, knees weak, head spinning. Your hands are shaking so bad you drop the coffee cup. It shatters. You flinch. But he’s gone.
And that’s a win. A small one. But still.
You sit in the dark, surrounded by broken ceramic, ancient pages, and your own unraveling mind– and for the first time in days, you smile.
—
Days bleed together.
You don’t check the calendar anymore. You don’t open the blinds. The sun feels like something that happens to other people. You eat when you remember to. Drink coffee because it keeps your hands moving. But it doesn’t keep your thoughts clear. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at the wall for hours, waiting for it to breathe again.
Because sometimes it does.
He doesn’t visit every night anymore. He doesn’t have to. Now it’s his absence that haunts you.
You hear the echo of him in everything– the hum of the refrigerator, the static between radio stations, the silence between the second and third ring of the phone.
The longer you stay awake, the thinner the line gets between him and the world. Maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe it’s working.
—
You wake up one evening on the floor. You don’t remember falling asleep. Your neck aches. There’s a dull buzz in your ears. The air feels heavy, like the moment before a thunderstorm.
He’s sitting on the couch.
No fanfare. No darkness swallowing the room this time. Just there, legs crossed, elbows on his knees. Watching you.
You don’t even startle anymore. You’re past that.
“You’re tired,” he says.
Your throat is dry. “You keep saying that like it’s breaking news.”
“It’s not fatigue,” he murmurs. “It’s rot. Your body’s fighting what it already knows is inevitable.”
You push yourself up, leaning against the wall. “You’re really committed to the bit, huh?”
He stands. Slowly. You realize you can’t hear the sound of his footsteps on the carpet. “You’ve fought long enough,” he says. “You’ve proven your point.”
“What point is that?”
“That you can defy me. That you can live on spite alone.” He tilts his head, and something in the air twists. The shadows in the corners of the room pull toward him. “But look at you. You’re unraveling. You can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t even tell when you’re dreaming. You’re not living. You’re lingering.”
You press your palms against your temples. “Shut up.”
“You wake up every morning hoping it feels different.” His voice softens. Almost kind. “But it never does, does it?”
“Stop.”
“The noise. The silence. The weight in your chest that doesn’t go away. The way the world looks too sharp, too bright. You think that’s life?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “You don’t know what life feels like.”
He moves closer. You can feel the temperature drop.“I know what peace feels like.”
Something in you cracks at that word. Peace. You’ve forgotten what that is.
Your chest tightens. You’re so tired your bones hum with it. Every heartbeat feels like an argument you’re losing.
He kneels in front of you, his voice soft as smoke. “You fought harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. But it’s over. You don’t have to keep hurting just to prove you can.”
You open your eyes. He’s right there. Too close.
He looks… beautiful. That same wrong kind of beautiful, but softer now. Almost human.
“Come with me,” he whispers. “You’ll sleep. No pain. No noise. Just quiet.”
Your lip trembles. You want to say no. You want to spit in his face. You want to laugh and tell him to go haunt someone else.
But the words don’t come.
The silence in the room stretches so long it starts to sound like a heartbeat.
You breathe in, sharp and shaking. “Would it hurt?” you ask, voice barely there.
His expression flickers– satisfaction and sorrow, tangled together. “No,” he says. “Not for long.”
You close your eyes. Just for a second.
It’s so easy to picture it. The quiet. The weight lifting. The end of the static in your head.
So easy.
You almost lean forward. Almost.
Then a sound– a small, human sound– breaks through the haze.
Your phone buzzes from the table. A text from an unknown number. Hey. You okay? You never came to work.
The world snaps back into focus. The hum of the fridge. The light from the street outside. The smell of stale coffee.
Life.
You blink, look back– and he’s already standing. The disappointment on his face is quiet, restrained. “Another delay,” he murmurs. “But you can’t delay forever.”
You swallow hard. “Watch me.”
He stares for a long moment, and the mask of calm slides back into place. “Soon,” he says. “You’ll beg for me again.” He vanishes.
The air rushes back into your lungs like a gasp.
You collapse against the wall, clutching your phone like a lifeline. The message glows on the screen. One real, human thing. One anchor.
You start typing back with shaking hands.
Yeah. I’m okay.
You don’t hit send. But you don’t delete it either.
—
It happens quietly.
No thunder, no breaking glass. Just stillness. You’ve gone three more nights without sleep.
Three nights of shadows whispering behind your eyes, of voices in the hum of the lights.
You stopped eating yesterday. Coffee tastes like copper now. The world has flattened to shades of gray.
Even fear takes effort.
You’re sitting on the floor beside the couch when you realize you can’t feel your heartbeat anymore. Not panic– just absence.
Then the air moves. Like a door opening where there shouldn’t be one.
He’s there again. Same black suit, same stillness, but something in his face has changed. No triumph this time. No threat. Just inevitability.
“You fought longer than anyone,” he says softly.
You nod. You don’t remember standing, but you’re upright now.
The apartment feels like it’s dissolving at the edges. Furniture fading, walls thinning into light. You should be afraid of that– but the fear’s gone too.
“I’m tired,” you say. The words fall from your mouth like stones.
“I know.”
You meet his eyes. For once, they don’t look endless. They look… merciful. “Will it be quiet?” you ask.
“Yes.”
He extends his hand. Pale, elegant, ringed fingers waiting.
You stare at it. For a moment you see the world you’re leaving– the cup on the counter, the message you never sent, the cheap lamp flickering against the dark.
Small things. Ordinary things. But they were yours.
Then you look back at him.
And for the first time since the crash, you stop fighting. You reach out. Your hand fits into his like it always belonged there.
The hum in your skull fades. The light softens.
He doesn’t pull. He just holds your hand, and the world exhales. “Ready?”
You nod.
And the last thing you hear is the sound of everything finally going still.
—
The fall ends in silence.
No pain, no air, no sense of direction, only the slow realization that there’s ground beneath your feet again. You open your eyes.
The world is gray. Not shadowed– emptied. A horizon made of mist and glass. Shapes drift in the distance: arches, stairways that climb into nothing, the suggestion of doors with no walls to hold them. It feels like a place that forgot it was real.
He stands beside you, still holding your hand. His touch is warm and wrong at the same time, the pulse of a star pressed against skin. “This is the threshold,” he says. “From here you cross. And then it’s quiet.”
You nod. You expect relief. Maybe even peace.
He steps forward; you follow. The air hardens.
The instant you try to pass, a soundless shock throws you back. Your body folds, breathless, though you don’t need to breathe anymore. The mist flares with light and dies again.
You look up at him. He’s frozen, expression unreadable. “That shouldn’t happen.”
You manage a rasped laugh. “You keep saying that.”
He tries again. He grabs you, shoves you, as if the first time was a fluke. “Ow,” you grumble when you hit the invisible wall once more.
He looks angry, confusion and shock warping his face. “No.” The word comes out like a crack of thunder. He stares at his hands, then at you. “You’re bound, but you won’t move on.”
“So… Guess we just hang out forever?”
His eyes narrow. “I can send souls back to the living when it isn’t their time.” He gestures. The space behind you ripples, showing a faint image of your apartment, faint light through drawn curtains. “If I return you there, the balance will hold.”
You almost laugh with relief. “Do it.”
He reaches toward the ripple. The image brightens– then collapses in on itself like burning paper. He jerks his hand back, teeth clenched.
“Impossible,” he says again, but quieter this time.
“What now?”
He looks at you for a long moment. You’ve never seen him look lost before. It makes him seem more human, which is somehow worse. “You can’t cross to the dead,” he says slowly. “And you can’t return to the living. Something severed the thread completely.”
“So I’m… what?”
“An anomaly.”
The word lands. You cross your arms, trying to stop the trembling. “So what happens to anomalies?”
He exhales– a sound like wind through bones. “They remain where they were last claimed.”
You blink. “Which means?”
He looks away, toward the endless gray plain.
“Here. With me.”
The silence after that is unbearable.
He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t threaten. He simply stands there, the embodiment of every end that ever was, and somehow looks as trapped as you feel.
Finally you mutter, “Well, this is awkward.”
He glances at you. For a moment his mouth twitches, not quite a smile.
“You have no idea.”
The mist shifts, curling around you both like a slow tide. The archways in the distance fade into fog.
Two figures stand where life and death overlap.
—
He brings you deeper.
The fog gives way to architecture that shouldn’t exist– massive obsidian columns, archways that shimmer like black ice, walls carved with unreadable script that glows faintly, pulsing like a second heartbeat. It’s beautiful, in a way that feels wrong. The silence here is thicker, more intimate. Like it’s listening.
You follow him up a long staircase carved from gray marble that never gathers dust, through a grand hall with no ceiling– just endless void above. Finally, he stops.
You’re in a chamber lit by a cold, flickering flame that casts no shadow. There’s no furniture, no warmth, just him– and now, you.
“This is my home,” he says quietly, without pride.
You spin slowly, taking it in. “Figures it’d be a palace. You’ve got that whole ‘lonely god’ thing down.”
He looks at you, unreadable. “You’re not leaving.”
You freeze. “What?”
“You don’t belong to the living. You won’t cross into the dead… That leaves only here.”
You blink. Once. Twice. Then the dam breaks. “You’re joking.” You pace the room like a caged animal. “You’re actually– you’re keeping me here? Like some… ghost pet?” He doesn’t flinch. “I’d rather jump into the void. I’d rather rot.”
He watches, still calm.
You round on him, voice rising. “You smug, shadow-wrapped parasite! I was supposed to be gone. Done. But no, you dragged me here– like I’m your mistake to babysit. What now? Gonna chain me to the wall like some kind of trophy? Keep me in your endless tomb until I what– break? Beg?”
The firelight trembles. Something in the stone groans– low, like the place itself felt the insult.
He steps forward, slow and deliberate. Not threatening. Just… inevitable.
“Are you finished?” His voice is soft. Too soft. It slides under your skin like silk drawn over a blade.
You glare, chest heaving. “Not even close.”
He tilts his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m allowing this tantrum,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But I suggest you mind your tone.”
You open your mouth to speak, but he’s in front of you now– close enough to feel the cold hum of his presence brush your skin.
“You are in my home,” he says, voice dipping into something darker, thicker, almost a whisper. “You breathe because I allow it. You move because I’ve chosen not to bind you.”
His hand lifts– not touching, but hovering close to your jaw. Not threatening. Not kind. “So if you want to keep your fire, little mortal–watch your mouth.” Your breath catches. Not fear, not exactly. Something hotter, heavier. He sees it– how you tense, how your eyes flicker, how your heartbeat stutters once against your ribs. And then he steps back, just slightly, his expression unreadable again. “You’re here because there is nowhere else left for you. And I… am trying to be generous.”
You hate how much power he holds in that stillness. How your anger curdles into something hungrier. How his presence wraps around you like velvet and steel. You hate him. You hate that you don’t know why you don’t look away.
But you’re here. In his house. In his world. And now, you both know the rules.
The word generous still rings in your head like a slap. You stare at him– this god, this phantom– standing there so composed, so maddeningly certain.
“Generous?” you spit. “You call this generous? You drag me here like a stray you can’t be bothered to bury and now you think you’re doing me a favor?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. The stillness in him feels deliberate– a weapon sharper than any blade.
“Say something,” you snarl. “Go on. Tell me how merciful you are. Tell me how I should thank you for not binding me in your perfect little crypt.”
“Are you finished?” His voice is soft again, that silken threat.
“Stop doing that!” you explode, stepping closer. “Stop talking like you’re above it all! Like you don’t even feel!”
Something cracks– in you, not him. The anger burns through the grief, through the fear, through everything until there’s nothing left but the heat. You shove him, hard, palms against his chest. He barely moves, only catches your wrist before you can do it again. His hand closes around you like a man holding a live flame.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You forget what I am.”
You laugh, short and ugly. “Maybe I want to forget.”
And before you can stop yourself, you’re on him– you grab his collar, drag him down, and kiss him. It’s not gentle; it’s a snarl made flesh, teeth and fury and the ache of everything you’ve lost.
He lets you. For a moment.
Then the world shifts. His power rolls through the room like thunder muffled by velvet. One of his hands slides to your throat– not choking, just there– a reminder of how easily he could end you. The other settles against your back, steadying you even as the ground feels like it might dissolve.
The kiss breaks. You’re both breathing hard– you from rage, him from restraint.
He leans close enough that his breath ghosts your ear. “That,” he says, low and deliberate, “is not permitted.”
Your pulse stutters. “Why?”
His fingers tighten infinitesimally at your throat, just enough to make you feel how much strength he’s not using. He holds you there, suspended between defiance and surrender. You feel his power humming through the air– cold, magnetic, inescapable.
“You don’t get to touch me like that,” he murmurs. “Not out of anger. Not out of need. Not until you understand what it means to ask.”
Your breath shakes. You hate how it sounds like a shiver.
He releases you– slow, deliberate– like letting go of something fragile he’s not sure he should’ve caught. The air floods back between you. “Go,” he says finally. The single word is soft, final, absolute.
“Fuck you.” You snap, weaker than intended.
You don’t wait for his response. You turn on your heel and storm out, boots echoing hard and fast down the endless marble corridor, trying to shake the heat of his voice, his stillness, his shock– your own stupid mouth.
The Underworld doesn't have wind, but the cold follows you anyway, sliding down your spine like fingers.
You don’t know where you’re going. Maybe there isn’t anywhere to go. But you refuse to stay in that room with him– With his voice in your head, with your pulse still racing.
God, what the hell were you thinking?
You push open a door that wasn’t there before–
and step into a corridor that stretches impossibly far, lined with towering mirrors that reflect nothing.
No doors. No windows. No escape. But you keep walking. The palace watches.
You can feel it– the walls pulse slightly with your heartbeat, or maybe with his. The shadows stretch toward you. The floor shifts subtly, like it’s deciding whether to hold you up or swallow you whole. Still, you walk.
Your hands shake. Your chest tightens. And suddenly, the rage inside you gives way to something colder.
You’re not just trapped. You’re alone. In his home. And it knows you don’t belong.
You spin in place, yelling into the emptiness.
“Do you just watch me? Is this part of the game? You sit there in your high tower while your creepy house follows me like a dog?”
Nothing. Then, faintly, you hear his voice, not from behind you, but everywhere.
“I’m letting you have your space.”
Your stomach twists.
“But don’t pretend you don’t want to be seen.”
You grit your teeth and keep moving, faster now.
“Go to hell,” you mutter.
“You’re already here,” his voice murmurs. Closer. Too close. “And you kissed me, little flame. That makes you mine, in a way.”
You stop walking. Chest heaving. Heart pounding.
You hate him. You hate this place.
And worst of all– you hate that some small part of you doesn’t feel entirely powerless anymore. You’re still here. You’re still fighting. And Death knows it.
—
You’ve been walking for what feels like hours.
Every hallway looks the same– black stone, faint silver veins glowing like constellations buried in the walls. The air hums, alive but indifferent.
You’re too angry to sit still, too proud to go back.
So you keep moving.
When you finally stop, it’s in what might pass for a garden– though the plants here look more like shadows pretending to be flowers. They don’t have color, just shapes, and they move slightly even when there’s no breeze.
You sit on a low stone bench. The cold seeps through your skin. Your stomach twists. You realize, belatedly, that you’re hungry.
Then you hear the quietest sound– a soft clink of porcelain.
You look up.
He’s standing a few feet away, holding a tray. A bowl, a cup, a sliver of bread that looks startlingly ordinary. The contrast between him and the simple meal is almost funny. “You need to eat,” he says.
You blink. “Do ghosts get hungry now?”
“You’re not a ghost. And you’re not dead.”
You stare. “Then what the hell am I?”
“An inconvenience,” he says lightly, and sets the tray beside you.
You laugh, short and humorless. “Guess I’m consistent.”
He doesn’t leave. He leans against a pillar, watching you with that unreadable calm. You pick up the spoon, eyeing the food suspiciously.
“It won’t kill you,” he murmurs.
“Funny,” you say, taking a bite anyway. It tastes like nothing. Still, it’s warm. You don’t want to admit it feels almost… kind. Silence stretches.
Then you glance up at him. “Do you have a name?”
He blinks, as if no one’s asked that in a thousand years.
“A name?”
“Yeah.” You gesture vaguely at him. “You can’t just go around calling yourself Death. It’s dramatic as hell.”
A long pause. Then, quietly, “Jake.”
You stop chewing. “…Jake?”
He nods once, dead serious.
And you burst out laughing. It comes out too loud, too sharp, echoing off the stone like a sound this place doesn’t know what to do with.
“Jake?” you manage between breaths. “You– you’re Death. The end of everything. And your name is Jake?”
He watches you, expression caught somewhere between insulted and bemused. “It’s what someone once called me.”
You wipe a tear from your eye, still chuckling.
“Oh, that’s rich. All this–” you wave at the palace, the shadows, the void “–and you’re just Jake.”
His gaze sharpens slightly, but he doesn’t argue. “Would you prefer something less human?”
You smirk. “No. I think Jake suits you. Really takes the edge off the whole doom-and-gloom vibe.”
He exhales– an almost-laugh.
“Careful,” he says softly, the warning there but gentler this time. “Names have weight here.”
“Yeah, well,” you murmur, picking up the cup, “so do grudges.”
He smiles– slow, faint, dangerous.
“Good. Then you’ll fit right in.”
—
You find him later, in one of the long corridors that overlook the black river cutting through the Underworld. The water below glows faintly, like someone mixed moonlight with ink. He’s standing at the edge of the balcony, hands clasped behind his back. The picture of patience.
You hate how good he looks doing absolutely nothing. You clear your throat. “Hey, Jake.”
He doesn’t turn around, but you see the faint lift of his shoulders– a sigh, maybe.
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
You walk up beside him, folding your arms. “Doing what, Jake?”
Now he glances at you. Eyes dark, tired, faintly amused. “Calling me that.”
You grin. “You said it was your name.”
“I said someone once called me that. That doesn’t mean you should.”
“Oh, come on,” you tease. “What am I supposed to call you, Lord of Death?”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Most mortals who’ve spoken my name have done so in prayer or in fear. Never in jest.”
You lean on the balcony, facing him. “Guess I’m just talented.”
“Or foolish.”
“Maybe both.”
Silence. The air here hums, alive with faint whispers from the river below. It sounds like the world breathing in its sleep. You tilt your head. “So what’s the problem, Jake? You embarrassed? Too mundane for the god of endings?”
He exhales through his nose, a sound that’s half-laugh, half-warning. “Names are a kind of leash, little mortal. Use it too freely, and I might start to believe you think you can pull me by it.”
You smirk. “What if I can?”
That earns a look. Sharp. Amused. Dangerous. “Try it,” he murmurs. “See how far that leash reaches.”
You feel the weight in the air shift– not threatening, exactly. Just heavy, charged. Like the whole place is waiting to see who breaks first.
You don’t look away. “Sure thing, Jake.”
He chuckles then– low, quiet, almost fond– and turns back to the river.
“You’re going to make eternity very loud.”
You grin. “Good. Somebody should.”
—
The palace has moods. You’ve noticed that now.
Tonight, it’s quieter. The endless corridors don’t shift under your feet. The flickering lights burn steadier. Even the shadows seem to rest.
You find him in what passes for a library– a massive hall where the shelves rise into nothing, filled with books bound in strange materials, written in no language you know.
He doesn’t look up as you walk in, but his presence fills the room. Sitting in a high-backed chair, legs crossed, reading something so ancient it looks like it could disintegrate if you breathed too hard.
You hesitate in the doorway. Then you say, without thinking, “This place feels less horrible tonight.”
He glances up. His expression is... softer. Quiet. “It listens to you. More than it should.”
You walk closer, curiosity winning out. “What are you reading?”
He holds the book up, shows you the page. Nothing but thin, silver lines spiraling like constellations. You squint. “That’s not a language.”
“Not to you.”
You’re beside him now. Close enough to feel the cold coming off his body in waves. You should step back.
You don’t.
He watches you. You watch the book. But neither of you really care about the book.
Your hand twitches at your side, and you glance down at him– at the curve of his jaw, the relaxed line of his mouth. He's not looking at the pages anymore. He’s looking at you. You speak before your brain can stop you. “Do you ever miss it?” you ask. “Being... alive?”
His gaze sharpens, just slightly. “No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No one remembers being born. Why should I remember dying?”
You stare at him a second longer. Then, gently, you reach out. You mean to touch the edge of his sleeve. Nothing more. Just proof that he's real. That this isn’t some elaborate punishment built inside your own head. Your fingertips brush the fabric.
He doesn’t move– for a moment.
Then he closes the book. And stands. Not fast. Not angry. But final. “That’s enough,” he says quietly.
You blink. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
He nods once. “I know. That’s why I’m stopping it now.”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. He doesn’t look mad. Or cold. If anything, he looks… tired. Like holding something at bay is wearing him down.
“Don’t mistake stillness for absence,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “There are rules even I haven’t broken.” And then, softer, “You shouldn’t want to be close to me.”
You meet his eyes. “But I do.”
He looks at you like that’s the most dangerous thing you’ve said yet. “Then we’re both making mistakes.”
And with that, he turns and walks away, vanishing between the shelves like the dark knows how to open doors just for him.
You're left standing there. Cold where he used to be. And for the first time since arriving here… you realize how loud your own heartbeat really is.
warnings: pushy family, lying, "pretend boyfriend", one bed trope, kissing, jealous ex, more kissing, slight angst, admission of feelings, friends to lovers, SMUT 18+!, fingering (f. rec.), handjob, dirty talk, unprotected sex, slight overstim., light choking, having to be quiet during sex, soft jake
masterlist
You toss your phone onto the table, a heavy clatter breaking the quiet of your apartment. A sigh drags out of you, long and weary, the kind that deflates your whole body. You lean back into the couch cushions until your head tips over the edge, staring up at the ceiling above you. There’s a small crack spidering out from where the wall meets the plaster– something new, something to add to the growing list of things that need fixing. You squint at it, jaw tightening. It’s a small thing, but somehow, it feels like the last straw.
The real problem isn’t the crack. It’s your family.
Your mom’s voice still rings in your ears– that bright, insistent tone that makes you feel ten years old again. You’re expected home this weekend, of course, for your nana’s eightieth birthday bash. Everyone will be there. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. The works.
And, naturally, the conversation had shifted. Have you met anyone yet, sweetheart?
You had rolled your eyes so hard they practically got stuck. And then, because you panic when cornered, you lied. Told your mom you were seeing someone. Told her he was great. Funny. Sweet. You might’ve even said he played guitar, because you were clearly out of your mind. And the kicker? You told her he’d be coming with you.
You groan, dragging your hands over your face. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
A soft thump at your feet interrupts your self-loathing. When you lower your hands, you see Snickerdoodle weaving between your legs, tail curling around your shin. Her little meow is pointed, expectant. You reach down, scoop her up, and press your face into her fur. She purrs immediately, that warm, steady rumble in her chest grounding you for a second.
“What are we gonna do, huh?” you mumble into her fur. She blinks at you, unimpressed, and stretches in your arms like she has no plans to help solve this mess.
You don’t even move when the front door creaks open– only one person in the world walks into your place like that without knocking.
Jake rounds the corner a moment later, sunlight catching on his messy hair and the glint of a chain at his throat. There’s a drink carrier in one hand, two coffees swaying precariously, and a paper bag that smells like sugar and butter in the other.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he grins, setting everything on the table beside your abandoned phone. “You look like you’re… going through it.”
You sigh again, rubbing Snickerdoodle’s back. “I’m an idiot.”
Jake raises his brows, handing you your coffee. “Well, that’s not new. Nothing to get dramatic about.”
You give him a deadpan look, though you can’t quite smother the laugh that escapes you. “Screw you, Jake.”
He chuckles, taking the cat from your arms and tucking her against his chest like he’s done a hundred times before. She melts instantly, purring louder, the little traitor. Jake scratches under her chin, the picture of contentment. “Alright, what’d you do this time?”
You groan, curling a hand around your coffee cup. “It’s my nana’s birthday this weekend. Big party. My mom asked if I had a boyfriend yet, and…” you shrug helplessly, “I panicked. I told her I did.”
He hums, not even fazed. “That’s not so bad.”
You take a sip of coffee and stare at him over the rim of your cup. “I also told her he was coming with me.”
He freezes. Then blinks. “Why would you do that?”
“I don’t know!” you groan, dropping your face into your hands again. “I just– I got tired of them asking. Every time I go home it’s like a damn interrogation. I cracked.”
Jake lets out a low laugh, shaking his head as Snickerdoodle climbs onto his shoulder like she owns him. “You could just say he couldn’t make it. Long-distance thing. Food poisoning. Something.”
You lower your hands, staring at him. And then it hits you– like a light bulb switching on, chaotic and brilliant.
“Jake,” you say slowly, “I have an idea.”
He looks at you warily, still petting your cat. “That tone never means anything good.”
“Be my fake boyfriend. Just for the weekend.”
He blinks. “What?”
You sit up straighter, coffee sloshing in your cup. “Come with me. Pretend to be my boyfriend. You already know everything about me anyway, and my family will love you.”
He grins, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Y/n–”
“Please,” you say quickly. “We don’t have to make it weird or anything. Just– I can’t do another family trip where I’m grilled about my love life.”
Jake studies you for a long moment, the teasing dimming in his expression. His thumb strokes absentmindedly behind Snickerdoodle’s ear before he gently sets her on the floor. Then he stands, running a hand through his hair, his lips pursed in thought.
“This weekend?” he asks.
You nod, heart thumping, not daring to breathe.
Finally, he sighs and smiles, soft and a little amused. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll do it.”
You practically launch yourself off the couch, wrapping your arms around him in a quick, overjoyed hug. “You’re the best, Jake.”
He laughs, his hands settling lightly against your back. “You owe me big time, you know. One night out– no backing out at the last minute for your fuzzy pajamas and crime shows.”
You nod quickly, still grinning. “Deal. Whatever you want.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his smile turning playful again. “Alright, sweetheart,” he says, voice low with mock seriousness. “Let’s go lie to your family.”
Snickerdoodle meows from the floor, as if she already knows this is going to end in disaster.
—
The drive up takes hours, all winding roads and bursts of gold and green outside the windows. You’ve been half-dozing against the window for the last stretch, the hum of the tires and the low strum of Jake’s playlist turning everything soft around the edges.
When he clears his throat and says, “We’re here,” you blink awake, squinting through the windshield.
Your parents hadn’t been exaggerating– the place is stunning. The log cabin sits tucked between tall pines, warm light spilling out from the big windows. There’s a porch wrapped all the way around, string lights draped from post to post, swaying in the late afternoon breeze. You can already smell woodsmoke and something sweet– probably one of your aunts baking inside.
Jake shifts the car into park and glances at you, his grin lopsided. “So… ready to ruin your mom’s expectations?”
You groan, rubbing your hands over your face. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He laughs, reaching for the door handle. “Alright, fake girlfriend. Let’s make some magic.”
The air outside is crisp, the kind that smells like pine needles and distant rain. Gravel crunches under your shoes as you step out, stretching your legs. The front porch is lined with boots and coolers, and through the big front windows, you can already see movement– your mom bustling around, someone laughing too loud.
You glance over at Jake as he grabs both your overnight bags from the trunk. His hair’s a little messy from the drive, curls catching the light, his flannel sleeves rolled up just enough to make your chest do that annoying flutter thing. He catches you looking and smirks.
“Hey, if we’re doing this, you gotta look like you’re into me,” he teases. “Otherwise it’s not believable.”
You swat his arm, but your laugh comes out too bright. “Please. My mom’s going to love you more than she loves me within five minutes. You’ll be the one who has to fake it.”
He grins wider. “Challenge accepted.”
By the time you both reach the porch, your heart is pounding. Jake pauses at the door, one hand on the knob, the other still holding your bag. He gives you a look– warm, steady, the kind that’s all best friend comfort but something… deeper flickering just underneath.
“Hey,” he says softly, “It’s just a weekend. We’ve got this, okay?”
You nod, trying to swallow the knot in your throat. “Okay.”
And then he does it– slips his arm around your shoulders as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. The warmth of him sinks into you immediately. He smells like cedar and coffee and the sugar from the pastries he’d brought earlier.
You barely have time to process it before the front door swings open and your mom’s voice comes bursting out, all bright excitement and surprise.
“Sweetheart! You made it!”
You plaster on your best smile, Jake’s arm still snug around you, and step inside the golden glow of home.
Your mom’s eyes light up when she spots him. “Oh! And this must be–”
Jake’s grin is pure charm as he extends a hand. “Jake. It’s really nice to finally meet you.”
Your mom practically beams. “Oh, finally! I was starting to think you were made up!”
You shoot him a sharp look, but he only squeezes your shoulder, still smiling like he was born for this.
“See?” he murmurs under his breath, low enough that only you can hear. “Told you we’d be fine.”
You roll your eyes– but your cheeks feel hot, and your heart’s beating way too fast for something that’s supposed to be pretend.
The cabin smells like cinnamon and coffee and whatever candle your mom has burning on every available surface. It’s cozy in that overwhelming, family gathering kind of way– laughter echoing from the kitchen, music humming from a speaker, everyone talking over each other.
Jake’s hand stays at the small of your back as you both step inside, and somehow, that simple touch steadies you.
Your mom’s already fussing, ushering you both in like you’ve been lost in the wilderness for years. “Come in, come in! Oh, you must be freezing. Did you hit traffic? There’s cider on the stove, oh– and your cousins are in the den!”
Jake’s smiling, nodding, charming her without even trying. He looks like he belongs here– like he’s done this a hundred times before, like this really isn’t a lie. You've finally made it through introductions, hugging and chatting with everyone who you knew whispered about your new boyfriend.
He finally makes his way back to you, hands you a glass of cider and raises his brows. “So this is your family, huh?”
You groan. “Don’t start.”
He chuckles, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Relax, I’ve got you covered.” He leans in closer, voice dropping low and warm. “Besides… it’s kinda fun being your fake boyfriend.”
You roll your eyes– but your lips twitch anyway. “Don’t get too comfortable, Kiszka.”
“Oh, too late,” he murmurs with a grin, sipping his cider.
And when he glances at you over the rim of his cup– eyes all soft and golden in the lamplight– you realize you’re the one in trouble.
—
By the time dinner starts, the cabin feels like it’s bursting at the seams. Every chair’s filled, voices overlap, laughter echoes, and the air smells like roasted vegetables, butter, and someone’s overenthusiastic use of cinnamon. The long wooden table glows under strings of lights and mismatched candles.
You sit wedged between Jake and your mom, with your dad at the far end telling some exaggerated story about his fishing trip last summer. Jake’s arm brushes yours now and then– a quiet, grounding touch that keeps you from unraveling completely.
He’s fitting in seamlessly, the way he always does. When your mom sets a dish down, he’s the first to stand and help. When your uncle cracks a joke, Jake actually laughs– that low, genuine sound that makes people want to laugh with him. And when your little cousin spills her drink, he’s quick to grab napkins, joking about how he’s the “designated cleanup crew.”
You can feel your family melting around him. Of course they like him. They like him so much it’s almost offensive.
At one point, your mom leans toward you and whispers, “He’s lovely, honey. You really found a good one.”
Your stomach flips. “Yeah,” you manage softly. “Guess I did.”
Jake glances at you then, catching the tail end of that exchange. His eyes crinkle, soft and teasing, but there’s something gentler there too– something you can’t quite name.
“So,” Jake says, turning to your dad, “Y/N tells me you built this cabin yourself?”
Your dad brightens immediately. “Mostly, yeah! Took me two summers. She used to come up and ‘help’– which usually meant complaining about mosquitos and drinking all my lemonade.”
Jake laughs, leaning back in his chair, arm draped casually along the back of yours. “That sounds about right.”
You elbow him, trying not to smile. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Never said I was fair,” he murmurs.
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, and for a second, everything feels… weirdly real. Like maybe you’re not pretending at all.
Dessert rolls around, and your mom insists on a toast. Glasses clink, your Nana beams, the room hums with warmth. Jake slips his hand under the table and finds yours. It’s a small gesture, just fingers brushing, but your breath catches. His hand is warm and steady, and when you glance at him, he’s already looking at you.
You can’t tell if the smile he gives you is part of the act or something else entirely.
Your uncle speaks up. “So,” he says lightly, though the teasing edge in his voice gives him away, “how long have you two been together?”
The question hangs in the air, sharp as glass.
Jake doesn’t miss a beat. “Eight months,” he says smoothly. His thumb traces slow circles on the back of your hand. “Feels like longer, though.”
Your mom makes a happy little sound. “Eight months! That’s wonderful!”
You turn your head toward Jake, blinking. He’s looking at you like he knows exactly what he’s doing– a hint of mischief, a spark of something protective in his gaze.
You bite back a smile, leaning in close enough that your shoulder brushes Jake’s. “Eight months, huh?” you whisper.
He smirks, speaking low enough for only you to hear, “Seemed believable. You can’t look at me like that if it’s only been two weeks.”
You roll your eyes– but your pulse skips all the same.
After dinner, people scatter– some to the porch, some to the firepit outside. You linger in the kitchen, rinsing plates, when Jake appears beside you, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy from the warmth of the room.
He bumps your hip lightly. “You okay?”
You nod, glancing at him. “You didn’t have to handle them like that.”
He shrugs, a playful smile tugging at his mouth. “They love me. It was my pleasure.”
You snort a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
He grins, setting a plate in the drying rack. “And you’re welcome.”
When you glance up again, his eyes are already on you. For a heartbeat, the noise of the house fades– the laughter, the chatter, the clinking of glasses. It’s just the two of you, standing shoulder to shoulder in the soft light, hands still damp from the sink.
You realize then that– whatever’s happening between you– you don't know how much of it is pretend.
—
The cabin finally starts to settle down after dinner– the laughter fading into tired chatter, the sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen, the faint strum of a guitar coming from somewhere on the porch. The warmth of the evening lingers, but you’re exhausted. Being fake-in-love for an entire day is apparently emotional cardio.
You’re carrying your overnight bag down the narrow hallway, Jake right behind you, when your mom catches you by the stairs.
“Oh, honey,” she says, smiling. “You and Jake can take the guest room upstairs– it’s the only one that still has heat working properly. The cousins are downstairs on air mattresses, so you two lucked out.”
You start to protest. “Wait, the–”
But she’s already turned back toward the kitchen, humming to herself.
You glance over your shoulder at Jake. He’s biting his lip, trying– and failing– not to laugh.
“Don’t,” you warn him.
He lifts his hands, all mock innocence. “I didn’t say anything.”
The room is small but cozy when you step inside. There’s a single lamp on the nightstand casting golden light across the wood-paneled walls. A window looks out over the dark stretch of pines. And there, dead center– the problem.
One bed.
You stop in the doorway, staring at it like it just personally betrayed you.
Jake walks in behind you, peering over your shoulder. “Wow,” he says, far too amused. “Real classic setup you’ve got here.”
You turn to him slowly. “Don’t even start with me, Kiszka.”
He grins, dropping his bag by the wall. “I’ll take the floor if it makes you feel better.”
You glance at the floorboards– narrow, uneven. “You’ll be miserable.”
He shrugs. “I’ll survive.”
But when you sit on the edge of the mattress, it dips slightly, and you realize there’s more than enough room for two if you don’t move too much. You sigh, rubbing your temples. “We’re adults. We can share. Just… stay on your side.”
He raises a brow, playful. “Wouldn’t dream of crossing enemy lines.”
You throw a pillow at him.
—
Later, the lights are out and the cabin is quiet except for the faint creak of wood and the hum of wind through the trees. The bed’s surprisingly soft. You’re lying on your side, facing away from him, trying to will your heartbeat into something normal.
Then his voice, low and rough with sleep,
“You okay?”
You exhale slowly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
You hesitate. “About how I dragged my best friend into the weirdest weekend of his life.”
He chuckles quietly behind you. “This isn’t even in my top five weirdest weekends.”
You laugh under your breath. “That’s not comforting.”
A pause. Then the bed shifts, the faint dip of the mattress as he turns over. You can feel the warmth of him now– close enough that you catch the faint scent of his shampoo and smoke and cinnamon cider.
“Hey,” he says softly. “I meant it, you know.”
You blink into the dark. “Meant what?”
He hesitates, like he’s choosing his words. “That I’ve got you. Whatever happens this weekend– all of it– I’m here.”
Your throat goes tight. You smile, even though he can’t see it. “I know.”
The silence stretches, comfortable this time. You think he’s fallen asleep until you hear him mumble, half-asleep now, “Also… your mom told me she’s making pancakes in the morning. So I’m definitely not leaving.”
You snort quietly, shaking your head. “Goodnight, Jake.”
“Night, sweetheart.”
You tell yourself it’s just part of the act– the name, the warmth, the way your heart stutters when he says it.
—
The cabin kitchen is warm and cozy, sunlight spilling through the windows, the smell of pancakes thick in the air. Your mom and nana are bustling around, setting the table and laughing, while you’re just trying to make yourself a cup of coffee and act like a semi-responsible adult.
“Morning,” you mumble, grabbing the coffee pot.
“How'd you sleep, dear?” Your mother asks, giving you a warm smile.
“Good,” you say around a yawn, “Not enough.”
“Jake keep you up all night?”
You turn to your Nana with wide eyes, a shocked smile on your lips, “Nana.”
Your mom giggles, the two sharing a conspiratory look. You huff a laugh, turning back to your coffee, “No,” you respond, “Nothing like that.”
You hear the shuffling sounds of someone coming into the kitchen, you look over to see Jake making his way to you. You give him a soft smile, “Good morning.”
You barely have time to process before he steps up to you, eyes locked on your lips as if nothing else exists– and then he kisses you.
It’s not a quick peck. It’s bold, warm, claiming, and a little messy. Your hands freeze on the counter, your coffee mug forgotten, heart hammering like a drum.
The room goes silent. Your mom freezes mid-pour, Nana stops stirring her tea.
And then– just as suddenly as he appeared– Jake steps back. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even glance your way. He turns, walks out of the kitchen, and disappears, leaving the door swinging softly behind him.
Your mom finally exhales, trying not to laugh. “Well… that’s one way to start the day.”
Nana snickers.
You stand frozen, coffee dripping from your mug, cheeks flaming, and heart hammering.
—
You shut the bedroom door behind you, leaning against it as you watch him. He's shirtless, going through his clothes as he searches for something to put on for the day.
“What was that?” You ask, earning a glance from him.
“What was what?” He asks, pulling out a flannel button up.
“The kiss,” you say quietly.
He straightens up, pulling the shirt on. He watches you as he buttons it slowly, “Was it too far?”
You huff a laugh, “No, just– unexpected.”
He gives you a half smile, “Figured we should play the part, y'know?”
“In front of my Nana?” You tease with a grin.
He grins back, shaking his head, “I don't know, wasn't really thinking.” He gives you a softer look, “I'm sorry.”
“You don't have to apologize,” you say, meaning it. “Just… give me a warning next time,” you tease. “You caught me off guard.”
He nods, smiling ruefully, “Probably won't be the last time that happens this weekend.”
Part of you wishes it wasn't just this weekend.
“I'll be a little more prepared,” you say with a roll of your eyes despite the smile on your lips.
“Good. Now if you'll excuse me,” he says, stopping in front of you, “I've got a fishing trip with your dad.”
You frown up at him, “How'd you manage that? He never takes me fishing–”
“He likes me better,” he teases, pressing a kiss to your hair, “Try not to miss me today, alright?”
You scoff, “Believe me, I won't.”
He shoots you a knowing look, one that tells you he knows better– and he's gone.
—
The afternoon hums with the noise of prep for your Nana’s birthday– someone’s setting the table, your mom’s icing the cake, laughter spilling from the porch. You’re arranging candles when the front door opens and a familiar voice cuts through the chatter.
“Hey, everyone. Hope I’m not crashing the party.”
The sound of it hits you like cold water. You freeze, candle halfway into the frosting. Your mom looks up, face lighting. “Ethan! Oh, sweetheart, of course not. Nana will be thrilled you came.”
You turn slowly. He’s standing in the doorway, wind-tousled hair, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, wearing that same crooked grin that used to undo you. Your stomach twists. “Ethan,” you say carefully. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
“Last-minute decision,” he says with a shrug. “Your mom invited me. Figured I’d surprise everyone.” He looks at you longer than he should– like he’s still searching for some version of you that hasn’t moved on. “Can we talk? Just for a minute? Outside?”
You hesitate, glance at your mom– already fussing with frosting again– and nod stiffly. “Sure.”
Outside, the air is cool and sharp with pine and lake water. The porch creaks under your feet as you lean against the railing, keeping space between you. Ethan exhales. “You look good. Happier.”
“Thanks,” you say flatly. “What did you want to talk about?”
He shifts, eyes dropping to the boards. “I’ve been thinking about… us.”
“Ethan–”
“I know, I know,” he cuts in quickly. “I screwed up. I shouldn’t have ended things like that. I just–” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Seeing you here, I realized maybe we weren’t done. Maybe we could try again.”
You stare at him, thrown between shock and disbelief… and disgust. “You came here to tell me that?”
He nods once, hesitant. “Yeah. I miss you.”
There’s a long pause. The kind that used to mean something between you. Now, it just feels heavy. “I’m with someone,” you say finally.
He goes still. “You are?”
“Yeah. Jake Kiszka.” You hold his gaze. “We’ve been together a while.”
Something flickers across his face– surprise first, then something darker. “The musician guy?” His tone sharpens, edges hard. “Didn’t think you were into that kind of chaos.”
You open your mouth, but the screen door swings open behind you. Jake steps out, sunlight catching in his damp hair, sleeves rolled, the faint scent of lake water and cedar following him. He slows when he sees Ethan– and you– but his expression stays easy, almost amused. Almost.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, crossing to you without hesitation. His hand finds your waist, casual but firm, like it’s instinct. “Your dad says I’m a terrible fisherman. Guess I did everything wrong.”
You smile, tension bleeding just a little. “Sounds about right.”
Jake finally looks at Ethan, his grip on you tightening imperceptibly. “Don’t think we’ve met.”
“Ethan,” he says, shaking Jake’s hand. “Old family friend.”
Jake’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Old friend, huh.” His tone is polite, but there’s something in the way he says it– something that lands like a challenge. “Nice to meet you.”
Ethan meets his gaze head-on, their handshake just a little too firm, neither one of them letting go first.
“Didn’t know Y/N was bringing someone,” Ethan says, tone light but brittle.
“Guess it came up fast,” Jake replies, still holding his stare. “But it’s been good. Feels like we’ve known each other forever.”
You feel the air between them thicken– an invisible line drawn, both testing how far the other will go. Jake’s thumb strokes absently along your hip, but you can feel it’s deliberate now, a quiet statement. Mine.
Ethan’s jaw tightens, but he forces a smile. “Well. Glad you’re happy, Y/n.”
You nod, voice soft. “Yeah. I am.”
Ethan gives a curt nod, stepping back. “Guess I’ll go say hi to Nana.”
He disappears inside, leaving the screen door creaking in his wake. For a moment, the quiet is deafening. Jake exhales, his hand still resting at your waist. “That him?”
You nod once. “Yeah.”
“Didn’t look thrilled to meet me.”
You glance up at him. “You weren’t exactly subtle either.”
He smirks, though there’s an edge to it. “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
You laugh under your breath. “You jealous, Kiszka?”
He meets your eyes, smile fading into something quieter, heavier. “Maybe.”
Your breath catches, the air between you shifting again– less about pretense now, more about something real, something dangerous.
Before you can say anything, someone calls from inside that Nana’s about to blow out the candles.
Jake steps back first, brushing his thumb once more along your hip before letting go. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Wouldn’t wanna miss the show.”
You follow him inside, pulse racing– not sure if it’s from Ethan’s return… or the way Jake’s still watching you like you’re the only thing in the room.
—
The cabin glows with soft, golden light. Laughter spills from every corner, the air rich with frosting, pine, and candle smoke. Your Nana sits at the head of the long wooden table, a paper crown slightly crooked on her head, cheeks flushed from champagne and love. The room hums with warmth, almost enough to drown the unease still curling in your chest.
You’re standing near the counter, helping your mom light the last candle on the cake, when Jake slides up beside you. His hand brushes the small of your back– subtle, protective. You glance up at him, offering a quiet smile. “All good?”
“Perfect,” he murmurs, though his eyes drift toward the far side of the room. Toward Ethan.
Ethan’s talking with your uncle near the fireplace, beer in hand, laughter coming too easily. But every few minutes, his gaze flickers your way– like gravity won’t let him stop. You look down quickly, focusing on the matches. Jake notices. Of course he does.
“Want me to say something?” he asks, voice low enough for only you to hear.
You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve already said plenty.”
He smirks. “I can always say more.”
Before you can answer, your mom calls out, “Alright everyone! Cake time!”
Chairs scrape, voices rise in cheerful chorus as your family crowds around Nana. Jake stands just behind you, one arm brushing yours, his presence grounding– and impossibly charged.
The song starts, voices overlapping in a sweet, chaotic mess. You can feel Ethan’s gaze on you the entire time. When you glance his way, he’s not smiling anymore.
Jake notices that, too.
As the last note fades, Nana blows out her candles amid cheers. Jake claps along, leaning close enough to whisper, “Your ex looks like he’s plotting a murder.”
You bite back a laugh, elbowing him lightly. “Behave.”
“Always do,” he says– though the slight curl at the edge of his mouth suggests otherwise.
Cake is served, and people drift into smaller circles of chatter. You carry a plate to your Nana, who squeezes your hand with a soft, “You and that boy– adorable.”
You smile, cheeks warm. “Thanks, Nana.”
When you turn back, Jake’s at the far side of the room– talking to your dad, relaxed but alert. Ethan, meanwhile, has detached from the crowd and is making his way toward you.
You steel yourself. “Hey,” he says, stopping in front of you, voice low. “Mind if we talk–”
“Not really the time,” you cut in gently, setting down your empty plate.
He swallows, glancing over your shoulder toward Jake. “I just… I didn’t expect to see him. With you. Like that.”
“Ethan,” you sigh. “You don’t get to be surprised. You walked away, remember?”
He runs a hand through his hair, eyes pleading now. “I know. And it was stupid. But seeing you with him–”
“Y/n.” Jake’s voice cuts clean through the noise. You look over. He’s crossed the room already, expression unreadable but calm. He rests a hand lightly on your shoulder, nods to Ethan. “Everything alright here?”
Jake’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good. Hate to interrupt.”
You step subtly between them, pulse thudding in your ears. “We were just finishing up.”
Ethan lets out a humorless laugh. “You really upgraded fast.”
The words land sharp and ugly.
Jake’s body goes still beside you– not angry, just tight. Controlled. He tilts his head, voice quiet but laced with warning. “Careful, man.”
Ethan scoffs, but his confidence flickers when he meets Jake’s eyes– steady, unblinking. The tension between them hums like a live wire. You put a hand on Jake’s arm. “Hey. Let’s not–”
Jake glances at you, softens instantly. “Yeah,” he says, voice lower now. “You’re right.”
Ethan shakes his head, muttering something about “needing air,” and stalks toward the back porch.
Jake exhales, jaw unclenching. He looks down at you. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make it worse.”
“You didn’t,” you say quietly. “He just doesn’t like losing.”
Jake studies you for a long moment. “You sure you’re okay?”
You nod, though your pulse is still racing. “Yeah. I just… need a minute.”
“Come on,” he says, nodding toward the porch door. “Let’s get that minute.”
Outside, the air is cool and still, the lake reflecting strands of golden light from inside the cabin. You step out onto the porch, wrap your arms around yourself. Jake leans against the railing beside you, silent for a while. Then, softly, “You didn’t look at him the way he looked at you.”
You turn toward him. “What?”
He meets your gaze, steady. “I saw it. Whatever you had– it’s not there anymore. Not for you.”
You don’t know what to say to that. So you don’t. You just step closer, until his shoulder brushes yours. For a while, you stand there in silence, the sound of laughter drifting faintly through the cabin windows. And before you can think– before you can stop yourself– he leans in.
It’s slower this time. Warmer.
The porch light hums above you, the cabin glows through the window, and for the first time all weekend, nothing feels like an act.
The kiss feels like the world narrowing to a single heartbeat. The rough slide of his hand against your jaw. The faint taste of smoke and cinnamon on his lips. The warmth of him– real and solid and right– until it isn’t.
Because over his shoulder, through the cabin window, you catch a flicker of movement.
Ethan.
He’s standing just inside the door, half-shadowed by the curtain, a sharp, unreadable expression cutting across his face. You freeze– just for a second– but Jake doesn’t. His hand moves to your waist, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss just slightly, like he’s making sure the audience gets the message.
When he finally pulls back, you’re breathless, dizzy, the echo of him still humming through you. But his eyes flick briefly past you, back toward the window. He smirks– barely– and it lands like ice water down your spine.
He knew Ethan was watching.
You swallow hard, trying to hide the sting clawing its way up your throat. “What was that for?” you ask, voice light, teasing, like you don’t already know.
Jake’s gaze returns to you, easy again. “Seemed like a good moment,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “Felt right.”
You nod once, forcing a small smile that feels like it belongs to someone else. “Right. Sure.”
Inside, the door shuts quietly– Ethan’s shadow gone. The noise of the party swells again, laughter muffled by the walls. You stare out over the lake, the rippling water catching streaks of fading gold, pretending you can breathe normally.
Jake leans beside you, exhaling. “Didn’t mean to surprise you,” he says softly.
You keep your gaze forward. “You didn’t.”
He looks at you a second longer, maybe catching the tiny tremor in your voice– but he doesn’t press. He just nods, easy smile slipping back into place. “Guess we should head back in before they send a search party.”
“Yeah,” you manage, turning toward the door. “Wouldn’t want to worry anyone.”
You walk ahead, heart thudding painfully in your chest. Every step feels heavy. You tell yourself it’s fine– that you knew what this was. That Jake’s touch, his warmth, his whispered “sweetheart”s– they’re all part of the game.
But still, the ghost of that kiss lingers, cruelly sweet. You can’t shake the feeling that for a second, it almost meant something, before you realized it was just another scene.
Inside, the room is bright again, full of laughter and chatter. You slip back into your place, grab a plate, pour yourself some wine, anything to keep your hands busy. Jake’s across the room, already charming your uncle, smiling like nothing just happened.
Ethan’s nowhere to be seen.
You lift your glass, take a sip that burns all the way down, and tell yourself you’re fine. You’ve been pretending all weekend, after all. What’s one more lie?
—
The house has gone still. Laughter faded hours ago, the hum of voices replaced by the faint creak of wood and the steady rhythm of crickets outside. You’re lying in the same bed as last night– back to Jake, eyes fixed on the soft spill of moonlight across the ceiling. The air between you feels thick. Not from closeness this time, but from everything left unsaid.
He shifts behind you, the mattress dipping with his weight. “You’re quiet,” he says softly.
“I’m tired,” you lie.
Jake hums low, skeptical. “You’ve been quiet since the porch.”
You swallow hard. “Just a long day.”
“Mm.” There’s a pause. Then, “You can lie better than that.”
You close your eyes. “Not tonight, Jake.”
He sighs, the sound warm against your neck. “Alright.” He settles again, and for a while, it’s silent except for the soft creak of the cabin settling around you.
But the words won’t stay down. They press at the edges of your chest until they spill out. “You kissed me because Ethan was watching.”
The words hang in the dark. A confession. An accusation. A quiet ache. Jake goes still. Then, softly, “You saw him?”
“I saw you,” you whisper. “And I saw the look after. The one that said you knew exactly what you were doing.” You bite your lip, blinking hard. “It’s fine, though. I get it. It’s what we’re supposed to be doing, right? Selling the story.”
He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, sharp and heavy. Then, quietly, “That’s not why I did it.”
You turn your head just enough to glance back at him, his face half-lit in the moonlight. “Don’t,” you murmur, voice cracking. “Don’t say that if it’s not true.”
His eyes meet yours– steady, unguarded. “I’m not lying.”
You shake your head, a sad, small laugh slipping out. “You don’t have to make this easier.”
“I’m not.” His hand moves, tentative, resting against your arm. “You think I planned that? You think I kissed you because he was there?” His voice is low, rough. “I saw him, yeah. But I didn’t care. I didn’t even think about him until after.”
You stare at him, unsure if you can believe it– but something in his eyes makes it hard not to. There’s no teasing now. No smirk. Just honesty. He shifts closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You said it hurt. I didn’t mean for it to. But I meant the kiss.”
Your throat tightens. “Jake…”
He swallows, his forehead resting lightly against the back of your shoulder. “I don’t know when this stopped being fake,” he admits, the words a quiet exhale against your skin. “But it’s not pretend for me anymore.”
You don’t move for a long moment. Just breathe– slow, careful, dizzy. Finally, you turn to face him, his face so close you can see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. “You really mean that?”
He nods, gaze unwavering. “Every word.”
You reach up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’re not exactly making this weekend easier, you know.”
He grins faintly, eyes soft. “Never promised easy.”
There’s a heartbeat of silence– then you whisper, “Do it again.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
This kiss isn’t for show. It’s slower, deeper, threaded with everything neither of you said before. His hand slides up to cup your face, thumb brushing your jaw, and you melt into him like you’ve been waiting for this all along. When you finally pull away, your breath catches, the air between you fragile and warm. Jake presses his forehead to yours. “Now you know.”
And you do. God, you do.
The space between you hums, charged.
Neither of you moves for a breath, two heartbeats suspended in the same small pocket of air. Then Jake’s hand finds your waist. A slow, careful touch, like he’s asking a question with his fingers before daring to speak it aloud. You don’t stop him. His thumb draws a lazy circle against your skin where your shirt has ridden up, and the warmth of it sends a shiver up your spine. You shift closer, just enough that your knees brush. The smallest sound escapes you– barely there, but enough.
Jake’s breath catches. “You sure?”
You nod once, not trusting your voice. He exhales, something raw and unsteady in it, and his hand tightens slightly at your hip. The grip isn’t demanding– it’s grounding, like he’s holding on to be sure this is real. Your fingers find the fabric of his t-shirt, curling into it. You feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat through the thin cotton, the heat of his chest beneath. He leans in, and your noses brush, a whisper of contact that somehow feels more intimate than the kiss itself.
This time when his mouth meets yours, there’s no hesitation. It’s slower, deeper– hungry but reverent. His other hand slides up your back, tracing the curve of your shoulder, and you can feel the tension in him– the restraint, the want, all balanced on a knife’s edge. The kiss breaks, barely, but neither of you pull away. You can feel his breath on your lips, the faint tremor of it.
“Jake…” you whisper, and your voice sounds different– softer, unguarded.
He looks at you like he’s memorizing something. “If we start this,” he murmurs, “I don’t think I can stop halfway.”
You meet his gaze, heart pounding. “Then don’t.”
A quiet laugh, low and disbelieving, slips from him before he kisses you again– deeper this time, hands framing your face, thumbs brushing along your jaw. The world narrows to the sound of your breaths, the rustle of sheets, the warmth of skin against skin through too many layers. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathless, hearts racing.
Outside, the crickets still sing. The house is silent. But inside this small, dim room, something has shifted– something that won’t be undone. Jake’s thumb traces your lower lip, slow, tender. “We should probably stop,” he murmurs, though his voice says otherwise.
You smile faintly, “We won’t.”
He swallows, then leans in– just close enough that you can feel the promise in the air between you. He moves, hovering over you with his knees settled against the backs of your thighs. You're both still dressed, but you feel completely exposed.
His touch is soft, his palm warm as it slips beneath your shirt. He doesn't yank your shirt up as you expected– like he wanted to get to the good part fast. You should've known Jake is the type to take his time.
He kisses you again as he soothes his hands over your skin, like he's mapping out the places he touches that make your breath catch. His thumb brushes along the underside of your breast. He breaks the kiss when you gasp into his mouth, and before you can say anything, he's lifted your shirt, exposing your breasts to the chill of the air.
He leans down, pressing a single chaste kiss to your sternum, right over your heart, before he kisses his way to your nipple. They've already tightened, pebbling at the thought of his mouth alone, and you can feel the smirk on his lips as he kisses you directly on the hardened bud.
You let out a shaky sigh, cut off quickly with a gasp when he wraps his lips around it, suckling lightly. Your hand tangles in his hair, trying to ground yourself.
His other hand moves, achingly slow down your waist, snapping the hem of your shorts, “Can I touch you here?” He asks quietly, his words spoken against your skin.
You nod rapidly, letting your thighs fall open further, “Yes,” you breathe it, pressing your hips down against the mattress to stop yourself from trying to buck up against him.
He licks over your nipple, before moving to your other breast, giving it the same attention. At the same time, his fingers slip past the waistband of your pajama shorts. You hum tightly when he ghosts his fingers along your heat, his touch barred by the thin cotton of your underwear that you know you've soaked through.
He pulls away from your chest to glance down at his hand, his view hidden by your shorts, “Fuck,” he breathes, pressing his fingers tightly to you, “Fuckin’ soaked, baby.”
You let out a shaky breath, “Shut up,” you whisper, your face flaming.
He grins, “It's okay, sweet girl, I won't tell anyone.”
You let out a broken laugh at that, your fingers tightening in the sheet when he begins to slowly rub over your clit. You're already shaking, though you don't know if it's from him or the fact this is actually happening. Your best friend has his hand in your shorts.
And he says the dirtiest things.
You knew Jake was probably a little unhinged, he usually said whatever it was he was thinking, but now? It made your cheeks burn and your lower half throb.
He leans down, his forearm beside your head as he pets gently at your hair, “I bet you're so pretty when you come.” You whisper his name, an admonition, and the corners of his lips turn up in a smile, “You're the prettiest little thing, you know that?”
You huff a disbelieving laugh, though it takes effort, because his fingers have sped up, rubbing over your clit through your panties with a purpose.
“Can't believe you,” he murmurs, shaking his head lightly, “Bringing me out here this weekend, making me share a bed with you– like I wasn't completely in love with you already.”
You furrow your eyebrows, “What?” It's breathier than you intended.
“Don't act like you didn't know,” he says quietly.
“I didn't,” you say, interrupted by a much too loud moan escaping when he presses his fingers tighter against you.
He shushes you, pecking a quick kiss to your cheek. “Your parents are right across the hall,” he chastises, “You want them to know what I'm doing to their precious little girl?” You shake your head, bringing your hand up to your mouth, and he grins. “When we get back home, I'm spending all the time in the world between these pretty thighs.”
Your eyes fall shut, and you feel the heat coiling in your lower tummy, “Jake…”
“You gonna come?” He asks, pressing a kiss to your temple, “I want you to. What do you need? You want me to move these pretty panties out of the way? Give you my fingers?”
You can barely manage a nod, he's filthy– lewd and indecent– and you love every second of it. He hums, shoving your panties aside as he slips two fingers into you. You clamp your hand down tighter against your mouth as his thumb rubs tight circles over your swollen clit.
“You feel good,” he whispers into your ear, “Squeezing my fingers just right baby– Can you come for me? Let me have it?” He licks lightly over the edge of your ear, his fingers pumping into you with slick, lewd sounds, “Wanna see how pretty you come. Come on.”
You take a deep breath through your nose, and it hits you. You let out a muffled whine, your entire body tightening with pleasure. “That's it,” he whispers, one hand still working at you while the other pets at your hair, gentle and soothing, “Come on baby– Good fucking girl, come on.” His filthy praise only serves to add to the heat burning through you. Your body twitches, tiny jerks and spasms that have you weak by the time your orgasm has ebbed.
He slows his fingers and his thumb to a stop, but his other hand is still holding you, fingertips stroking your cheek as if you're the most precious thing he's ever beheld.
“You're a fucking dream,” he murmurs, his lips warm against your ear, “You look even prettier than I thought.”
You let out a dreamy sigh, your hand falling away from your mouth, and you pull him to you with shaky hands. You kiss him, though it's not as coordinated as you wished. It doesn't seem to bother him as he hungrily kisses you back.
You pull away for a breath, “Fuck me.”
He presses his forehead to yours, easing his hand out of your shorts, “Believe me, I want to,” he says softly, “But I don't want you to think I just wanna fuck you.”
“I don't think that,” you say, grabbing the edge of his shirt. You yank it up, tugging it over his head before you toss it aside. He watches you with the faintest smile on his lips, “I just–” You pause, pushing yourself up to sit. He leans back, sitting back on his heels as he watches you. “I need you.”
He takes a minute to drag his eyes over you, before he reaches up and pulls your own shirt off of you, “You know how I feel about you, right?” He says, quiet. You nod. His hand on your chest eases you back against the mattress, before he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and underwear. You lift your hips, allowing him to ease your bottoms down, and he tosses them aside. “You know this is more than just sex for me, Y/n.”
“I know,” you breathe, hating the way he says it like a warning. As if there was any chance of you not being in love with him. “It is for me, too.”
He leans back over you, and your fingers hook into his own pajamas. He helps you tug them down. You aren't sure how he does it, smooth and effortless, but you're both completely bare.
Your eyes trail down to his dick, and you let out a surprised breath. You knew he was big– you've both seen some things and known some things about each other, it was part of being friends– but it was… a lot more than you expected.
You almost wished the light was on so you could see more detail, but you could see enough. He was long and thick– and pretty. Before you can stop yourself, you wrap your fingers around him. You take note of how your fingers can't fully fit around it, and you feel yourself clench. He sighs quietly, his hand moving to rest on the pillow beside your head.
You ease your hand up, brushing your thumb over the head, over the precum beaded up there, and you slowly ease your hand back down. His other hand grabs your waist tightly, his thumb gliding along your skin, “Fuck that feels good,” he breathes.
You bite your lip, heat flooding through you. It had an effect on you, a warmth burning you up at the thought of making Jake feel nice. You watch in awe as he rolls his hips once, just the slightest movement, but it makes the length of him push against your hand just right, and you like it. A lot.
His jaw is tight, and you're both watching your hand work at him. You could get him off like this and you'd be perfectly happy, you think.
He has other ideas, though. Because he grabs your hips and knocks your hand away gently. You go to pout about it, but he's angling his hips with yours, and you can feel the warmth of him pressing against your slick heat.
Your thighs fall open further, allowing him the room to move as he needs to. His hand tightens in the pillow beside your head as he teases the head along your center.
He presses his forehead to yours, and before you can say anything about him teasing, he's pressing inside of you.
Your eyes widen, your mouth opening, as he pushes inside. Your walls burn just a bit from the stretch– it'd been quite a while for you, and he was by far the biggest you've been with. It's a welcome burn, an ache that makes your walls quiver and pulse around him as he fills you completely.
“Fuck.”
You both say it at the same time, earning a huff of a laugh from you and a grin from him. He lowers his face, pressing light kisses to your collarbone, “How are you feeling?” He asks sweetly.
“Good,” you breathe, pushing his hair back from his face, “So good.”
“Yeah?” He asks, his voice soft and quiet, “You feel good, baby,” he licks lightly over your skin, “So soft. So fucking wet and warm. Been holding out on me, haven't you sweetheart?”
You huff a breath, your cheeks burning, “Are you always this lewd?”
He grins, looking up at you, “You like it,” he says, quiet.
You don't bother arguing. He knows he's right. Smug bastard. You think you're mentally prepared for him to start moving, but when he draws back, your eyes roll. You can feel every bit– every bump, ridge and vein– dragging along your walls, sending your body into overdrive with every move.
You can't help but dig your nails into his back when he angles his hips, each thrust from him hitting that sensitive place inside of you just right. His jaw is tight, his grip on the pillow has his knuckles white, like he's restraining himself. You pull him closer to you, raising your head and leaving a kiss to his throat. He lets out a low hum at that, returning your kiss with a light nip at your jaw.
“You feel so fucking good,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours.
“So do you,” you say quietly, your hands slipping up to his hair, “Fuck, Jake.” You tangle your fingers until his hair, earning a rough groan from him.
“Yeah?” He says, nudging his nose against yours. You nod weakly, unexpecting it when his fingers press to your clit.
You cry out, too loud, but before you can slap your hand over your mouth, his hand is in place, and he's shushing you for the second time that night.
“You gotta stay quiet, baby,” he whispers, “I know it feels good– we gotta be quiet, okay?”
You nod, whimpering a weak mm-hmm against his palm. He hums low, his fingers working at your swollen clit deftly as he fucks into you, hard and fast. You want to point out the creaking mattress, and inform him that despite you staying quiet, the bed was giving it away, but you can't lie to yourself– you like the way he's handling you. You like it a lot.
He lets out a quiet curse, “You gonna come again?” He asks, nodding when you nod at him, “Yeah I can feel it. You're squeezing me so tight, honey.” Your eyes roll back, and you curse loudly against his palm. He grins, “Come on, pretty girl. Let me feel it. Come all pretty on my cock, go on.”
You come with a muffled cry, your hands digging into his back and tangling into his hair. Your entire body nearly thrashes beneath him as he fucks you through it. Your limbs are weak, twitching and shaking as you come down from your high.
“Fuck,” he grits out, his hand moving down to your waist, holding you almost too sweetly for how he was still fucking you, “I wanna make you come over and over,” he admits quietly, “Prettiest fucking thing I've ever seen.”
You huff a breath, an attempt at a laugh, but you feel weak, and almost shy, “You're so fucking dirty,” you whisper.
He hums, his hands moving to grab your hips, “You're dirty,” he retorts, angling your hips up, sending him hitting just right with every thrust, “Making a mess all over me, being so loud while your whole family's here, fucking filthy little girl.”
You moan at that, quiet and subdued. You hate that you feel like you could come again already, “Jake,” you say softly.
He licks over your bottom lip, without a thought, just focused on you. “Think you can give me another?” He asks in a faux sweet tone, before he nods, "Yeah, I think you can.”
You nod regardless of you doubting your ability to survive another, because you want to. And you want him to. You voice that, meek and almost shy as you tell him you want to feel him inside.
“I'll give it to you,” he promises, “Just gimme one more, yeah?”
You can feel it building already– fast and hot and intense. He fucks into you harder, faster, and if he wasn't holding you in place, you'd be moved up the mattress with every slam of his hips against yours. You grab at his hand, your heart almost melting when he tangles your fingers together and presses it into the pillow by your head. You don't know what provokes you to say it, but you whisper a soft plea, almost ashamed until his eyes darken and his other hand falls to your throat immediately.
“Oh, you're fucking dirty,” he teases you again, giving your throat a light squeeze, “You want it like that?” You nod regardless of the embarrassment trying to flood through you. He hums low, tightening his grip on you, “Come for me, Y/n. Just like before, you can do it baby.”
You want to hate that your orgasm hits you almost immediately at those words, but you can't. Not when your entire body feels as if you're floating, your blood is roaring through your ears, and you can feel yourself squeezing around him so tight you almost worry.
“Fuck–” His hips stutter, and that's the only warning you get, before he's hit his own end. It intensifies your own orgasm, knowing you've both finished at the same time. You can hear him faintly talking you through it, soft murmurs of praise and admiration that you can hardly register as you ride out your highs together
He slows to a stop, his forehead falling to your collarbone. His hands pull away from his previous hold to soothe over your heated skin. It grounds you, easing you back down as your chests heave against each other. His lips trail soft kisses along your collarbone, your throat, whispering sweet words against your skin. You let out a heavy sigh, content and exhausted, “Fuck Jake.”
He grins against your skin, lifting his head to look at you. He looks at you in a way that makes you want to combust– so soft, it makes your head spin. “Why did we not do that sooner?” He asks, brushing your hair out of your face.
You giggle, “I didn't think you wanted to.”
He shakes his head, “Thought it was so fucking obvious.”
“It wasn't,” you say, reaching up to fiddle with his necklaces, draped across your chest in this position.
He smiles at you, “We aren't gonna pretend this is just part of the weekend, are we?”
You shake your head, “I want it to be real,” you whisper.
“Me too,” he says softly, rubbing his thumb across your cheekbone, “My pretty girl.”
Your heart swells, and you bite your bottom lip to hide the over-enthused grin on your face, “I'm so in love with you.” Before you can worry about your admission, he kisses you again, soft and sweet and claiming.
“I'm in love with you too, honey. So fucking in love with you.”
Ugh, I loved this so much!! Fake boyfriend and friends to lovers? My absolute weakness 😩 The dynamic was perfection, and Jake was such a charmer with the family. I’d honestly just swoon watching him exist. This trope gets me every time!
chapter warnings: this is 6.1k words of pure filthy SMUT! 18+, mind reading, heavy heavy tension, oral (f. rec.), unprotected sex, sucking and fucking, thumb sucking, slight overstim., almost choking?, the L word, dirty talk, jake on his nasty freak shit, soft lovey lovey shit, lemme know if i missed any!
a/n: this has been so fun from start to finish! thank yall so much for being here and showing love! it means the world to me to see you love this as much as I do! as always, my recs are open and we may come back to revisit this series one day! <3
TGMS MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST
You wake with a start, heart thudding, breath caught mid-gasp. A shiver runs down your spine– not from cold, but from something else. The air is different, charged, heavy with a presence. You shift to sit up– then freeze.
Jake is standing at the foot of your bed.
His eyes are fixed on you, unreadable in the dim light. You blink, struggling to shake off the fog of sleep.
“Jake?” your voice is hoarse, hesitant. “What are you–”
“What’d you dream about?” His voice is low. Almost gentle. But there’s something behind it, taut and dark, like a wire pulled tight.
You swallow, the fragments of your dream flickering behind your eyes before you can stop them. Jake– his mouth on your throat, his hands gripping your waist. The way he held you like you might shatter… right before he ruined you. His body pressed to yours, relentless. His voice in your ear, filthy, commanding, tender in the cruelest ways.
Your pulse stutters.
“I… I don’t remember,” you murmur, pushing yourself back until your spine meets the headboard.
He tilts his head, “Don’t lie to me.”
It’s not a threat. It’s quieter than that. Something broken. Something hungry. That voice… steady and soft, but laced with filth, laced with memory.
“I’m not,” you whisper, the lie already unraveling.
Jake steps closer.
“You are.”
The air in the room tightens, as if it's being pulled from your lungs. You don’t move. Can’t.
He’s at the side of the bed now, then kneeling, crawling up– slow, deliberate. His palms press into the mattress on either side of your hips, his body heat bleeding into yours, crowding you, cornering you.
His face is inches from yours. His breath brushes your cheek. And then, softly, almost reverently, he leans in, the tip of his nose trailing along your jaw until it rests against your cheek.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “what I did to you in that dream.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. Heat blooms in your chest, crawls up your throat. You turn your face slightly, avoiding his eyes, his mouth, his presence, but he’s too close. There’s nowhere to go.
“I don’t know,” you murmur.
Jake pulls back just enough to see your face, eyes narrowing slightly. His mouth twitches, humorless. “You whimpered my name,” he says.
The words hang in the air like smoke. You freeze. He doesn’t miss it.
A slow, charged silence stretches between you.
Then, he lifts one hand again. Barely touches your skin as he brings his fingers to your temple. A single tap.
“Let me in,” he says softly. “Don’t make me ask again.”
Your breath catches.
The bond thrums just beneath the surface, like a current waiting to be touched. He’s right there. Just outside the wall you’ve built around your thoughts. All you have to do is lower it.
And against every instinct screaming at you to keep it locked– You let go.
The effect is immediate.
The connection snaps into place, a sudden rush of feeling and memory that slams into both of you. His eyes darken as the dream unfolds for him– in you. Your body arching under his. His mouth dragging across your skin. The heat. The weight. The way you needed him, desperate and undone.
You feel his reaction like it’s your own. The tension in his chest. The way his jaw clenches. A low hum of arousal and disbelief tangled together in the space between your minds.
Jake’s breath is shallow, ragged, as the last flicker of the dream fades from the space between you.
He saw everything.
You feel it– how hard he's gripping the mattress, the weight of him just barely held in check. His forehead presses to yours, his body heat wrapping around you like a second skin. Your thoughts are still tangled, your mind open and exposed, the bond pulsing between you like it’s alive.
Then he moves.
A slow shift. Not impatient, but intentional. Like a hunter. His lips brush your jaw, then lower– kissing softly along the line of your throat. You gasp, and try to turn your head.
He doesn’t let you.
“Don’t,” he breathes against your skin. “Don’t run from it now.”
You’re trembling. Not from fear.
His mouth finds the spot just beneath your ear, and he lingers there, his lips barely moving as he speaks. “You dreamed about me telling you I loved you.”
You freeze. Everything inside you clenches.
You don’t answer.
But the bond does. You feel the shift in him– he knows what that moment in the dream did to you. What it still does.
He kisses lower. The slope of your neck. The edge of your collarbone. His breath is uneven, like the restraint is costing him something.
“I said it while I was inside you,” he murmurs. “While you were falling apart for me.”
You bite your bottom lip hard. Eyes shut tight. You wish you could block him out again, shove the wall back up, but it’s too late. He’s inside, deep, wrapped around every thought.
“And you said my name,” Jake continues, voice dark and quiet, words pressing against your skin like fingertips. “Whimpered it. Like I was the only thing in the world.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“Don’t,” you whisper, but it comes out thin, barely a sound. “It was just a dream.”
His mouth stills against your throat.
Then, with painful slowness, he lifts his head. His nose brushes up the side of your neck, your cheek, until his lips hover just over your ear.
“No,” he says, barely audible. “It wasn’t.”
You feel his lips turn up at the corners, and you brace yourself for the smug comment you know he'll deliver.
“That's what did it for you,” he murmurs, “That's all it took for you to come undone.”
“Jake–”
You barely get his name out before his mouth catches yours. It’s not gentle. Not rough either. It’s a claiming kind of kiss, slow and deep, like he’s tasting the sound of your voice. His hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers curling into your hair, holding you still but not forcing– just there, anchoring.
He pulls back only enough for his breath to drag across your lips. His forehead presses to yours, eyes dark, watching you like he’s reading every flicker of your thoughts.
“I do, Y/n,” he says, low and steady.
His thumb strokes along your jaw. His mouth ghosts yours again, barely a touch, a threat of another kiss.
“I love you.”
It’s not a confession. Not a plea. Just a fact, dropped between you like a match on dry grass.
Jake doesn’t wait for you to respond. His lips crush against yours, no teasing this time, just pure, raw need. His hands slide under your shirt, pulling it off, dragging you with him as if he’s lost all patience, and something inside him snaps.
You gasp into his mouth as his skin presses against yours, warmth flooding you in a way that feels like too much, but not enough at the same time. His body pins you down in the best way– solid, commanding, a reminder of how little room there is between the two of you now.
He tastes you again, deeper this time, and you feel his restraint splintering. His breath comes in jagged pulls, and you know it’s not just about physical desire anymore. It’s the pull of something that’s been building between you, something fragile, something dangerous.
When his lips leave yours, it’s only to trail down your throat again, sucking in the pulse of your skin. You shiver.
“You feel it, don’t you?” His voice is rough against your collarbone, rough in a way that feels like he’s losing control of something he’s held tight to for far too long. “The way your body’s already answering me? The way you need me?”
You try to hold on, to stay grounded, but his hands are moving over you, fingertips tracing paths that burn where they touch. Your breath hitches, and you know he’s listening for it, feeling every inch of you unraveling beneath his touch.
“I’ve had to pretend… pretend this isn’t everything I’ve ever wanted,” he continues, his lips pressing against your chest as if he’s worshipping you, as if you’re the only thing that matters in the universe right now. His hand slides lower, just enough to make you tremble, and you gasp, eyes slamming shut. “I’ve wanted this. Wanted you. So badly I can't fucking stand it.”
Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching as his mouth finds your skin again– hot, hungry, desperate. He groans against your throat like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted right.
“Jake…” It slips out, breathless, not a warning, more like surrender. Your hips arch before you even realize you’ve moved, chasing the friction, the heat, the ache he’s stoking with every touch.
He lifts his head, just barely, his lips flushed, eyes dark. “Say it again,” he breathes, voice low, wrecked. “Fuck, say my name like that.”
You don’t. Not yet. You just look at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling like you’re caught mid-thought. Because you are. Caught in this perfect, dangerous in-between where logic’s already fading, and want is the only thing still making sense.
Jake leans in again, his mouth hovering just over yours, not kissing you– taunting you.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing along your bottom lip, slow and possessive. “I’ve thought about this. About you. Every damn night. The way you'd sound… the way you'd fall apart under me.”
You gasp when he shifts, hips pressing down with intent now– solid, hard, undeniable.
“You feel that?” he whispers, grinding just enough to make your legs tremble. “That’s what you do to me. Just by looking at me. Just by breathing.”
Your head falls back, lips parting on a soft moan. His hands slide lower, gripping your hips, dragging you against him in a rhythm that’s maddening. Every roll of his body sends fire skimming through your veins. You breathe a curse, earning a hum of approval from him. You rock your hips against his own, your eyes nearly rolling back.
You arch your back, your bare chest presing against his shirt. He's still fully dressed– his usual black dress pants hugging his thighs, a soft button up, half way opened and revealing most of his broad chest– making the contrast feel even more intimate, more urgent, as if he's claimed this space in your bed without shedding a single layer.
His hand cups your jaw gently but firmly, thumb tracing your lower lip as he tilts your head back, exposing the line of your throat. “That's my girl,” he murmurs, voice low and velvety, laced with that quiet command that makes your pulse race.
He leans in, lips brushing yours in a kiss that's tender at first this time, almost reverent, before it deepens– his tongue sliding in to taste you, slow and thorough, like he's mapping every secret you've kept.
You melt into it, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He explores your skin with deliberate touches– palms gliding over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.
His gaze lingers at your chest once again, heated and owning, before he lowers his head, taking one nipple into his mouth. He sucks gently at first, tongue swirling around the hardened bud, then firmer, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. Your hips twitch upward, seeking friction against him, but he shifts his weight, pinning your thigh with his knee to keep you still.
“Easy, baby,” he breathes, lifting his eyes to meet yours, dark and intent. “I'm going to take my time with you. Make you feel every second of this.” His hand continues downward, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts, easing them down along with your panties in one smooth motion. He doesn't rush, savoring the reveal of your bare skin, the way your thighs part instinctively under his stare.
His jaw is tight, his eyes dark as he takes in the sight of you. You know the look– hunger, but mixed with something else. Reverence. An ache between the two of you that you'd both been fighting for too long.
He starts with his hand.
Well, a finger really. Ghosting just barely over your dripping heat, before both of his palms are smoothing over your inner thighs, opening you up further.
Your breath is already uneven, short staccato puffs of air as he settles with his face inches away from you.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and rough as his lips brush against the skin of your thigh.
“I am,” you argue, the words coming out weak.
He presses his cheek against your thigh, and smiles up at you, primal and alluring. He presses a kiss at the cleft of your thigh, centimeters away from where you were aching for him. He doesn't break eye contact– you know he won't.
So you do.
You let your head fall back against the pillow with a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut. You want him to get on with it, you lick into you until you're a crying, overstimulated mess, but if there's one thing you know about your beloved Jake, it's that he does what he wants, when he wants.
He nips at your skin, “Look at me.”
You shake your head, “I can't.”
“Y/n.”
“Jake, I can't–”
He's up before you can finish your sentence, his hand tangled into your hair and his nose brushing against yours, “Listen to me,” he says, his voice dropping– low and controlled, “I'm gonna lick into this sweet little cunt until you come– and then some,” he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, a sweet contraction to his words, “And you're going to watch every fucking second of it. Do you understand me?”
You hesitate, just a second– you don't know if you'll be able to watch that– before you nod, “Yes, Jake,” you breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly against his.
He smiles, just barely, nudging his nose against yours, “That's a good girl,” he whispers, “Always so well behaved.”
You know the last sentence is a dig at you, but you let it slide, because he's settling back between your thighs and you're aching too much to really push him too far. You let your thighs fall open, just a little further, inviting him in.
You get the sense he'd be content just looking at you, taking in every detail, memorizing. You wouldn't be content with that– not with the ache nearly burning you from the inside out.
“Jake, please,” your voice is weak, shaky.
He leans in, sucking the skin of your inner thigh into his mouth, nipping lightly at you. You're trembling already, shaking from the anticipation, near tears already.
“Sounds so pretty when you beg,” he murmurs, his hands spreading you open even further. You huff, though it comes out weaker than you intended. The glint in his eyes is almost evil, but before you can say anything else, his mouth is finally– finally– on you.
His tongue is flat, licking a single stripe up your slick heat.
It's a simple move, but you'd been anticipating it so long, it feels as if the universe finally exhaled. As if the single action was all he needed, he lets out a quiet curse against your skin, before tugging you closer to him and slipping his tongue along your core again.
Your breath catches in your lungs when he presses the tip of his tongue against your clit, teasing almost.
His mouth feels better than you imagined– warm, wet, attentive. You roll your hips lightly, grinding just barely against his mouth. His eyes light up, and his hands wrapped around your hips push at you, encouraging you to rock against him.
You have your hands tightened in your bedsheets, but when he wraps his lips around your clit, your hand immediately goes to his hair. When you realize what you've done, you go to move your hand, to apologize, unsure if he was into that, but he hums a low hm-mm against you.
He raises a hand to your wrist, encouraging you to pull or grab as you pleased. As if he wanted to know you were feeling so good you just couldn't help it. You let out a noise, your fingers flexing lightly, unsure how you were still managing to hold eye contact with him. He flicks his tongue over your clit, just once, and you feel your lower half clench around nothing.
He lets go of your hip, and before you can pout about it, his fingers are teasing at your soaked entrance.
His fingers ease into you gently, slowly. You know he's being kind, but it feels cruel. He pulls his mouth away from you with an almost inaudible fuck, his eyes locking in on where his fingers were.
“Look at that,” he breathes, most in awe. The corner of his slick-shined mouth tilts up, smug and enraptured by the sight in front of him.
Your chest is heaving now, your face hot, “Jake–” He leans back in, sucking your clit back into his mouth, and your words escape you in a breathy moan.
He eases his fingers in and out, as if he's trying his damnedest to be gentle with you. It makes your heart melt and your walls tighten, but you don't want gentle. You want him to ruin you. To make you wholly and completely his. To destroy everything you thought you knew until it was just him. His tongue is flicking at your clit, his lips suckling just enough to drive you wild.
He curls his fingers, once, twice, before it's as if he can't stand to be patient anymore.
With a low, impatient growl, he snaps, fucking his fingers into you with a quick force that makes your toes curl. His mouth is working at you in earnest, and your back arches away from the bed.
I was trying to be sweet, you hear his voice in your head, and you give him a heatless glare.
You'd forgotten you'd opened the door, let him in… He could see everything.
And how convenient– for him to be able to speak to you in your head, since his mouth was otherwise occupied.
You want it mean, don't you? Dirty girl.
You nod, your head falling back once more. You know he told you to look at him, to watch every second of it, but you couldn't. You were close, your body trembling, your hips rocking into him.
He lets it slide, and you think he's just as desperate for your orgasm as you are, as if he needs it as badly as you do. And maybe he does.
You breathe his name, a warning, as your body tightens.
He doubles his efforts, his fingers fucking into you, curling and twisting hard and fast, his mouth eating at you in earnest.
What ultimately sends you over the edge is his voice in your head, desperate and demanding, Fucking give it to me.
It hits you like a ton of bricks. You come with a gasp that quickly turns into a broken moan. White flashing behind your eyes before you see stars. Your entire body jerks, your thighs fighting to shut around him.
You can feel him smile against your skin as he tightens his hold on you, keeping you snug against him as he works you through it.
It verges too much, too intense, but it's just right. You come down slowly, your hand at his forehead weakly trying to push him back.
He slows down, showing mercy, although you can tell he doesn't want to. He moves his head, resting his cheek against your thigh, giving you just enough to recover as he withdraws his fingers from you. Or so you thought. He presses a kiss to your clit, humming when your thighs twitch and you whimper his name. His tongue slips out, licking over your sensitive bundle of nerves painfully slow.
“Fuck, that was so pretty,” he murmurs, leaving a wet kiss to your skin, “You look like a fucking dream when you come, baby.”
You let out a weak, strangled noise, almost embarrassed, as your eyes fall shut. From shame or exhaustion, you can't tell.
He lazily licks over you, his tongue pressing into your entrance teasingly, before he slowly runs it up to your clit, circling around it.
“Jake,” you whine, bucking your hips just barely.
“What?” He asks, patronizing, pretending to pity you, “Is it too much, sweet girl?”
You nod, despondent, and he angles his head, flattening his tongue against you, working it slowly.
“Liar,” he mutters against you, before he's drawing your clit back into his mouth.
Your moan is broken, tears beading along your lash line. It's too much, it's not enough. You know he's about to make you finish on his tongue again, and you don't know if you can take it.
You can, he says, smooth and low in your brain, You can take it.
Your second orgasm hits quicker than the first, your entire body is still sensitive, still worked up from him. He seems to be more merciful this time, easing up on you as you come down, working you through it gently.
He kisses at your inner thighs, your hips, your lower stomach, and then your breasts as he slowly makes his way back up to you.
You take deep breaths, your chest heaving as he climbs back over you. Your eyes open just as he settles over you, his face inches away, “Hi sweetheart,” he says gently, leaning in to peck a kiss onto your lips.
“Hi,” you breathe, reaching up with a shaky hand to push his hair back from his face. He looks fucking sinful.
His eyes are dark in the dim lighting, his cheeks are flushed a pretty pink hue, and his hair is messy from your hands. He looks like sin in the flesh, but even then– in his hungry gaze, he's still looking at you softly. So reverent, as if you're the most precious thing in the world.
Your hand, still resting in the bedsheets it had just been tangled in, moves slightly. You let your eyes trail down, past his flushed cheeks, past his necklaces brushing against your bare chest, to the button of his jeans. You look back up at his eyes, a question on the tip of your tongue.
You can't ask that.
He knows what you want.
He looks partially amused now, the hint of a smirk gracing his lips as he reaches for your hand. Your other hand tightens in his hair as he places the one right at the waistband of his pants, and he leans in until his lips are brushing against your heated skin.
You untangle your hand from his hair, both hands sliding to the button of his dress pants. You tug at them once, and turn your head until your lips are ghosting against his, “Take these off.”
His smile grows, fond almost, as he kisses you. You dont notice his hand over yours until he's using your fingers to pop the button.
You pull back, pressing your head into the pillow as you tilt it, eager to watch him be revealed to you.
You tug unceremoniously at his pants, and he lifts his hips just enough to help you yank them down. He grabs your hands in one hand, lifting them above your head and pressing them into the pillow.
You frown up at him, but he uses his other hand to pull his underwear down with his pants. Your mouth falls open when his cock, thick and long and pretty, is freed, bobbing up to rest hard and proud against his stomach.
“Fuck, Jake,” you breathe in awe, your entire body thrumming with excitement.
He huffs an almost shy laugh, his cheeks flushing red once again.
You glance up at his face, shock still clear on yours, before you look back down at his dick, “I want it.”
He hums, his jaw tightening, “I know, honey,” he leaves a sweet kiss to your cheek, “You'll have it.”
You almost wiggle impatiently, suddenly overcome with pure want. A desire to be filled and fucked until you couldn't move, until you were an exhausted, breathless mess underneath him.
You grab his face, yanking him to you in a heated kiss, whining into his mouth when his hands grab your hips and situate you to his liking.
You feel the blunt head of him pressing against you, hot and heavy, and you rock your hips.
He pulls away from the kiss to rest his forehead against your temple, and with a slow roll of his hips, he's pushing into you.
Your mouth falls open as he eases inside of you, slow and controlled. His hand falls to the pillow beside your head, gripping it so tightly, you're afraid it might tear open. Your walls pulse around him, fighting to accommodate the intrusion as he pushes in inch by inch.
“Oh my God,” you breathe out when he finally bottoms out.
“Don't,” he almost growls the word, pressing his nose into your hair just above your ear, “Don't ever say anybody else's name but mine while I'm inside you.”
You hadn't meant it like that, but– he sounds so possessive right now, his hand is grabbing the pillow so tightly his knuckles are white, and his other hand is holding onto your hip just as tight.
He inhales through his nose, slowly, slightly shaking, and you know he isn't shaking from nerves. He's trying not to lose control.
You breathe his name, placing a hand on his arm.
He hums a sound, running his nose along the tip of your ear.
“Are you okay?” You ask softly.
He groans quietly, nodding slowly. His tongue runs along the skin beneath your ear, before he kisses you there.
“Never been better,” he murmurs, as if distracted.
You turn your head to look at him, and the moment your eyes meet, it nearly undoes you. He’s staring like he’s starving– like every detail of your face is something he’s been aching for. His gaze drinks you in, slow and reverent, as if he can’t quite believe you’re real. There’s a wild, unhidden need in his eyes, the kind that makes your skin burn under the weight of it. He looks utterly possessed by you.
You glance down at his lips, needing a break from the intensity, but even that feels dangerous– like everything about him is too much, too close.
The corners of his mouth twitch into something close to a smile when you say, “Quit looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he says, his voice low, strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “Like I need you so bad it's driving me insane?”
You sigh, and slide your hand up to cup his cheek, “You have me.”
Your words seem to break something inside of him, and before you can even process his lips crashing against yours, he's pulling his hips back just enough to begin fucking into you.
You gasp at the first thrust, his mouth swallowing down the sound. He feels good everywhere he's touching you, warm and almost overwhelming.
He lets go of the pillow, his hands grabbing your hips to move you just enough, and his arms slide around your waist. The hold feels protective, like he's worried you'll disappear any moment. His nails dig into the skin of your back just barely before his fingers flex.
He pushes into you completely, pausing for a moment, as if just to feel you squeezing around him. He pulls his face away from yours, tilting his head slightly as he watches himself fill you up.
“Fuck,” he breathes, before he draws back, achingly slow, only to push back in just as unhurried.
Every slow push and pull sends the head of his cock dragging against your walls, nudging that place inside of you that makes your toes curl. Your hand tightens in his hair when he angles just right, the tip pressing into it firmly.
You huff a breath, tightening around him, “Jake,” your voice is broken already, “Fuck me.”
He hums a low sound, pushing his hips flush to yours once again, “I am, baby,” he says softly.
You go to argue, to ask him to go faster, something, when his hip bone presses just right against your clit. A whimper stutters out of you, and you can't help but say his name again.
His eyes darken, a devious glint to them as he leans in closer to you again. “You want it mean, sweetheart?”
You nod, and he leans back, his arms slipping from around your waist. One hand grabs your thigh, pushing them further apart. He hooks the
back of your knee in the crook of his elbow, before he leans back in and wraps both hands around your throat.
He doesn't squeeze yet, but the position has you completely at his mercy. You're spread open, given no choice but to take it as he begins slamming into you.
Your eyes roll back when he hooks a thumb into your mouth, pressing it against your tongue. You wrap your lips around it, sucking as best as you can in the moment.
“That's it, baby,” he says, his voice tight with fraying control, “Fuckin’ take it.”
You hum a broken mm-hmm around his thumb, barely able to keep your eyes open to look at him.
You would've been moving up the bed with every thrust of his hips had he not been holding you in place, pushing you into the mattress.
He grits his teeth when you squeeze around him, his forehead falling to yours.
Your body is tightening again, building up to an orgasm you're almost afraid of having. He feels it, you know he does– physically and mentally.
He suddenly pulls out of you, letting go of your throat to push himself up, “Flip over,” he demands, giving you no time to attempt to before he grabs you and flips you around to his liking.
You're on your knees, one on either side of his, your back pressed to his chest. He wraps an arm around you, lifting you up just enough for him to slip back inside of you. He pushes you down on his cock, his other hand grabbing your waist.
“Oh fuck,” you breathe, your head falling back against his shoulder. He presses his lips to your exposed throat, nearly growling as he bites down on the tender skin. He begins fucking into you with reckless abandon, hard and fast and wild. You can barely focus on the slamming of your headboard against the wall, your brain overtaken with Jake.
Your nails dig into his thighs, the muscles tensing beneath the material of his pants as he fucks you.
Your walls squeeze around him, and you can feel your slick dripping against your thighs, against his. You're almost embarrassed, knowing you're making a mess on his dress pants.
“No, no,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, “Make a mess, honey, all over me.”
You let out a sound at that, and before you can object to it, his hand at your waist slips down, and he's rubbing tight circles over your clit.
“Oh, my– Jake–” You try to fall forward, but his arm around your upper half holds you in place.
“Come on,” he urges, “Give it to me, baby,” he sounds demanding, desperate and wild, “Make a mess all over me– right on my cock, angel.”
You're almost there, your orgasm just a few more thrusts, a few more swirls of his fingers away, when he decides to play dirty.
“What do you need?” He asks teasingly, brushing his lips against your ear, “Need me to tell you I love you?”
Your eyes snap open, “Jake–”
“I love you,” he grits out, his voice full of conviction, “I love you, I love you.”
You hate how fast your orgasm takes over at that. You finish with a loud, spent sob of his name, your body going almost limp as he holds you up, working you through it with deft fingers and expert thrusts of his hips.
Your vision goes blurry, your entire body coursing with waves of pleasure that verge on overstimulated.
Your hand, shaking and weak, finds his wrist, and you try to grab it. He eases his fingers up, slowing to a standstill as he gives you a moment to breathe.
“Yeah,” he says on a fucked out breath, “That's what you needed, isn't it?”
“Fuck you,” you say without any heat.
He hums a laugh, moving his hand away to smooth his palm over your skin, calming your trembling body.
“Where do you want it?” He asks softly, rocking his hips just enough to keep you from fully recovering.
“Inside,” you breathe, wiggling your ass against him, “Please.”
“Yeah?” He asks, fucking up just a little harder, “You want me to come inside?” You nod, your eyes rolling shut as you feel yourself tightening around him again, “You want me to make that pretty little pussy all mine? Claim it as my own?”
“It's yours,” you say weakly, “It's yours, Jake, just– Please.”
He hums then, “I think you're about to come again,” he says almost teasingly.
You nod, “I am– Fuck–” his fingers dance over you clit again, just barely, before you're coming again, and you gasp out your next words as it hits you, “Fuck, I love you.” He lets out a broken sound at that, and with a single thrust of his hips, you can feel his release filling you. Painting your walls with his warmth, as you quietly repeat your confession like a broken chant.
He comes to a standstill, his hips unmoving inside of you, and his fingers frozen over your clit. His chest is heaving against your back, and he stays quiet for a moment as his forehead rests against your shoulder.
He finally lifts his head, and his hand ghosts along your cheek, “Baby,” he says, breathless.
You hum, feeling like you're about to collapse. He wraps his arms around you, lifting you up just enough for him to slip out of you. You whine petulantly, before he eases you onto the mattress. You feel boneless as he lays you down, situating you into a much more comfortable position to recover in.
You let your eyes fall shut as you lay there, your chest rising and falling with deep breaths. You can feel him watching you, as if he's ensuring you're okay.
You open your eyes, turning your head just enough to look up at him, and a smile works its way onto your lips.
His own lips turn up at the corners, soft and beguiled. “Hi sweetheart,” he says again.
“Hi Jake,” you say softly.
“Was it too much?” He asks sweetly, moving to lay down beside you. He says on his side, propping his head up on his hand as he watches you.
“No,” you assure him, turning to him to pull him closer to you, “It was– Fuck, that was perfect, Jake.”
He allows you to move him closer to you, and he presses a single kiss to your lips, “Tell me you love me again,” he says, his voice a whisper.
You grin, your heart wanting to explode out of your chest, “I love you Jake.”
Jake’s eyes soften instantly, going wide with something tender and almost reverent, like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. His gaze, slow and unblinking, filled with quiet awe and that deep, aching kind of love. Devotion, raw and full, like you’d said the one thing he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.
You tilt your head, “Let me in.”
He nods, his face unmoving from that damned lovestruck expression that made your heart ache, “Okay honey.”
You expect a door, and you find one, but it's wide open. You study his face, ensuring that it's okay with him.
“You can look, baby,” he says softly. “I want you to.”
You push yourself up to press a kiss to his lips. You take a deep breath, and before you can second guess yourself, you walk through the door.
chapter warnings: jake being "off", little obsession, infatuation, unsettling moments, jake being a little lewd and lusty, demons, mentions of oral sex, insinuation of future sex, lemme know if i forgot any!
a/n: only one more installment, might post it tomorrow! might post it tonight and post a little extra snippet tomorrow, idk yet! thank yall for the love and support! <3
TGMS MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST
He's already seated at the kitchen table when you wake, unmoving, as if he's been there for hours. The way he sits is too deliberate, too rigid– like a painting posed with intention rather than a man simply starting his morning. His back is straight, shoulders squared, hands folded with unnatural stillness in front of him on the table. Everything about him feels too composed to be casual.
You catch the sharpness in his gaze immediately. He's watching you, not in a sleepy, absentminded way, but like a predator tracks movement– calculated, intense. His eyes follow you with laser precision as you step into the room, the hair on the back of your neck prickling with awareness.
Still half-asleep, you move on instinct toward the coffee pot. You draw in a deep breath, trying to ground yourself, though the air in the room is tight with tension you can't quite name.
“Good morning,” you offer, your voice hoarse with sleep and disuse.
“Good morning.” His voice echoes yours in pitch but not in tone. It’s rough, not with grogginess, but something deeper. Something scraped raw.
You busy yourself with the coffee, the clink of the pot and the hiss of steam oddly loud in the silence between you. You hesitate, weighing your words carefully before you say, “I think I need to talk to Mira.”
That gets his attention. You don’t even have to look to know, his energy shifts, and when he speaks again, the warmth is gone from his voice. “Why?” It's a single word, but it lands heavy, edged in frost.
You keep your back to him a second longer, gathering your composure. His eyes, you can feel them, locked on you with uncomfortable intensity. You pour the coffee slowly, watching the liquid rise in the mug, then turn around with it clasped in your hands like a shield.
He's staring, his gaze trailing unapologetically down your legs, unblinking. But when your eyes meet, he looks up quickly, as if ashamed to be caught, or trying to appear that way.
“I need answers,” you say, barely above a whisper, as though speaking louder might shatter the fragile space between you.
In the blink of an eye, he’s standing in front of you now, silent and sudden, like he didn't move so much as manifest. One hand rests flat on the edge of the counter beside you, the other set firmly on his hip. He crosses one ankle loosely over the other, the pose almost lazy, almost nonchalant, but it doesn’t fool you. You can feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a fire barely contained.
“Answers to what?” he asks, voice deceptively smooth but tight around the edges.
You study his face, searching for some flicker of the man you know, but all you find is restraint. He looks like himself– but doesn’t feel like himself. Still, you reach out gently, laying your hand against his cheek. His skin is no longer hot, no longer flushed with that unnatural warmth from before. But your touch makes him flinch ever so slightly, muscles in his jaw tightening beneath your palm. His eyes have that same dark, unreadable look.
“Whatever it is that’s happening to you,” you say softly.
His hand rises slowly, almost reluctantly, and he wraps his fingers around your wrist. He doesn’t squeeze or pull. Instead, he eases your hand away from his face like it's causing him pain to be touched– like it’s too much. He holds your wrist carefully, tenderly.
“I’m fine, Y/n,” he says, the words quiet but firm.
“Are you?” you ask, letting your hand remain in his. You expect him to release it, to return it to your side or maybe nudge it toward your mug. But he doesn't. He just holds it there, suspended between you like some invisible thread keeping you tethered to him.
A shadow passes over his expression. His brow knits slightly. “Aren’t I?” he murmurs, as though he genuinely doesn’t know.
You exhale slowly through your nose, your chest tightening. “You’re different,” you say, not unkindly, but not gently, either. Just honest.
He tilts his head a little, considering that. “Is that so bad?”
“It’s not exactly good,” you admit before you can stop yourself.
That breaks whatever fragile connection you’d managed to hold onto. He lets go of your hand, the warmth of his fingers leaving a ghost behind on your skin. He steps back, putting space between you as if to protect you from something, or protect himself.
“I’m still me,” he mutters, but it sounds more like a question than a statement.
You don't respond. You can’t.
Without another word, he turns and walks out of the kitchen, footsteps quiet but heavy with unspoken weight. You’re left standing there, coffee in your hands, staring at the empty space where he stood moments before. The silence he leaves behind is louder than anything he said.
—
It’s been hours since he walked out of the kitchen, but the air hasn’t settled. It still feels disturbed, charged. You keep yourself busy, moving through the motions of your day– cleaning, folding laundry, checking your phone even though you don’t know who you’re expecting to hear from.
He hasn't left the house. You’re sure of it.
You spot him once through the hallway mirror– just a reflection, blurry and half-hidden, standing at the far end of the corridor near the back door. He doesn’t move when you glance his way. Doesn’t look like he’s doing anything at all. Just standing there, arms crossed, shoulder pressed to the wall, watching. His reflection locks eyes with you in the mirror for a moment before you turn away, unsettled.
You try not to read into it.
By evening, you’ve lit a few candles around the house, trying to banish the deepening shadows. You hear his footsteps behind you before you feel his presence. They're slow, measured, deliberate.
You’re in the living room, half-curled on the couch with a book you haven’t really been reading. You don’t look up when you hear him. Not at first.
When you do, he’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed again, his expression unreadable. The lamp closest to him casts part of his face in shadow, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes. Something in him looks... worn. Like he hasn’t slept in days. Or maybe like he doesn’t need to.
“You’ve been quiet,” you say softly, not accusing, just an observation.
He doesn’t respond immediately. Just looks at you. Like he’s trying to decide something.
“You’ve been watching me,” you add when the silence stretches too long.
His lips twitch– something between a smirk and a grimace. “Making sure you’re safe,” he says, his voice lower than before, raspier. He shifts his weight against the frame, eyes scanning you again, slow and thorough.
You set the book down on the arm of the couch.
“Safe from what?” you ask, and your voice is sharper now, something flickering up from the place where your anxiety’s been simmering all day. “Because the way you’re acting– whatever this is– doesn’t feel like safety.”
He straightens a little, face hardening. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No,” you say, rising to your feet, “I don’t. Because you won’t talk to me. You walk around this house like a ghost and watch me like I’m about to break.”
His voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m trying to hold it together.”
“For who? For me? Because if this is you holding it together, then I don’t want to see what falling apart looks like.”
He takes a step forward and you instinctively take one back. That flicker of hurt in his eyes is brief– almost gone before you notice it.
“I didn’t mean that,” you say quickly.
“It’s fine,” he mutters, turning away.
You exhale, too hard. “I’m going to bed.”
He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t say a word as you pass him.
The bedroom feels colder than it should when you close the door behind you. You sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, hands clenched in your lap, then press your palms over your eyes.
What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with you?
You cross the room, throw the blanket back like it offended you, and sit on the edge of the bed, breath shaky. You feel like you’re going to combust.
You’re halfway through telling yourself to forget it when you hear a knock. Soft.
You freeze.
“Jake,” you say, warning clear in your tone, “if you open that door–”
“I’ll stay out here,” he says. His voice is low. Smooth. Sinful. “Unless you want me in.”
Your heart skips. Silence stretches. Then, stupidly, weakly, “You’ve got two minutes.”
The door opens like a secret.
Jake slips in and shuts it behind him. No smirk. No smugness. Just that look– hungry, focused, like you’re the only thing in the world he hasn’t had yet, and it’s driving him mad.
He doesn’t say anything right away, he just watches you. The tension makes the air thick, heavy.
“Jake,” you warn before he can say anything, “don’t.”
He tilts his head. "You’re right. I should be apologizing. Should be saying something nice. Something soft.”
He takes a step closer.
“But all I can think about,” he murmurs, eyes on your mouth, “is how you’d sound if you let me between your legs instead of pushing me away.”
Your whole body goes rigid.
“Don’t,” you whisper. But your voice is trembling.
He comes closer anyway. Not touching. Just near enough that you can feel the heat off his skin. Your breath catches.
“Tell me you don’t think about it,” he says, his voice all low gravel and wicked charm. “Tell me you don’t wake up needing something you can’t name. Needing me.”
Your thighs clench without permission.
Jake catches it. His smile turns slow. Dangerous.
“I’d be so fucking good to you,” he says, barely audible. “You wouldn’t have to think. Wouldn’t have to argue. I’d just get on my knees, make you forget everything. Lick every thought right out of your head until the only thing you remembered was my name.”
Your breath shudders out of you.
“You're disgusting,” you whisper.
“I'm suffering,” he says smoothly. He leans closer, his mouth a breath from yours. “I want to make you beg. Want to hear that perfect mouth say please. I want to taste every lie you’ve told yourself about not wanting me.”
You almost do it.
Almost lean in. Almost let him kiss you. Because your skin is electric. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. And he’s right– you do want him. You want all of it.
But you lean back– just enough.
Jake’s jaw tenses. Just for a second.
You swallow hard. “We’re not doing this. Nothing is happening until we start being honest with each other.”
He tilts his head, studying you.
Your voice is steadier now, even as your fingers dig into the sheets.
“You talk like that to distract me. You touch like that to get what you want. But the second it’s over, you shut down and pretend none of it mattered. And I’m not doing that.”
Jake’s eyes flicker, just briefly, with something real. Raw. Vulnerable.
You press on. “You want me? Then fucking mean it. Not just when it’s easy. Not just when it’s hot.”
He steps back slowly, like the gravity between you is a fight to break.
A long silence follows.
Then Jake breathes out a slow, uneven laugh– not amused, but almost relieved. “Fuck,” he murmurs, dragging a hand through his hair.
You smirk, even as your cheeks are burning.
Jake eyes you, hunger still burning behind restraint. “Alright,” he says softly. “No more games. But fair warning– when I finally get you? You won’t walk for a week.”
Your face flames. “Out.”
He chuckles, backing toward the door, holding both hands up. “Going.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and you're left alone in the dark. Breathless. Trembling. And aching for the bastard. But your heart’s still intact.
For now.
—
The knock comes just after dusk.
Jake appears suddenly. Not annoyance. Something quieter. Possessive.
“She’s here,” he murmurs.
You nod, standing up slowly. His gaze stays on you, trailing after every inch of distance like it costs him something.
When you open the door, Mira steps inside without waiting. Her eyes sweep across the space and land on Jake instantly.
He’s standing in the living room archway, hands loose at his sides, posture still. But there’s something in his stillness that sets you on edge. Like a held breath that never releases.
“Jake,” Mira says, tone clipped.
“Mira.” His voice is soft, even.
“You don’t look great.”
Jake’s gaze shifts toward you. “I’ve been distracted.”
Mira notices. She turns slightly toward you. “Has he been like this all day?”
You hesitate. “…He hasn’t been sleeping.”
Jake moves slowly into the room. “Why would I sleep?” His eyes find you again. “She’s here.”
Mira ignores that, barely. She’s tense now. Focused. “I need to know what happened after the ritual.”
Jake settles near the couch but doesn’t sit. He stands behind it, one hand resting lightly on the back cushion, the other hanging by his side.
“The ritual worked,” he says.
Mira frowns. “Define ‘worked.’ ”
“I’m not what I was before.”
You speak up carefully. “He's different.”
Jake doesn’t look at Mira when he speaks again. His gaze stays locked on you. “It burned everything out of me. Everything corrupt. What’s left is…” He tilts his head slightly. “Clean.”
Mira narrows her eyes. “You don’t feel clean.”
Jake’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “I feel clear.”
Mira steps closer. “You were supposed to be cleansed, Jake. That’s not the same as rewritten. You didn’t break the bond– you did the ritual to stop your soul from dragging hers down with it.”
“She was never in danger,” he says quietly.
You speak without thinking. “That’s not true. That’s why we did it.”
Jake finally looks away from you, just for a second. “I would’ve gone under for you. Willingly.”
Mira watches him carefully. “Did something go wrong?”
“No,” he answers. “Something… settled.”
You glance at Mira, trying to put into words what you’ve felt these past few days. “It’s like he hasn’t changed on the outside. But on the inside, he’s–”
Jake interrupts. “Right.”
Your pulse stutters. He looks at you with something too steady. Too deep.
“I feel everything now,” he says softly. “No filters. No interference. You’re the only thing that doesn’t overwhelm me.”
Mira’s face tightens. “That’s not clarity, Jake. That’s fixation.”
His eyes don’t leave yours. “Call it what you want.”
Mira folds her arms. “You’ve been quiet for days. Barely present. Tell me how you’re feeling– really.”
Jake’s voice drops lower. “I feel like I want her.”
You flinch. So does Mira.
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.
Mira recovers first. “Jake–”
But you speak over her, voice low. “It’s been like that. Since the ritual.”
He takes a slow step forward. “It’s not just want. Not lust.” Another step. “It’s hunger. Not in the flesh. Deeper. Like my soul is tuned to hers now. Like she’s the axis I move around.”
Mira watches him with something close to alarm. “You weren’t like this before. You cared for her, yes, but this–”
“I still care for her,” he says, sharply. “More than I know how to say.”
“You’re describing a loss of autonomy.”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m describing a loss of resistance.”
You take a small step back, not out of fear– but to breathe. Jake notices. Of course he does. His eyes flick to your throat as you swallow.
He softens his voice. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid,” you whisper.
“You should be,” Mira mutters under her breath.
Jake turns his head toward her, slow and deliberate. “This isn’t about power. It’s about proximity. She’s close, and I feel… right. When she moves away, I feel hollow. Like something essential is missing.”
Mira mutters a curse. “You’re not just cleansed. You’re fused.”
“What does that mean?” you ask.
She looks at you, jaw tight. “If his soul was purged and re-formed around yours... then it’s not just a bond anymore. It’s imprinting. He’s built around you now.
Jake speaks again before she can go on. “You keep calling it unnatural. But what if it isn’t?”
“You were never meant to bind that deeply,” Mira says. “It’s not sustainable. Not without cost.”
Mira runs a hand through her hair. “I need time. Books. Sources. This is beyond standard soul work.”
Jake doesn’t look at her again.
He looks at you.
Only at you.
And when he speaks, it’s barely audible.
“I just want to touch you.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. The tension that coils in your chest isn’t simple fear. It’s heat. It’s the way your body responds to him despite the wrongness– or maybe because of it.
Mira moves toward the door.
“I’ll find answers,” she says. “Until then… don’t let him stay too close.”
She doesn’t wait for your reply. The door clicks shut behind her.
And then the room goes quiet again.
Jake stands near the window, bathed in half-light. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, but the restraint in him is razor-thin now. He turns toward you slowly.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks.
The silence stretches.
You shake your head, hesitant.
He nods slowly, “I won't hurt you.”
“I know.”
He lets out a shaky, slow breath. But he keeps his distance. “You should sleep.” He says softly.
You stare at him for a beat longer, before you nod. You don't say a word as you leave the room.
—
You don’t sleep.
You try– eyes open, body rigid, trapped beneath too many blankets and not enough calm. The ceiling shifts with the passing headlights outside, shadows stretching long like fingers reaching. The silence isn’t comforting. It’s electric. Aware.
You roll over. Still restless. Still burning.
Every creak in the house sounds like a breath on your neck. Every gust of wind whispers like a voice in your ear. It isn’t fear that keeps you awake. Not exactly. It’s something sharper. Something hotter.
Anticipation.
You sit up. Feet hit the cold floor. You tell yourself you're going to the kitchen. Water. Fresh air. Some excuse.
But you already know what’s pulling you out of bed.
You move through the dark hallway like sleepwalking, like something’s tugging your chest forward. Magnetic. Inevitable.
And he’s there.
Jake. In the kitchen. Barely lit by the fridge light. One hand braced against the counter, tight with tension. You stop in the doorway. Watch the rise and fall of his shoulders– like he’s trying not to come undone.
He knows you're there before you speak.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low, gravel-rough.
“No,” you say.
He straightens, slowly.
And then he looks at you.
The air between you ignites. That look in his eyes– unmasked now, searing through you. Hunger. Heat. Restraint fraying at the edges.
He steps toward you.
Not fast. But steady. Like he's already decided, and the only thing left is the distance.
You step back out of reflex– but he stops instantly. The tension in him coils tighter.
“I’m not trying to push,” he says, voice strained, eyes locked on yours. “But I can’t stop wanting you.”
Your breath stutters. “You’re not pushing,” you whisper. “I just… I don’t know what this is.”
His lips twitch– half-pain, half-need. “Me neither.”
Then he closes the space.
He’s close now. So close. Heat radiating off his skin. His eyes fall to your mouth like he’s memorizing it. You feel his breath brush your lips.
And then his hand rises– slow, deliberate– to your jaw. Fingers trailing along your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
You lean into it before you realize you're moving.
“I think about you all the time,” he breathes. “I dream about you. Want you. Even when I’m trying not to.”
And then he kisses you.
Hard.
It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s the kind of kiss that tastes like too many nights without it. Like he’s been holding back, and now there’s no going slow. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and hunger. His hands grip your waist, pulling you against him– chests pressed tight, no space left to breathe.
You gasp into it, but don’t pull away. You want this. Your fingers curl into his shirt, gripping him like a lifeline. His tongue slides against yours, and you moan– quiet, involuntary, lost.
He responds like it undoes him.
His hands slide down– palms skimming the curve of your hips, then lower, gripping under your thighs– and then he lifts you like you weigh nothing. You make a sound in the back of your throat, half-surprise, half-desire. Your arms lock around his neck.
He sits you on the edge of the counter, body pressing between your legs, mouth never leaving yours for more than a second. He’s devouring you now. Slow, deep kisses that feel like they’re sinking under your skin.
His hand slides up your thigh, fingers splaying. His touch is hot, possessive. Like he wants to mark you, claim you.
You don’t want to say it. Not when your body is already betraying you. Not when your heart’s racing and your thighs are tightening around him and your skin aches for more.
But you do. Somehow.
“We can’t,” you whisper.
His whole body goes still. He leans his forehead against yours, struggling to breathe.
“Tell me why,” he says, voice low and breaking.
You press your hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat pounding. “Because I don’t know if this is really you– or if I’m just filling the space where something used to be.”
He doesn’t pull away. Not yet. Just breathes.
“I’m still me,” he says. “Changed, yeah. Scarred. But this?” His hand slides up to cradle the side of your face. “This is real. You are real.”
“I need time,” you whisper. “I need to know it’s not just the heat talking.”
His hands slip away from your body, trembling with restraint. He steps back, just far enough that the air between you cools, but the burn lingers.
“I would’ve kept going,” he says, voice like smoke. “If you hadn’t stopped me. I wanted to. Still want to.”
You slide off the counter slowly, your body still humming.
He catches your wrist lightly, thumb brushing your pulse point. “If you ever want me…”
He doesn’t finish.
He doesn’t need to.
You look up at him– his flushed face, his open expression, his body still aching to close the space between you.
“I’ll let you know,” you murmur, breath still shaky.
You turn to leave.
“I meant what I said,” he calls softly behind you. “I won’t touch you again unless you ask. But God, if you do…”
You pause. You don’t look back.
You just walk away– heart pounding, skin fevered, lips swollen– and pray that by morning, the fire will be gone.
But you already know it won’t be.
—
You don’t sleep. Again.
But this time, it’s not the tension that keeps you awake– at least not in the same way. It’s the memory of his mouth on yours, of his hands on your skin, the way he looked at you like you were air and he was drowning. It’s the fact that when you told him no, he stopped. That he stepped back, trembling, hurting, but still listening.
And it’s the way you almost didn’t stop him.
By the time the first threads of morning light creep into the house, you’re still awake– sitting on the edge of the bed, a blanket around your shoulders, heart raw.
You hear the knock before you feel ready for it.
This time it’s soft. Rhythmic. Mira.
Jake doesn’t appear immediately– maybe he’s giving space, maybe he’s trying to cool the fire still smoldering between you. Either way, it’s you who opens the door.
Mira doesn’t greet you with a quip or a sharp look. She just steps inside, carrying a thick leather-bound book, a manila folder, and a look that’s halfway between tired and concerned.
“I found something,” she says, heading straight for the kitchen table.
Jake appears from the hallway a moment later. Hair slightly messy. Shirt rumpled. But there’s no mistaking the calm tension in the way he moves.
He sees you first.
You look away before the air tightens again.
Mira doesn’t seem to notice. Or she pretends not to.
She drops the book and folder on the table and spreads out a few handwritten pages. “This is a translation of an old variant of the ritual you performed,” she says, glancing at Jake. “One that wasn’t recorded in the modern soulbinding texts.”
Jake’s brow furrows. “Why not?”
“Because it wasn’t meant for the living,” Mira says flatly. “It was a purification rite designed to rebuild a broken spirit... by anchoring it to a stable source.”
You blink. “A stable source like...?”
“Like you,” she says, looking at you now. “A soul that was strong enough to carry part of his weight. The bond wasn’t supposed to sever him from you. It fused you together more tightly. And because you haven’t physically completed the bond...” she hesitates. “…Jake’s responding the only way he knows how.”
Jake makes a low sound. Frustration. Embarrassment. Both.
Mira looks between you. “The fixation, the intensity– it’s not a side effect. It’s a stage.”
You blink. “A stage?”
She nods. “Until the bond is fully consummated, he’s going to feel like he’s burning alive every time you’re near. Your presence soothes it– but only temporarily. It builds again every time you separate. That?” She gestures vaguely at Jake. “It’s physiological now. Not just emotional.”
Jake doesn’t move. His jaw is tight. His hands flex slightly at his sides.
You swallow. “So it’s... normal?”
Mira raises a brow. “As normal as magically binding someone’s soul to yours can be. Yes.”
Jake lets out a long, slow breath, like someone just took a weight off his chest. “It’s not obsession,” he says quietly.
Mira snorts. “It is obsession.”
You feel heat rise to your cheeks. “And after the cycle is completed?”
Mira looks at you carefully. “It’ll calm. Settle. The storm passes, and the bond stabilizes. You’ll still be connected– but it won’t feel like this. Like a fire you can’t put out.”
Jake finally meets your eyes. His voice is low, careful. “So I’m not losing control.”
“No,” Mira says. “You’re just... stuck halfway through something that was never meant to be interrupted.”
You nod slowly, trying to let it sink in. “So, what do we do?”
Mira closes the book. “That depends on how long you want to keep dancing around it.”
Silence.
Jake doesn’t move.
You glance at Jake again. He looks like he’s barely breathing. Like the weight of every word Mira just said is sitting in his chest, waiting.
You whisper, “Does it get worse if we wait?”
Mira nods. “Less predictable.”
You take a breath. The air feels thick with everything unsaid, everything you’re still turning over in your chest.
You shift the blanket around your shoulders and glance between them– Jake standing silent, Mira watching with that unflinching kind of knowing.
Then you speak, quiet but clear. “I think I’m going to sleep.”
Jake’s gaze jerks up slightly, but you hold up a hand before either of them can ask or assume.
“I’m not upset,” you say. And it’s the truth. There’s no fear in your voice, no anger. Just a slow-burning awareness beneath your skin, like the beginning of a storm. “I just... need a little time to think. To breathe. To... not combust immediately.”
That earns the faintest twitch of a smile from Mira.
You look at Jake then. Really look at him. The edge in his shoulders softens when your eyes meet. Still tense, still careful, but not that shaking, fraying thread he was last night.
“I’m not saying no,” you add softly. Jake’s throat bobs as he swallows. “I just–” You shrug slightly, a shy flick of movement. “I didn’t expect a soulbond to be the thing that made me feel like a nervous teenager again.”
That gets a low, breathy sound out of him. Almost a laugh.
Mira, mercifully, begins gathering her things. “Alright,” she says, heading for the door. “I’ll give you space. But don’t wait too long– magical instability makes people do stupid things. Just saying.” She pauses, “And get some actual rest, will you?”
You nod.
She’s gone a moment later, her presence like a door swinging closed on the intensity of the last few minutes.
Then it’s just you and Jake.
He doesn’t move right away. You don’t either. There’s a hum in the air again, but softer this time. Not quite urgent. Just present. Jake exhales, slow and steady. And this time, when he speaks, it’s softer. Warmer.
“I’ll wait,” he says. “As long as you need.”
You nod, grateful.
Then, quietly, you cross the room to him. He watches every step like he’s memorizing it.
You stop in front of him, close enough to feel the heat, and gently reach out– fingers brushing his sleeve. “Stay?”
He nods.
And as you climb back into bed, blanket still wrapped around you like armor, Jake sits down in the chair beside you. Silent. Watchful. Steady.
He doesn’t touch you.
But he’s close enough that when sleep finally starts to claim you– real sleep, this time– you can feel the bond between you hum with something almost calm.
I’m going insane … right along with Jake. Didn’t expect to actually like Mira but she’s been a good egg! Ok Y/N get your shit together, rest up and freshen up AND ROCK HIS WORLD!!
chapter warnings: demons, jake's old "friend", jealousy, mentions of blood, rituals, having to cut each other's hands, blood mingling, latin. fucking latin., little heated moment, mentions of death, scary jake
a/n: this is for my lovely anon! Happy birthday! <3
TGMS MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST
Your apartment is dimly lit, warm, and cluttered with half-open books, scorched candles, and notes scribbled in desperation. The air still smells faintly of incense and something darker– Jake’s presence lingers like a storm cloud pressed up against the walls.
You’re curled up on the couch with a mug of tea you’ve already forgotten about, staring blankly at the Mirror of the Soul passage you'd copied by hand. You should be resting. You should be thinking. But your head is a blender of Jake's words, his voice in your mind, and–
A sudden knock at the door.
You jump, heart stuttering. It’s too late for guests. Way too late for humans, at least.
You blink, confused. Jake goes perfectly still.
Then the doorknob turns– like the person on the other side already assumes they’re welcome.
Before you can react, the door swings open.
And she walks in.
Tall. Elegant. Absolutely otherworldly. Her heels click against your floor like a threat disguised as flirtation. Her blood-red lips curl into a smile as her sharp eyes land on Jake– and then flick dismissively over you, like you’re a decorative lamp she’s planning to replace.
“Jake,” she purrs, her voice like velvet and ash. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
You freeze.
“Mira,” he says, voice colder than the air outside. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Mira tilts her head. “Just checking in. You’ve been so hard to find lately. And now I see why.” Her gaze slides to you again, and this time there’s something ugly in it. “The human. How quaint. Prettier than I expected, though.”
You bristle. “The human is right here, you know.”
She doesn’t even blink.
“You’re not welcome here,” Jake says, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall.
“Oh, come on,” Mira croons, pouting like a child denied candy. “You used to have such better taste. I thought maybe you’d finally snapped out of this little obsession.”
Your blood boils.
Jake’s hand twitches at his side like he’s this close to setting her on fire.
And then she steps closer to him, reaching out to run a single, painted nail along the lapel of his jacket.
That’s it.
You snap.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” you say loudly.
Mira raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Jake immediately moves to your side, putting a firm hand on your waist. Mira’s lips curl into a mock pout, but she drops her hand, steps back.
“I didn’t realize she meant that much to you,” she says slowly, like the idea is somehow distasteful.
Jake doesn’t hesitate. Not even a beat.
“She does.”
She gives him a pout that quickly turns into a grin, “I can help you, y'know.” You glare harder at her, but she continues speaking. “You think I don't know, Jakey?”
You glance at Jake, frowning at the wary expression on his face.
“You wanna redeem your soul,” she tilts her head, giving him a faux-sympathetic frown.
Jake doesn't speak, he just stares at her.
“I know how,” she whispers, her hand by her mouth like it's a secret.
“Mira–”
“I'm not pulling your leg, Jake,” she gives you a smarmy grin, “Not anymore, anyway.”
Jake tenses at that, and you scoff a laugh. “Are you fucking serious?” You ask him, earning nothing more than a regretful glance from him.
"It's not easy,” she says, crossing her arms. You can't help but notice it pushes her chest up, showing her cleavage perfectly. Bitch.
“I don't have time for your games, Mira.” Jake says, “I don't wanna redeem my soul, you're wasting your time here.”
“Am I?” She asks, looking at you now, “You know how many souls he has?” You don't bother with a response, knowing she's going to tell you anyway. “I think we've all lost count, haven't we Jakey?”
His jaw is tight, “Mira.”
“I just knew– Well, when I heard you still haven't claimed this one, I just knew there had to be something special.” She sighs, looking at you, “It can't just be the looks, though she is absolutely… delicious. It's her soul. Pure, untouched. So…” she sighs, “Incandescent.”
“That's enough,” Jake says lowly.
“So tempting,” she says, still looking at you– as if she's looking through you. “Jake, you have one chance to do what you want to. There's not a lot of ways to redeem your soul, but I can help.”
He scoffs, “What's in it for you? You don't help just to help, Mira.”
She sighs, “Call it returning the favor. I owe you one.”
He squints, “I don't buy it.”
“You saved my life a couple hundred years ago,” she says, nonchalant, “I do owe you.”
He stares at her for a moment, the two communicating without words, before he nods slowly, reluctantly. “Spill it.”
“There's a ritual. It's worked a few times in the past when it was tried. You, her, some sexy knife play– You know the deal, Jake,” she waves a hand.
You feel yourself go pale at that– “Knife play?”
“Blood magic,” Jake answers quietly.
“Oh,” you say weakly.
“Some Latin and some blood,” Mira finishes, a perfect eyebrow arched, “Have you two…” She gives you a suggestive wink.
“That's none of your business,” Jake says, his voice low.
“It only works if you haven't fucked her.” She snaps.
“Then it will work,” you say, almost embarrassed.
She snorts, “You're losing your touch, Jake.”
He grits his teeth, “Mira–”
“Anyway, lucky for you two, tomorrow night is a full moon,” places her hands on her hips, “Jake, I'm gonna get you the full list, the steps, all of it. It has to be done exactly as it's written.”
He nods once, his eyes on the wall. “Got it.”
She looks at you, tilting her head, “For your sake, pretty human, I hope this works. Just be good to him, he's alright for a demon.”
And like that, she's gone.
You stand there for a moment longer, before you sink down into your couch. Jake doesn't move for a moment, and he's still staring at the wall.
“Jake,” you say softly, trying to snap him out of his head.
He looks at you, “I'm sorry about her–”
“You fucked her, didn't you?” You wrinkle your nose, crossing your arms.
He gives you a look, “It was a long time ago, sweetheart.”
“Of course it was.”
He sits beside you slowly, “Never seen you jealous before.”
“I wasn't jealous–”
“You were.”
“I was,” you admit softly. “I didn't like her touching you– Like you're hers to touch.”
He watches you with a coy smile, leaning back into the cushion, and closing his eyes. “I should hook her up with Alex.”
—
She was true to her word, showing up again. This time, you were half-naked, in the process of getting dressed when she appears in your room.
You blink at her, your shirt in your hands as she runs her eyes over you. A grin lights up her face, “Oh, Jake is in for a treat, isn't he?”
You feel your face burning hot, “I–”
“Where is he? I gotta give this to him,” she holds up a rolled up piece of old, yellowed paper.
“In the kitchen,” you say, trying not to feel self conscious about your bare skin she's seeing.
“Thanks, doll. Nice tits, by the way.”
And then she's gone again.
Your face burns hotter as you pull your shirt on, and make your way to the kitchen. You hear their voices before you see them, urgent and hushed.
“If it goes wrong, it's reversed.”
“Reversed?”
There's a long pause.
“Her soul will be claimed instead of yours.”
“I'm not doing this,” he says quietly, “I'm not chancing anything happening to her–”
“You can't back out now,” she urges, “This moon won't appear for another hundred years.”
He's quiet, “I'm not chancing it.”
You step around the corner at that time, finding her lounging on your kitchen table, and Jake leaning against your counter. His face softens when he sees you, and she sighs, “Y/n, tell him he's being stupid.”
“I'm not going to chance something happening to her, Mira, that's not stupid.”
“Jake,” you say softly, “It's worth a shot.”
His face falls. Betrayal, then protest, then panic, “Y/n–”
“Listen,” you say, making your way to him, “I know you don't want anything to happen to me, Jake, I get it. But… We can do this and we can do this right.”
“I don't want them to have you,” he whispers, shaking his head.
“They won't. But right now they have you, and we need to get this done.”
He sighs, frustration clear on his face. He finally nods, “Alright.”
“Damn,” Mira speaks up, “I've never seen him fold so quickly.”
He glares at her, “Shut up.”
She stands, “I've got places to be, so I'm gonna run along. You two, best of luck. I'm sure I'll hear all about this in Hell once it's done.”
Jake gives her a hint of a smile, “Thank you, Mira.”
She gives him an almost sad smile. “Don't mention it, Jake.” She looks at you, “I hope things work out for you both.”
“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it.
“Jake, your girl's got some great tits, by the way.”
Your mouth falls open as she disappears on that note. Jake hums, and you turn to look at him, slightly horrified, “I'm a little jealous she got to see ‘em before I did.”
You shove at him, a laugh escaping you, “Shut up.”
He grins, before it falters as his eyes land on the aged scroll sitting on your table. “If this goes wrong–”
“If it goes wrong… We can figure it out,” you say softly.
He sighs, nodding reluctantly. “Alright. Then let's do it.”
—
Latin. Fucking Latin.
You stare at the words, unfamiliar to you, scrawled across the paper.
Jake has been looking at it for the past fifteen minutes, his face blank as his eyes roam over the words.
“It's tricky,” he says finally, “But it's not impossible.”
“What do we need to do?”
He sighs, “Well, for one, we have to find a field. An empty field– under the moonlight,” he tilts his head, “We have to cut each other's hands, let our blood mix.”
You pale at that, “I have to cut you?”
He nods, still looking down at the paper, “It won't hurt,” he says quietly, “I've had worse.”
You frown at that, your heart aching at the thought.
“We need a fire, hellfire– I've got that covered.”
“Hot,” you say quietly, intending to make a joke about the fire, but well, Jake takes it as a compliment judging from the smirk on his lips.
“We have to burn the blood in the fire, and say some shit in Latin.”
“That's it?” You say.
He looks up at you, almost offended. “What do you mean– that's it?”
“I dunno,” you say quietly, “I assumed we'd have to sacrifice someone's firstborn or something like that.”
He snorts, “You're ridiculous.”
You can't help but grin, your heart racing at the thought of this being so near, so possible.
“We got about an hour until it's time,” he says, looking up at the clock, “Let's, uh, get a move on, right?”
You nod, turning to face him completely, “Y/n, if this doesn't work out, I want you to know something–”
You interrupt him with a quick kiss on his lips, “It's gonna work out.”
He blinks, his face softening, and he nods, “Okay.”
—
Finding the field had been easy. Too easy.
The air was heavy with silence, the kind that settles before something ancient wakes up.
Jake made hellfire bloom in the grass like it belonged there– writhing black-orange flames licking the cold night air, flickering without heat. That was easy for him.
Cutting open his hand? Not so much.
His brows knit low, jaw clenched tight. “We have to open the door.”
You glance around at the wide, empty field. “Jake, there’s not a door out here.”
He turns toward you slowly, disappointment prevalent in his expression. “In our heads, Y/n.”
Your mouth goes dry. “Right. Sorry.”
He shakes his head, grin flickering back into place like a bad habit. “Alright. We open the doors. We keep them open– through the whole thing.”
You hesitate. “Now?”
Jake nods once. “Mine’s already open,” he says softly.
You shut your eyes. You picture it: the door. Old, sturdy wood. You shove it open. Cold air rushes into you. “Mine is too.”
He doesn’t smile this time.
“You have to say the chant,” Jake says, voice quieter, flatter.
You blink. “Wait– me? I thought you– Jake, I’m awful at Latin.”
You can do this.
You’d forgotten that you’d opened the door. That he could hear you. And that you could hear him.
I’ll speak it into your mind. Just say it out loud.
You give a single nod.
He lifts the knife, silver and ancient, the blade etched with thin, unreadable script. It seemed to vibrate in his hand. Not visibly, but something about it buzzes in your teeth.
Jake looks at you, gaze softening. “It’s going to sting.”
You swallow, holding out your arm.
He moves fast, the blade slicing across your palm before you could change your mind. It hurt. Not the sharp, clean kind of pain. It throbs instantly, a heat blooming under the skin like something foreign was crawling in.
Blood wells up.
You wince, but before you could react, he takes your wrist and lifts your bleeding hand toward his own.
“Your turn,” he whispers.
You stare at him, wide-eyed.
Do it.
Your hand trembles. You raised the blade, but hesitate again. He doesn’t say anything. He just waits.
You press it to his palm, dragging it through the skin with a trembling wrist.
His eyebrows drop down– but he doesn’t make a sound.
The cut blooms red instantly.
He grabs your wounded hand with his, pressing the cuts together, palm to palm.
The pain flares– immediate, searing, wrong. Like something was being poured into the wound instead of out.
Jake pulls your joined hands over the fire.
Blood drips into the flames. But instead of being consumed, it turned thick and black, pooling like oil. It didn’t sizzle. It hissed– like it was alive.
Repeat after me.
In nomine noctis, et flammae, et carnis sanctae.
Your voice shakes. “In nomine noctis, et flammae, et carnis sanctae…”
Aperi te mihi, daemon
“Aperi te mihi, daemon…”
Non timeas lucem meam — gustas eam, calidam, dulcem, profanam.
You stumble through it, panic bubbling beneath your ribs. The world felt heavier. The ground hums under your knees.
Cor tuum, arde sub manibus meis. Peccatum tuum lingua mea purgat.
You look into the fire as you spoke, unable to meet his gaze. The black blood pulsed now– bubbling like it was boiling from the inside out.
Geme sub tactu veritatis. Cade… in me. Surge… per me. Ama, et redime tecum.
You whisper the last words, your voice barely audible over the sound of the flames.
Then silence.
The blood stopped dripping. The fire vanished.
And the pool of black blood– still, for one breath– bubbled violently the next.
You look up at Jake, your throat tight.
He stares back, eyes wild and dark. His grip on your hand suddenly tightens.
“Jake–”
His body jerks like he’d been struck by lightning. His jaw clenches hard enough to crack, breath hitching in his throat. His free hand fists in the grass.
“Jake!”
He doesn’t answer– just groans, low and guttural, through gritted teeth. It wasn’t human. You felt it in your bones.
You reach for him with your uninjured hand, touching his face– and flinch.
He’s burning.
“Jake– Talk to me–”
He gasps, eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment, you see something move behind them.
You push harder, trying to read his thoughts. You try to reach into his mind– but the door is gone. Slammed shut. Locked.
He shut you out.
He grabs the hand on his cheek, clinging to it like an anchor, and for a split second… you feel it.
What he was feeling. The pain. The shredding inside of him. Like fire under skin. Like every nerve was alight and flayed open.
Then, suddenly, it stops.
Jake drops back into the grass, panting like he’d just been dragged through hell.
You open your mouth to speak–
The flames explode back to life.
You yelp, shielding your face as the fire rose higher than before– angry, wild, redder than blood. The pooled mixture beneath it ignited violently, but didn’t consume.
It screamed as it burned.
And then, like nothing had ever happened, it all vanished.
No fire. No blood. No smoke.
Just grass. Untouched. Unbothered. Like the earth had swallowed the ritual whole.
You turn to Jake, crawling to him. “Jake?!” your voice cracks.
His eyes are shut, chest rising and falling fast.
“That fucking hurt,” he mutters, voice hoarse and broken.
You let out a strangled sound, half sob, half laugh, as he pushes himself up. “Are you alright?” He asks, his voice rough.
You shove him, hard. “Am I alright?!” your voice rises, panic uncoiling from your chest. “I thought you were dying!”
He grins weakly. “Don’t be like that…”
But you’re already crying. “I thought you were dying, Jake!”
He pulls you into him, arms wrapping around you tight. “I’m alright, baby.”
You collapse into his hold, your arms locking around him like he might disappear again. “I couldn’t get in,” you whisper. “I couldn’t see– I didn’t know…”
“I know,” he breathes against your hair. “I had to shut the door. I couldn’t let you see it.”
You both stay there, tangled and trembling, as the air cools and the stars wheeled silently above.
Eventually, your crying slowed. His breathing evens out.
You shift to lay against him, cheek pressed to his chest, legs straddling his lap. You feel every beat of his heart.
Finally, the dust settles.
And you were both exhausted.
“How do we know if it worked?” you ask, voice barely audible.
Jake was silent for a moment. “I don’t know.”
You lift your head. “You don’t?”
He looks past you, dazed. “I thought it’d be… different.”
“It isn’t?”
He shakes his head slowly, fingers tracing lazy, shaky patterns against your back.
“Let’s go home,” he whispered.
—
The door clicks shut behind you. Jake doesn’t speak. He walks in like he’s dragging the night in with him. You follow a few steps behind, heart still thudding unevenly, like it hasn’t decided whether you’re safe yet.
The apartment is quiet, dim. The kind of stillness that makes you feel like you’re not alone in it– even though it’s just you two.
You and Jake. Whatever he is now.
He doesn’t take off his boots. Doesn’t toss his jacket over the chair like he always does.
He just stands in the middle of the room, his back to you, fists clenched at his sides.
You speak first. You have to. “Jake…”
He doesn’t turn around.
You take a step toward him, then another, until you're close enough to feel it again– the heat pouring off him like radiation. Too hot.
He finally turns to face you. And the look in his eyes almost knocks the breath out of your lungs.
Not because he looks evil. Not because he looks monstrous.
Because he looks… still. Controlled– too controlled.
The kind of control that feels like a cage someone built inside themselves to keep the teeth in.
“Say something,” you whisper.
Jake’s jaw tightens. He looks down at his hands like they’re unfamiliar to him– bloody, streaked with soot, skin pulled too tight over his knuckles. His voice is low, and wrong in its quietness. “It worked.”
You nod slowly. “I know.”
A long silence.
“Jake,” you say again, carefully, “what did it do to you?”
His eyes flick to yours. “Nothing I didn’t already have in me.”
The words settle like ash in your lungs. He looks at you like he’s daring you to ask more.
You step closer. He doesn’t move. You reach for his hand– your fingers graze his, expecting him to pull away.
He doesn’t.
But his hand doesn’t close around yours, either.
“You’re not the same,” you murmur.
His voice drops lower. “No. I’m not.”
You let the silence fill the space between you again. Your heart races, and he knows it– he feels it, somehow. You know he does.
His eyes narrow, and he says it flat, unapologetic, “I can feel it.”
You blink. “Feel what?”
Jake steps forward– slow, careful, deliberate. The air changes around him, like it’s bending inward. His fingers trail up your wrist, over the bandage on your palm. His touch is gentle. But it burns.
“Everything.” His voice is rough, restrained. “Your pulse. The blood moving under your skin. The way your fear curls in your stomach, even when you try to hide it.”
He’s close now, too close. You tilt your chin up, and he watches the motion like a predator tracking something fragile.
“I’m not afraid of you,” you whisper.
Jake smirks– just barely. “You should be.” It’s not a threat. It’s a confession. “I won’t hurt you,” he adds, softer now, eyes flickering over your face. “But I don’t trust what I’ve become.”
Your breath hitches. “I do.”
His hand slides to the back of your neck– fingertips curling, not hard, but possessive. Holding. Claiming.
“I’m not–” he says, low against your cheek. “–not even pretending. That part of me... burned off out there.”
You press closer, not backing down. “Then let me see what’s left.”
That pulls something raw out of him. A sound, almost a laugh– something bitter and disbelieving. “You don’t want that.”
“I do.”
Jake’s mouth finds the edge of your jaw– slow, rough, open-mouthed. Not soft. He kisses like someone starved, like he’s trying to remember how. His teeth drag lightly against your skin.
You shudder.
“I still want you,” he murmurs. “But I don’t know if I want to have you or keep you.”
You freeze. “Why not both?”
His body goes still against yours. You feel the shudder in him, an almost imperceptible break in his control.
His lips press to your neck, slow, deliberate, like a warning. You feel him smell you– like he’s memorizing the scent of your skin. Your blood. The part of you that’s still fragile.
“I could ruin you,” he whispers.
You breathe, “Then do it.”
He exhales hard, shaky, like he’s trying to shake something off. And then his hands are on your waist, pulling you in until you’re flush against him.
And suddenly, there’s nothing between you and the heat of him. Nothing but your heartbeat and the way his gaze drops to your mouth like he’s considering sin.
“I’m not safe anymore,” he warns.
And you lean in, eyes locked to his. “You never were.”
—
You sit on the edge of the bed, the soft glow of your laptop screen casting long shadows across the room. The silence feels oppressive tonight, thicker than usual. You can still feel Jake’s presence in the apartment– like he’s just behind you, watching, but not saying a word.
The ritual worked. You know that much. But what did it do to him? The Jake you knew before is still here, and yet… he's not.
You can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you last night, like there was something else lurking behind his eyes– something darker, deeper, not quite him. His touch, still electric, but now there’s a coolness to it, a pull you can’t explain. The way he said he didn’t trust what he’d become. You’d never heard him sound so uncertain, so foreign.
You need answers. You need to understand.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard, and you type in a search: “rituals for soul redemption,” then “demonic soul cleansing results,” and “what happens to a demon after redemption.” Nothing useful. A thousand articles on possession, purification, exorcism rituals– but nothing about the kind of ritual you’d done, nothing about the change Jake’s going through.
You feel a knot tighten in your stomach. There’s a sick curiosity that’s been clawing at you ever since the ritual ended, but tonight it’s stronger, heavier. Jake said it worked. But you can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it. Something hidden behind his silence.
You close your eyes for a second, trying to remember the ritual– the words, the blood, the fire. The way it felt when you stood beside him, hands bleeding, hearts beating in sync as the world around you seemed to collapse into black flames. Was it really just for his redemption? Or was there something more you weren’t seeing?
A sound at the door snaps you from your thoughts. Jake. You don’t even have to look up to know it’s him. The air shifts in a way that only he can make it.
You glance over, but he’s standing there, watching you, his eyes unreadable. There’s something in the way he’s looking at you tonight– something that makes your pulse quicken, a tension so thick it’s like you can almost touch it.
"Still awake?" he asks, voice rougher than usual.
You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I was just... reading."
Jake takes a step closer, then another, until he’s standing right in front of you, towering over you. His gaze flicks to the screen, then back to you. There’s no smile tonight, no teasing grin. Just a quiet intensity.
"Found anything useful?" he asks, his voice colder now.
You shake your head slowly, closing the laptop. "No. I– I don't know what’s happening with you, Jake. I don’t understand what that ritual did to you."
Jake doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he just stands there, looking at you with that unreadable expression. Then, his gaze flicks to your bandaged hand, and you feel him tense. "It didn’t change me," he mutters, almost to himself. "I’m still the same."
But you can feel the difference. Something in him is off. He’s pulling away from you, but in a way that feels deliberate, calculated– like he’s keeping himself distant, even though his eyes stay fixed on you.
You stand slowly, feeling the weight of the silence in the room. “Jake... I know you're still you, but... but you're different. I can feel it. You won’t even talk about what happened out there.”
He looks at you sharply, but his voice remains low, controlled. "You think I’m different?" he asks. It’s not a question– it’s a challenge.
"I don’t think. I know," you reply, your voice trembling despite yourself. “You’re still you, Jake, but there’s something... more. Something else inside you now.”
He doesn’t move for a long moment. When he speaks, it's quiet. Dangerous. “I don't know how many times I have to tell you to stop playing with fire.”
chapter warnings: jealousy, Alex, threat of murder, unwelcome demon, sexual tension again, SMUT– masturbation (reader!), pushing up against dressers and other sexy shit, mentions of blood, mentions of sacrifice, lemme know if i missed any!
a/n: only 3 parts to go after this one! woo-hoo! thank yall for the love on this fic, it's been so fun and i appreciate yall so much! <3
TGMS MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST
Your eyes ache.
Your head is pounding, and every time you blink, faint scrawls of letters linger behind your eyelids.
You've been researching again– hours upon hours of chasing down any hint, any whisper of a way to twist the narrative of this cursed contract. One lead left you cold: a passage about sacrificing yourself for the demon. You slammed that book shut fast. You want Jake to be good, but preferably with you still alive to witness it.
You're about to give up, flipping through one last page, when something catches your eye. The Mirror of the Soul.
You pause, frowning. The words are marked through, crossed out, as if someone tried to bury them. Your gaze skims the page. There's a ritual, messy scribbles in the margins, notes claiming it doesn’t work.
And at the very bottom, the same scrawled handwriting, repeating just three words:
Don’t give in.
You snap the book shut and glare at the bookshelf in front of you.
Deep breath in. Hold. Slow exhale.
Don’t give in.
To what?
Your thoughts drift to Jake. Is he torturing souls in Hell right now? Or just lurking, waiting for you to slip?
“Y/n.”
You jolt slightly, looking up to find Alex standing in front of you. Panic flickers through you, but you manage a smile. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, grinning. “Mind if I join you?”
“Sure,” you reply, injecting fake cheer into your voice.
Please don’t let Jake show up.
Alex pulls out the chair across from you, settling in with a warm smile. “How are you?” he asks, leaning forward, elbows on the table.
“Good,” you nod. “How’ve you been?”
“Good.” He pauses, then smirks. “You never texted.”
Right. That.
“Oh– lost the paper,” you lie. “Meant to, but I’ve been a little all over the place lately.” That part, at least, is true.
“Yeah, you seem…” He trails off, eyes scanning your face. “Different. Everything okay?”
No.
“Yeah,” you wave a hand, brushing it off. “Life just keeps throwing crap at me.”
He laughs, bright and easy, his smile too white to be real. Then his gaze drops to the book in front of you. His eyebrows shoot up. “You into demons now?”
You force a laugh. “No, just… hyperfixated.”
He chuckles again, voice softer. “You always were something else.”
You glance away, cheeks warming.
“How cute.”
You freeze. That voice.
You turn your head slowly, careful not to look crazy in front of Alex.
Jake is leaning against a nearby bookshelf, arms crossed, a dangerous smile stretched across his face. You face forward again, like a kid caught sneaking candy. You say nothing.
“Let me in,” Jake says, voice low.
You know exactly what he means.
You pretend to listen to Alex, who’s now talking about work or something equally mundane, but your heart is pounding like a drumbeat in your ears.
“Y/n, if you don’t let me in that pretty little head of yours, I’m going to cause a scene.”
You hesitate.
Then, in your mind, you picture the door– heavy, locked, safe. And you open it.
You don’t feel him slip inside, but you know he’s there, sifting through your thoughts like files in a cabinet.
“So, would you wanna go out sometime?”
You snap back to the moment, eyes wide. No.
“Um,” you fidget, “I–”
“I’ll kill him.” You know Jake means that.
You draw in a sharp breath.
“I’m not really… looking for anything right now,” you say softly, offering an apologetic smile.
Alex takes it well. “Totally fine. We can just hang out, catch up.” He grins, easygoing.
Jake chooses that exact moment to step up to the table, still arms crossed, glaring at Alex with unhidden contempt.
“Yeah,” you nod, nerves flaring as you monitor Jake from the corner of your eye. “Sorry, I just don’t–”
“You don’t owe me an apology,” Alex interrupts, waving it off. “Seriously.”
Jake turns to you with a mocking smile. “Oh, he’s so sweet, isn’t he?”
You ignore him, offering Alex a small smile instead. “I appreciate that.”
Jake scoffs and steps back. You slam the mental door in his face– hard. He pauses mid-step, eyes narrowing.
Alex stands. “I’ve gotta head to work, but it was really good seeing you, Y/n.”
“You too,” you say, a smile still plastered in place.
Jake lingers. Unmoving. That’s never a good sign.
Once Alex is gone and you're sure it’s just you and Jake, you round on him with a glare. “What the fuck was that?”
“You tell me,” he snaps, dragging out the chair Alex vacated and dropping into it like he owns the place. He leans back, infuriatingly casual. “You always were something else,” he mimics Alex’s voice, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Fucking sick.”
“You’re jealous,” you say, smug.
“You’re damn right I am,” he fires back, eyes darkening.
“You shouldn’t be. I don’t feel that way about him, Jake.”
“I know,” he says, coolly. “I saw what you thought about him.”
Your shoulders stiffen. Of course. That’s why he wanted in.
“You bastard.”
“I wanted to know.”
“You could’ve just asked me.”
“Oh sure,” he says, sarcasm thick. “Because we’re so good at being honest with each other.”
“I– I am honest!”
“Are you?” He tilts his head. “Then what’ve you been researching?”
You hesitate, unsure how he'll react. “How to help you.”
The smugness fades from his face. His eyes flick down to the closed book. “You won’t find any help in that,” he says quietly.
“Then where?”
Silence. Then a shrug. “I don’t know if it’s even possible.”
And just like that– he’s gone.
—
The rain has been tapping the window all evening, soft and relentless. You're sitting cross-legged on your bed, wrapped in the quiet hum of your room, the air thick with old candle smoke and the faint scent of old pages. The books scattered across your bedspread are half-open, useless. Every lead has gone nowhere. Every ritual feels more like a warning than a cure. And still no sign of him.
Until now.
The lights dim without flickering. The shadows in the corner of your room twist. You don’t even look up.
“You lasted longer than I expected,” you say quietly.
Jake’s voice, smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous, curls through the air. “Fifty-six hours, twenty-two minutes, and… forty-six seconds.” He’s leaning against your bedroom wall, arms crossed like he’s always belonged here.
You finally glance at him. "You counted?"
His grin is slow and wicked. “Of course I did. Every second you didn’t want me.” He pushes off the wall, his voice dropping, flirtatious now. “Proud of me?”
You scoff. “You make it sound like basic decency is some kind of achievement.”
“It is,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Especially for me.”
Your breath catches slightly– because he’s close now. Too close. The space between you sizzles with something electric and wrong and terrifyingly tempting.
“You're still mad,” you say flatly.
Jake’s smile sharpens. “I’m not mad.”
“You’re jealous.”
He leans down, hands braced on either side of you on the bed, boxing you in. “Jealous doesn't begin to cover it.”
You hold his gaze, but your pulse betrays you.
He continues, voice a near-whisper. “You smiled at him, sweetheart. Like he was the only one in the world.” His tone is dark, possessive– but tinged with something vulnerable beneath. “And you’ve never smiled at me like that.”
You try to breathe steady, but your chest feels too tight. “That’s because I don’t know how to look at you without falling apart.”
That stalls him. Just for a second.
His voice softens, dangerous in a new way. “Then fall apart.”
You exhale shakily. “I’m serious, Jake. It scares the shit out of me.”
His eyes darken, not with anger, but hunger. “Good. It should.”
You blink.
“Because when I want something,” he murmurs, leaning closer until your noses almost touch, “I don’t let go. I won’t let go.” His gaze drops to your lips, then flicks back to your eyes. “Not unless you beg me to.”
Your throat goes dry. “And what if I do?”
He chuckles, low and hot. “Then I’ll make you beg louder.”
You swallow hard, heart threatening to punch through your ribs. “You need to stop.”
“I did.” He straightens, but only a little. “I gave you space. I respected your boundaries. Look at me– being a good little nightmare.”
You glare. “You stalked my thoughts the entire time, didn’t you?”
He smiles like he’s won. “Maybe. But I didn’t say anything. Baby steps.”
You grab the nearest book and toss it at him. He catches it with one hand, effortlessly, and tosses it aside without looking.
“I shut the door–”
“You're not as good at that as you think,” he says.
“What?” Your heart skips a beat. Has he been able to read your thoughts the entire time? “You– When I shut the door, you told me not to do that because you couldn't–”
“I've been doing this demon thing for ages, baby,” he says softly, “You opened the door in that library and I might've– maybe– slipped past it after you shut it. You really should work on that.”
You briefly consider strangling him.
“That could be fun,” he says with a wink.
“Jake–”
“You need to keep working on it,” he says, suddenly serious. “I'm not the only demon that can read your mind. If any of the others find out what you're up to–” He pauses, his jaw tightening, “Work on it.”
You nod, wrapping your arms around yourself protectively, “Where do you go when you're not here?”
He gives you a crooked smile, “Wherever I feel like going.”
You narrow your eyes, “Do you have anybody else?”
He tilts his head at that, “Like a girlfriend?”
You don't answer, feeling suddenly ridiculously childish. Why did you care?
“No,” he says softly, “I don't. It's just you.”
“It isn't just me,” you object, “We're not–” You stop trying to figure out how to word it.
“Not yet,” he says confidently, “But I've been in your head, I know you like me.”
You roll your eyes at that, “I don't like you.”
“You do,” he says, making his way toward your door.
You squint at him as he opens the door, “Grow up. And stay out of my head.”
“Get to fixing that fuckin’ door, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder, wandering off to wreak havoc in your kitchen.
Fuck.
You fall back onto your mattress, staring up at the ceiling. And you get to work, imagining the door in your head.
—
You're alone when he shows up.
The same demon from before, with silver eyes and sleek attire, like he stepped off the runway to come to your little apartment.
You don't move from the couch. You can't. Fear has almost paralyzed your body.
You briefly consider opening the door and screaming out to Jake, but– opening the door will let this demon in, as well.
“Hello again,” he says, a slow smile spreading across his face.
You don't speak.
“Where's Jakey?” He asks, making his way closer to you.
“He– He left for a bit,” you say stupidly.
“Left you all alone, did he?” He says, stopping just in front of you. “How foolish.”
Your heart hammers in your chest, “He'll be back any minute.”
“I know,” he agrees, “Which is why I'm going to make this quick.”
You suck in a sharp breath, “What are you–”
“You have no idea,” he says, wrapping a strand of your hair around his fingers, “How much you're worth.” You lean away from him, but he tilts his head, staring at you, “A soul like yours–” He shakes his head, “–is worth more than you can imagine.”
You don't say a word, but you can feel the bond thrumming beneath your skin, warm and safe, and you mentally grab into it, yanking it hard.
“Sell it to me.”
Your breath catches, “What?”
“I can offer anything you want. You want this bond broken? You want riches, fame?” He grins, as if he knows the next words he speaks will seal the deal, “You want to redeem Jake's soul?”
You finally look at him, your eyebrows pinching in, “You can do that?”
He nods, “I can. I will, all I need is your soul. Just as it is– pure, untouched. And you two can live your happy little lives together.”
“What's the catch?” You ask softly, your mind running over a million different possibilities, “I know there's a fucking catch.”
He chuckles, “There's no catch. I get ownership of your soul, I never have to see Jake in hell again, you two live happily ever after– win-win for everybody.”
You squint, studying him. He's almost as unreadable as Jake. Almost.
And speak of the devil. He appears without a ripple in the atmosphere, his eyes are entirely black, “Get away from her.”
The other demon straightens, turning to Jake with a malicious grin, “Jake,” he says cheerily, “You really should know better than to leave her alone for too long. That's when the wolves start closing in.”
His words play through your head over and over. Redeem Jake's soul.
“I told you to stay away from her,” Jake says, his voice low and dangerously calm.
The silver-eyed demon laughs, “She's irresistible, Jake. That soul of hers…” He shakes his head, “Too much for you to know what to do with.”
You don't have to look at Jake to know he's angry.
“Maybe,” Jake says, a smirk overtaking his face as he shoves his hands in his pockets– casual and collected, “But I'm the one that's bonded to her– I'm the one who owns that…” he pauses to take a satisfied breath, “decadent soul of hers.”
You hate the way they're talking about it– Like you're not right there. Frozen on the couch, your knees pulled up to your chest from where you'd curled in on yourself for a false sense of security.
“I'm the one intertwined with her,” he boasts, “In more ways than you could fathom.”
Your jaw nearly drops. The insinuation– it heats you up despite the fear coursing through you.
The silver-eyed demon chuckles, turning back to you, “Consider the offer.”
And then he's gone.
You sit there in silence, refusing to look at Jake.
He's quiet for just a moment, but that's all he gives, “How did you do that?”
You finally look up at him, “Do what?”
His eyebrows are furrowed together, confusion and intrigue on his face as he makes his way to stand in front of you, “You called to me. Without opening the door.”
Your mouth opens as it hits you. When you'd tugged at the bond, “I just… I pulled on the bond. Like… Like it was a rope or something.”
He looks proud as he looks down at you, “I couldn't get in your head.”
“I was scared he would be able to,” you admit quietly, “If I opened the door.”
He nods, “What'd he say to you?”
“Nothing,” you lie, biting at your bottom lip as you go over the conversation in your head. Redeem Jake's soul.
“Y/n–”
“He made an offer for my soul,” you say quietly, “That was it.”
He doesn't move, he just stares at you.
“Why'd you have to talk about me like that?” You ask, glaring at him, “Like I'm some… piece of meat.”
He looks apologetic, “I'm sorry,” he says, his voice soft, “Demons are… We have a thing for ownership.”
“You don't own me, Jake,” you say weakly.
“I know,” he nods, “But when it comes to the bond and all that– That's how they see it.”
You watch him, “How do you see it?”
He gives you a smile, “Intertwined.” You frown, but he continues, “Like I'm supposed to be with you every second of the day or I feel like I'm drowning.”
You look away, pushing down the part of you that wants to melt at that, “Is that you or the bond?”
He huffs a laugh, taking a step back as he turns, “It's me.”
You look up to watch him walk away, biting down at your bottom lip as you ponder it.
You sigh, closing your eyes. With a deep breath, you push yourself up to your feet, following behind him.
“I don't know what that means,” you say when you find him in the kitchen, raiding your cabinets.
He hums, looking in front of him, pretending to still look at the food, “I feel like it's pretty straight forward.”
“I don't know if it's the bond or if it's real,” you say softly. You're not talking about his feelings.
He slowly closes the cabinet door, his hand falling to his side. He turns to you, his face blank. You can only hold his eyes for a moment before you look away, crossing your arms as you press your back against the wall.
You can feel yourself crumbling as he approaches you, slowly, that naturally predatory energy about him.
He puts his hand at your jaw, angling your face up to his, “Doesn't it get tiring thinking so much?”
Your eyes narrow slightly, hating that he was right. It does.
“Stop fighting it,” he whispers, “Whatever you feel, feel it.”
“It's easy for you to say,” your voice comes out shaky.
“No, it's not,” he admits. “I don't– Demons don't feel.”
You frown at that, “You've been feeling pretty… lusty since I've met you.”
He grins, “That's natural. Part of the package. But… feelings? Wanting you so bad it almost fucking hurts?” He shakes his head, “Nope.”
You know he isn't talking about the physical aspect of it. Well, not only the physical aspect. But you deflect, as you usually do, “You got a hand that can help out with that,” you say.
He hums, “So do you.”
And the smile is wiped off your face. The thought of your hand around him almost makes you drop to your knees– “Gross.”
His lips turn up into that familiar smirk, “Yeah,” he says, his nose brushing against yours as he leans in closer, “So gross.”
Your lips part, though whether it's to breathe or kiss him, you don't know.
His smirk widens, a knowing glint in his eyes, before he steps back, “What's for dinner?”
—
You needed a bath.
Bubbles floating around you, the water just hot enough to turn your skin red, a few candles placed around for the scent and the ambience.
Jake was offended when you told him he wasn't allowed to join you. So he was sulking somewhere in the house, probably your bed– he tended to stretch out there when you weren't in it, tempting you.
You can't stop thinking about him.
His lips, the way he looks at you, the way his eyes darken when he's thinking something particularly nasty.
You think of his hands, how they'd feel against your bare skin, calloused and warm and possessive.
You're a bit annoyed, too.
He hasn't given you a single moment for you to… relieve the tension.
You're sure he's gotten his rocks off, but you've been too hesitant– scared he might show up when things get good.
You chew at your bottom lip, considering getting off right here in the bathtub. And he would be none the wiser.
The ache is what ultimately wins out.
You let your thighs fall open, and you're not teasing about it. You don't have time to take time for it as you usually would, teasing yourself, building it up just right.
Your hand just barely ghosts over your clit when an idea pops into your head. You pull your hand away, your thighs shutting once more.
You shut your eyes, picturing that damned door. Solid, heavy… And you open it.
Let me in that bathroom.
You almost giggle– he was immediate, as if he was waiting or hoping you'd open that door.
You're dirty, he teases. I know what you're doing.
What am I doing?
You've kept your hands off of yourself since you opened the door, but he's reading every thought you've had since the last time you let him in your head.
Eager little thing, aren't you? He asks, a teasing tilt to his voice, Touch yourself, Y/n.
You hesitate, your heart pounding hard in your chest.
Now.
You open your legs back up, your fingers slipping between them once again. You nearly let out a loud moan when you rub over your aching clit. You bite your lip, slowly working your fingers over yourself.
Keep going slow.
You huff at that, annoyance immediately taking over.
None of that, he says, his tone warning, just behave and do as I told you.
Fine, you reply, not without attitude. He hums a laugh in your head, though it doesn't sound amused.
You keep going slow, trying to keep your mind away from him, embarrassed knowing that he knows it was him that had you this way.
Nothing to be ashamed of, he says, his voice low. You have no idea how many times I've gotten off to you.
Pervert, you reply, ignoring the heat burning through you at the thought of that.
And you like that thought, don't think I can't see that.
You mentally roll your eyes, Shut up.
Keep it up with the attitude– that bathroom door isn't as strong as you think it is.
You let out a quiet noise, wishing it was his hands on you.
Poor thing.
Jake–
Faster.
You listen to him, your fingers rubbing tight circles over yourself, hating how close you were already. Your thighs are tensing, your entire body is shaking, and you don't bother telling him you're close– he knows.
Come on, baby. Let it happen.
In a move that you're rather proud of, right as I'm your orgasm hits you, you slam the door shut in your head, effectively locking him out once again.
Your entire body jerks as you work yourself through it, the bubbly water sloshing around you. You freely think of him now, the things he would say to you, how he would work you through it to the point of tears–
And he hasn't come back into your head by the time you've finished. If he has, he hasn't said a single word.
Your chest heaves as you come down, expecting Jake to bust through the door at any moment.
You let yourself recover before you get out of the tub, still expecting him as you dry off.
You left your clothes in your room. You hate your luck. You think back to the night you first used the bond, when you had him bring you a towel. You wouldn't have such luck now asking him to bring your clothes– not after the stunt you just pulled.
Your fingers tighten around the doorknob, hoping you still have some luck as you open the door, clutching your towel tightly to you.
You peek out, not seeing him in the room. Did he get mad and leave? You make your way to your dresser to get dressed as quickly as you can.
You don't even get a drawer open when you feel him behind you. You gasp when you feel his hands at your hips, pressing you against the front of the dresser, and his chest is against your back.
He's as solid as the furniture in front of you, unyielding as his lips ghost over the shell of your ear, “That wasn't very nice.”
You try to turn your head to look at him, but he doesn't let you, he's too close and not moving.
“I couldn't get back in,” he murmurs, his hand trailing up along the towel, barely touching you until his fingers are resting around your throat, just holding you there.
“Really?” You say, though it's breathy, “I've been working on that,” you try to sound casual, but you know you're barely holding it together.
“I know you have,” he says, his lips barely pressing into the skin below your ear, “I'm almost proud of you.”
You frown, though you know he can't see it, “Almost?”
“Did it feel good?” He asks, pressing you tighter between him and the dresser.
“Yes,” you answer on a sigh.
“Good,” he gives your throat a light squeeze, “But keep in mind– I can make you feel so much better, sweetheart.”
And with that, he lets you go. You nearly fall to the ground, your legs are weak. You turn to glare at him, but he's gone.
You take a deep breath, before grinning to yourself. You count it as a win in your book, although you don't really know if you won or not.
—
“I've been looking into some things. About… how to redeem my soul or whatever.”
You aren't expecting it. Especially not in the dead of the night when you had wandered into your kitchen to grab a glass of water. You stare at him, bleary eyed and rumpled, a sleepy frown on your face. He's sitting at your table, looking as alert as ever, not a hair out of place.
“Do you sleep?” You ask, scratching at your lower stomach.
“Sometimes,” he responds, “Not as much as I should.”
You nod, turning to your cabinet to grab a glass, “What have you found out?”
He's quiet for a moment, “There's ways to do it.”
You fill your glass with water, thinking over his words, “I couldn't find anything in the books.”
“I told you that you wouldn't,” he says softly.
“Yeah, because you were being a dick,” you grumble, making your way to the table.
He watches you with a half smirk as you sit, too soft for you to think about right now. “I was still right.”
You glare at him, running a hand through your tangled hair, hoping to smooth some of it out, “What ways?”
“Well,” he begins, leaning back in his chair, “Some are… not so ideal. Involves sacrifice and blood. Lots of it.”
You scoff, “Yeah, I found that one too.”
“Some involve that fairytale bullshit– y'know, true love and all that shit.”
You stay quiet at that one.
“There's one– it might work.”
“What is it?”
He pauses, his fingers tapping at the table, “I don't think I'd be okay with doing it.”
You blink, staring hard at him, “What is it, Jake?”
“I'd have to… free all the souls I've collected over the years,” he says quietly, “Release them from the deals. But I'd have to keep one.”
“A random one or–” you cut yourself off when he looks up at you.
Yours.
You're aren't… not okay with it.
You both already have each other's– intertwined, a fight against good and evil warring as you speak.
“Mine.”
He nods, “I won't do that.”
“What happens to it?”
“I don't know,” he says above a whisper. “I don't know if it'd be mine or if it'd be hell's.”
“How many souls have you gotten?” You ask.
He sighs heavily, “I don't know.”
“Don't you already have mine?”
“No,” he says, “We– they're together, just still our own.”
“So,” you huff a laugh, “Countless souls in return for one.”
“It's considered a sacrifice,” he says, “I won't do that to you. We'll just have to keep looking for another way.”
“But Jake, what if this works?”
“I'm not fucking doing it,” he says firmly. “I'd rather rot in hell for the rest of eternity than chance you being stuck there while I'm not– No, we're not doing that.”
You clench your jaw, “But if my soul is pure like they said, then–”
“Then it's something they'd love to get their hands on. You don't understand the depths of the fucking torture you would go through, Y/n. It's a hard no.”
Your shoulders sink, “We have to find a way, Jake.”
He softens, his hand finding yours on the table, “We will. It just isn't… that.”
Description: It’s been years since everything fell apart, but somehow Jake Kiszka still lingers like a song you can’t turn off.
18+ MINORS DNI
Paring: Danny x f!reader
Word count: ~18,600
Warnings: smut, sexual content, angst, self-reflection, unresolved feelings, language, unhealthy coping mechanisms, manipulative sexual behavior, and fighting.
Sorry if I missed anything!
A/N: You guys asked for Sawdust & Honey not to be just a one shot. So here is a continuation of it. 😅
Days bled into weeks.
Weeks bled into months.
Months bled into years.
Nothing.
Nothing but a single letter and a promise that tasted like glass.
You had nothing. Yet everything about him kept you awake: the way he laughed without looking at you, how his hand fit so easily in yours, the small private vows he’d whispered like they were ordinary things. Those memories became accusations. You twisted them over and over until they convinced you of a truth you didn’t want: maybe you weren’t enough.
Maybe Theo was right. Maybe you were impossible to love.
Maybe Cal had been kinder than cruel. Teaching you a lesson, carving it into you so you’d never ask for the same thing twice. It was a thought that made your chest ache in a new, precise way.
Jake had been different. He had been light and danger and home all at once. He was different until he wasn’t. No calls. No answered letters. No knock at the door. Time stretched in the hollow he left; there were more days since he’d gone than the days you’d ever had with him. Those handful of months felt stolen, like pages ripped from a book you’d never finish reading. Something vital had been torn out of you and carried away.
Loneliness ate at you until you rarely crossed your own threshold. The house, once just walls, became a map of absence. His razor in the sink, the faint crease on the pillow where his head had been, the smell of him everywhere. You tried to fill the outline of him with other people. That search for comfort made a casualty of poor Danny.
You swore no other man would cross into your sanctuary. You meant it. Even when you and Danny fell into each other, raw and immediate and useless, he was never allowed to stay. Nights with him were performed on borrowed territory: in the office, on work couches, in the dim glow of his apartment where you folded yourself small and careful. He never pushed. Maybe he told himself it was because you were his boss. Maybe he believed the half truth you gave him. The real reason was simpler and crueller: you could not stand the thought of another man sleeping where Jake once had.
You felt pathetic. Worthless. Hollow in the places that used to be steady.
Danny was balm for a bleeding place, and for a while that was enough. Then the bandage slipped. What had been comfort turned thin and sharp, and you were left with the ache of both loss and the knowledge that you’d used kindness to numb a grief that would not be soothed.
“Honey, I’m home!”
Danny’s voice rang out from the front door, cheerful and theatrical as it always was. The sound made you wince. That word, honey, used to be harmless, sweet even. But now it burned.
Because it wasn’t Danny’s voice that echoed in your mind when you heard it. It was Jake’s.
You could still feel it, as vividly as if it were happening again, the first time he’d said it.
“Not yet, honey,” he’d murmured, voice low and rough, breath hot against your mouth. “I want to feel you come all over my cock.”
Then he’d pushed into you right there, in this kitchen. This exact kitchen. The counter you were leaning on now had been digging into your thighs that night, his hands gripping your hips so hard you’d felt the bruises for days.
And now, standing here again, the ghost of that moment clung to you. In the air, in the walls, and in the word Danny kept saying without knowing how it gutted you.
“Haha, very funny,” you muttered dryly, nudging the dishwasher shut with your hip. The rattle of dishes was louder than you intended, like your frustration had echoed in the clatter.
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile, and prayed he couldn’t see the memory flickering behind your eyes.
Danny walked in, balancing takeout bags, his grin wide and unbothered. That smile of his was disarming, it cracked into your mood like sunlight through blinds you’d tried to keep closed.
“Why are you in such a good mood?” you asked, forcing your lips to twitch into something like a smile. It came out sharper than you meant, edged with the bitterness you tried to swallow.
“I’m going to hang with Josh again tonight. Jam a little.”
You nodded, but the sound of Josh’s name always turned your stomach, sour and heavy. “You sure have been hanging out with Josh a lot.”
You stared at that spot for a moment too long. The same counter where once, breathless and reckless, another voice had called you honey. You could almost feel it again, the warmth of a body too close, the ghost of a touch that had no right to linger.
And then it was gone. Just Danny, smiling at you over takeout containers, the air thick with the scent of sesame and something sweet. You blinked, forcing the memory back into the dark corner it crawled out of, and reached for chopsticks like nothing had happened.
“Yeah,” Danny shrugged, still pulling cartons from the bag like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. “He’s fun to be around. I like playing music with him and…” His voice faded, leaving words unspoken in the air between you. The silence sat wrong, made your chest feel tight. “…it’s nice having a guy friend who doesn’t judge my line of work.”
You tried to laugh, tried to lighten the weight building in the room. “Should I be worried?”
“Of Josh?” Danny blinked at you, caught off guard. Then his grin came quick, mischievous. “Probably.”
The unexpected answer made you laugh in spite of yourself. You swatted at him, your hand grazing his arm. “I would understand. He’s a charmer just like…” The sentence died in your throat. You couldn’t finish it. You hadn’t spoken Jake’s name out loud in over a year, it felt fossilized on your tongue, too sharp to touch.
“You know who’s charming?” Danny’s voice pulled you back, tethered you before the spiral could swallow you whole.
“Hmm?” you asked, your thoughts dissolving as he leaned close, pressing his lips to your jaw. His mouth traced a path downward, soft heat turning into a trail of damp kisses along your neck.
“You,” he whispered, the word hot against your skin before his teeth caught lightly at your ear. A shiver raced through you, unbidden, unraveling your defenses.
He always did this. Slipping in when the shadow of Jake threatened to rise, distracting you, silencing you. Sometimes you thought it was jealousy, a quiet war he waged against the ghost of someone who wasn’t even there. But tonight, he didn’t feel jealous. Tonight, he just felt hungry. Eager.
And that eagerness pulled at something deep in you, something desperate to be filled. Hunger twisted into heat, and suddenly dinner was the last thing on your mind.
Danny had already started slipping away long before you admitted it to yourself. He was there in fragments only. A rushed dinner when it was convenient, a quick activity here and there, a stolen hour in your office when lust outweighed caution, but the rest of him belonged elsewhere. To Josh. To the music. To anywhere that wasn’t you.
It gnawed at you, but not in the way it should have. By then, numbness had already carved its home in you. It didn’t exactly hurt, it just hollowed you out further. You told yourself you’d just need to fill the time, drown your mind in something else. Work became your refuge, your punishment, your distraction. Della and Zoe exchanged glances when they thought you weren’t looking, their eyes full of questions they never asked. You pretended everything was fine, kept your mask tight while inside you felt like a woman unraveling.
After Jake left, you’d hired someone to replace him. A month later, he quit. Then another came. And another. And another after that. A carousel of strangers passing through, faceless bodies you convinced yourself could patch the hole Jake had left in your business, in your life. But it never worked. Every resignation, every no call, no show, every last paycheck mailed off to an empty address… it all just reminded you that some things cannot be replaced. Some absences never stop echoing.
And then one night, Danny joined the list of ghosts. No call. No show. At first, you told yourself he was busy. Distracted. Forgetful. By the time your fifth call rang unanswered, panic had begun to curl sharp in your chest.
“Hey, it’s Danny. Leave me a message!” His voicemail voice was painfully cheerful, recorded in a time that felt a lifetime away.
You swallowed, your voice trembling in a way you barely recognized. “Hey. I’m not calling as your boss, I’m calling as your… concerned girlfriend. Please call me or text me letting me know you’re okay. Please?”
That last word cracked. Fragile. Begging. It didn’t sound like you. It sounded like someone broken, someone desperate. Hearing yourself like that filled you with shame and anger all at once. Angry that you were here again, pacing the same tired circle, and worrying over a man who didn’t seem to care enough to keep you in the loop. Angry that you had let it get this far.
What stung most was the realization that, without meaning to, you’d just called yourself Danny’s girlfriend. Words you had never dared to say aloud to him, never dared to define beyond sweat and touch, had slipped out in your weakest moment. And the silence that followed, the hollow ring of a call unreturned, made those words feel less like a truth and more like a cruel joke.
You dragged yourself back to work the next day, stomach sick and sour with worry that had calcified into anger. The club smelled of stale beer and perfume from the night’s crowd, but it was all a blur. Your body moved on autopilot, clearing glasses, forcing smiles, pretending you hadn’t spent the night pacing holes in your floor. Every time your phone buzzed, your heart leapt, only to crash when it wasn’t him.
By last call, your nerves were raw, every laugh and shout from the crowd scraping against you. You rounded the corner, ready to retreat into the routine of closing, when you froze.
Danny was standing there.
Leaning against the wall like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t disappeared for over twenty four hours that stretched into a lifetime. Zoe was already in his face, her hands on her hips, scolding him like a reckless teenager. Her voice was sharp, full of the concern you hadn’t let yourself voice out loud.
But none of it mattered.
He was fine. He was there. Alive. Breathing.
The air left your lungs in a rush, and before you could think, your heels were striking the floor in rapid clacks, echoing your earlier dance steps but with none of the joy. You flew at him, flinging yourself forward, your body colliding with his. Your legs wrapped around his waist, arms clutching his face as if sheer force could fuse you back together.
You covered his skin with frantic kisses. His forehead, his cheeks, his mouth, and anywhere your lips could reach. The relief was overwhelming, drowning you until it turned sharp. The tide shifted in an instant.
You pulled back, breathless and shaking, your hands still gripping his face. His own hands locked around your thighs, refusing to let you slide down, trapping you there in the mess of it.
“Where were you?” The words came out ragged, raw. “What were you doing? Why the hell couldn’t you call me?”
Silence stretched for a beat before a voice answered from behind him.
“He was with me.”
Josh. His tone was calm, almost apologetic, but it sliced through you like a blade.
Your stomach dropped, twisting into fresh nausea.
“He couldn’t have his phone on,” Josh added gently.
And then, another voice. A different one, smooth but steady, carrying an authority that made you bristle.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “It’s a rule of mine.”
Your eyes snapped to him, narrowing as you studied his face under the club’s fading light. Something clicked in your chest, a piece of recognition you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
Forcing Danny to finally set you back on your feet, you took a step toward the stranger, your voice low but sure.
“You’re Sam.”
“Leave me alone, Danny!” you shouted through the locked front door, voice raw and brittle.
“I’m not going anywhere!” he called back, louder. “You might as well let me in.”
“No. Leave.” The word came out strangled. You pressed your back to the wood, palms flat, as if brute force could hold the world at bay. Tears burned behind your eyes; you were trying so hard to find an ounce of control.
He softened. “I told you I wasn’t leaving,” he said, the fierceness in his voice slipping into something quieter. “Even at the beginning of this… this relationship, situation, whatever… I told you I wouldn’t leave. Whether I’m just a hook up or your best friend, I won’t leave you like…” His voice stuttered and the sentence died.
That was the last straw. You unlocked the deadbolt and yanked the door open so hard the knob slammed into the drywall. You heard the thud, the small, useless sound of damage. The sight of him on your porch made your knees go slick.
“Say his name.” Your voice was a jagged thing, louder than you meant. Danny flinched, like you’d struck him. “Say his fucking name, Danny! Don’t act like you haven’t been lying to me this whole time, hanging out with him.”
“Now wait a damn minute.” He pushed past you, storming into the house as if the threshold could contain his frustration. “I never lied to you.”
“Did you tell me the whole truth?” You turned on him, blood hot in your face. Your pulse hammered at your temple; your hands trembled.
“Well… no.” His answer was softer, smaller than you expected.
“So there you go. You fucking lied to me.” You gestured with both hands, all the loose grief and fury spilling out. “You’re in a goddamn band with him. You’re releasing an album. Going on tour in a few months? Quitting your job to chase… what? Hopes and dreams?”
“Come on now.” He stepped closer, pleading.
You raised a hand like a shield. “No. What the actual fuck? What is happening? Why are you doing this? Why do you want to leave? Why do you feel the need to get away from me?”
His face crumpled. For the first time in the argument, something like fear crossed his features. “Hey,” he said, voice small, and reached out. You let him touch your arm. He smelled like cigarettes and spiced cologne and felt like loneliness that came in the middle of the night.
“That’s not it at all. You know what I said.”
“People say a lot of shit,” you snapped.
“But I mean every word.” He swallowed hard. “I may physically leave sometimes, but I am not leaving you.”
“Then why are you doing this?” The sob tore free before you could stop it, raw and animal in your throat.
“To better myself. To have a future I’m proud of.” He pulled at your sleeve and guided you to the couch. You followed, tired and small, and leaned into his shoulder though you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “I can pay you more,” you blurted, ridiculous and defensive.
“It’s not about that. I get paid well. You know that.” He took your hand and held it like a lifeline. “I’m really good at this. It’s something I think I can be great at… something I can be proud of. I need you to understand it’s not about you. It’s about me and my insecurities. This band… it’s given me a sense of purpose. It’s made me see things differently.”
“You should have told me from the beginning,” you said, words thin with hurt. “You waited until the album was about to come out. You told me in the worst way possible.”
“I know.” He closed his eyes, shame passing like a shadow. “I should’ve done it better. I couldn’t get away from the studio this time. And… I knew if you knew Jake was here and in on this the whole time you… you wouldn’t—” He stopped, unable to say the rest.
“I wouldn’t what?” Your voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. Your stomach turned to ice.
“You wouldn’t give us a chance.” He finally met your gaze. There was honesty there that hurt more than any lie.
“I was the first male dancer you hired,” Danny said, fingers feeling at the hem of your sleeve. “You brought me in. I’ve always liked you. I just wanted you to like me back.”
“I do.” You tasted the truth on your own tongue.
“Not the way you love Jake.” His voice was gentle and terrible.
Love. Not loved. But love. He knew.
You tried to fashion a reassurance, some thread to stitch this back together, but no words felt adequate. “Please…” The plea fell out of you, thin and familiar. The same fragility you heard in your own voicemail a day ago. “Give me time.”
“I am.” His hand moved to your knee; you nodded and reached for it like a believer reaching for the altar.
“I know,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I know. Thank you.” You put your palm to the side of his face, fingers tracing the slope of his jaw, and kissed him. Once, twice, like a benediction. “Thank you, thank you,” you murmured into his mouth. “You’re more than I deserve.”
“That’s not true.” He smiled, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes at first. “You deserve so much more, and I’m trying my hardest to be what you need and deserve.” Your lip trembled on hearing it, an ache that unlatched the dam, and before you could stop yourself your mouth was on his again. Tender, worshipful, the way someone prays when they’re not sure whom they’re praying to.
When you pulled away there was no neat resolution, only the two of you breathing in the hollow between apology and promise. It felt fragile as glass and just as likely to shatter.
You both sat in that soft silence for a beat too long before smile tugging at Danny’s mouth.
“So… this is official now?” he asked, tone light but searching.
You blinked, confused. “What are you talking about?”
He raised an eyebrow. “The voicemail you left me. You called yourself my girlfriend. Was that just to get me to call you back, or did you mean it?”
You froze, replaying that memory of the other night. Your voice thick with worry, saying the word like it might make something happen. Girlfriend. It hung in your chest now like a dare.
What could it hurt? Danny had been there for you in the best way he knew how. No, he wasn’t perfect, but neither were you. Maybe that’s what made this feel almost safe. Maybe it was time to stop running from something that wanted to stay.
“Yes,” you said softly. “I meant it. If you’ll be my boyfriend.”
His whole face broke open in a grin, relief and joy bleeding together. “Then yeah,” he said, scooting closer until his forehead rested against yours. “I’d like that.”
And just like that, a single word, small and ordinary, tilted the ground beneath you. You weren’t sure if it was steadying you or swallowing you whole.
“Will you let me see?” Danny’s voice carried from the hotel room, light but insistent.
You smoothed the fabric of your dress one last time with trembling hands, staring at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. The dress wasn’t too much, but it also wasn’t you. At least, not the you who owned a strip club, who loved to show off her skin with dance moves, but still hid behind work and responsibility. This was a version of yourself you weren’t sure you deserved to be.
Finally, with a nervous breath, you turned the knob and stepped out.
Danny was waiting on the edge of the bed, his foot bouncing in restless rhythm until his eyes lifted to you. His mouth fell open slightly, and then his whole face lit up.
“God,” he said, springing to his feet. “You’re beautiful.” His voice was so full, so earnest, that heat crept into your cheeks before you could stop it.
“Do you think it’s right?” you asked, twisting your fingers together in front of you. “I’ve… I’ve never done anything like this before.”
He laughed gently, shaking his head as though the idea of you doubting yourself was absurd. “Neither have I,” he teased, brushing his jacket with exaggerated pride.
That made you smile despite yourself. You reached up, catching hold of his lapels, your palms running down the smooth fabric as if to anchor yourself in him. “You look mind blowingly handsome,” you whispered, before rising on your toes to press your mouth to his.
The kiss deepened fast, his hands sliding instinctively to your waist, pulling you closer until you were stumbling backward. Your knees hit the edge of the bed, sending a little shock through you, and you pulled back suddenly, panting. “No… we can’t. I don’t want to have to get ready all over again.”
Danny chuckled, his grin crooked, boyish. “My parents won’t mind waiting a little longer.”
Your stomach dropped, the words hitting you square. His parents. Tonight. You were meeting his parents tonight.
Your body went stiff, the nerves slamming back into you. He noticed instantly. The way your eyes darted away, the way your shoulders rose like shields. His teasing softened, his smile gentled. He cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.
“Hey,” he murmured, steady and sure. “They’re going to love you. Just like I do.”
The words landed heavy, like a stone thrown into still water. Love. He said love. Your breath caught in your chest. Was that it? Was that him admitting it… out loud?
You froze, cemented to the spot, staring up at him as if the whole world had shifted beneath your feet. And maybe, just maybe, it had.
Danny laced his fingers through yours, giving a tug as if to pull you out of your thoughts. “Let’s go,” he said softly, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
The two of you stepped into the hallway, and you were surprised when he led you straight to a waiting car. It all felt strangely formal. Like something out of a movie. Just for a group of boys in a new band you’d only recently learned about.
The car hummed along the lit up streets, and without warning the memory slid in, unspooling so vividly it was as if you were back at the corner table of the little coffee shop you and Danny always claimed as your own. The smell of espresso, the scratch of ceramic cups against saucers, Danny leaning back in his chair with that casual shrug that meant he was about to say something bigger than it sounded.
“Jake leaving wasn’t the end,” he’d said, almost offhand, stirring sugar into his coffee like it was nothing. “If anything, it was the start. He and Sam… they found their way back to each other. Not just as brothers. As something more.” His eyes had softened then, thoughtful. “They took that boyhood dream of having a band and made it into something real. Something they could fight for.”
You could still see the half grin tugging at his mouth as he told you how they scraped together money for studio time, pressed EPs, even got them out online. And before the songs had time to settle, they were already working on a full album. Two years of restless, relentless building.
It had been in that booth, coffee cooling between your hands, that the puzzle pieces fell into place. The odd hours, the sudden disappearances, the vague answers whenever you asked where he was going. He hadn’t been pulling away from you. He’d been chasing this.
“And Josh?” you’d asked, half-curious, half-wary.
Danny’s laugh had lit up the shop, quick and boyish. His hand had brushed yours across the table. “Josh sings, and was playing the drums for the recordings. But he found out I could play. That was that. They needed a drummer, and apparently I’m their Ringo Starr.” The grin he gave you had been equal parts mischief and pride.
Even now, as the car rolled toward the venue, you could feel your smile tugging at the memory. If Danny played anything like he danced, you’d always known he was meant for the rhythm section.
The thought sat heavy in your chest, mingling with relief and confusion. Danny hadn’t vanished into nothing, hadn’t been careless with you. He’d been carving out something bigger than either of you could have imagined. And maybe now, sitting in the backseat of a car headed toward a night you weren’t sure you were ready for, you understood why he’d been gone.
The car slowed to a crawl, headlights from other vehicles flashing across your lap before finally pulling to a stop in front of the venue. A crowd had already gathered outside, laughter and the low hum of conversation spilling into the night. When the door opened, it hit you all at once, bright lights, music spilling through the entry, the thrum of energy that only came with a night like this.
You stepped out carefully, heels clicking against the pavement, and the air seemed to vibrate around you. Inside, the album release party was a full on celebration. Tables lined with drinks, people pressed together in conversation, industry folks mingling with family and friends. It should have felt exciting, and maybe part of you wanted it to. But the truth was, it was overwhelming. The sheer number of people, the noise, the constant pull of attention, your chest tightened as if the room itself was closing in.
Danny’s hand brushed yours, steadying. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, leaning down just enough for only you to hear. He always had this way of anchoring you, even when everything else spun out. Still, even with his warmth beside you, a small voice in the back of your mind kept whispering. You pushed it down. Tonight wasn’t the night for sour moods.
Especially not when you spotted Dan and Lori Wagner heading straight for you with the kind of energy that brooked no escape. Danny’s parents were warm, eager, and impossibly proud, pulling you into their orbit before you could so much as exhale. You plastered on your best smile, the good girlfriend act, and tried to keep pace as they launched into questions.
How did you and Danny meet?
You told the sanitized version, fumbling over the edges of the truth. He’d been your employee. A chance connection. You left out the strip club details, the neon lights, the thrum of bass, the world you’d built there, because this wasn’t the place. Still, it clung to you, because that was your life. And for a while, it had been his too. That’s how it happened. A college kid desperate to keep debt from swallowing him whole, and you with an opening for someone who had rhythm to spare.
Somehow, that messy beginning had led you here.
By the time you all found seats, your cheeks hurt from smiling. You exhaled only when Josh and Sam appeared, the brothers weaving through the crowd with the confidence of hosts. You greeted Josh warmly, his energy familiar, but when Sam extended his hand, nerves prickled up your spine. You shook it, your smile a little too polite, your eyes darting past them almost instinctively… searching for him.
Jake.
You didn’t see him.
You heard him.
His voice carried across the room from the makeshift stage, smooth and sure. There he was, standing beneath the lights, giving a speech. Thanking everyone who had poured themselves into the album. Thanking those who stood by when they’d worked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, chasing something that finally looked real.
And he looked different.
No longer a shadow of himself, no longer worn thin. His hair caught the light, glossier than you remembered. The dark circles that once clung to his eyes were gone. His smile was brighter, effortless and it hit you like a punch. He radiated happiness, and it was too much. Too sharp. Too blinding. Jake finally left the stage, and you couldn’t take it anymore.
Leaning into Danny, you whispered, “I need to run to the restroom.”
You pressed a quick kiss to his lips before he could ask questions, and then you were gone and slipping out of your chair, weaving through the crush of people, your pulse racing faster than your heels could carry you.
The hallway was dimmer, quieter, the muffled throb of music and chatter dulled by the heavy door you’d slipped through. You exhaled, shoulders dropping as you made your way toward the restroom, heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your heartbeat. You just needed a moment. Just one moment away from it all.
Then you froze.
Halfway down the hall, leaning casually against the wall, was Jake. He wasn’t alone. Some girl with perfect hair was angled toward him, laughing at something he’d just said. But Jake wasn’t laughing. His smile faltered mid-curve, eyes fixed past her shoulder… on you.
Your name slipped from his lips, quiet, almost reverent. A whisper, but it carried like a thunderclap.
The way he said it, like you were a ghost. Like he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to.
Your chest tightened, the air knocked clean out of you. Because it felt the same for you. Like seeing him wasn’t real. Like the version of him on that stage and the man in front of you couldn’t possibly be the same person.
The girl followed his gaze, confusion flickering across her face before she glanced back at him, but Jake didn’t look away. His eyes were locked on yours, wide and searching, as if the floor had just opened beneath him.
You couldn’t do it.
Your hands shook as you turned sharply, pushing through the bathroom door with more force than you meant to, the echo slamming into your ears. You braced against the sink, breath ragged, trying to collect yourself. But all you could hear was the ghost of your name in his voice, and it unraveled you.
You gripped the porcelain sink like it might steady the storm rolling through you. The mirror didn’t lie, your face was pale, eyes wide and glassy, lipstick smudged from where you’d nervously bitten your lip. You didn’t even recognize yourself.
The door creaked open behind you.
“Y/N.”
Your name again. Softer this time, careful, like it might shatter you if spoken too loudly.
You squeezed your eyes shut. You’d know that voice anywhere. You’d tried to forget it, scrub it out with Danny’s laughter, with work, with anything that would dull the memory. But nothing had ever really touched it. And now it was here, pressing against your spine.
“Please don’t,” you whispered, your voice breaking. You hoped he’d take the hint, turn around, leave you to collect yourself in peace.
But he didn’t.
Instead, the sound of boots on tile filled the space between you. A hesitant step, then another. You watched his reflection draw closer in the mirror until he was just behind you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him, but not close enough to touch.
“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he said, his voice low, strained. “I didn’t… God, I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.”
You turned, finally forcing yourself to face him. Your back catching the edge of the sink. For a moment, your mind stuttered, caught somewhere between memory and reality. He looked the same, but not. There was something steadier in him now, something that made your chest ache. He looked… healthy. Alive. Like a man who’d figured out how to move on.
And it destroyed you.
Your back pressed harder against the sink as though it might hold you up. Jake was closer now, but he still hadn’t touched you. His presence alone felt like too much, like the walls were closing in.
“I’m here for Danny,” you managed, though your throat was tight, each word feeling scraped raw on the way out.
Jake blinked at you, like the name itself caught him off guard. His lips parted, but nothing came right away. He just stood there, studying you, his chest rising and falling like he was searching for air.
“I know,” he finally said. His voice was low, even, but it carried that familiar weight. The kind that used to pull confessions from your lips in the dark. “I saw.”
The way his eyes lingered on your dress made you suddenly hyperaware of every inch of yourself, from the way your hands gripped the edge of the counter to the nervous tremor in your legs. You glanced down, desperate for anything to break the stare.
“You shouldn’t even be in here,” you muttered, your voice sharper than you intended as you tried to brush past him. But Jake shifted, broad shoulders angling just enough to block the door without laying a hand on you.
“You’re right,” he said, voice rough, steady. “But I couldn’t just… let you walk away.”
Your heart lurched at the weight of his words, but you clenched your jaw, forcing the ache back down where it belonged.
“Well,” you whispered, then looked him square in the eye, letting the sting burn as it left your mouth. “I sure as shit can let you walk away.”
Before he could answer. Before he could reach, or explain, or drag old wounds wide open, you shoved past him, your shoulder brushing his as you forced yourself through the doorway. The hallway lights felt too bright, the noise of the party rushing back in, drowning out the ghost of his voice as you walked away without looking back.
By the time you slipped back into the main room, Danny was already scanning the crowd, a soft smile lifting his face when he saw you. He didn’t say anything, just extended his hand, and the gesture alone pulled you back into the rhythm of the night. You let the tension in your shoulders loosen as you slid your hand into his, leaning into the easy warmth of him.
The rest of the evening became a blur of polite conversation, toasts, and handshakes. You found yourself smiling, laughing at Danny’s small jokes, answering again and again the inevitable question about how the two of you met. His parents hovered nearby, beaming, and you played the role of attentive, proud girlfriend like a pro, even if your chest still carried a tiny pang from your bathroom encounter.
Eventually, the music shifted, softer now, and Danny tugged you toward the small cleared space near the center of the room. “Come on,” he murmured, and you let him, letting the music sweep you into him. Your hands found his shoulders as his hands rested at your waist, guiding you into the flow of the song.
For a few moments, you let yourself forget everything else. Just Danny. Just the music. Just being held.
Then Josh appeared at the edge of the floor, his presence quiet but insistent. “Mind if I cut in?” he asked, a small grin tugging at his lips.
Danny didn’t hesitate. “Go ahead,” he said, a wink making your stomach flip.
You stepped back, letting Josh guide you into the next turn, and for a moment the two of you laughed together, the conversation soft and teasing. Then, in a lull between songs, you leaned slightly closer. “You could have told me,” you said quietly, just enough for him to hear.
Josh shrugged, a little sheepish, a little sincere. “Danny didn’t want you to know. He thought it’d just… complicate things.”
You nodded slowly, the words settling between you like dust. “Yeah. Well… I guess that makes sense,” you murmured, though part of you still wanted to shake him for holding back. But there was no room for that now, the music was still playing, Danny was smiling across the floor, and for right now, you could just exist in this fragile bubble.
The formalities had begun to fade. The speeches, the clinking glasses, the polite laughter… all of it softened into something looser, almost tender. The crowd had thinned to quiet clusters, and the air finally started to feel breathable again. Still, your pulse wouldn’t slow. Jake was here somewhere. You could feel it in your chest, a static hum that refused to fade no matter how far you tried to stand from him.
Then Danny’s hand brushed yours, pulling you gently from your thoughts. “Hey,” he said, his tone soft and knowing. “Come on. Let’s get out of here for a minute.”
You followed him as he guided you through the last of the stragglers and out into the cool night. The muffled thrum of music disappeared behind you, replaced by the sigh of the city and the quiet between breaths.
Danny stopped once you were clear of the crowd and turned to face you, his smile softening as he took you in. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he said quietly. “The way you danced out there… I swear half the room forgot to breathe.”
You huffed out a shaky laugh. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Not even a little.” His lips curved into a teasing grin, though his voice was tender underneath it. “Though I’ll admit, I was a little jealous watching Josh twirl you around. I wanted it to be just us.”
Something in you softened at that. Danny had a way of pulling you out of your own head when your thoughts drifted to places they shouldn’t. You pressed your cheek to his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, real and solid. Not a memory. Not a ghost.
“You okay?” he murmured into your hair.
You nodded, though your fingers trembled slightly where they rested against his shirt. “Better now. Just needed a moment.”
He chuckled quietly, the sound warm and unguarded. “You did great tonight. So graceful and kind, like always.”
You lifted your gaze, and he smiled again, softer this time, something reverent in the way his thumb brushed along your jaw. “I wanted a minute alone,” he said, voice dropping low. “Just us. I know tonight might’ve been a lot for you, but I appreciate how much effort you put into being here. You didn’t have to, but you did.”
Before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed you. It was gentle at first, thankful almost, before deepening into something that spoke of understanding and quiet need. His hand came up to the back of your neck, thumb tracing small circles against your skin.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “Just us,” he whispered again, as if saying it could make it true.
And though you could still feel Jake’s presence lingering like a ghost at the edge of your mind, the warmth of Danny’s hands and the steadiness of his heartbeat reminded you that this, whatever it was, was real. At least for tonight.
You hadn’t spoken to Danny in weeks. Not since that afternoon when he showed up at your door, shifting his weight like a kid caught between nerves and excitement. In his hand, he held a piece of cardstock made to look like a concert ticket. The edges clean and stiff, the print bold: Greta Van Fleet March of the Peaceful Army.
“Everything’s digital now,” he said with a shy half-smile, holding it out to you. “But I wanted something tangible… something I could use to ask.”
You blinked, confused, the weight of the heavy paper grounding you while your thoughts scattered. “Ask what?”
His gaze flickered, hopeful but uncertain. “If you’d come. Stand side stage. Cheer me on.”
The world seemed to tilt, time slowing as his words settled. You froze, every emotion rushing through you at once…surprise, ache, pride, fear. All colliding so fast you couldn’t catch a single one before the next swept in.
But the moment didn’t stay suspended. It couldn’t.
What should’ve been sweet, Danny standing there with that hopeful look, curdled into something sharp and unbearable. The ticket weighed heavy in your palm, not with possibility, but with everything you’d been avoiding.
It started small. A question, a hesitation, a shift in your tone. Then it spiraled, words coming out harder, harsher, until the room felt too tight, too loud. You and Danny had never fought like this before, but suddenly you were, voices ricocheting off the walls until they didn’t sound like either of you anymore.
Finally, his patience cracked. “Just give me one solid reason,” he demanded, his chest heaving. “One good reason why you won’t come.”
And you did. You gave him the one truth you’d been shoving down so deep it burned to speak it. “Jake,” you said, the name falling like glass shattering between you. “He’s the reason. I’m not willing to see that happy bastard all the time. Not right now. I can’t.”
Silence. His jaw tightened, his face hardened, and before you could take it back or explain, or beg him to understand, Danny turned.
The slam of your front door rattled your windows, shook the floor beneath your feet, and left you standing in the middle of your living room with that fake ticket clutched in your hand like proof of everything you’d just destroyed.
It wasn’t until you finally let go of your own stubborn pride that you saw Danny again. But not in the way you imagined. You thought you’d have to grovel, to chase him down and apologize. Instead, you were sitting in your office late one night, the thunder outside rumbling so loud it rattled the windows. Rain streaked the glass, heavy and unrelenting, and every flash of lightning made your paperwork blur. You were seconds from giving up and putting your head down when the sharp crack of thunder shook the building, followed by your office door crashing open, then slamming shut.
You jolted so hard your knees smacked against the underside of the desk.
“Danny, what the—”
“You’re going to the concert.” His voice was low, furious, and his eyes were lit with something that made your heart pound. He stood there dripping rainwater onto your floor, curls plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving like he’d sprinted the whole way.
Your lips parted, the words you’d been considering—I’m sorry, I’ll go, I’ll cheer you on—vanishing instantly. That look on his face, the way he barked an order instead of asking, lit your own stubbornness like a fuse.
“I don’t think I am.” Your tone dipped into something sultry, mocking, because defiance came easier than surrender.
And yet, fuck, he looked good. Rain glistened on his skin, dripping from the curve of his jaw, curling at the edges of his hair. He looked like a storm himself, dangerous and beautiful, and all you wanted was to drag your hands across the sharp contrasts of wet and warm.
“Stop playing games with me,” he snapped, stepping forward.
That pulled you to your feet instinctively. You pressed your palms flat to your desk, holding his gaze. “I’m not playing games with you, little boy.”
A smile threatened to break across your face, but you bit it back. Danny didn’t notice. His frustrated groan was so deep you felt it reverberate in your chest, and before you could throw another jab, he moved. In one swift motion, he swept everything from your desk. Papers, pens, your coffee mug… gone, clattering to the floor.
“Danny!” you gasped, but the protest had no weight.
He turned back to you, his hands fast and sure, popping the button on your pants, yanking them down before you had time to process. The next thing you knew, the edge of the desk pressed against the backs of your thighs, and his hands were on you hooking your panties lower, forcing you back to sit. His body filled the space between your legs, keeping you spread open, leaving you nowhere to run.
Your mouth fell open when you watched him drag two fingers into his mouth, wetting them, then sliding them down over your folds. He teased, slow at first, dragging up and down until the deliberate attention on your clit made your head fall back. Your hands fumbled behind you, grasping at the desk’s edge as moans tumbled out unbidden.
“Fuck, Danny. What—”
“You’re coming to the concert,” he growled, his fingers moving with merciless precision against your clit.
“No,” you tried, but it broke into a whimper, the word dissolving under the sound of your own pleasure as your hips rocked into his hand.
His breath was hot against your ear when he said it, low and deliberate. “Say it.”
You stiffened, pulse skipping. “Danny…”
“Say it,” he demanded, his mouth dangerously close to your ear now, voice like fire licking your skin.
“Danny,” you warned again, glaring at him through your haze, but his eyes burned with stubborn resolve. You could feel him slowing, denying you exactly what you craved.
He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned closer. So close you could feel the words against your skin before you even heard them. “Say it, or I’m not letting you come.”
Your heart hammered. “You’re impossible,” you whispered, though it came out softer than you meant, your voice shaking somewhere between irritation and surrender.
“Maybe,” he murmured, eyes glinting, “but I can feel how bad you want this.”
You swallowed, every nerve stretched thin. He wasn’t angry. He was calm, steady, maddeningly patient in a way that made your resolve crack.
“Fine!” you gasped, rolling your eyes just to spite him. “I’ll go to the concert.”
That was all it took. His fingers worked harder, dragging wetness before circling back to your clit, rubbing with relentless pressure until the fire in your belly snapped.
“Fuck,” you cried, your body convulsing with the build.
“Yeah?” His teeth grazed your neck, biting at the tender skin, his voice sharp with strain. “You wanna come? Wanna come all over my fingers before you watch me play?”
“Yes,” you whimpered, your whole body trembling.
“You want it bad, don’t you?” he pressed, his lips scorching your throat, his words almost lost in the thunder outside. “Say it.”
“God—yes, yes, yes,” you screamed, the orgasm ripping through you like the storm outside, every nerve alight until you collapsed back against the desk, panting, spent and knowing without a doubt he had won.
You were still shuddering, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath, when Danny finally slowed his hand. His fingers lingered between your thighs, lazy little strokes that kept you twitching even though you’d just come undone.
“See?” he murmured against your ear, his lips brushing your skin. “That wasn’t so hard. All you had to do was agree.”
You let out a shaky laugh, weakly smacking his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”
“Mm, maybe.” He smirked, sliding his wet fingers up your thigh before pulling away, deliberately slow, making sure you felt every bit of it. “But you’re still going to be side stage, cheering me on. Probably wearing that look right there.”
You narrowed your eyes, heat flooding your cheeks. “What look?”
He tilted his head, feigning innocence, then gave you that wicked grin that said he knew exactly how wrecked you were. “The one where your lips are all swollen, your legs can barely close, and your bossy little mouth finally shut up long enough to admit I was right.”
“God, you’re—”
“Handsome? Talented? Your favorite?” He cut you off, leaning closer with every word.
“—an asshole,” you muttered, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.
Danny chuckled, pressing one last kiss to your neck before stepping back, giving you room to breathe. “An asshole you’re coming to watch,” he said matter-of-factly, grabbing the discarded tissue from your desk and wiping his fingers with one. “You can fight me all you want, but I already won.”
You rolled your eyes, tugging your pants back into place, but he caught your wrist mid-motion. His thumb brushed over your pulse, steady now but still humming from everything he’d pulled out of you.
“You’ll thank me later,” he promised softly, a flash of sincerity cutting through the teasing. Then, with that same grin, he added, “And if you don’t, I’ll just have to make sure you do.”
You’d had months to prepare yourself, to build up the armor you thought you’d need for when you inevitably saw Jake again, up close, real, breathing the same air. But no amount of time had done you any good. The anger was still there, raw as the day he walked away. So was the sadness, the ache that lived in your chest like a dull bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The betrayal still stung. And beneath all that, the shame, because you had let yourself hope, even when you knew better.
Worse than all of that, though, was Danny. Sweet, patient Danny, who somehow stumbled into the mess you’d made of yourself and stayed long enough to start stitching pieces back together. He’d been good to you. Better than you deserved most days. And still, part of you hated the way you reduced him to boyfriend, like you were a preteen doodling his name in the margins of your notebook. Lover didn’t fit. Partner felt too clinical. Boyfriend was all you had, and even that felt flimsy compared to the storm still raging in your chest for someone else.
Now you were here anyway, walking the unfamiliar maze of venue halls, a cold drink sweating in your hand. You didn’t even want it, but some frazzled assistant with a clipboard shoved it at you along with a wristband, a laminated lanyard, and a quick flash of teeth before barking orders into her headset. Every time you asked her to repeat herself, she just pointed to her earpiece with an exasperated look, like you were the nuisance.
The greenroom wasn’t much of a refuge. A few familiar faces lingered among the crowd of managers and strangers you had nothing in common with. They tried small talk, and you tried harder, pasting on polite smiles, laughing when you were supposed to. One manager even chuckled at a joke you barely remembered making, telling you he could see why Danny liked you. That stuck like a thorn. Why does Danny like me? you thought, spiraling for an answer you couldn’t find before the sound of your name cut through the noise.
“Hey!” Danny’s voice rang from the doorway, full of life even though his chest was plastered with sweat.
You turned, relief washing through you like a tide. “Hey, hot stuff,” you teased, dragging your finger down the sheen of sweat on his chest, pretending you weren’t still knotted up inside. “How was the checking of the sound?”
He grinned, slinging his arm around you and pulling you in so close the heat radiating off his body engulfed you. “Rough,” he admitted with that dramatic tilt of his head, “but we sound good now.”
You laughed, soaking in the way he lit up when he talked about the music. For a moment, it felt easy. Like you could live here in this sliver of time without all the complications.
“Danny!” a voice called.
He turned, still holding you against him, both of you pivoting toward the sound. A girl stood at the greenroom doorway, sleek hair, flawless makeup, perfectly put together in that way that made your stomach drop before she even opened her mouth.
“Yeah?” Danny called back.
“If you see Jake, will you remind him I’m here?”
Danny gave a quick nod, casual, unbothered. “Yeah, sure.”
And just like that, she disappeared back into the crowd.
You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze forward as Danny turned you both back down the hall. You didn’t ask who she was. You didn’t dare. But her words clung to you, sticky and sharp, needling at the fragile balance you were trying so hard to keep. Just enjoy the moment, you told yourself, clinging tighter to Danny’s arm. Don’t let him steal this from you too.
Danny barely had time to sit down with you before someone was already pulling him away. Telling him he needed to shower, change, and get ready for media photos. He kissed your temple quickly, whispered a promise to come find you later, and disappeared down the hall with a handler tugging at his arm. You could still feel the damp warmth of his chest against your fingertips, but it was fading fast, replaced by the hum of the venue as everything around you kept moving without pause.
Left to your own devices, you decided to wander, weaving through the back corridors and ducking into corners you weren’t sure you were technically allowed in. The air smelled faintly of metal, old wood, and dust.
Cases were stacked against the walls, black boxes with white labels in painted block letters. Inside some, the foam cutouts cradled guitars and basses, waiting like sleeping animals for their turn under the lights.
That’s when you saw it.
An acoustic guitar leaning against its case, scuffed around the edges, strings dulled from too many songs and not enough care. Your chest went tight. You knew that guitar. You would know it anywhere. You could still see Jake carrying it out of your house that night, his face set and unreadable, his movements rushed. Almost desperate. He hadn’t looked at you then. Almost like he already knew he wasn’t coming back for you.
You stepped closer, your throat catching as you realized how little you’d known about it. About him. Had he played it in your house while you were at work, sitting on your couch with the blinds drawn? Had he only touched it when you weren’t around, afraid of what it might mean to admit he cared about something so deeply? He never mentioned wanting to start a band. Never told you music was more than a background hum to his life. You thought you’d known everything there was to know about Jake. The laugh that could fill a room, the way he stirred sugar into his coffee, the secret places where he liked to press his mouth to your skin. But now? It felt like maybe you’d only known the surface, and the rest was a stranger.
Your vision blurred a little as the old ache stirred up again, cutting through you sharper than you expected after all this time. You reached out and let your fingertips ghost along the neck of the guitar, like maybe touching it would bring you answers.
And then you heard him.
His voice was low, familiar, right behind you. “Didn’t know you’d end up back here.”
You turned, heart stuttering painfully against your ribs. There he was, Jake, standing in the dim backstage light like he’d stepped right out of your memory and into the present.
You swallowed hard, forcing your voice not to crack as you gestured toward the guitar. “I didn’t even know you could play. I knew you could sing. But…” The rest of the words tangled in your throat, too heavy to push out.
“What? A guy can’t have a hobby?” Jake’s voice was cool, flippant, as he leaned against the nearest case like he’d been waiting to be caught.
You turned fully now, narrowing your eyes. “This isn’t a hobby, Jake. Don’t insult me with that.”
His smirk tugged higher, mocking. “What would you call it then? Therapy? A side hustle?”
You took a step toward him. “I’d call it your life. And the fact that I had no idea—” your voice cracked sharper than you meant “—that fucking stings.”
Jake’s laugh was short, forced. “Maybe you never asked.”
“Oh, don’t you dare.” Your laugh was harsher, cutting. “I asked about everything. You never came back. Maybe you didn’t trust me enough to show me.”
That one hit. His smirk faltered. For a beat too long, he looked at the floor like the scuffed concrete might give him an out. When he finally glanced back up, there was a flicker of something vulnerable under the defiance.
“You think I didn’t trust you?” His voice had softened, but the words were still barbed. “Maybe I trusted you too much. Maybe that’s why I kept it to myself. Because if I let you in on all of it, then you’d have had the power to ruin more than just me.”
Your laugh was sharp, disbelieving. “Oh, that’s rich.” You shook your head, clutching the edge of a case like it might ground you. “You didn’t keep it from me to protect yourself, Jake. You kept it from me because you couldn’t stand the thought of being vulnerable in front of me. You couldn’t risk me seeing that you actually cared about something.”
His jaw worked, but he didn’t speak.
“You wanted to play the untouchable act. The guy who could walk out of my house with his stuff and never look back. But here we are, years later, and guess what? You’re not untouchable. You’re not bulletproof. You’re just a coward who mistook hiding for protection.”
Jake’s shoulders tensed, his hand flexing against the flight case he leaned on. For a moment, he looked like he might fire back with one of his usual sharp comebacks, but his eyes betrayed him… too raw, too guilty.
“You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” Jake muttered, his voice low, but it wavered like a string pulled too tight.
You stepped closer, refusing to back down. “No, Jake. I don’t think I have you figured out at all. I think I spent years loving and mourning the thought of a stranger who never let me in. And now I’m standing here realizing maybe you liked it that way. Me in the dark, worshiping a version of you that never even existed.”
That landed. His whole body went rigid, his eyes darkening in a way that made your breath catch.
“You think you were the only one in the dark?” he snapped, the words sharp enough to cut. “You think it was so easy for me, hiding pieces of myself just to keep myself sane? Do you have any idea what it’s like to hold something that matters so close, because the second you show it, the second you share it, it’s open season? To have it judged? Torn apart?” His voice rose, rougher, angrier. “I couldn’t risk that. Not with you.”
“Then you never trusted me,” you shot back, hot tears stinging your eyes. “Not enough. Not really.”
His laugh was bitter, ragged, nothing like the easy grin you remembered. “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I couldn’t. Because trusting you meant giving you the one thing I wasn’t ready to lose.”
For a second, the two of you just stood there, breathing hard, the weight of years pressing down between you. And then Jake shoved a hand through his hair, muttering, “God, you make it sound so simple. Like trust is just something you hand over. Like you weren’t capable of breaking me.”
The silence that followed was thick, electric, the kind that made your pulse thunder in your ears.
Jake’s chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile, his jaw working as if he was chewing on words too sharp to swallow. Then, finally, they ripped out of him.
“You were it for me,” he said, almost spitting the words. “Do you get that? You were it. And I couldn’t… Christ, I couldn’t risk putting the one thing I cared about on the line just to show you a song or strum a chord. Because if you hated it, if you looked at me and thought it was nothing, then I was nothing. And I couldn’t take that from you. Not from you.”
The admission hit you harder than the anger had, knocking the wind out of you. Your mouth opened, but no words came.
Jake let out a rough, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “You think I didn’t love you? You think I didn’t fucking bleed for you? I was terrified of you seeing me, really seeing me, and deciding I wasn’t worth the weight of your love. So yeah, I kept it to myself. Because it was safer to let you believe you knew me than to risk you walking away once you did.”
Your hands shook, your drink forgotten, your back brushing the edge of a case. “Jake…” It came out like a plea, though you weren’t sure what you were even asking for.
His eyes locked on yours, raw and burning, the truth spilling out even as he tried to shove it back down. “I loved you so much it ruined me. And I never said it because I was too much of a coward. And now—” his voice cracked, jagged around the edges, “…now it doesn’t matter. Because you’re here for him.”
The air went thin. Too thin. The space between you vibrated with every unspoken thing, every touch never given, every night left unsaid.
And for the first time in years, Jake looked like he might break, not into rage, but into ruin.
You swallowed hard, fighting the lump rising in your throat. “Jake… you don’t get to drop all of that on me and then act like it’s too late. You don’t.”
His mouth twisted, somewhere between a sneer and a sob. “What do you want me to do? Take it back? Pretend I didn’t mean every fucking word?”
“No,” you said quickly, stepping closer before you could stop yourself. “I just… God, I wish you would’ve told me back then. Maybe we wouldn’t be standing here like this. Maybe we wouldn’t be strangers.”
His eyes flicked over your face, searching, desperate. “We’re not strangers. Don’t say that.”
The words hung between you like a live wire, the air so charged you thought it might set fire to the walls. You wanted to reach out, to smooth the wreck of him, to tell him he wasn’t nothing. But the weight of Danny’s name sat heavy on your tongue, stopping you cold.
Jake leaned in just enough for you to catch the warmth of his breath. “Say something,” he whispered, like he was begging for a lifeline.
Jake’s gaze flicked over your shoulder, his expression snapping back into something hard, practiced, unreadable.
The sound of Danny’s laugh grew louder, then his voice, light and easy, floating closer. “I think he was down this way. Come on, I’ll help you look.”
Your stomach dropped.
Before you could step back, before Jake could school his expression fully, Danny appeared at the mouth of the backstage area, the girl with the perfect hair trailing behind him, cellphone clutched tight.
“Jake—” Danny started, then stopped dead. His eyes flicked between the two of you, sharp and fast, like he’d walked in on a secret he wasn’t supposed to see.
You jerked a step back, but too late. Jake’s face was still raw, open, the edges of emotion not yet hidden.
Danny’s smile faltered. Just barely, but you caught it. That flash of suspicion, the crack in his easy demeanor.
“There you are,” he said finally, forcing lightness into his tone as he gestured to the girl. “She’s been looking all over for you.”
Jake didn’t move, didn’t speak, just dragged his gaze from Danny back to you. It was long enough for Danny to notice. Long enough for your pulse to hammer at the cage of your chest.
The girl shifted awkwardly, oblivious to the charge in the air, while Danny stood there, watching you both. Something unreadable tightening in his jaw.
“Funny,” Danny said, though his voice was anything but. It carried a rough edge, the kind born from worry that had curdled into anger. “I leave you for like ten minutes, ten fucking minutes, and I find you back here. With him.” He jerked his chin toward Jake, but his eyes never left yours.
“Danny…” you tried, soft, but it sounded thin, breakable.
His hands flexed at his sides, like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or put distance between you. “Do you have any idea what it does to me? Seeing you like this? You say you’re fine, you say you’re handling it… but then I catch you here, with him, and it feels like I’m watching you tear yourself apart.” His voice dropped, heavy with something closer to fear than fury. “I can’t just stand by and watch that happen.”
The girl shifted awkwardly, glancing between the three of you. “Maybe I should just—”
“No.” Danny cut her off, not harsh but final. He didn’t even look at her. His whole focus stayed on you, his chest rising and falling too fast, his jaw tight with restraint. “Don’t walk away. Not until we know.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice until it cracked, raw and stripped of pretense. “Tell me the truth. Right now. Because I can’t keep doing this if it’s killing you and it’s killing me to watch.”
His words trembled on the edge of breaking, but he forced them out, heavy and pleading.
“Am I wasting my time?”
The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of it pressing into every corner of the hallway.
“Am. I. Wasting. My time?” He asked again, voice weak. The words thick enough to choke on.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The weight of it pressed down, burning your throat shut.
And then Jake.
“No,” he said flatly, stepping forward before you could even catch your breath. His tone was sharp, defiant, but his eyes. Those stayed on you, soft in a way that betrayed him. “She’s not wasting your time. Don’t you dare put that on her.”
Danny’s head snapped toward him, fury flaring in his eyes like gasoline catching fire. “Excuse me?”
Jake squared his shoulders, unmoving. “You think she’s torn up because of you? Because she can’t make up her mind? Don’t flatter yourself. She’s been carrying this weight for years. Long before you were ever in the picture. So don’t act like she’s playing games with your heart when it’s hers on the line.”
The words cracked something wide open. The girl shifted uneasily, her eyes wide, looking like she wanted to disappear into the wall.
Danny’s voice came back low and dangerous, but there was no mistaking the hurt beneath it. “So you think you get to speak for her now?”
Jake’s jaw tightened. “Maybe I’m the only one who actually understands what she’s been through.”
That was it. The last match.
Danny snapped. His whole body surged forward, his hand fisting in Jake’s shirt before you even had a chance to move. The girl gasped and stumbled back against the wall as Danny shoved Jake hard, his voice breaking free like a whip.
“It’s not my fucking heart I’m worried about! You don’t get to stand here and act like you’re some kind of savior!” Danny roared, spit flying with the sheer force of his words. “You left her. You broke her. And now you show up and what? Play the tortured genius with a guitar and think that excuses everything?”
Jake didn’t shove back, but his eyes darkened, the muscle in his jaw ticking, his silence almost more dangerous than any words.
Danny’s grip stayed tight, knuckles white, his whole frame shaking with fury. “You don’t get to speak for her. Not now. Not ever. You don’t get that right.”
“Danny!” you cried, reaching for his arm, but he didn’t budge, his stare locked with Jake’s like the two of them were seconds away from tearing each other apart. The air was heavy, suffocating, the whole scene teetering on the edge of violence. And all you could do was stand there, trapped between two storms colliding head-on.
Danny’s chest heaved, his eyes black with fury, every muscle in his body screaming to hit, to tear into the person who dared speak for you. Jake’s jaw tightened, his hands balling at his sides, the faintest twitch in his shoulder signaling he was ready to strike.
“Danny!” you yelled, stepping forward, your hands gripping his arms, shaking him like you were trying to shake the anger out of him. “Stop! Just stop!”
His head snapped toward you, eyes blazing, and for a heartbeat you thought he might ignore you. But then, something cracked. Maybe it was the desperation in your voice, maybe it was the way your hands held him steady. Whatever it was, he froze, teeth clenched, chest heaving.
“I…I can’t…” he stammered, voice rough, barely above a growl. The fight is still in him but fading under the pull of your presence.
“Yes, you can,” you insisted, dragging on him, urging him backward. “Come on. Come on, we’re leaving. Go!”
He hesitated for the fraction of a second it took for Jake to take a step back and that was all you needed. You grabbed Danny by the wrist, practically dragging him down the hallway. His resistance was half hearted now, his fury still simmering beneath the surface, but he let himself be guided.
“Get to your dressing room. Now,” you commanded, voice low but firm, not giving him a choice.
Danny didn’t argue. He just followed, leaving Jake standing there, chest rising and falling, fists still clenched, the storm between you diffused for now.
By the time you closed the door behind you in the dressing room, Danny sank against the wall, knees drawn up, still shaking from the adrenaline. You pressed close to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, letting the tension bleed out into the quiet space.
“I didn’t… I couldn’t let it…” he muttered, voice raw. “You’ve been trying so hard the past few months with us. Working past whatever damage he caused… and… and…”
“I know, I know,” you whispered, holding him tighter. “But we’re here now. And I need you to stay here.”
And finally, he let himself be held. You pressed closer, arms around his neck, letting him feel your presence, your heartbeat grounding him.
“You can’t do that,” you said softly, fingers threading through his wet curls. “You can’t be getting into fights. Not with your bandmates, and not with your hands. Hands you need for drumming. You especially can’t get into fights involving me, of all things.”
He let out a shaky laugh, leaning his forehead against yours. “Steel chair next time?” he joked, the tension in his voice still there but softened by humor.
You rolled your eyes, but the hint of a smile tugged at your lips. “Danny… no, not a steel chair. Just… keep your temper in check, okay?”
He tilted his head, eyes warm and soft on you now. “I can try,” he said quietly.
You swallowed, taking a deep breath, heart squeezing. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice thick. “I’m really, really sorry. For dragging you into this mess… for making you worry… for making you feel like you had to fight for me. You didn’t. You don’t have to ever again.”
Danny’s arms wrapped around you tighter, and for the first time since the backstage area exploded, you felt him truly relax. “You don’t have to apologize,” he murmured. “I’m here. We’re partners. You’re worth fighting for.”
But you shook your head, pressing your lips to his temple. “No… I mean it. I’m sorry. For everything I’ve let happen. I don’t want you caught in the middle again.”
He kissed the top of your head, voice low and steady. “I know. But I’m here for you.… I promise. Whatever that looks like. I’m here, and for now, can we just stay here? Just you and me?”
You nodded, closing your eyes against his chest, letting the storm of the night finally settle into something softer, something that felt like home.
Back at the hotel, Danny’s cock was shoved halfway down your throat, the weight of him thick and demanding on your tongue. Your nails dug into his thighs, leaving crescents on the hard muscle as if you needed proof this was real. He had been right. You were thanking him in the only way your body knew how.
You’d stood side stage and watched him earlier, arms a blur, beating the hell out of his drums until your head filled with thoughts you could barely control. Every crash of cymbals, every shout of his name from the crowd, had your pulse racing. By the end of the show, you were aching, already picturing yourself like this. On your knees, worshiping him, and giving him the kind of release only you could.
His fist tangled in your ponytail, tugging you deeper, his groan rough and raw. “Fuck… just like that.”
You gave him a few more slow, deliberate strokes of your mouth before pulling off with a wet pop, your lips slick and swollen. His eyes snapped to yours immediately, wide and fevered, and you smirked up at him, still clutching his thighs like they were your anchor. Rising to your feet, you leaned into him, pressing your mouth against his neck, trailing hot, wet kisses along the ridge of his jugular until you felt his pulse hammering against your lips.
“I want you to fuck my tits,” you whispered, pushing gently against his chest until he let you guide him down onto the bed. His knees hit the edge of the mattress as you slid back down, reclaiming your place between his legs.
You licked along the head of his cock, teasing, swirling your tongue before taking one slow suck that had him cursing your name. Then you pulled back, spit pooling in your mouth before you let it drip down your cleavage, slicking your skin. Grabbing your breasts, you squeezed them together, guiding his cock between the soft swell as you began to move, slow at first, then faster.
Danny’s hands hovered uselessly at his sides until you grabbed them and pressed them firmly to your chest. “Go on,” you urged, watching his face.
The way he squeezed made you gasp, harder than you expected, but it only spurred you on. You pushed your hair back, giving him a clear view as you bounced your tits along his length, watching him unravel.
“Holy shit,” Danny groaned, his head tipping back, the tendons in his neck straining. The sound alone made your smile curl wickedly, like you were winning a game you knew you’d always had the upper hand in.
“Oh, fuck… I’m gonna come,” he whined, his voice cracking, the muscles in his stomach going taut.
“Then come,” you breathed, low and slurred, sticking your tongue out like you were offering him a target.
His whole body jolted with release, a raw sound tearing out of his throat as he spilled over you. Your breasts, your tongue, your flushed face, and all of it claimed by him.
You slowed your movements, letting him twitch and throb between your tits until he finally sagged back against the bed, spent. A soft chuckle left your lips as you leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to the swollen head of his cock before letting him go.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” you said, careful not to drip on the carpet as you stood. Tossing him a teasing grin in the mirror, you added, “Good show tonight, rockstar.”
Danny lifted one arm, giving you a lazy thumbs up before letting it flop back down at his side, a smile tugging faintly at his lips as exhaustion won out.
The bathroom filled with steam within minutes, hot water rushing over your skin, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of Danny still clinging to you. You braced your hands against the slick tile, eyes shut as the spray beat down on your shoulders, but no amount of heat could burn away the storm twisting inside you.
You tried to focus on Danny. The way his hair stuck to his temples after the set, on his grin when he spotted you backstage, on the sound of your name groaned into your mouth when you had him undone just an hour ago in the dressing room. He had your full attention. He deserved it.
And yet…
Jake was there too. He always was.
The memory of him on stage seared itself into your brain. The way he demanded the crowd’s attention without even trying. He didn’t just play his guitar; he lived inside it. Every sharp thrust of his hips, every bend of his body into the rhythm. It was as if he was pouring himself into every note, daring anyone to look away. You hadn’t been immune. You never were.
Your breath hitched as your hand slid lower, slick with water, slipping between your thighs. It was automatic, traitorous. Danny had owned you earlier, had pulled orgasm after orgasm out of you with sheer force, but now your mind betrayed him, betrayed you both.
It wasn’t Danny’s hands you imagined. It was Jake’s. Rough, possessive, demanding. The ghost of his smirk burned into the back of your eyelids as you pressed harder, faster, picturing the way his hips would drive into you like they did into his guitar. Sharp. Rhythmic. Relentless.
A strangled sound tore from your throat as you arched into the spray, chasing the thought of him, of something you should’ve buried long ago. Your climax crashed over you, sharp and guilty, your forehead pressed to the cool tile as you bit back his name before it could escape your lips.
By the time the water cooled, you were trembling, spent, ashamed, and no less conflicted than before.
Danny had your body. Jake still had your mind. And that was the mess you carried out of the shower, dripping and raw, with no idea how much longer you could live split in two.
Danny had been gone for months.
He was out seeing the world while you stayed behind, tending to your own business. Literally and figuratively. You picked up more shifts than you thought humanly possible, juggling interviews for new dancers, one of them meant to take Danny’s old spot. No one filled it quite like he did. You found someone decent, sure. He could draw a crowd, keep the regulars happy. But he didn’t have Danny’s rhythm, his quiet confidence, or that spark that made people watch him even when he wasn’t trying to be seen.
The weeks blurred. If you weren’t dancing, you were managing, fixing, patching, or putting out fires. Nothing was exactly wrong, but nothing felt right either. You were off-kilter, caught somewhere between running a business and keeping yourself from falling apart.
You missed the hell out of Danny. God, you hated how much you missed him. But the worst part was, he wasn’t the only one you missed.
You missed Jake.
You hated that you did. Hated that when Danny called, you sometimes hoped to hear Jake’s laugh echoing in the background, or the faint strum of his guitar bleeding through the speaker. Hated that you’d catch yourself wishing Jake might text you. Something simple, something stupid that reminded him of you. But nothing like that ever came. You felt ridiculous for even thinking about it. Danny was the one doing all the things you’d wanted… calling, checking in, making sure you knew he cared. And still, some selfish, shameful part of you longed for the other one.
Della and Zoe tried to keep you busy. Girls’ nights at the bar, movie nights curled up with takeout, but every time your phone lit up with Danny’s name, your stomach flipped like a teenager’s. He’d call or text when he could, voice low and tired from travel, telling you stories about cities you’d only seen on postcards. You’d smile, hang up, and then hate yourself for missing him even more.
At some point in March, you started to pull away slowly, deliberately. You didn’t answer every call. You let texts sit unread until the next morning. You told yourself it was for your own good. You didn’t want to depend on someone who would always leave again.
So when the message came:
We’re headed home. See you soon
Your chest tightened, no matter how much you’d practiced not caring.
And yet, the second his call came with an address, you didn’t think. You just went.
When you saw him, your heart nearly broke out of your chest. Danny looked different. Longer hair, leaner frame, arms defined in a way they hadn’t been before. There was something quieter about him too, like the world had scraped him raw and smoothed him over all at once. You didn’t care. You didn’t even hesitate. You clung to him like fresh Velcro, breathing him in, your body remembering the shape of his before your brain caught up.
Then…
A snort.
You froze, half-buried in Danny’s chest.
“Looks like someone missed you,” came a too-familiar voice from behind him.
You peered over Danny’s shoulder and there he was, Sam Kiszka, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place, a knowing grin tugging at his mouth.
“What are—?”
“We live together,” Danny said quickly, like it was nothing.
You blinked. “You what?”
“When we went on tour, we both gave up our leases,” Danny explained, his voice still soft, still holding you close. “Figured it made sense to share a place when we got back.”
“You lived alone just to come back and have a roommate?”
Danny’s smile twitched. “Eh, it’s not like that. Sam and I got close. Like brothers sharing a space.”
“He stole his actual brother’s girlfriend, so—”
From behind him, Sam muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake.”
Danny sighed. “Sam—”
“Let it go,” Sam groaned loudly. “Jake has. You should, too.”
“I don’t give a fuck what Jake’s done,” you cut in, voice sharp. You twisted in Danny’s hold, trying to face Sam head-on. “Still a fucked up thing to do.”
“Jake said you were feisty,” Sam teased, like it was a compliment.
“Sam,” Danny warned again, his tone dropping lower.
“She came into our house and started it,” Sam shot back, hands raised in mock defense.
“I’ll finish it, too,” you said, fighting Danny’s arms still locked around your waist.
Sam snorted, already backing toward the hallway. “Whatever,” he muttered. “Make yourself at home, kitten.”
You glared after him until he disappeared, then turned back to Danny, your pulse still thundering.
“Brothers, huh?” you said, eyes narrowing.
Danny sighed, pulling you closer again, his voice low and tired against your ear. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“What if I just fuck him once? You know… get it out of my system?” you teased, laughing as you spun lazily in one of the upstairs bar chairs.
“That would do no one any good,” Zoe said, her voice even but her smile betraying amusement as she marked inventory behind the counter.
You’d officially given her the title of club manager right after Danny came back. It was long overdue. You’d built this place from the ground up, lived and breathed every piece of it for years, but lately, it had felt like the walls were closing in on you. Zoe stepped up like she’d been waiting for the chance. Zoe was organized, fearless, full of ideas, and it let you finally breathe.
Within a week, she had new dancers hired and someone better to fill Danny’s old spot. The guy wasn’t bad, either. He brought in new regulars, held his own on stage, and managed to make even your most loyal customers stick around for another drink. You’d been in a funk, and Zoe, somehow, was bringing both you and the club back to life.
She had even convinced you to let her hire real contractors instead of trying to “DIY it” with YouTube videos again, and you had to admit… it was nice watching someone else take care of things for once.
“What could it hurt?” you asked, still teasing, spinning lazily in your chair.
Zoe paused mid-note, clipboard dropping to her side. Her face softened. “It could hurt you,” she said quietly. “It could hurt Danny. And Jake. That’s not you.”
The playfulness drained from your voice. “You’re right,” you sighed, shoulders slumping. “It was just a joke. I don’t plan on seeing him anytime soon. I don’t even want to.”
“Zoe?”
You both turned toward the stairs. The new guy leaned over the railing, thumb hooked over his shoulder. “Contractors are here.”
“Alright, I’ll be right there,” Zoe called back before glancing at you, her expression uneasy.
“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.
She hesitated, shifting her clipboard from one hand to the other. “I did something you’re not going to like. But I swear, it wasn’t with bad intentions. They already knew your name and the club’s name and—”
“You didn’t.” You stood so fast your chair scraped the floor. “Tell me you did not call his company.”
“I’m sorry!” she blurted. “It was a huge discount, or I wouldn’t have even considered it.”
“Zoe,” you said, stunned, already crossing to the balcony that overlooked the main floor. “You didn’t.”
Before she could reply, you shouted, “No!”
Two heads snapped upward, Jake and Sam, both standing on the main floor with paperwork in hand. Sam’s grin spread the second he saw you barreling down the stairs.
“No, no, no,” you muttered, picking up speed.
“Y/N,” Zoe pleaded, rushing after you.
“No!” you said again, louder this time as you reached the bottom. “No, I don’t want your discount, and I sure as hell don’t want to do business with you.”
Sam’s grin turned wolfish. “Well, hello, kitten. Missed you at breakfast.”
“Get. Out.”
“Hey, that’s no way to talk to your boyfriend’s best friend, now is it?” Sam teased, his tone dripping with mock sweetness.
“Sam, I swear to God,” you said through gritted teeth.
“Whoa, whoa,” Jake said, stepping between you before it could escalate. One hand pressed lightly to Sam’s chest, pushing him back. The other went to your shoulder, gentle and grounding. “We’re just here to drop off the supplies that were ordered. Then we’ll be out of your hair.”
You wanted to flinch away, to act like his touch burned, but it didn’t. It soothed you. And that made you even angrier. You swatted his hand away, jaw tight.
“There’s no way this is happening,” you said with a sharp, bitter laugh.
“Y/N,” Zoe said softly, stepping closer. “I already signed a contract with them. It’ll cost more to break it than to let them finish the job. Please… just let me be the manager. Let me do my job.”
You shot her a look, and she didn’t back down. She never did. You knew she was being patient with you, but beneath that calm, she probably wanted to snatch you by your hair and tell you to stop being an asshole.
“Fine,” you finally muttered. “Just do what you have to.”
Jake’s brow arched. “Manager? You made her manager?”
You ignored him. Zoe grinned and said, “Yep. Took her long enough. Now she can come and go as she pleases. As long as she keeps signing the checks.”
You smiled faintly at that. “You earned it.”
Jake tried to catch your attention again. “So… you’ve got free time now? Maybe after I finish up here we—”
“Zoe, this is me going,” you said quickly, cutting him off. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be at Danny’s.”
As you started up the stairs, Sam called after you, voice sing-song sweet: “See you later, kitten!”
You stopped, groaning under your breath. “Fuck,” you muttered, remembering, of course, he lived there too.
Sam’s laughter echoed after you as you grabbed your bag and stormed out before either of them could say another word.
You texted Danny, hoping he could distract you from the terrible mood Jake and Sam had put you in, but of course, he was with Josh. You rolled your eyes so hard you were sure you saw the back of your skull for a second.
So instead, you went to your favorite escape: a little coffee shop that doubled as a bookstore. It was tucked inside an old house, every inch of it cozy and alive with character. The place smelled like paper and roasted coffee beans, the kind of scent that could lower your shoulders a full inch the moment you stepped inside. Stacks of used books lined every corner, some teetering dangerously, just waiting for someone to pull one down and give it a second life.
You only came here when you really needed a treat.
Upstairs was your favorite spot. A worn, padded rocking chair overlooking the town square. The view changed with the seasons, and each one had its own kind of magic. In winter, snow blanketed everything but the winding roads. In fall, the trees caught fire with color, the ground carpeted in leaves that made everything feel impossibly warm and nostalgic. But now, in early spring, the town was waking up again. Everything seemed to stretch and bloom, like the world was trying to start fresh. And you loved watching it happen.
You grabbed a book from a nearby stack, picked up your cortado from the barista, and headed upstairs. The familiar creak of the floorboards greeted you as you found your favorite corner in the hallway, the small side table waiting beside your chair like an old friend.
You settled into the rocking chair, the soft creak of the wood greeting you. The cortado was warm in your hands, its steam curling toward the window as you gazed out over the town square. The sun was out, the kind that made the world look cleaner somehow, like it had just been washed and set out to dry.
You remembered the last time you’d sat here, after Jake left. Months had passed before you’d come again, that time clutching the letter he’d sent, your heart tangled between anger and ache. The seasons had shifted between each visit. Snow to bloom, bloom to fall, and somehow, every version of this place had held a different version of you.
And now here you were again. Another Jake incident, another pilgrimage to your favorite spot. You took a slow sip of coffee, the bitterness grounding you, and thought, not for the first time, was it even your favorite spot anymore? Or had it become something else entirely? A shrine to every time Jake had broken something in you?
Outside, the world was waking up again. Tiny green buds clung to tree branches, stubborn and full of hope. It made you think about second chances, how even the barest branches didn’t stay that way forever. Maybe this season could be that for you. A new start. You didn’t have to stay stuck in this endless loop of guilt and longing. You didn’t have to keep feeling sour every time Jake’s name brushed against your thoughts. You didn’t have to keep punishing yourself for missing him while being with Danny.
You could just stop.
Be free.
Wash your hands of it all and finally start fresh.
The thought felt light, almost too easy, but for once, you didn’t question it. You smiled to yourself, set your cup down, and opened your book. The corners of your mouth stayed curved upward, the kind of quiet smile that comes when you finally figure out something so simple, you can’t believe it took you this long to see it.
But just as you began to read, your mind wandered, uninvited, to the sound of a guitar. That slow, deliberate rhythm only he played. You could almost hear it drifting faintly through the hum of the café, like a ghost brushing past your shoulder. Maybe peace wasn’t about forgetting him. Maybe it was learning to live with the echo.
The next morning felt different, lighter somehow. You woke up without that familiar ache sitting heavy on your chest. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like you were waking up to fight your own thoughts. You moved through your morning slow but steady, made your coffee, and actually finished it while it was still hot. The air smelled faintly like rain, and even that felt like some kind of cleansing. Like the universe was helping you rinse off the last of the weight you’d been carrying.
You texted Danny and told him you needed to talk. He called immediately, trying to coax it out of you over the phone, but you didn’t budge. “In person,” you said. He sighed but agreed, and an hour later you were sitting across from him at your usual coffee spot, a half-eaten pastry between you and two steaming mugs on the table.
He looked relaxed, as he always did. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, fingers tracing the rim of his cup. You tried to start casually, asking what he and Josh had been up to lately, but the second you said it, Danny gave you that look. The one that saw straight through you.
“Cut the shit,” he said gently. “What’s this really about? You don’t call for a talk unless it’s serious.”
You swallowed hard, fingers twisting around your napkin. “It’s serious,” you said softly. You took a breath, then another, then just said it. “I think… I think we should stop seeing each other.”
Danny leaned back, his eyes never leaving yours. He didn’t look surprised. Just quiet. Patient.
“It’s not you,” you rushed out, shaking your head. “It’s me. I just—”
He held up a hand to stop you. “You still have feelings for Jake.”
You blinked, feeling the sting of tears before you could even answer. Your throat burned as you nodded. “Yes. God, yes. And I wish I didn’t. I wish I could just… erase it. I wish I could love you the way you deserve, the way you’ve loved me.”
But before you could go on, Danny spoke again, his voice steady but warm. “This isn’t about that,” he said. “I wasn’t here to win against him. I was here to remind you what real love feels like. The kind that shows up, that’s kind, that tries. Even when it fails.” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours. “Sadly, what I gave was the bottom line of what you should have. You deserve the best, and that’s all I ever wanted you to see. If you think Jake can give you that, I want that for you. But if he can’t, if he ever makes you forget what being loved feels like, you know where to find me.” He smiled faintly. “I’m always here. Lover or friend.”
The words cracked something open in you. Tears slid down your cheeks before you could stop them, and you laughed weakly, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what Jake can give,” you said, voice trembling. “But you… you’re more than I deserve. Friend or lover.”
Danny didn’t argue. He just pulled you in, wrapping his arms around you as you cried into his shoulder. The hum of the café filled the space between you. The low chatter, the clinking cups, the faint hiss of the espresso machine. It all blended together like background music to something quietly heartbreaking but necessary.
And when you finally pulled back, eyes red but heart a little steadier, Danny smiled softly at you. “See?” he said. “That’s what letting go looks like. Doesn’t hurt less, but it’s lighter, right?”
You nodded, wiping your eyes. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It’s lighter.”
Your next stop was Jake’s, or technically, the club. Where you knew he’d be working on the remodel Zoe had roped him into. You told yourself that you weren’t going to get in the way, that you were just going to check on the progress, but the second you stepped through the door, your heart betrayed you.
You barely recognized the place. Paint tarps covered the floor, ladders leaned against freshly sanded walls, and the air smelled like sawdust and primer instead of perfume and whiskey. The low hum of drills and men’s voices echoed off the high ceiling. It was alive in a new way. Busier, louder, and stripped bare and rebuilding.
Then you saw him.
Jake was crouched near the stage, knee pads strapped on, jeans worn thin and too tight across his thighs, a smudge of dust on his jaw. His tool belt sat discarded beside him as he worked carefully on the stage tiles, hands steady, focused. Like the world beyond his project didn’t exist. You froze halfway to Zoe at the bar, your steps faltering, your breath catching in your throat before a familiar, maddening voice shattered the moment.
“Well, look who it is… kitten!” Sam’s voice boomed from across the room.
You closed your eyes and sighed. Of course. The nickname still grated on you, more than you wanted to admit. Maybe it was because it came from him. Or maybe because it reminded you of Jake, too. Either way, it felt like part of that heavy weight you were trying to finally set down.
So you squared your shoulders and walked right up to him. “Sam,” you said, stopping a few feet away. “Listen, I owe you an apology. I was… rude. Quick to judge you. I didn’t know you, and that wasn’t fair.”
Sam blinked, clearly not expecting that.
“Maybe you were just dropped on your head as a baby,” you added, deadpan, “and that explains a lot.”
He burst out laughing, tilting his head back. “You know what? I’ll take that. Truce?”
You nodded. “Truce. Clean slate.”
“Good,” he said, grinning wide. “But I’m keeping the nickname.”
“No,” you shot back immediately, crossing your arms. “No more kitten. I hate it.”
“Aww, come on,” he teased, leaning in slightly. “You don’t like that?”
“Why that name?” you challenged, narrowing your eyes.
He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. “Because even though you’re tiny, you’re still feisty. Like a kitten. The scratch still hurts, you know.”
You couldn’t help it, you laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah, but you love me for it,” he said, grinning wider.
“Love is not in my vocabulary for you,” you warned, but there was a softness in your tone now.
Sam chuckled and went back to helping one of the workers, leaving you standing there feeling oddly lighter. Like maybe forgiveness, even in small doses, was its own kind of peace.
Then your gaze drifted back to Jake, still working, unaware you were even there, or pretending to be. And your heart did that annoying little lurch again.
You sighed, tearing your eyes away from Jake and making your way up to the bar where Zoe stood folding a fresh stack of bar rags. She caught your expression before you even said a word, one brow arching as she froze mid-fold.
“What did you do?” she asked slowly, suspicion lacing her voice like she already knew it was something big.
You dropped onto a barstool, exhaling hard. “I broke up with Danny,” you said quietly, barely above a whisper.
“Shh!” you hissed, jumping up and clamping a hand over her mouth.
She mumbled something against your palm and you followed her gaze to where Jake had paused mid tile grab, glancing over with mild curiosity. You gave him a little wave that was equal parts awkward and panicked, and after a beat, he went back to work.
Zoe yanked your hand away. “You broke up with Danny?” she repeated, but softer now, more careful.
You nodded, staring down at the bar top. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know. I felt like I needed to. It wasn’t fair to him, Zo. I was halfway there, and he deserves someone who’s all in. Someone who doesn’t think about someone else every time the phone rings or a guitar plays in the background.”
Her expression softened instantly. She reached across the bar and set her hand on yours, grounding you. “Hey. That takes guts, you know. To admit it. To end it the right way.”
You bit your lip, emotion pressing at your throat. “I feel awful. He was so good to me. But I think… I think I’ve been carrying this weight too long, and I’m just tired.”
Zoe squeezed your hand gently. “Then maybe it’s time you put it down.”
You blinked at her, confused for a moment until she nodded subtly toward the stage, where Jake was still working, sleeves rolled up, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside you.
“Go talk to him,” she said. “Clear the air. Just say what needs to be said. End it, whatever it is, the right way. For you.”
You hesitated, glancing back at Jake, the familiar ache in your chest flaring. “And if it doesn’t go well?”
“Then you walk out of here lighter,” Zoe said simply, offering you a small, reassuring smile. “Free of it. Free of him. Free of all of it.”
You nodded slowly, her words sinking deep. Maybe she was right. Maybe this was what moving on looked like. Not pretending, not running, but facing it.
So you straightened your shoulders, took one last breath to steady yourself, and started toward Jake, ready to finally set yourself free.
But halfway across the floor, your courage cracked.
Your steps faltered, your stomach dropped, and before you could even think, you spun on your heel and made a beeline for your office, ignoring Zoe calling your name behind you.
You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Because suddenly it all felt too fast, too raw, too… much.
Your mind spiraled as you closed the door behind you, pressing your back against it like it could keep the world out. What were you even doing? Less than twenty-four hours ago, your life, your mess of a heart, at least had some kind of order. Now you were breaking up with Danny, making peace with Sam, considering talking to Jake? For what? Some vague promise of closure? The illusion of feeling lighter?
You ran your hands through your hair, pacing the narrow space between your desk and the couch.
You told yourself this was growth, healing, maturity, whatever word made it sound noble. But underneath it, the truth whispered ugly and uncertain.
What if this wasn’t healing at all?
What if you’d just blown up the only stable thing you had left?
What if tomorrow you woke up and the weight wasn’t gone but heavier? What if it turned out you didn’t want a fresh start, you just wanted Danny? Or worse… what if the reason you couldn’t let go of Jake wasn’t love, but habit?
You sank into your desk chair, elbows on your knees, head in your hands. You’d told yourself you were ready to stop being sad, to stop feeling guilty, to finally be free.
But sitting here, heart racing and eyes burning—you weren’t sure you even knew how.
“Honey? Are you okay?”
That word, honey, hit you like a ghost of a touch. Soft. Familiar. Sweet in a way that made your chest ache. It rolled off his tongue like something he’d said a thousand times before, and for one disorienting second, you wanted to let yourself melt into it. To pretend it was still a word that belonged to you.
But it didn’t. Not anymore.
It lingered like a thorn in your side. Beautiful, but sharp enough to remind you it didn’t belong there. It was like wine you wanted to savor, smooth going down, comforting even… until it hit the back of your tongue and left a shiver in its wake. That’s what honey was now, something that used to warm you but now only stung.
You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole, drag you somewhere far away from the sting of it, from the shame of how much comfort a single word could still bring.
He was there, suddenly. Close. Kneeling down in front of you so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. His face blurred at the edges, and that’s when you realized, you were crying. Silent, shaking tears you hadn’t even felt start.
“Oh, honey, stop,” Jake murmured, voice low and careful, like he was afraid you’d shatter if he spoke too loud. He reached for the tissues on your desk, his fingers brushing yours before dabbing gently at your cheeks, your chin. His touch was tentative, reverent, breaking you open in ways he didn’t even realize. “What’s going on? Is it Danny?”
You shook your head, breath hitching. “No.” It came out hoarse, small. You cleared your throat, tried again. “No, it’s… me.”
Jake stayed there, still on his knees, his eyes tracing your face like he was trying to read the things you couldn’t say. The worry etched into his expression only made the ache worse.
“I’m so tired,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m so tired of feeling mad. And sad. And… just angry at you.” You laughed weakly, though it came out closer to a sob. “I want to be over it. I should be over it. It’s been years, Jake. So why am I not? Why was I still so wrapped up in you that I thought breaking things off with Danny would somehow fix it?”
Your eyes met his then wet, searching, desperate. “What is it about you? What the hell is wrong with me?”
The room was silent except for your unsteady breathing. Jake didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, really looked, and it felt like he could see every raw, ugly piece you’d been trying so hard to hide. And somehow, that was worse than anything he could have said.
Jake blinked hard, his face drawn in a quiet kind of panic, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands or the words slipping out of your mouth. He looked smaller somehow, even kneeling there, shoulders hunched under the weight of years neither of you had the courage to unpack.
“Hey,” he whispered finally, voice breaking in a way that made your stomach twist. “You don’t have to… don’t cry, okay? Please don’t.”
You laughed, the sound hollow and unsteady. “You think I can control it now? After all this time?”
He smiled, just barely, but it was full of regret. “Guess not.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and fragile. You could hear the hum of the lights overhead, the muffled sound of conversation from the bar downstairs, the steady rhythm of your own pulse hammering in your throat.
“Why are you even here, Jake?” you asked finally, voice sharper than you meant it to be. “You’re a famous rockstar now. You didn’t have to slum it with the working class.”
He flinched, but not in anger, more like the words had hit something tender. He took a deep breath and sat back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs. “Because this still matters to me,” he said quietly. “I might be touring, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about the business. I wanted to make sure things were running right while I was home.”
You crossed your arms, biting the inside of your cheek. “That’s the PR answer. Try again.”
Jake let out a soft, almost embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Fine.” His eyes lifted to meet yours, warm and heavy. “Because I heard you were the one who needed help. And I wanted to do something. Anything. I thought maybe…” He trailed off, exhaling through his nose. “Maybe if I could show up for you now, it might start to make up for all the times I didn’t before.”
The room tilted for a second. His voice, his words, the way he was looking at you, it all hit too close. Too real.
“Jake…” you started, but your voice wavered.
He pushed himself up to sit on the floor beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. “We could try again,” he said softly. “You and me. Just see where it goes. No pressure, no expectations. Just… see.”
You closed your eyes, because looking at him made it too hard to breathe. “Jake, I can’t.”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at you, waiting.
You opened your eyes slowly. “I’ve seen what happens when you take a step back and actually focus on yourself. You’re calmer. Healthier. Happier. And I want that… for me. I think I need to figure out who I am outside of all of this.”
He frowned slightly. “What are you saying?”
You smiled sadly. “I’m saying I might go to Europe. Find myself there or something. Have an Eat Pray Love moment.”
That pulled a small, broken laugh out of him. “Europe, huh?”
“Yeah,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Maybe Italy. I don’t know. Maybe somewhere quiet. Somewhere that doesn’t have your face on every magazine cover.”
Jake shook his head slowly, that smile fading into something more bittersweet. Then, softly, almost too softly, he said, “You don’t have to leave to figure things out.”
Your chest ached at the sound of your own words being thrown back at you, years later. You swallowed hard and looked at him, the corner of your mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“Maybe not,” you whispered. “But I think it’s better if I do.” You hesitated, your voice catching on the last part. “For both of us.”
Jake nodded, slow and resigned, eyes glassy under the low light. “Yeah,” he murmured. “For both of us.”
You sat there for a long moment, the silence stretching so tight it almost hurt to breathe. The question burned a hole in your chest until it slipped out before you could stop it.
“Why didn’t you come back?”
You’d thought you already knew what it felt like to be broken but this? This was different. This was the kind of ache that cracked something deeper, something you hadn’t even realized was still intact.
Jake didn’t answer right away. He shifted, standing from where he sat and walked over to the couch. His shoes scuffed on the floor, and for a second, you almost told him not to come any closer. But he just sat down, patting the cushion beside him in quiet invitation.
You hesitated, long enough to remind yourself that you didn’t owe him this. But still, you crossed the room and sat down, careful to leave a small, deliberate space between you.
“Short answer?” he asked finally, meeting your gaze.
You gave a small shrug. “Sure.”
“I was scared,” he said simply.
You exhaled through your nose, trying to ignore the sting behind your eyes. “Okay,” you murmured, voice brittle. “Now the long answer.”
He chuckled softly, like he’d expected that. Then his hand found your knee. Tentative, almost absentminded, as his thumb traced a slow, nervous line against it.
“I was scared,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Musicians… sometimes we don’t make it. I thought if I came back, if I told you what I was doing, you’d look at me differently. Like it was just a phase or a stupid dream. And if I let you hear what we’d been working on, and you didn’t like it—”
He paused, swallowing hard. “I was scared I’d stop believing in it. That I’d stop believing in me.”
You didn’t look at him right away. You couldn’t. His words sat heavy in the air, bleeding into every quiet beat that followed. The ache in your chest pulsed like a bruise being pressed, over and over again.
“I get it,” you said finally, your voice small but steady. “I really do.” You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “Taking a risk like that, chasing something that big, it’s terrifying. But that’s how you grow, right? You take the leap and hope it doesn’t swallow you whole.”
You gestured vaguely around the room, around your life, around everything that had changed since you started your own journey. “That’s what I’ve been doing here. Trying. Failing. Learning how to stand on my own two feet. You have to take risks, even if you have no idea how it’ll end. And I respect that you did.”
Jake’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“But what kills me,” you went on, the crack in your voice betraying the calm you were clinging to, “is that you thought I’d ever stand in your way. That you saw me as someone who’d hold you back.” You shook your head, biting down on a bitter laugh. “You could’ve sold ice cubes in Antarctica, Jake, and I still would’ve been there. I would’ve supported you.”
He looked down at his hands, thumb rubbing against the calloused edge of his palm.
“That’s the part that hurts,” you whispered, voice softening. “Yes, it hurts that you left… but it hurts more that you didn’t even give me the chance to prove I wouldn’t have stopped you.”
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was jagged and raw, filled with all the words you’d both left unsaid for years. He looked at you like he wanted to reach out, to apologize, to close the distance. But you stayed where you were. Because understanding didn’t erase the hurt, and forgiveness didn’t mean you were ready to offer it.
He stared at you for a long time before finally breaking the silence.
“What does this mean?” Jake asked, voice low but steady. “All this talk about… finding yourself? Eat, pray, love, whatever that was… what are you really saying?”
You laughed softly, though it caught in your throat. “I meant what I said. I need to focus on myself for a while. Not jump into acting on something again just because you’re back home and this is the first real conversation we’ve had in years.”
You took a slow breath, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “No, Jake. I’m just learning to stop chasing something that’s not ready for me. You finally got what you’ve been working toward, and I’m proud of you. I really am. But I think it’s my turn now, to figure out who I am outside of all of this.”
He exhaled through his nose, like the words hit somewhere deep. “You were always too perfect for me,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I knew I couldn’t have you and this dream. Not both.”
You smiled faintly. “I’m not perfect, Jake. I just finally understand timing. You got yours right… now I just need to get mine.”
He scooted closer, close enough that your knees were touching. His hand twitched in his lap like he wanted to reach for you again, but still didn’t. “So that’s where we are?” he whispered.
“Yeah,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “That’s where we are.”
Description: It’s been years since everything fell apart, but somehow Jake Kiszka still lingers like a song you can’t turn off.
18+ MINORS DNI
Paring: Danny x f!reader
Word count: ~18,600
Warnings: smut, sexual content, angst, self-reflection, unresolved feelings, language, unhealthy coping mechanisms, manipulative sexual behavior, and fighting.
Sorry if I missed anything!
A/N: You guys asked for Sawdust & Honey not to be just a one shot. So here is a continuation of it. 😅
Days bled into weeks.
Weeks bled into months.
Months bled into years.
Nothing.
Nothing but a single letter and a promise that tasted like glass.
You had nothing. Yet everything about him kept you awake: the way he laughed without looking at you, how his hand fit so easily in yours, the small private vows he’d whispered like they were ordinary things. Those memories became accusations. You twisted them over and over until they convinced you of a truth you didn’t want: maybe you weren’t enough.
Maybe Theo was right. Maybe you were impossible to love.
Maybe Cal had been kinder than cruel. Teaching you a lesson, carving it into you so you’d never ask for the same thing twice. It was a thought that made your chest ache in a new, precise way.
Jake had been different. He had been light and danger and home all at once. He was different until he wasn’t. No calls. No answered letters. No knock at the door. Time stretched in the hollow he left; there were more days since he’d gone than the days you’d ever had with him. Those handful of months felt stolen, like pages ripped from a book you’d never finish reading. Something vital had been torn out of you and carried away.
Loneliness ate at you until you rarely crossed your own threshold. The house, once just walls, became a map of absence. His razor in the sink, the faint crease on the pillow where his head had been, the smell of him everywhere. You tried to fill the outline of him with other people. That search for comfort made a casualty of poor Danny.
You swore no other man would cross into your sanctuary. You meant it. Even when you and Danny fell into each other, raw and immediate and useless, he was never allowed to stay. Nights with him were performed on borrowed territory: in the office, on work couches, in the dim glow of his apartment where you folded yourself small and careful. He never pushed. Maybe he told himself it was because you were his boss. Maybe he believed the half truth you gave him. The real reason was simpler and crueller: you could not stand the thought of another man sleeping where Jake once had.
You felt pathetic. Worthless. Hollow in the places that used to be steady.
Danny was balm for a bleeding place, and for a while that was enough. Then the bandage slipped. What had been comfort turned thin and sharp, and you were left with the ache of both loss and the knowledge that you’d used kindness to numb a grief that would not be soothed.
“Honey, I’m home!”
Danny’s voice rang out from the front door, cheerful and theatrical as it always was. The sound made you wince. That word, honey, used to be harmless, sweet even. But now it burned.
Because it wasn’t Danny’s voice that echoed in your mind when you heard it. It was Jake’s.
You could still feel it, as vividly as if it were happening again, the first time he’d said it.
“Not yet, honey,” he’d murmured, voice low and rough, breath hot against your mouth. “I want to feel you come all over my cock.”
Then he’d pushed into you right there, in this kitchen. This exact kitchen. The counter you were leaning on now had been digging into your thighs that night, his hands gripping your hips so hard you’d felt the bruises for days.
And now, standing here again, the ghost of that moment clung to you. In the air, in the walls, and in the word Danny kept saying without knowing how it gutted you.
“Haha, very funny,” you muttered dryly, nudging the dishwasher shut with your hip. The rattle of dishes was louder than you intended, like your frustration had echoed in the clatter.
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile, and prayed he couldn’t see the memory flickering behind your eyes.
Danny walked in, balancing takeout bags, his grin wide and unbothered. That smile of his was disarming, it cracked into your mood like sunlight through blinds you’d tried to keep closed.
“Why are you in such a good mood?” you asked, forcing your lips to twitch into something like a smile. It came out sharper than you meant, edged with the bitterness you tried to swallow.
“I’m going to hang with Josh again tonight. Jam a little.”
You nodded, but the sound of Josh’s name always turned your stomach, sour and heavy. “You sure have been hanging out with Josh a lot.”
You stared at that spot for a moment too long. The same counter where once, breathless and reckless, another voice had called you honey. You could almost feel it again, the warmth of a body too close, the ghost of a touch that had no right to linger.
And then it was gone. Just Danny, smiling at you over takeout containers, the air thick with the scent of sesame and something sweet. You blinked, forcing the memory back into the dark corner it crawled out of, and reached for chopsticks like nothing had happened.
“Yeah,” Danny shrugged, still pulling cartons from the bag like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. “He’s fun to be around. I like playing music with him and…” His voice faded, leaving words unspoken in the air between you. The silence sat wrong, made your chest feel tight. “…it’s nice having a guy friend who doesn’t judge my line of work.”
You tried to laugh, tried to lighten the weight building in the room. “Should I be worried?”
“Of Josh?” Danny blinked at you, caught off guard. Then his grin came quick, mischievous. “Probably.”
The unexpected answer made you laugh in spite of yourself. You swatted at him, your hand grazing his arm. “I would understand. He’s a charmer just like…” The sentence died in your throat. You couldn’t finish it. You hadn’t spoken Jake’s name out loud in over a year, it felt fossilized on your tongue, too sharp to touch.
“You know who’s charming?” Danny’s voice pulled you back, tethered you before the spiral could swallow you whole.
“Hmm?” you asked, your thoughts dissolving as he leaned close, pressing his lips to your jaw. His mouth traced a path downward, soft heat turning into a trail of damp kisses along your neck.
“You,” he whispered, the word hot against your skin before his teeth caught lightly at your ear. A shiver raced through you, unbidden, unraveling your defenses.
He always did this. Slipping in when the shadow of Jake threatened to rise, distracting you, silencing you. Sometimes you thought it was jealousy, a quiet war he waged against the ghost of someone who wasn’t even there. But tonight, he didn’t feel jealous. Tonight, he just felt hungry. Eager.
And that eagerness pulled at something deep in you, something desperate to be filled. Hunger twisted into heat, and suddenly dinner was the last thing on your mind.
Danny had already started slipping away long before you admitted it to yourself. He was there in fragments only. A rushed dinner when it was convenient, a quick activity here and there, a stolen hour in your office when lust outweighed caution, but the rest of him belonged elsewhere. To Josh. To the music. To anywhere that wasn’t you.
It gnawed at you, but not in the way it should have. By then, numbness had already carved its home in you. It didn’t exactly hurt, it just hollowed you out further. You told yourself you’d just need to fill the time, drown your mind in something else. Work became your refuge, your punishment, your distraction. Della and Zoe exchanged glances when they thought you weren’t looking, their eyes full of questions they never asked. You pretended everything was fine, kept your mask tight while inside you felt like a woman unraveling.
After Jake left, you’d hired someone to replace him. A month later, he quit. Then another came. And another. And another after that. A carousel of strangers passing through, faceless bodies you convinced yourself could patch the hole Jake had left in your business, in your life. But it never worked. Every resignation, every no call, no show, every last paycheck mailed off to an empty address… it all just reminded you that some things cannot be replaced. Some absences never stop echoing.
And then one night, Danny joined the list of ghosts. No call. No show. At first, you told yourself he was busy. Distracted. Forgetful. By the time your fifth call rang unanswered, panic had begun to curl sharp in your chest.
“Hey, it’s Danny. Leave me a message!” His voicemail voice was painfully cheerful, recorded in a time that felt a lifetime away.
You swallowed, your voice trembling in a way you barely recognized. “Hey. I’m not calling as your boss, I’m calling as your… concerned girlfriend. Please call me or text me letting me know you’re okay. Please?”
That last word cracked. Fragile. Begging. It didn’t sound like you. It sounded like someone broken, someone desperate. Hearing yourself like that filled you with shame and anger all at once. Angry that you were here again, pacing the same tired circle, and worrying over a man who didn’t seem to care enough to keep you in the loop. Angry that you had let it get this far.
What stung most was the realization that, without meaning to, you’d just called yourself Danny’s girlfriend. Words you had never dared to say aloud to him, never dared to define beyond sweat and touch, had slipped out in your weakest moment. And the silence that followed, the hollow ring of a call unreturned, made those words feel less like a truth and more like a cruel joke.
You dragged yourself back to work the next day, stomach sick and sour with worry that had calcified into anger. The club smelled of stale beer and perfume from the night’s crowd, but it was all a blur. Your body moved on autopilot, clearing glasses, forcing smiles, pretending you hadn’t spent the night pacing holes in your floor. Every time your phone buzzed, your heart leapt, only to crash when it wasn’t him.
By last call, your nerves were raw, every laugh and shout from the crowd scraping against you. You rounded the corner, ready to retreat into the routine of closing, when you froze.
Danny was standing there.
Leaning against the wall like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t disappeared for over twenty four hours that stretched into a lifetime. Zoe was already in his face, her hands on her hips, scolding him like a reckless teenager. Her voice was sharp, full of the concern you hadn’t let yourself voice out loud.
But none of it mattered.
He was fine. He was there. Alive. Breathing.
The air left your lungs in a rush, and before you could think, your heels were striking the floor in rapid clacks, echoing your earlier dance steps but with none of the joy. You flew at him, flinging yourself forward, your body colliding with his. Your legs wrapped around his waist, arms clutching his face as if sheer force could fuse you back together.
You covered his skin with frantic kisses. His forehead, his cheeks, his mouth, and anywhere your lips could reach. The relief was overwhelming, drowning you until it turned sharp. The tide shifted in an instant.
You pulled back, breathless and shaking, your hands still gripping his face. His own hands locked around your thighs, refusing to let you slide down, trapping you there in the mess of it.
“Where were you?” The words came out ragged, raw. “What were you doing? Why the hell couldn’t you call me?”
Silence stretched for a beat before a voice answered from behind him.
“He was with me.”
Josh. His tone was calm, almost apologetic, but it sliced through you like a blade.
Your stomach dropped, twisting into fresh nausea.
“He couldn’t have his phone on,” Josh added gently.
And then, another voice. A different one, smooth but steady, carrying an authority that made you bristle.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “It’s a rule of mine.”
Your eyes snapped to him, narrowing as you studied his face under the club’s fading light. Something clicked in your chest, a piece of recognition you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
Forcing Danny to finally set you back on your feet, you took a step toward the stranger, your voice low but sure.
“You’re Sam.”
“Leave me alone, Danny!” you shouted through the locked front door, voice raw and brittle.
“I’m not going anywhere!” he called back, louder. “You might as well let me in.”
“No. Leave.” The word came out strangled. You pressed your back to the wood, palms flat, as if brute force could hold the world at bay. Tears burned behind your eyes; you were trying so hard to find an ounce of control.
He softened. “I told you I wasn’t leaving,” he said, the fierceness in his voice slipping into something quieter. “Even at the beginning of this… this relationship, situation, whatever… I told you I wouldn’t leave. Whether I’m just a hook up or your best friend, I won’t leave you like…” His voice stuttered and the sentence died.
That was the last straw. You unlocked the deadbolt and yanked the door open so hard the knob slammed into the drywall. You heard the thud, the small, useless sound of damage. The sight of him on your porch made your knees go slick.
“Say his name.” Your voice was a jagged thing, louder than you meant. Danny flinched, like you’d struck him. “Say his fucking name, Danny! Don’t act like you haven’t been lying to me this whole time, hanging out with him.”
“Now wait a damn minute.” He pushed past you, storming into the house as if the threshold could contain his frustration. “I never lied to you.”
“Did you tell me the whole truth?” You turned on him, blood hot in your face. Your pulse hammered at your temple; your hands trembled.
“Well… no.” His answer was softer, smaller than you expected.
“So there you go. You fucking lied to me.” You gestured with both hands, all the loose grief and fury spilling out. “You’re in a goddamn band with him. You’re releasing an album. Going on tour in a few months? Quitting your job to chase… what? Hopes and dreams?”
“Come on now.” He stepped closer, pleading.
You raised a hand like a shield. “No. What the actual fuck? What is happening? Why are you doing this? Why do you want to leave? Why do you feel the need to get away from me?”
His face crumpled. For the first time in the argument, something like fear crossed his features. “Hey,” he said, voice small, and reached out. You let him touch your arm. He smelled like cigarettes and spiced cologne and felt like loneliness that came in the middle of the night.
“That’s not it at all. You know what I said.”
“People say a lot of shit,” you snapped.
“But I mean every word.” He swallowed hard. “I may physically leave sometimes, but I am not leaving you.”
“Then why are you doing this?” The sob tore free before you could stop it, raw and animal in your throat.
“To better myself. To have a future I’m proud of.” He pulled at your sleeve and guided you to the couch. You followed, tired and small, and leaned into his shoulder though you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “I can pay you more,” you blurted, ridiculous and defensive.
“It’s not about that. I get paid well. You know that.” He took your hand and held it like a lifeline. “I’m really good at this. It’s something I think I can be great at… something I can be proud of. I need you to understand it’s not about you. It’s about me and my insecurities. This band… it’s given me a sense of purpose. It’s made me see things differently.”
“You should have told me from the beginning,” you said, words thin with hurt. “You waited until the album was about to come out. You told me in the worst way possible.”
“I know.” He closed his eyes, shame passing like a shadow. “I should’ve done it better. I couldn’t get away from the studio this time. And… I knew if you knew Jake was here and in on this the whole time you… you wouldn’t—” He stopped, unable to say the rest.
“I wouldn’t what?” Your voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. Your stomach turned to ice.
“You wouldn’t give us a chance.” He finally met your gaze. There was honesty there that hurt more than any lie.
“I was the first male dancer you hired,” Danny said, fingers feeling at the hem of your sleeve. “You brought me in. I’ve always liked you. I just wanted you to like me back.”
“I do.” You tasted the truth on your own tongue.
“Not the way you love Jake.” His voice was gentle and terrible.
Love. Not loved. But love. He knew.
You tried to fashion a reassurance, some thread to stitch this back together, but no words felt adequate. “Please…” The plea fell out of you, thin and familiar. The same fragility you heard in your own voicemail a day ago. “Give me time.”
“I am.” His hand moved to your knee; you nodded and reached for it like a believer reaching for the altar.
“I know,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I know. Thank you.” You put your palm to the side of his face, fingers tracing the slope of his jaw, and kissed him. Once, twice, like a benediction. “Thank you, thank you,” you murmured into his mouth. “You’re more than I deserve.”
“That’s not true.” He smiled, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes at first. “You deserve so much more, and I’m trying my hardest to be what you need and deserve.” Your lip trembled on hearing it, an ache that unlatched the dam, and before you could stop yourself your mouth was on his again. Tender, worshipful, the way someone prays when they’re not sure whom they’re praying to.
When you pulled away there was no neat resolution, only the two of you breathing in the hollow between apology and promise. It felt fragile as glass and just as likely to shatter.
You both sat in that soft silence for a beat too long before smile tugging at Danny’s mouth.
“So… this is official now?” he asked, tone light but searching.
You blinked, confused. “What are you talking about?”
He raised an eyebrow. “The voicemail you left me. You called yourself my girlfriend. Was that just to get me to call you back, or did you mean it?”
You froze, replaying that memory of the other night. Your voice thick with worry, saying the word like it might make something happen. Girlfriend. It hung in your chest now like a dare.
What could it hurt? Danny had been there for you in the best way he knew how. No, he wasn’t perfect, but neither were you. Maybe that’s what made this feel almost safe. Maybe it was time to stop running from something that wanted to stay.
“Yes,” you said softly. “I meant it. If you’ll be my boyfriend.”
His whole face broke open in a grin, relief and joy bleeding together. “Then yeah,” he said, scooting closer until his forehead rested against yours. “I’d like that.”
And just like that, a single word, small and ordinary, tilted the ground beneath you. You weren’t sure if it was steadying you or swallowing you whole.
“Will you let me see?” Danny’s voice carried from the hotel room, light but insistent.
You smoothed the fabric of your dress one last time with trembling hands, staring at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. The dress wasn’t too much, but it also wasn’t you. At least, not the you who owned a strip club, who loved to show off her skin with dance moves, but still hid behind work and responsibility. This was a version of yourself you weren’t sure you deserved to be.
Finally, with a nervous breath, you turned the knob and stepped out.
Danny was waiting on the edge of the bed, his foot bouncing in restless rhythm until his eyes lifted to you. His mouth fell open slightly, and then his whole face lit up.
“God,” he said, springing to his feet. “You’re beautiful.” His voice was so full, so earnest, that heat crept into your cheeks before you could stop it.
“Do you think it’s right?” you asked, twisting your fingers together in front of you. “I’ve… I’ve never done anything like this before.”
He laughed gently, shaking his head as though the idea of you doubting yourself was absurd. “Neither have I,” he teased, brushing his jacket with exaggerated pride.
That made you smile despite yourself. You reached up, catching hold of his lapels, your palms running down the smooth fabric as if to anchor yourself in him. “You look mind blowingly handsome,” you whispered, before rising on your toes to press your mouth to his.
The kiss deepened fast, his hands sliding instinctively to your waist, pulling you closer until you were stumbling backward. Your knees hit the edge of the bed, sending a little shock through you, and you pulled back suddenly, panting. “No… we can’t. I don’t want to have to get ready all over again.”
Danny chuckled, his grin crooked, boyish. “My parents won’t mind waiting a little longer.”
Your stomach dropped, the words hitting you square. His parents. Tonight. You were meeting his parents tonight.
Your body went stiff, the nerves slamming back into you. He noticed instantly. The way your eyes darted away, the way your shoulders rose like shields. His teasing softened, his smile gentled. He cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.
“Hey,” he murmured, steady and sure. “They’re going to love you. Just like I do.”
The words landed heavy, like a stone thrown into still water. Love. He said love. Your breath caught in your chest. Was that it? Was that him admitting it… out loud?
You froze, cemented to the spot, staring up at him as if the whole world had shifted beneath your feet. And maybe, just maybe, it had.
Danny laced his fingers through yours, giving a tug as if to pull you out of your thoughts. “Let’s go,” he said softly, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
The two of you stepped into the hallway, and you were surprised when he led you straight to a waiting car. It all felt strangely formal. Like something out of a movie. Just for a group of boys in a new band you’d only recently learned about.
The car hummed along the lit up streets, and without warning the memory slid in, unspooling so vividly it was as if you were back at the corner table of the little coffee shop you and Danny always claimed as your own. The smell of espresso, the scratch of ceramic cups against saucers, Danny leaning back in his chair with that casual shrug that meant he was about to say something bigger than it sounded.
“Jake leaving wasn’t the end,” he’d said, almost offhand, stirring sugar into his coffee like it was nothing. “If anything, it was the start. He and Sam… they found their way back to each other. Not just as brothers. As something more.” His eyes had softened then, thoughtful. “They took that boyhood dream of having a band and made it into something real. Something they could fight for.”
You could still see the half grin tugging at his mouth as he told you how they scraped together money for studio time, pressed EPs, even got them out online. And before the songs had time to settle, they were already working on a full album. Two years of restless, relentless building.
It had been in that booth, coffee cooling between your hands, that the puzzle pieces fell into place. The odd hours, the sudden disappearances, the vague answers whenever you asked where he was going. He hadn’t been pulling away from you. He’d been chasing this.
“And Josh?” you’d asked, half-curious, half-wary.
Danny’s laugh had lit up the shop, quick and boyish. His hand had brushed yours across the table. “Josh sings, and was playing the drums for the recordings. But he found out I could play. That was that. They needed a drummer, and apparently I’m their Ringo Starr.” The grin he gave you had been equal parts mischief and pride.
Even now, as the car rolled toward the venue, you could feel your smile tugging at the memory. If Danny played anything like he danced, you’d always known he was meant for the rhythm section.
The thought sat heavy in your chest, mingling with relief and confusion. Danny hadn’t vanished into nothing, hadn’t been careless with you. He’d been carving out something bigger than either of you could have imagined. And maybe now, sitting in the backseat of a car headed toward a night you weren’t sure you were ready for, you understood why he’d been gone.
The car slowed to a crawl, headlights from other vehicles flashing across your lap before finally pulling to a stop in front of the venue. A crowd had already gathered outside, laughter and the low hum of conversation spilling into the night. When the door opened, it hit you all at once, bright lights, music spilling through the entry, the thrum of energy that only came with a night like this.
You stepped out carefully, heels clicking against the pavement, and the air seemed to vibrate around you. Inside, the album release party was a full on celebration. Tables lined with drinks, people pressed together in conversation, industry folks mingling with family and friends. It should have felt exciting, and maybe part of you wanted it to. But the truth was, it was overwhelming. The sheer number of people, the noise, the constant pull of attention, your chest tightened as if the room itself was closing in.
Danny’s hand brushed yours, steadying. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, leaning down just enough for only you to hear. He always had this way of anchoring you, even when everything else spun out. Still, even with his warmth beside you, a small voice in the back of your mind kept whispering. You pushed it down. Tonight wasn’t the night for sour moods.
Especially not when you spotted Dan and Lori Wagner heading straight for you with the kind of energy that brooked no escape. Danny’s parents were warm, eager, and impossibly proud, pulling you into their orbit before you could so much as exhale. You plastered on your best smile, the good girlfriend act, and tried to keep pace as they launched into questions.
How did you and Danny meet?
You told the sanitized version, fumbling over the edges of the truth. He’d been your employee. A chance connection. You left out the strip club details, the neon lights, the thrum of bass, the world you’d built there, because this wasn’t the place. Still, it clung to you, because that was your life. And for a while, it had been his too. That’s how it happened. A college kid desperate to keep debt from swallowing him whole, and you with an opening for someone who had rhythm to spare.
Somehow, that messy beginning had led you here.
By the time you all found seats, your cheeks hurt from smiling. You exhaled only when Josh and Sam appeared, the brothers weaving through the crowd with the confidence of hosts. You greeted Josh warmly, his energy familiar, but when Sam extended his hand, nerves prickled up your spine. You shook it, your smile a little too polite, your eyes darting past them almost instinctively… searching for him.
Jake.
You didn’t see him.
You heard him.
His voice carried across the room from the makeshift stage, smooth and sure. There he was, standing beneath the lights, giving a speech. Thanking everyone who had poured themselves into the album. Thanking those who stood by when they’d worked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, chasing something that finally looked real.
And he looked different.
No longer a shadow of himself, no longer worn thin. His hair caught the light, glossier than you remembered. The dark circles that once clung to his eyes were gone. His smile was brighter, effortless and it hit you like a punch. He radiated happiness, and it was too much. Too sharp. Too blinding. Jake finally left the stage, and you couldn’t take it anymore.
Leaning into Danny, you whispered, “I need to run to the restroom.”
You pressed a quick kiss to his lips before he could ask questions, and then you were gone and slipping out of your chair, weaving through the crush of people, your pulse racing faster than your heels could carry you.
The hallway was dimmer, quieter, the muffled throb of music and chatter dulled by the heavy door you’d slipped through. You exhaled, shoulders dropping as you made your way toward the restroom, heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your heartbeat. You just needed a moment. Just one moment away from it all.
Then you froze.
Halfway down the hall, leaning casually against the wall, was Jake. He wasn’t alone. Some girl with perfect hair was angled toward him, laughing at something he’d just said. But Jake wasn’t laughing. His smile faltered mid-curve, eyes fixed past her shoulder… on you.
Your name slipped from his lips, quiet, almost reverent. A whisper, but it carried like a thunderclap.
The way he said it, like you were a ghost. Like he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to.
Your chest tightened, the air knocked clean out of you. Because it felt the same for you. Like seeing him wasn’t real. Like the version of him on that stage and the man in front of you couldn’t possibly be the same person.
The girl followed his gaze, confusion flickering across her face before she glanced back at him, but Jake didn’t look away. His eyes were locked on yours, wide and searching, as if the floor had just opened beneath him.
You couldn’t do it.
Your hands shook as you turned sharply, pushing through the bathroom door with more force than you meant to, the echo slamming into your ears. You braced against the sink, breath ragged, trying to collect yourself. But all you could hear was the ghost of your name in his voice, and it unraveled you.
You gripped the porcelain sink like it might steady the storm rolling through you. The mirror didn’t lie, your face was pale, eyes wide and glassy, lipstick smudged from where you’d nervously bitten your lip. You didn’t even recognize yourself.
The door creaked open behind you.
“Y/N.”
Your name again. Softer this time, careful, like it might shatter you if spoken too loudly.
You squeezed your eyes shut. You’d know that voice anywhere. You’d tried to forget it, scrub it out with Danny’s laughter, with work, with anything that would dull the memory. But nothing had ever really touched it. And now it was here, pressing against your spine.
“Please don’t,” you whispered, your voice breaking. You hoped he’d take the hint, turn around, leave you to collect yourself in peace.
But he didn’t.
Instead, the sound of boots on tile filled the space between you. A hesitant step, then another. You watched his reflection draw closer in the mirror until he was just behind you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him, but not close enough to touch.
“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he said, his voice low, strained. “I didn’t… God, I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.”
You turned, finally forcing yourself to face him. Your back catching the edge of the sink. For a moment, your mind stuttered, caught somewhere between memory and reality. He looked the same, but not. There was something steadier in him now, something that made your chest ache. He looked… healthy. Alive. Like a man who’d figured out how to move on.
And it destroyed you.
Your back pressed harder against the sink as though it might hold you up. Jake was closer now, but he still hadn’t touched you. His presence alone felt like too much, like the walls were closing in.
“I’m here for Danny,” you managed, though your throat was tight, each word feeling scraped raw on the way out.
Jake blinked at you, like the name itself caught him off guard. His lips parted, but nothing came right away. He just stood there, studying you, his chest rising and falling like he was searching for air.
“I know,” he finally said. His voice was low, even, but it carried that familiar weight. The kind that used to pull confessions from your lips in the dark. “I saw.”
The way his eyes lingered on your dress made you suddenly hyperaware of every inch of yourself, from the way your hands gripped the edge of the counter to the nervous tremor in your legs. You glanced down, desperate for anything to break the stare.
“You shouldn’t even be in here,” you muttered, your voice sharper than you intended as you tried to brush past him. But Jake shifted, broad shoulders angling just enough to block the door without laying a hand on you.
“You’re right,” he said, voice rough, steady. “But I couldn’t just… let you walk away.”
Your heart lurched at the weight of his words, but you clenched your jaw, forcing the ache back down where it belonged.
“Well,” you whispered, then looked him square in the eye, letting the sting burn as it left your mouth. “I sure as shit can let you walk away.”
Before he could answer. Before he could reach, or explain, or drag old wounds wide open, you shoved past him, your shoulder brushing his as you forced yourself through the doorway. The hallway lights felt too bright, the noise of the party rushing back in, drowning out the ghost of his voice as you walked away without looking back.
By the time you slipped back into the main room, Danny was already scanning the crowd, a soft smile lifting his face when he saw you. He didn’t say anything, just extended his hand, and the gesture alone pulled you back into the rhythm of the night. You let the tension in your shoulders loosen as you slid your hand into his, leaning into the easy warmth of him.
The rest of the evening became a blur of polite conversation, toasts, and handshakes. You found yourself smiling, laughing at Danny’s small jokes, answering again and again the inevitable question about how the two of you met. His parents hovered nearby, beaming, and you played the role of attentive, proud girlfriend like a pro, even if your chest still carried a tiny pang from your bathroom encounter.
Eventually, the music shifted, softer now, and Danny tugged you toward the small cleared space near the center of the room. “Come on,” he murmured, and you let him, letting the music sweep you into him. Your hands found his shoulders as his hands rested at your waist, guiding you into the flow of the song.
For a few moments, you let yourself forget everything else. Just Danny. Just the music. Just being held.
Then Josh appeared at the edge of the floor, his presence quiet but insistent. “Mind if I cut in?” he asked, a small grin tugging at his lips.
Danny didn’t hesitate. “Go ahead,” he said, a wink making your stomach flip.
You stepped back, letting Josh guide you into the next turn, and for a moment the two of you laughed together, the conversation soft and teasing. Then, in a lull between songs, you leaned slightly closer. “You could have told me,” you said quietly, just enough for him to hear.
Josh shrugged, a little sheepish, a little sincere. “Danny didn’t want you to know. He thought it’d just… complicate things.”
You nodded slowly, the words settling between you like dust. “Yeah. Well… I guess that makes sense,” you murmured, though part of you still wanted to shake him for holding back. But there was no room for that now, the music was still playing, Danny was smiling across the floor, and for right now, you could just exist in this fragile bubble.
The formalities had begun to fade. The speeches, the clinking glasses, the polite laughter… all of it softened into something looser, almost tender. The crowd had thinned to quiet clusters, and the air finally started to feel breathable again. Still, your pulse wouldn’t slow. Jake was here somewhere. You could feel it in your chest, a static hum that refused to fade no matter how far you tried to stand from him.
Then Danny’s hand brushed yours, pulling you gently from your thoughts. “Hey,” he said, his tone soft and knowing. “Come on. Let’s get out of here for a minute.”
You followed him as he guided you through the last of the stragglers and out into the cool night. The muffled thrum of music disappeared behind you, replaced by the sigh of the city and the quiet between breaths.
Danny stopped once you were clear of the crowd and turned to face you, his smile softening as he took you in. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he said quietly. “The way you danced out there… I swear half the room forgot to breathe.”
You huffed out a shaky laugh. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Not even a little.” His lips curved into a teasing grin, though his voice was tender underneath it. “Though I’ll admit, I was a little jealous watching Josh twirl you around. I wanted it to be just us.”
Something in you softened at that. Danny had a way of pulling you out of your own head when your thoughts drifted to places they shouldn’t. You pressed your cheek to his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, real and solid. Not a memory. Not a ghost.
“You okay?” he murmured into your hair.
You nodded, though your fingers trembled slightly where they rested against his shirt. “Better now. Just needed a moment.”
He chuckled quietly, the sound warm and unguarded. “You did great tonight. So graceful and kind, like always.”
You lifted your gaze, and he smiled again, softer this time, something reverent in the way his thumb brushed along your jaw. “I wanted a minute alone,” he said, voice dropping low. “Just us. I know tonight might’ve been a lot for you, but I appreciate how much effort you put into being here. You didn’t have to, but you did.”
Before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed you. It was gentle at first, thankful almost, before deepening into something that spoke of understanding and quiet need. His hand came up to the back of your neck, thumb tracing small circles against your skin.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “Just us,” he whispered again, as if saying it could make it true.
And though you could still feel Jake’s presence lingering like a ghost at the edge of your mind, the warmth of Danny’s hands and the steadiness of his heartbeat reminded you that this, whatever it was, was real. At least for tonight.
You hadn’t spoken to Danny in weeks. Not since that afternoon when he showed up at your door, shifting his weight like a kid caught between nerves and excitement. In his hand, he held a piece of cardstock made to look like a concert ticket. The edges clean and stiff, the print bold: Greta Van Fleet March of the Peaceful Army.
“Everything’s digital now,” he said with a shy half-smile, holding it out to you. “But I wanted something tangible… something I could use to ask.”
You blinked, confused, the weight of the heavy paper grounding you while your thoughts scattered. “Ask what?”
His gaze flickered, hopeful but uncertain. “If you’d come. Stand side stage. Cheer me on.”
The world seemed to tilt, time slowing as his words settled. You froze, every emotion rushing through you at once…surprise, ache, pride, fear. All colliding so fast you couldn’t catch a single one before the next swept in.
But the moment didn’t stay suspended. It couldn’t.
What should’ve been sweet, Danny standing there with that hopeful look, curdled into something sharp and unbearable. The ticket weighed heavy in your palm, not with possibility, but with everything you’d been avoiding.
It started small. A question, a hesitation, a shift in your tone. Then it spiraled, words coming out harder, harsher, until the room felt too tight, too loud. You and Danny had never fought like this before, but suddenly you were, voices ricocheting off the walls until they didn’t sound like either of you anymore.
Finally, his patience cracked. “Just give me one solid reason,” he demanded, his chest heaving. “One good reason why you won’t come.”
And you did. You gave him the one truth you’d been shoving down so deep it burned to speak it. “Jake,” you said, the name falling like glass shattering between you. “He’s the reason. I’m not willing to see that happy bastard all the time. Not right now. I can’t.”
Silence. His jaw tightened, his face hardened, and before you could take it back or explain, or beg him to understand, Danny turned.
The slam of your front door rattled your windows, shook the floor beneath your feet, and left you standing in the middle of your living room with that fake ticket clutched in your hand like proof of everything you’d just destroyed.
It wasn’t until you finally let go of your own stubborn pride that you saw Danny again. But not in the way you imagined. You thought you’d have to grovel, to chase him down and apologize. Instead, you were sitting in your office late one night, the thunder outside rumbling so loud it rattled the windows. Rain streaked the glass, heavy and unrelenting, and every flash of lightning made your paperwork blur. You were seconds from giving up and putting your head down when the sharp crack of thunder shook the building, followed by your office door crashing open, then slamming shut.
You jolted so hard your knees smacked against the underside of the desk.
“Danny, what the—”
“You’re going to the concert.” His voice was low, furious, and his eyes were lit with something that made your heart pound. He stood there dripping rainwater onto your floor, curls plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving like he’d sprinted the whole way.
Your lips parted, the words you’d been considering—I’m sorry, I’ll go, I’ll cheer you on—vanishing instantly. That look on his face, the way he barked an order instead of asking, lit your own stubbornness like a fuse.
“I don’t think I am.” Your tone dipped into something sultry, mocking, because defiance came easier than surrender.
And yet, fuck, he looked good. Rain glistened on his skin, dripping from the curve of his jaw, curling at the edges of his hair. He looked like a storm himself, dangerous and beautiful, and all you wanted was to drag your hands across the sharp contrasts of wet and warm.
“Stop playing games with me,” he snapped, stepping forward.
That pulled you to your feet instinctively. You pressed your palms flat to your desk, holding his gaze. “I’m not playing games with you, little boy.”
A smile threatened to break across your face, but you bit it back. Danny didn’t notice. His frustrated groan was so deep you felt it reverberate in your chest, and before you could throw another jab, he moved. In one swift motion, he swept everything from your desk. Papers, pens, your coffee mug… gone, clattering to the floor.
“Danny!” you gasped, but the protest had no weight.
He turned back to you, his hands fast and sure, popping the button on your pants, yanking them down before you had time to process. The next thing you knew, the edge of the desk pressed against the backs of your thighs, and his hands were on you hooking your panties lower, forcing you back to sit. His body filled the space between your legs, keeping you spread open, leaving you nowhere to run.
Your mouth fell open when you watched him drag two fingers into his mouth, wetting them, then sliding them down over your folds. He teased, slow at first, dragging up and down until the deliberate attention on your clit made your head fall back. Your hands fumbled behind you, grasping at the desk’s edge as moans tumbled out unbidden.
“Fuck, Danny. What—”
“You’re coming to the concert,” he growled, his fingers moving with merciless precision against your clit.
“No,” you tried, but it broke into a whimper, the word dissolving under the sound of your own pleasure as your hips rocked into his hand.
His breath was hot against your ear when he said it, low and deliberate. “Say it.”
You stiffened, pulse skipping. “Danny…”
“Say it,” he demanded, his mouth dangerously close to your ear now, voice like fire licking your skin.
“Danny,” you warned again, glaring at him through your haze, but his eyes burned with stubborn resolve. You could feel him slowing, denying you exactly what you craved.
He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned closer. So close you could feel the words against your skin before you even heard them. “Say it, or I’m not letting you come.”
Your heart hammered. “You’re impossible,” you whispered, though it came out softer than you meant, your voice shaking somewhere between irritation and surrender.
“Maybe,” he murmured, eyes glinting, “but I can feel how bad you want this.”
You swallowed, every nerve stretched thin. He wasn’t angry. He was calm, steady, maddeningly patient in a way that made your resolve crack.
“Fine!” you gasped, rolling your eyes just to spite him. “I’ll go to the concert.”
That was all it took. His fingers worked harder, dragging wetness before circling back to your clit, rubbing with relentless pressure until the fire in your belly snapped.
“Fuck,” you cried, your body convulsing with the build.
“Yeah?” His teeth grazed your neck, biting at the tender skin, his voice sharp with strain. “You wanna come? Wanna come all over my fingers before you watch me play?”
“Yes,” you whimpered, your whole body trembling.
“You want it bad, don’t you?” he pressed, his lips scorching your throat, his words almost lost in the thunder outside. “Say it.”
“God—yes, yes, yes,” you screamed, the orgasm ripping through you like the storm outside, every nerve alight until you collapsed back against the desk, panting, spent and knowing without a doubt he had won.
You were still shuddering, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath, when Danny finally slowed his hand. His fingers lingered between your thighs, lazy little strokes that kept you twitching even though you’d just come undone.
“See?” he murmured against your ear, his lips brushing your skin. “That wasn’t so hard. All you had to do was agree.”
You let out a shaky laugh, weakly smacking his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”
“Mm, maybe.” He smirked, sliding his wet fingers up your thigh before pulling away, deliberately slow, making sure you felt every bit of it. “But you’re still going to be side stage, cheering me on. Probably wearing that look right there.”
You narrowed your eyes, heat flooding your cheeks. “What look?”
He tilted his head, feigning innocence, then gave you that wicked grin that said he knew exactly how wrecked you were. “The one where your lips are all swollen, your legs can barely close, and your bossy little mouth finally shut up long enough to admit I was right.”
“God, you’re—”
“Handsome? Talented? Your favorite?” He cut you off, leaning closer with every word.
“—an asshole,” you muttered, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.
Danny chuckled, pressing one last kiss to your neck before stepping back, giving you room to breathe. “An asshole you’re coming to watch,” he said matter-of-factly, grabbing the discarded tissue from your desk and wiping his fingers with one. “You can fight me all you want, but I already won.”
You rolled your eyes, tugging your pants back into place, but he caught your wrist mid-motion. His thumb brushed over your pulse, steady now but still humming from everything he’d pulled out of you.
“You’ll thank me later,” he promised softly, a flash of sincerity cutting through the teasing. Then, with that same grin, he added, “And if you don’t, I’ll just have to make sure you do.”
You’d had months to prepare yourself, to build up the armor you thought you’d need for when you inevitably saw Jake again, up close, real, breathing the same air. But no amount of time had done you any good. The anger was still there, raw as the day he walked away. So was the sadness, the ache that lived in your chest like a dull bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The betrayal still stung. And beneath all that, the shame, because you had let yourself hope, even when you knew better.
Worse than all of that, though, was Danny. Sweet, patient Danny, who somehow stumbled into the mess you’d made of yourself and stayed long enough to start stitching pieces back together. He’d been good to you. Better than you deserved most days. And still, part of you hated the way you reduced him to boyfriend, like you were a preteen doodling his name in the margins of your notebook. Lover didn’t fit. Partner felt too clinical. Boyfriend was all you had, and even that felt flimsy compared to the storm still raging in your chest for someone else.
Now you were here anyway, walking the unfamiliar maze of venue halls, a cold drink sweating in your hand. You didn’t even want it, but some frazzled assistant with a clipboard shoved it at you along with a wristband, a laminated lanyard, and a quick flash of teeth before barking orders into her headset. Every time you asked her to repeat herself, she just pointed to her earpiece with an exasperated look, like you were the nuisance.
The greenroom wasn’t much of a refuge. A few familiar faces lingered among the crowd of managers and strangers you had nothing in common with. They tried small talk, and you tried harder, pasting on polite smiles, laughing when you were supposed to. One manager even chuckled at a joke you barely remembered making, telling you he could see why Danny liked you. That stuck like a thorn. Why does Danny like me? you thought, spiraling for an answer you couldn’t find before the sound of your name cut through the noise.
“Hey!” Danny’s voice rang from the doorway, full of life even though his chest was plastered with sweat.
You turned, relief washing through you like a tide. “Hey, hot stuff,” you teased, dragging your finger down the sheen of sweat on his chest, pretending you weren’t still knotted up inside. “How was the checking of the sound?”
He grinned, slinging his arm around you and pulling you in so close the heat radiating off his body engulfed you. “Rough,” he admitted with that dramatic tilt of his head, “but we sound good now.”
You laughed, soaking in the way he lit up when he talked about the music. For a moment, it felt easy. Like you could live here in this sliver of time without all the complications.
“Danny!” a voice called.
He turned, still holding you against him, both of you pivoting toward the sound. A girl stood at the greenroom doorway, sleek hair, flawless makeup, perfectly put together in that way that made your stomach drop before she even opened her mouth.
“Yeah?” Danny called back.
“If you see Jake, will you remind him I’m here?”
Danny gave a quick nod, casual, unbothered. “Yeah, sure.”
And just like that, she disappeared back into the crowd.
You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze forward as Danny turned you both back down the hall. You didn’t ask who she was. You didn’t dare. But her words clung to you, sticky and sharp, needling at the fragile balance you were trying so hard to keep. Just enjoy the moment, you told yourself, clinging tighter to Danny’s arm. Don’t let him steal this from you too.
Danny barely had time to sit down with you before someone was already pulling him away. Telling him he needed to shower, change, and get ready for media photos. He kissed your temple quickly, whispered a promise to come find you later, and disappeared down the hall with a handler tugging at his arm. You could still feel the damp warmth of his chest against your fingertips, but it was fading fast, replaced by the hum of the venue as everything around you kept moving without pause.
Left to your own devices, you decided to wander, weaving through the back corridors and ducking into corners you weren’t sure you were technically allowed in. The air smelled faintly of metal, old wood, and dust.
Cases were stacked against the walls, black boxes with white labels in painted block letters. Inside some, the foam cutouts cradled guitars and basses, waiting like sleeping animals for their turn under the lights.
That’s when you saw it.
An acoustic guitar leaning against its case, scuffed around the edges, strings dulled from too many songs and not enough care. Your chest went tight. You knew that guitar. You would know it anywhere. You could still see Jake carrying it out of your house that night, his face set and unreadable, his movements rushed. Almost desperate. He hadn’t looked at you then. Almost like he already knew he wasn’t coming back for you.
You stepped closer, your throat catching as you realized how little you’d known about it. About him. Had he played it in your house while you were at work, sitting on your couch with the blinds drawn? Had he only touched it when you weren’t around, afraid of what it might mean to admit he cared about something so deeply? He never mentioned wanting to start a band. Never told you music was more than a background hum to his life. You thought you’d known everything there was to know about Jake. The laugh that could fill a room, the way he stirred sugar into his coffee, the secret places where he liked to press his mouth to your skin. But now? It felt like maybe you’d only known the surface, and the rest was a stranger.
Your vision blurred a little as the old ache stirred up again, cutting through you sharper than you expected after all this time. You reached out and let your fingertips ghost along the neck of the guitar, like maybe touching it would bring you answers.
And then you heard him.
His voice was low, familiar, right behind you. “Didn’t know you’d end up back here.”
You turned, heart stuttering painfully against your ribs. There he was, Jake, standing in the dim backstage light like he’d stepped right out of your memory and into the present.
You swallowed hard, forcing your voice not to crack as you gestured toward the guitar. “I didn’t even know you could play. I knew you could sing. But…” The rest of the words tangled in your throat, too heavy to push out.
“What? A guy can’t have a hobby?” Jake’s voice was cool, flippant, as he leaned against the nearest case like he’d been waiting to be caught.
You turned fully now, narrowing your eyes. “This isn’t a hobby, Jake. Don’t insult me with that.”
His smirk tugged higher, mocking. “What would you call it then? Therapy? A side hustle?”
You took a step toward him. “I’d call it your life. And the fact that I had no idea—” your voice cracked sharper than you meant “—that fucking stings.”
Jake’s laugh was short, forced. “Maybe you never asked.”
“Oh, don’t you dare.” Your laugh was harsher, cutting. “I asked about everything. You never came back. Maybe you didn’t trust me enough to show me.”
That one hit. His smirk faltered. For a beat too long, he looked at the floor like the scuffed concrete might give him an out. When he finally glanced back up, there was a flicker of something vulnerable under the defiance.
“You think I didn’t trust you?” His voice had softened, but the words were still barbed. “Maybe I trusted you too much. Maybe that’s why I kept it to myself. Because if I let you in on all of it, then you’d have had the power to ruin more than just me.”
Your laugh was sharp, disbelieving. “Oh, that’s rich.” You shook your head, clutching the edge of a case like it might ground you. “You didn’t keep it from me to protect yourself, Jake. You kept it from me because you couldn’t stand the thought of being vulnerable in front of me. You couldn’t risk me seeing that you actually cared about something.”
His jaw worked, but he didn’t speak.
“You wanted to play the untouchable act. The guy who could walk out of my house with his stuff and never look back. But here we are, years later, and guess what? You’re not untouchable. You’re not bulletproof. You’re just a coward who mistook hiding for protection.”
Jake’s shoulders tensed, his hand flexing against the flight case he leaned on. For a moment, he looked like he might fire back with one of his usual sharp comebacks, but his eyes betrayed him… too raw, too guilty.
“You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” Jake muttered, his voice low, but it wavered like a string pulled too tight.
You stepped closer, refusing to back down. “No, Jake. I don’t think I have you figured out at all. I think I spent years loving and mourning the thought of a stranger who never let me in. And now I’m standing here realizing maybe you liked it that way. Me in the dark, worshiping a version of you that never even existed.”
That landed. His whole body went rigid, his eyes darkening in a way that made your breath catch.
“You think you were the only one in the dark?” he snapped, the words sharp enough to cut. “You think it was so easy for me, hiding pieces of myself just to keep myself sane? Do you have any idea what it’s like to hold something that matters so close, because the second you show it, the second you share it, it’s open season? To have it judged? Torn apart?” His voice rose, rougher, angrier. “I couldn’t risk that. Not with you.”
“Then you never trusted me,” you shot back, hot tears stinging your eyes. “Not enough. Not really.”
His laugh was bitter, ragged, nothing like the easy grin you remembered. “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I couldn’t. Because trusting you meant giving you the one thing I wasn’t ready to lose.”
For a second, the two of you just stood there, breathing hard, the weight of years pressing down between you. And then Jake shoved a hand through his hair, muttering, “God, you make it sound so simple. Like trust is just something you hand over. Like you weren’t capable of breaking me.”
The silence that followed was thick, electric, the kind that made your pulse thunder in your ears.
Jake’s chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile, his jaw working as if he was chewing on words too sharp to swallow. Then, finally, they ripped out of him.
“You were it for me,” he said, almost spitting the words. “Do you get that? You were it. And I couldn’t… Christ, I couldn’t risk putting the one thing I cared about on the line just to show you a song or strum a chord. Because if you hated it, if you looked at me and thought it was nothing, then I was nothing. And I couldn’t take that from you. Not from you.”
The admission hit you harder than the anger had, knocking the wind out of you. Your mouth opened, but no words came.
Jake let out a rough, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “You think I didn’t love you? You think I didn’t fucking bleed for you? I was terrified of you seeing me, really seeing me, and deciding I wasn’t worth the weight of your love. So yeah, I kept it to myself. Because it was safer to let you believe you knew me than to risk you walking away once you did.”
Your hands shook, your drink forgotten, your back brushing the edge of a case. “Jake…” It came out like a plea, though you weren’t sure what you were even asking for.
His eyes locked on yours, raw and burning, the truth spilling out even as he tried to shove it back down. “I loved you so much it ruined me. And I never said it because I was too much of a coward. And now—” his voice cracked, jagged around the edges, “…now it doesn’t matter. Because you’re here for him.”
The air went thin. Too thin. The space between you vibrated with every unspoken thing, every touch never given, every night left unsaid.
And for the first time in years, Jake looked like he might break, not into rage, but into ruin.
You swallowed hard, fighting the lump rising in your throat. “Jake… you don’t get to drop all of that on me and then act like it’s too late. You don’t.”
His mouth twisted, somewhere between a sneer and a sob. “What do you want me to do? Take it back? Pretend I didn’t mean every fucking word?”
“No,” you said quickly, stepping closer before you could stop yourself. “I just… God, I wish you would’ve told me back then. Maybe we wouldn’t be standing here like this. Maybe we wouldn’t be strangers.”
His eyes flicked over your face, searching, desperate. “We’re not strangers. Don’t say that.”
The words hung between you like a live wire, the air so charged you thought it might set fire to the walls. You wanted to reach out, to smooth the wreck of him, to tell him he wasn’t nothing. But the weight of Danny’s name sat heavy on your tongue, stopping you cold.
Jake leaned in just enough for you to catch the warmth of his breath. “Say something,” he whispered, like he was begging for a lifeline.
Jake’s gaze flicked over your shoulder, his expression snapping back into something hard, practiced, unreadable.
The sound of Danny’s laugh grew louder, then his voice, light and easy, floating closer. “I think he was down this way. Come on, I’ll help you look.”
Your stomach dropped.
Before you could step back, before Jake could school his expression fully, Danny appeared at the mouth of the backstage area, the girl with the perfect hair trailing behind him, cellphone clutched tight.
“Jake—” Danny started, then stopped dead. His eyes flicked between the two of you, sharp and fast, like he’d walked in on a secret he wasn’t supposed to see.
You jerked a step back, but too late. Jake’s face was still raw, open, the edges of emotion not yet hidden.
Danny’s smile faltered. Just barely, but you caught it. That flash of suspicion, the crack in his easy demeanor.
“There you are,” he said finally, forcing lightness into his tone as he gestured to the girl. “She’s been looking all over for you.”
Jake didn’t move, didn’t speak, just dragged his gaze from Danny back to you. It was long enough for Danny to notice. Long enough for your pulse to hammer at the cage of your chest.
The girl shifted awkwardly, oblivious to the charge in the air, while Danny stood there, watching you both. Something unreadable tightening in his jaw.
“Funny,” Danny said, though his voice was anything but. It carried a rough edge, the kind born from worry that had curdled into anger. “I leave you for like ten minutes, ten fucking minutes, and I find you back here. With him.” He jerked his chin toward Jake, but his eyes never left yours.
“Danny…” you tried, soft, but it sounded thin, breakable.
His hands flexed at his sides, like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or put distance between you. “Do you have any idea what it does to me? Seeing you like this? You say you’re fine, you say you’re handling it… but then I catch you here, with him, and it feels like I’m watching you tear yourself apart.” His voice dropped, heavy with something closer to fear than fury. “I can’t just stand by and watch that happen.”
The girl shifted awkwardly, glancing between the three of you. “Maybe I should just—”
“No.” Danny cut her off, not harsh but final. He didn’t even look at her. His whole focus stayed on you, his chest rising and falling too fast, his jaw tight with restraint. “Don’t walk away. Not until we know.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice until it cracked, raw and stripped of pretense. “Tell me the truth. Right now. Because I can’t keep doing this if it’s killing you and it’s killing me to watch.”
His words trembled on the edge of breaking, but he forced them out, heavy and pleading.
“Am I wasting my time?”
The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of it pressing into every corner of the hallway.
“Am. I. Wasting. My time?” He asked again, voice weak. The words thick enough to choke on.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The weight of it pressed down, burning your throat shut.
And then Jake.
“No,” he said flatly, stepping forward before you could even catch your breath. His tone was sharp, defiant, but his eyes. Those stayed on you, soft in a way that betrayed him. “She’s not wasting your time. Don’t you dare put that on her.”
Danny’s head snapped toward him, fury flaring in his eyes like gasoline catching fire. “Excuse me?”
Jake squared his shoulders, unmoving. “You think she’s torn up because of you? Because she can’t make up her mind? Don’t flatter yourself. She’s been carrying this weight for years. Long before you were ever in the picture. So don’t act like she’s playing games with your heart when it’s hers on the line.”
The words cracked something wide open. The girl shifted uneasily, her eyes wide, looking like she wanted to disappear into the wall.
Danny’s voice came back low and dangerous, but there was no mistaking the hurt beneath it. “So you think you get to speak for her now?”
Jake’s jaw tightened. “Maybe I’m the only one who actually understands what she’s been through.”
That was it. The last match.
Danny snapped. His whole body surged forward, his hand fisting in Jake’s shirt before you even had a chance to move. The girl gasped and stumbled back against the wall as Danny shoved Jake hard, his voice breaking free like a whip.
“It’s not my fucking heart I’m worried about! You don’t get to stand here and act like you’re some kind of savior!” Danny roared, spit flying with the sheer force of his words. “You left her. You broke her. And now you show up and what? Play the tortured genius with a guitar and think that excuses everything?”
Jake didn’t shove back, but his eyes darkened, the muscle in his jaw ticking, his silence almost more dangerous than any words.
Danny’s grip stayed tight, knuckles white, his whole frame shaking with fury. “You don’t get to speak for her. Not now. Not ever. You don’t get that right.”
“Danny!” you cried, reaching for his arm, but he didn’t budge, his stare locked with Jake’s like the two of them were seconds away from tearing each other apart. The air was heavy, suffocating, the whole scene teetering on the edge of violence. And all you could do was stand there, trapped between two storms colliding head-on.
Danny’s chest heaved, his eyes black with fury, every muscle in his body screaming to hit, to tear into the person who dared speak for you. Jake’s jaw tightened, his hands balling at his sides, the faintest twitch in his shoulder signaling he was ready to strike.
“Danny!” you yelled, stepping forward, your hands gripping his arms, shaking him like you were trying to shake the anger out of him. “Stop! Just stop!”
His head snapped toward you, eyes blazing, and for a heartbeat you thought he might ignore you. But then, something cracked. Maybe it was the desperation in your voice, maybe it was the way your hands held him steady. Whatever it was, he froze, teeth clenched, chest heaving.
“I…I can’t…” he stammered, voice rough, barely above a growl. The fight is still in him but fading under the pull of your presence.
“Yes, you can,” you insisted, dragging on him, urging him backward. “Come on. Come on, we’re leaving. Go!”
He hesitated for the fraction of a second it took for Jake to take a step back and that was all you needed. You grabbed Danny by the wrist, practically dragging him down the hallway. His resistance was half hearted now, his fury still simmering beneath the surface, but he let himself be guided.
“Get to your dressing room. Now,” you commanded, voice low but firm, not giving him a choice.
Danny didn’t argue. He just followed, leaving Jake standing there, chest rising and falling, fists still clenched, the storm between you diffused for now.
By the time you closed the door behind you in the dressing room, Danny sank against the wall, knees drawn up, still shaking from the adrenaline. You pressed close to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, letting the tension bleed out into the quiet space.
“I didn’t… I couldn’t let it…” he muttered, voice raw. “You’ve been trying so hard the past few months with us. Working past whatever damage he caused… and… and…”
“I know, I know,” you whispered, holding him tighter. “But we’re here now. And I need you to stay here.”
And finally, he let himself be held. You pressed closer, arms around his neck, letting him feel your presence, your heartbeat grounding him.
“You can’t do that,” you said softly, fingers threading through his wet curls. “You can’t be getting into fights. Not with your bandmates, and not with your hands. Hands you need for drumming. You especially can’t get into fights involving me, of all things.”
He let out a shaky laugh, leaning his forehead against yours. “Steel chair next time?” he joked, the tension in his voice still there but softened by humor.
You rolled your eyes, but the hint of a smile tugged at your lips. “Danny… no, not a steel chair. Just… keep your temper in check, okay?”
He tilted his head, eyes warm and soft on you now. “I can try,” he said quietly.
You swallowed, taking a deep breath, heart squeezing. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice thick. “I’m really, really sorry. For dragging you into this mess… for making you worry… for making you feel like you had to fight for me. You didn’t. You don’t have to ever again.”
Danny’s arms wrapped around you tighter, and for the first time since the backstage area exploded, you felt him truly relax. “You don’t have to apologize,” he murmured. “I’m here. We’re partners. You’re worth fighting for.”
But you shook your head, pressing your lips to his temple. “No… I mean it. I’m sorry. For everything I’ve let happen. I don’t want you caught in the middle again.”
He kissed the top of your head, voice low and steady. “I know. But I’m here for you.… I promise. Whatever that looks like. I’m here, and for now, can we just stay here? Just you and me?”
You nodded, closing your eyes against his chest, letting the storm of the night finally settle into something softer, something that felt like home.
Back at the hotel, Danny’s cock was shoved halfway down your throat, the weight of him thick and demanding on your tongue. Your nails dug into his thighs, leaving crescents on the hard muscle as if you needed proof this was real. He had been right. You were thanking him in the only way your body knew how.
You’d stood side stage and watched him earlier, arms a blur, beating the hell out of his drums until your head filled with thoughts you could barely control. Every crash of cymbals, every shout of his name from the crowd, had your pulse racing. By the end of the show, you were aching, already picturing yourself like this. On your knees, worshiping him, and giving him the kind of release only you could.
His fist tangled in your ponytail, tugging you deeper, his groan rough and raw. “Fuck… just like that.”
You gave him a few more slow, deliberate strokes of your mouth before pulling off with a wet pop, your lips slick and swollen. His eyes snapped to yours immediately, wide and fevered, and you smirked up at him, still clutching his thighs like they were your anchor. Rising to your feet, you leaned into him, pressing your mouth against his neck, trailing hot, wet kisses along the ridge of his jugular until you felt his pulse hammering against your lips.
“I want you to fuck my tits,” you whispered, pushing gently against his chest until he let you guide him down onto the bed. His knees hit the edge of the mattress as you slid back down, reclaiming your place between his legs.
You licked along the head of his cock, teasing, swirling your tongue before taking one slow suck that had him cursing your name. Then you pulled back, spit pooling in your mouth before you let it drip down your cleavage, slicking your skin. Grabbing your breasts, you squeezed them together, guiding his cock between the soft swell as you began to move, slow at first, then faster.
Danny’s hands hovered uselessly at his sides until you grabbed them and pressed them firmly to your chest. “Go on,” you urged, watching his face.
The way he squeezed made you gasp, harder than you expected, but it only spurred you on. You pushed your hair back, giving him a clear view as you bounced your tits along his length, watching him unravel.
“Holy shit,” Danny groaned, his head tipping back, the tendons in his neck straining. The sound alone made your smile curl wickedly, like you were winning a game you knew you’d always had the upper hand in.
“Oh, fuck… I’m gonna come,” he whined, his voice cracking, the muscles in his stomach going taut.
“Then come,” you breathed, low and slurred, sticking your tongue out like you were offering him a target.
His whole body jolted with release, a raw sound tearing out of his throat as he spilled over you. Your breasts, your tongue, your flushed face, and all of it claimed by him.
You slowed your movements, letting him twitch and throb between your tits until he finally sagged back against the bed, spent. A soft chuckle left your lips as you leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to the swollen head of his cock before letting him go.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” you said, careful not to drip on the carpet as you stood. Tossing him a teasing grin in the mirror, you added, “Good show tonight, rockstar.”
Danny lifted one arm, giving you a lazy thumbs up before letting it flop back down at his side, a smile tugging faintly at his lips as exhaustion won out.
The bathroom filled with steam within minutes, hot water rushing over your skin, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of Danny still clinging to you. You braced your hands against the slick tile, eyes shut as the spray beat down on your shoulders, but no amount of heat could burn away the storm twisting inside you.
You tried to focus on Danny. The way his hair stuck to his temples after the set, on his grin when he spotted you backstage, on the sound of your name groaned into your mouth when you had him undone just an hour ago in the dressing room. He had your full attention. He deserved it.
And yet…
Jake was there too. He always was.
The memory of him on stage seared itself into your brain. The way he demanded the crowd’s attention without even trying. He didn’t just play his guitar; he lived inside it. Every sharp thrust of his hips, every bend of his body into the rhythm. It was as if he was pouring himself into every note, daring anyone to look away. You hadn’t been immune. You never were.
Your breath hitched as your hand slid lower, slick with water, slipping between your thighs. It was automatic, traitorous. Danny had owned you earlier, had pulled orgasm after orgasm out of you with sheer force, but now your mind betrayed him, betrayed you both.
It wasn’t Danny’s hands you imagined. It was Jake’s. Rough, possessive, demanding. The ghost of his smirk burned into the back of your eyelids as you pressed harder, faster, picturing the way his hips would drive into you like they did into his guitar. Sharp. Rhythmic. Relentless.
A strangled sound tore from your throat as you arched into the spray, chasing the thought of him, of something you should’ve buried long ago. Your climax crashed over you, sharp and guilty, your forehead pressed to the cool tile as you bit back his name before it could escape your lips.
By the time the water cooled, you were trembling, spent, ashamed, and no less conflicted than before.
Danny had your body. Jake still had your mind. And that was the mess you carried out of the shower, dripping and raw, with no idea how much longer you could live split in two.
Danny had been gone for months.
He was out seeing the world while you stayed behind, tending to your own business. Literally and figuratively. You picked up more shifts than you thought humanly possible, juggling interviews for new dancers, one of them meant to take Danny’s old spot. No one filled it quite like he did. You found someone decent, sure. He could draw a crowd, keep the regulars happy. But he didn’t have Danny’s rhythm, his quiet confidence, or that spark that made people watch him even when he wasn’t trying to be seen.
The weeks blurred. If you weren’t dancing, you were managing, fixing, patching, or putting out fires. Nothing was exactly wrong, but nothing felt right either. You were off-kilter, caught somewhere between running a business and keeping yourself from falling apart.
You missed the hell out of Danny. God, you hated how much you missed him. But the worst part was, he wasn’t the only one you missed.
You missed Jake.
You hated that you did. Hated that when Danny called, you sometimes hoped to hear Jake’s laugh echoing in the background, or the faint strum of his guitar bleeding through the speaker. Hated that you’d catch yourself wishing Jake might text you. Something simple, something stupid that reminded him of you. But nothing like that ever came. You felt ridiculous for even thinking about it. Danny was the one doing all the things you’d wanted… calling, checking in, making sure you knew he cared. And still, some selfish, shameful part of you longed for the other one.
Della and Zoe tried to keep you busy. Girls’ nights at the bar, movie nights curled up with takeout, but every time your phone lit up with Danny’s name, your stomach flipped like a teenager’s. He’d call or text when he could, voice low and tired from travel, telling you stories about cities you’d only seen on postcards. You’d smile, hang up, and then hate yourself for missing him even more.
At some point in March, you started to pull away slowly, deliberately. You didn’t answer every call. You let texts sit unread until the next morning. You told yourself it was for your own good. You didn’t want to depend on someone who would always leave again.
So when the message came:
We’re headed home. See you soon
Your chest tightened, no matter how much you’d practiced not caring.
And yet, the second his call came with an address, you didn’t think. You just went.
When you saw him, your heart nearly broke out of your chest. Danny looked different. Longer hair, leaner frame, arms defined in a way they hadn’t been before. There was something quieter about him too, like the world had scraped him raw and smoothed him over all at once. You didn’t care. You didn’t even hesitate. You clung to him like fresh Velcro, breathing him in, your body remembering the shape of his before your brain caught up.
Then…
A snort.
You froze, half-buried in Danny’s chest.
“Looks like someone missed you,” came a too-familiar voice from behind him.
You peered over Danny’s shoulder and there he was, Sam Kiszka, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place, a knowing grin tugging at his mouth.
“What are—?”
“We live together,” Danny said quickly, like it was nothing.
You blinked. “You what?”
“When we went on tour, we both gave up our leases,” Danny explained, his voice still soft, still holding you close. “Figured it made sense to share a place when we got back.”
“You lived alone just to come back and have a roommate?”
Danny’s smile twitched. “Eh, it’s not like that. Sam and I got close. Like brothers sharing a space.”
“He stole his actual brother’s girlfriend, so—”
From behind him, Sam muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake.”
Danny sighed. “Sam—”
“Let it go,” Sam groaned loudly. “Jake has. You should, too.”
“I don’t give a fuck what Jake’s done,” you cut in, voice sharp. You twisted in Danny’s hold, trying to face Sam head-on. “Still a fucked up thing to do.”
“Jake said you were feisty,” Sam teased, like it was a compliment.
“Sam,” Danny warned again, his tone dropping lower.
“She came into our house and started it,” Sam shot back, hands raised in mock defense.
“I’ll finish it, too,” you said, fighting Danny’s arms still locked around your waist.
Sam snorted, already backing toward the hallway. “Whatever,” he muttered. “Make yourself at home, kitten.”
You glared after him until he disappeared, then turned back to Danny, your pulse still thundering.
“Brothers, huh?” you said, eyes narrowing.
Danny sighed, pulling you closer again, his voice low and tired against your ear. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“What if I just fuck him once? You know… get it out of my system?” you teased, laughing as you spun lazily in one of the upstairs bar chairs.
“That would do no one any good,” Zoe said, her voice even but her smile betraying amusement as she marked inventory behind the counter.
You’d officially given her the title of club manager right after Danny came back. It was long overdue. You’d built this place from the ground up, lived and breathed every piece of it for years, but lately, it had felt like the walls were closing in on you. Zoe stepped up like she’d been waiting for the chance. Zoe was organized, fearless, full of ideas, and it let you finally breathe.
Within a week, she had new dancers hired and someone better to fill Danny’s old spot. The guy wasn’t bad, either. He brought in new regulars, held his own on stage, and managed to make even your most loyal customers stick around for another drink. You’d been in a funk, and Zoe, somehow, was bringing both you and the club back to life.
She had even convinced you to let her hire real contractors instead of trying to “DIY it” with YouTube videos again, and you had to admit… it was nice watching someone else take care of things for once.
“What could it hurt?” you asked, still teasing, spinning lazily in your chair.
Zoe paused mid-note, clipboard dropping to her side. Her face softened. “It could hurt you,” she said quietly. “It could hurt Danny. And Jake. That’s not you.”
The playfulness drained from your voice. “You’re right,” you sighed, shoulders slumping. “It was just a joke. I don’t plan on seeing him anytime soon. I don’t even want to.”
“Zoe?”
You both turned toward the stairs. The new guy leaned over the railing, thumb hooked over his shoulder. “Contractors are here.”
“Alright, I’ll be right there,” Zoe called back before glancing at you, her expression uneasy.
“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.
She hesitated, shifting her clipboard from one hand to the other. “I did something you’re not going to like. But I swear, it wasn’t with bad intentions. They already knew your name and the club’s name and—”
“You didn’t.” You stood so fast your chair scraped the floor. “Tell me you did not call his company.”
“I’m sorry!” she blurted. “It was a huge discount, or I wouldn’t have even considered it.”
“Zoe,” you said, stunned, already crossing to the balcony that overlooked the main floor. “You didn’t.”
Before she could reply, you shouted, “No!”
Two heads snapped upward, Jake and Sam, both standing on the main floor with paperwork in hand. Sam’s grin spread the second he saw you barreling down the stairs.
“No, no, no,” you muttered, picking up speed.
“Y/N,” Zoe pleaded, rushing after you.
“No!” you said again, louder this time as you reached the bottom. “No, I don’t want your discount, and I sure as hell don’t want to do business with you.”
Sam’s grin turned wolfish. “Well, hello, kitten. Missed you at breakfast.”
“Get. Out.”
“Hey, that’s no way to talk to your boyfriend’s best friend, now is it?” Sam teased, his tone dripping with mock sweetness.
“Sam, I swear to God,” you said through gritted teeth.
“Whoa, whoa,” Jake said, stepping between you before it could escalate. One hand pressed lightly to Sam’s chest, pushing him back. The other went to your shoulder, gentle and grounding. “We’re just here to drop off the supplies that were ordered. Then we’ll be out of your hair.”
You wanted to flinch away, to act like his touch burned, but it didn’t. It soothed you. And that made you even angrier. You swatted his hand away, jaw tight.
“There’s no way this is happening,” you said with a sharp, bitter laugh.
“Y/N,” Zoe said softly, stepping closer. “I already signed a contract with them. It’ll cost more to break it than to let them finish the job. Please… just let me be the manager. Let me do my job.”
You shot her a look, and she didn’t back down. She never did. You knew she was being patient with you, but beneath that calm, she probably wanted to snatch you by your hair and tell you to stop being an asshole.
“Fine,” you finally muttered. “Just do what you have to.”
Jake’s brow arched. “Manager? You made her manager?”
You ignored him. Zoe grinned and said, “Yep. Took her long enough. Now she can come and go as she pleases. As long as she keeps signing the checks.”
You smiled faintly at that. “You earned it.”
Jake tried to catch your attention again. “So… you’ve got free time now? Maybe after I finish up here we—”
“Zoe, this is me going,” you said quickly, cutting him off. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be at Danny’s.”
As you started up the stairs, Sam called after you, voice sing-song sweet: “See you later, kitten!”
You stopped, groaning under your breath. “Fuck,” you muttered, remembering, of course, he lived there too.
Sam’s laughter echoed after you as you grabbed your bag and stormed out before either of them could say another word.
You texted Danny, hoping he could distract you from the terrible mood Jake and Sam had put you in, but of course, he was with Josh. You rolled your eyes so hard you were sure you saw the back of your skull for a second.
So instead, you went to your favorite escape: a little coffee shop that doubled as a bookstore. It was tucked inside an old house, every inch of it cozy and alive with character. The place smelled like paper and roasted coffee beans, the kind of scent that could lower your shoulders a full inch the moment you stepped inside. Stacks of used books lined every corner, some teetering dangerously, just waiting for someone to pull one down and give it a second life.
You only came here when you really needed a treat.
Upstairs was your favorite spot. A worn, padded rocking chair overlooking the town square. The view changed with the seasons, and each one had its own kind of magic. In winter, snow blanketed everything but the winding roads. In fall, the trees caught fire with color, the ground carpeted in leaves that made everything feel impossibly warm and nostalgic. But now, in early spring, the town was waking up again. Everything seemed to stretch and bloom, like the world was trying to start fresh. And you loved watching it happen.
You grabbed a book from a nearby stack, picked up your cortado from the barista, and headed upstairs. The familiar creak of the floorboards greeted you as you found your favorite corner in the hallway, the small side table waiting beside your chair like an old friend.
You settled into the rocking chair, the soft creak of the wood greeting you. The cortado was warm in your hands, its steam curling toward the window as you gazed out over the town square. The sun was out, the kind that made the world look cleaner somehow, like it had just been washed and set out to dry.
You remembered the last time you’d sat here, after Jake left. Months had passed before you’d come again, that time clutching the letter he’d sent, your heart tangled between anger and ache. The seasons had shifted between each visit. Snow to bloom, bloom to fall, and somehow, every version of this place had held a different version of you.
And now here you were again. Another Jake incident, another pilgrimage to your favorite spot. You took a slow sip of coffee, the bitterness grounding you, and thought, not for the first time, was it even your favorite spot anymore? Or had it become something else entirely? A shrine to every time Jake had broken something in you?
Outside, the world was waking up again. Tiny green buds clung to tree branches, stubborn and full of hope. It made you think about second chances, how even the barest branches didn’t stay that way forever. Maybe this season could be that for you. A new start. You didn’t have to stay stuck in this endless loop of guilt and longing. You didn’t have to keep feeling sour every time Jake’s name brushed against your thoughts. You didn’t have to keep punishing yourself for missing him while being with Danny.
You could just stop.
Be free.
Wash your hands of it all and finally start fresh.
The thought felt light, almost too easy, but for once, you didn’t question it. You smiled to yourself, set your cup down, and opened your book. The corners of your mouth stayed curved upward, the kind of quiet smile that comes when you finally figure out something so simple, you can’t believe it took you this long to see it.
But just as you began to read, your mind wandered, uninvited, to the sound of a guitar. That slow, deliberate rhythm only he played. You could almost hear it drifting faintly through the hum of the café, like a ghost brushing past your shoulder. Maybe peace wasn’t about forgetting him. Maybe it was learning to live with the echo.
The next morning felt different, lighter somehow. You woke up without that familiar ache sitting heavy on your chest. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like you were waking up to fight your own thoughts. You moved through your morning slow but steady, made your coffee, and actually finished it while it was still hot. The air smelled faintly like rain, and even that felt like some kind of cleansing. Like the universe was helping you rinse off the last of the weight you’d been carrying.
You texted Danny and told him you needed to talk. He called immediately, trying to coax it out of you over the phone, but you didn’t budge. “In person,” you said. He sighed but agreed, and an hour later you were sitting across from him at your usual coffee spot, a half-eaten pastry between you and two steaming mugs on the table.
He looked relaxed, as he always did. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, fingers tracing the rim of his cup. You tried to start casually, asking what he and Josh had been up to lately, but the second you said it, Danny gave you that look. The one that saw straight through you.
“Cut the shit,” he said gently. “What’s this really about? You don’t call for a talk unless it’s serious.”
You swallowed hard, fingers twisting around your napkin. “It’s serious,” you said softly. You took a breath, then another, then just said it. “I think… I think we should stop seeing each other.”
Danny leaned back, his eyes never leaving yours. He didn’t look surprised. Just quiet. Patient.
“It’s not you,” you rushed out, shaking your head. “It’s me. I just—”
He held up a hand to stop you. “You still have feelings for Jake.”
You blinked, feeling the sting of tears before you could even answer. Your throat burned as you nodded. “Yes. God, yes. And I wish I didn’t. I wish I could just… erase it. I wish I could love you the way you deserve, the way you’ve loved me.”
But before you could go on, Danny spoke again, his voice steady but warm. “This isn’t about that,” he said. “I wasn’t here to win against him. I was here to remind you what real love feels like. The kind that shows up, that’s kind, that tries. Even when it fails.” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours. “Sadly, what I gave was the bottom line of what you should have. You deserve the best, and that’s all I ever wanted you to see. If you think Jake can give you that, I want that for you. But if he can’t, if he ever makes you forget what being loved feels like, you know where to find me.” He smiled faintly. “I’m always here. Lover or friend.”
The words cracked something open in you. Tears slid down your cheeks before you could stop them, and you laughed weakly, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what Jake can give,” you said, voice trembling. “But you… you’re more than I deserve. Friend or lover.”
Danny didn’t argue. He just pulled you in, wrapping his arms around you as you cried into his shoulder. The hum of the café filled the space between you. The low chatter, the clinking cups, the faint hiss of the espresso machine. It all blended together like background music to something quietly heartbreaking but necessary.
And when you finally pulled back, eyes red but heart a little steadier, Danny smiled softly at you. “See?” he said. “That’s what letting go looks like. Doesn’t hurt less, but it’s lighter, right?”
You nodded, wiping your eyes. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It’s lighter.”
Your next stop was Jake’s, or technically, the club. Where you knew he’d be working on the remodel Zoe had roped him into. You told yourself that you weren’t going to get in the way, that you were just going to check on the progress, but the second you stepped through the door, your heart betrayed you.
You barely recognized the place. Paint tarps covered the floor, ladders leaned against freshly sanded walls, and the air smelled like sawdust and primer instead of perfume and whiskey. The low hum of drills and men’s voices echoed off the high ceiling. It was alive in a new way. Busier, louder, and stripped bare and rebuilding.
Then you saw him.
Jake was crouched near the stage, knee pads strapped on, jeans worn thin and too tight across his thighs, a smudge of dust on his jaw. His tool belt sat discarded beside him as he worked carefully on the stage tiles, hands steady, focused. Like the world beyond his project didn’t exist. You froze halfway to Zoe at the bar, your steps faltering, your breath catching in your throat before a familiar, maddening voice shattered the moment.
“Well, look who it is… kitten!” Sam’s voice boomed from across the room.
You closed your eyes and sighed. Of course. The nickname still grated on you, more than you wanted to admit. Maybe it was because it came from him. Or maybe because it reminded you of Jake, too. Either way, it felt like part of that heavy weight you were trying to finally set down.
So you squared your shoulders and walked right up to him. “Sam,” you said, stopping a few feet away. “Listen, I owe you an apology. I was… rude. Quick to judge you. I didn’t know you, and that wasn’t fair.”
Sam blinked, clearly not expecting that.
“Maybe you were just dropped on your head as a baby,” you added, deadpan, “and that explains a lot.”
He burst out laughing, tilting his head back. “You know what? I’ll take that. Truce?”
You nodded. “Truce. Clean slate.”
“Good,” he said, grinning wide. “But I’m keeping the nickname.”
“No,” you shot back immediately, crossing your arms. “No more kitten. I hate it.”
“Aww, come on,” he teased, leaning in slightly. “You don’t like that?”
“Why that name?” you challenged, narrowing your eyes.
He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. “Because even though you’re tiny, you’re still feisty. Like a kitten. The scratch still hurts, you know.”
You couldn’t help it, you laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah, but you love me for it,” he said, grinning wider.
“Love is not in my vocabulary for you,” you warned, but there was a softness in your tone now.
Sam chuckled and went back to helping one of the workers, leaving you standing there feeling oddly lighter. Like maybe forgiveness, even in small doses, was its own kind of peace.
Then your gaze drifted back to Jake, still working, unaware you were even there, or pretending to be. And your heart did that annoying little lurch again.
You sighed, tearing your eyes away from Jake and making your way up to the bar where Zoe stood folding a fresh stack of bar rags. She caught your expression before you even said a word, one brow arching as she froze mid-fold.
“What did you do?” she asked slowly, suspicion lacing her voice like she already knew it was something big.
You dropped onto a barstool, exhaling hard. “I broke up with Danny,” you said quietly, barely above a whisper.
“Shh!” you hissed, jumping up and clamping a hand over her mouth.
She mumbled something against your palm and you followed her gaze to where Jake had paused mid tile grab, glancing over with mild curiosity. You gave him a little wave that was equal parts awkward and panicked, and after a beat, he went back to work.
Zoe yanked your hand away. “You broke up with Danny?” she repeated, but softer now, more careful.
You nodded, staring down at the bar top. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know. I felt like I needed to. It wasn’t fair to him, Zo. I was halfway there, and he deserves someone who’s all in. Someone who doesn’t think about someone else every time the phone rings or a guitar plays in the background.”
Her expression softened instantly. She reached across the bar and set her hand on yours, grounding you. “Hey. That takes guts, you know. To admit it. To end it the right way.”
You bit your lip, emotion pressing at your throat. “I feel awful. He was so good to me. But I think… I think I’ve been carrying this weight too long, and I’m just tired.”
Zoe squeezed your hand gently. “Then maybe it’s time you put it down.”
You blinked at her, confused for a moment until she nodded subtly toward the stage, where Jake was still working, sleeves rolled up, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside you.
“Go talk to him,” she said. “Clear the air. Just say what needs to be said. End it, whatever it is, the right way. For you.”
You hesitated, glancing back at Jake, the familiar ache in your chest flaring. “And if it doesn’t go well?”
“Then you walk out of here lighter,” Zoe said simply, offering you a small, reassuring smile. “Free of it. Free of him. Free of all of it.”
You nodded slowly, her words sinking deep. Maybe she was right. Maybe this was what moving on looked like. Not pretending, not running, but facing it.
So you straightened your shoulders, took one last breath to steady yourself, and started toward Jake, ready to finally set yourself free.
But halfway across the floor, your courage cracked.
Your steps faltered, your stomach dropped, and before you could even think, you spun on your heel and made a beeline for your office, ignoring Zoe calling your name behind you.
You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Because suddenly it all felt too fast, too raw, too… much.
Your mind spiraled as you closed the door behind you, pressing your back against it like it could keep the world out. What were you even doing? Less than twenty-four hours ago, your life, your mess of a heart, at least had some kind of order. Now you were breaking up with Danny, making peace with Sam, considering talking to Jake? For what? Some vague promise of closure? The illusion of feeling lighter?
You ran your hands through your hair, pacing the narrow space between your desk and the couch.
You told yourself this was growth, healing, maturity, whatever word made it sound noble. But underneath it, the truth whispered ugly and uncertain.
What if this wasn’t healing at all?
What if you’d just blown up the only stable thing you had left?
What if tomorrow you woke up and the weight wasn’t gone but heavier? What if it turned out you didn’t want a fresh start, you just wanted Danny? Or worse… what if the reason you couldn’t let go of Jake wasn’t love, but habit?
You sank into your desk chair, elbows on your knees, head in your hands. You’d told yourself you were ready to stop being sad, to stop feeling guilty, to finally be free.
But sitting here, heart racing and eyes burning—you weren’t sure you even knew how.
“Honey? Are you okay?”
That word, honey, hit you like a ghost of a touch. Soft. Familiar. Sweet in a way that made your chest ache. It rolled off his tongue like something he’d said a thousand times before, and for one disorienting second, you wanted to let yourself melt into it. To pretend it was still a word that belonged to you.
But it didn’t. Not anymore.
It lingered like a thorn in your side. Beautiful, but sharp enough to remind you it didn’t belong there. It was like wine you wanted to savor, smooth going down, comforting even… until it hit the back of your tongue and left a shiver in its wake. That’s what honey was now, something that used to warm you but now only stung.
You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole, drag you somewhere far away from the sting of it, from the shame of how much comfort a single word could still bring.
He was there, suddenly. Close. Kneeling down in front of you so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. His face blurred at the edges, and that’s when you realized, you were crying. Silent, shaking tears you hadn’t even felt start.
“Oh, honey, stop,” Jake murmured, voice low and careful, like he was afraid you’d shatter if he spoke too loud. He reached for the tissues on your desk, his fingers brushing yours before dabbing gently at your cheeks, your chin. His touch was tentative, reverent, breaking you open in ways he didn’t even realize. “What’s going on? Is it Danny?”
You shook your head, breath hitching. “No.” It came out hoarse, small. You cleared your throat, tried again. “No, it’s… me.”
Jake stayed there, still on his knees, his eyes tracing your face like he was trying to read the things you couldn’t say. The worry etched into his expression only made the ache worse.
“I’m so tired,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m so tired of feeling mad. And sad. And… just angry at you.” You laughed weakly, though it came out closer to a sob. “I want to be over it. I should be over it. It’s been years, Jake. So why am I not? Why was I still so wrapped up in you that I thought breaking things off with Danny would somehow fix it?”
Your eyes met his then wet, searching, desperate. “What is it about you? What the hell is wrong with me?”
The room was silent except for your unsteady breathing. Jake didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, really looked, and it felt like he could see every raw, ugly piece you’d been trying so hard to hide. And somehow, that was worse than anything he could have said.
Jake blinked hard, his face drawn in a quiet kind of panic, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands or the words slipping out of your mouth. He looked smaller somehow, even kneeling there, shoulders hunched under the weight of years neither of you had the courage to unpack.
“Hey,” he whispered finally, voice breaking in a way that made your stomach twist. “You don’t have to… don’t cry, okay? Please don’t.”
You laughed, the sound hollow and unsteady. “You think I can control it now? After all this time?”
He smiled, just barely, but it was full of regret. “Guess not.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and fragile. You could hear the hum of the lights overhead, the muffled sound of conversation from the bar downstairs, the steady rhythm of your own pulse hammering in your throat.
“Why are you even here, Jake?” you asked finally, voice sharper than you meant it to be. “You’re a famous rockstar now. You didn’t have to slum it with the working class.”
He flinched, but not in anger, more like the words had hit something tender. He took a deep breath and sat back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs. “Because this still matters to me,” he said quietly. “I might be touring, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about the business. I wanted to make sure things were running right while I was home.”
You crossed your arms, biting the inside of your cheek. “That’s the PR answer. Try again.”
Jake let out a soft, almost embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Fine.” His eyes lifted to meet yours, warm and heavy. “Because I heard you were the one who needed help. And I wanted to do something. Anything. I thought maybe…” He trailed off, exhaling through his nose. “Maybe if I could show up for you now, it might start to make up for all the times I didn’t before.”
The room tilted for a second. His voice, his words, the way he was looking at you, it all hit too close. Too real.
“Jake…” you started, but your voice wavered.
He pushed himself up to sit on the floor beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. “We could try again,” he said softly. “You and me. Just see where it goes. No pressure, no expectations. Just… see.”
You closed your eyes, because looking at him made it too hard to breathe. “Jake, I can’t.”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at you, waiting.
You opened your eyes slowly. “I’ve seen what happens when you take a step back and actually focus on yourself. You’re calmer. Healthier. Happier. And I want that… for me. I think I need to figure out who I am outside of all of this.”
He frowned slightly. “What are you saying?”
You smiled sadly. “I’m saying I might go to Europe. Find myself there or something. Have an Eat Pray Love moment.”
That pulled a small, broken laugh out of him. “Europe, huh?”
“Yeah,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Maybe Italy. I don’t know. Maybe somewhere quiet. Somewhere that doesn’t have your face on every magazine cover.”
Jake shook his head slowly, that smile fading into something more bittersweet. Then, softly, almost too softly, he said, “You don’t have to leave to figure things out.”
Your chest ached at the sound of your own words being thrown back at you, years later. You swallowed hard and looked at him, the corner of your mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“Maybe not,” you whispered. “But I think it’s better if I do.” You hesitated, your voice catching on the last part. “For both of us.”
Jake nodded, slow and resigned, eyes glassy under the low light. “Yeah,” he murmured. “For both of us.”
You sat there for a long moment, the silence stretching so tight it almost hurt to breathe. The question burned a hole in your chest until it slipped out before you could stop it.
“Why didn’t you come back?”
You’d thought you already knew what it felt like to be broken but this? This was different. This was the kind of ache that cracked something deeper, something you hadn’t even realized was still intact.
Jake didn’t answer right away. He shifted, standing from where he sat and walked over to the couch. His shoes scuffed on the floor, and for a second, you almost told him not to come any closer. But he just sat down, patting the cushion beside him in quiet invitation.
You hesitated, long enough to remind yourself that you didn’t owe him this. But still, you crossed the room and sat down, careful to leave a small, deliberate space between you.
“Short answer?” he asked finally, meeting your gaze.
You gave a small shrug. “Sure.”
“I was scared,” he said simply.
You exhaled through your nose, trying to ignore the sting behind your eyes. “Okay,” you murmured, voice brittle. “Now the long answer.”
He chuckled softly, like he’d expected that. Then his hand found your knee. Tentative, almost absentminded, as his thumb traced a slow, nervous line against it.
“I was scared,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Musicians… sometimes we don’t make it. I thought if I came back, if I told you what I was doing, you’d look at me differently. Like it was just a phase or a stupid dream. And if I let you hear what we’d been working on, and you didn’t like it—”
He paused, swallowing hard. “I was scared I’d stop believing in it. That I’d stop believing in me.”
You didn’t look at him right away. You couldn’t. His words sat heavy in the air, bleeding into every quiet beat that followed. The ache in your chest pulsed like a bruise being pressed, over and over again.
“I get it,” you said finally, your voice small but steady. “I really do.” You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “Taking a risk like that, chasing something that big, it’s terrifying. But that’s how you grow, right? You take the leap and hope it doesn’t swallow you whole.”
You gestured vaguely around the room, around your life, around everything that had changed since you started your own journey. “That’s what I’ve been doing here. Trying. Failing. Learning how to stand on my own two feet. You have to take risks, even if you have no idea how it’ll end. And I respect that you did.”
Jake’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“But what kills me,” you went on, the crack in your voice betraying the calm you were clinging to, “is that you thought I’d ever stand in your way. That you saw me as someone who’d hold you back.” You shook your head, biting down on a bitter laugh. “You could’ve sold ice cubes in Antarctica, Jake, and I still would’ve been there. I would’ve supported you.”
He looked down at his hands, thumb rubbing against the calloused edge of his palm.
“That’s the part that hurts,” you whispered, voice softening. “Yes, it hurts that you left… but it hurts more that you didn’t even give me the chance to prove I wouldn’t have stopped you.”
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was jagged and raw, filled with all the words you’d both left unsaid for years. He looked at you like he wanted to reach out, to apologize, to close the distance. But you stayed where you were. Because understanding didn’t erase the hurt, and forgiveness didn’t mean you were ready to offer it.
He stared at you for a long time before finally breaking the silence.
“What does this mean?” Jake asked, voice low but steady. “All this talk about… finding yourself? Eat, pray, love, whatever that was… what are you really saying?”
You laughed softly, though it caught in your throat. “I meant what I said. I need to focus on myself for a while. Not jump into acting on something again just because you’re back home and this is the first real conversation we’ve had in years.”
You took a slow breath, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “No, Jake. I’m just learning to stop chasing something that’s not ready for me. You finally got what you’ve been working toward, and I’m proud of you. I really am. But I think it’s my turn now, to figure out who I am outside of all of this.”
He exhaled through his nose, like the words hit somewhere deep. “You were always too perfect for me,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I knew I couldn’t have you and this dream. Not both.”
You smiled faintly. “I’m not perfect, Jake. I just finally understand timing. You got yours right… now I just need to get mine.”
He scooted closer, close enough that your knees were touching. His hand twitched in his lap like he wanted to reach for you again, but still didn’t. “So that’s where we are?” he whispered.
“Yeah,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “That’s where we are.”
chapter warnings: tension, arguing, mind reading again, vulnerability, shirtless jake, almost kissing, lemme know if i missed any!
TGMS MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST
Four days.
Four days of nothing.
No shadow in the corner of your vision. No shift in the air. No sarcastic remarks. No flickering laughter in your ear when you least expect it.
Just silence.
And it’s the longest he’s ever been gone.
At first, you were angry. Then scared. Then angry because you were scared.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he’d show up when he wanted something.
And just like always– he does.
He appears in your living room without warning, as usual.
No knock. No call.
Just a flicker in the air, a cold wind that wasn’t there before– and then Jake is standing there like nothing’s changed.
Leaning against the wall. Smirking.
“Miss me?”
You’re on your feet before you even realize you’re moving. “Where the hell have you been?”
He blinks.
That cocky smirk stays in place, but you see the way his shoulders shift. Like he wasn’t expecting this.
“I figured a little break would do you good,” he says lazily. “Thought I’d give you time to reflect. Maybe pine a little.”
You walk toward him, heat rising in your chest. “You were gone for four days, Jake.”
He shrugs. “Time flies when you're morally gray.”
“I thought you were dead.”
That lands.
His smile flickers. Just for a second. Then he leans in, voice low and sharp.
“You worried about me?”
You shove him. Hard. Not playful.
“Careful,” he says, unmoving, “You shove a demon too hard, he might start thinking you care.”
“Maybe I do!” you snap. “And maybe that’s the problem.”
His smile dies. He stares at you, jaw tense, something dark flickering behind his eyes.
You step closer, furious now– not just at him, but at yourself.
“You don’t get to show up like nothing happened,” you spit. “You don’t get to disappear for days and then walk in here acting like some charming little shit just because you can.”
He tilts his head. “Admit it, though. You missed my charming little shit energy.”
You don’t smile. You don’t blink.
“You could’ve said something,” you say. “Anything. Just to let me know you weren’t–”
You stop yourself.
He doesn’t.
He steps forward, grin returning like a mask slipping back into place. “Weren’t what? Dead? Please. It’d take more than four days in hell to kill me. Probably bore them to death before they got the chance.”
You laugh, but there’s no humor in it, “Why do you do this?” you whisper. “Why do you always have to turn everything into a joke?”
“Because if I don’t,” he says– and for the first time, his voice slips, “I might have to feel something.”
You stare at him. He looks away. And for once, his silence doesn’t feel smug. It feels exhausted. But then he straightens, ego snapping back into place like armor.
“You’re so cute when you’re angry,” he says, smirking again. “Like a furious little kitten. Adorable. Dangerous.”
“You’re insufferable,” you mutter.
“And yet,” he says, stepping closer, voice all smoke and sin, “you keep opening the door.”
“I didn’t open it,” you snap. “You teleported through my walls.”
“Semantics.”
But something in him is fraying. You can see it. He’s pretending so hard not to care, and it’s starting to show.
So you soften. Just a little.
“You can’t keep doing this, Jake,” you say, “Pretending you don’t need anyone.”
His eyes meet yours. And for one flicker of a second, he’s quiet. Raw.
“I’m not pretending,” he murmurs. And he vanishes.
Gone– again.
But this time, you’re not just left behind. You’re left with the knowledge that he heard you. And that it mattered.
—
You’re sitting there, pacing back and forth in the living room, the weight of everything pressing down on you. His absence has gnawed at you, turned into an ache in your chest, something between fear and frustration, and the distance has only made it worse. You know he can still reach you, at least in some way.
He used to be able to hear everything. Every thought, every breath you took– he could sense it, feel it in the way you couldn’t hide your emotions from him. But you learned to block him out. Hard. It took time and a lot of practice, but you managed to seal yourself off from his prying, invasive presence. You didn’t want him inside your head anymore.
But tonight? You’re done with hiding. Done with waiting for him to show up when he decides. You need to know what’s going on with him. You need to hear him– really hear him– even if it means letting down the last wall between you.
So, you stand in front of the door to your mind. You’ve always kept it locked tight since you learned, never letting him get in again. But now… now you decide to open it, just a crack. Just enough for him to slip through.
You close your eyes and breathe, reaching inside yourself, pulling at the barrier, loosening the chains around your thoughts. The space inside your mind starts to open up, the fog of the walls lifting.
Jake, you think, willing the message to be clear. The door’s open.
There’s no immediate rush of his presence. No spark of recognition in your head. It feels... empty. Like he’s not even there.
You wait, heart pounding. He always used to come, always used to push his way into your thoughts without invitation. But this time? Nothing.
The seconds stretch on, heavy and thick, like time is dragging its feet.
Jake, you think again, more insistently this time. I’m letting you in. Come on. Read me. Please.
Still nothing.
Frustration builds in you, twisting in your gut. You pull back from the door, but just as quickly, the gap starts to close again, the weight of it pressing against you like a physical force. You’re unsure whether to be relieved or... disappointed.
So, you shut it. Completely. The door to your mind slams shut with a thought, and you’re left in the quiet of your own head again, wondering if you just imagined it– if he even got the message at all.
You turn away, and there he is.
Jake.
Not in the corner of your vision. Not flickering in like some trick of light.
He’s standing in your living room, hands in his pockets, that familiar smug grin creeping across his face.
You blink, and for a moment, you wonder if your mind really did just play a trick on you. But the coldness in his eyes isn’t a mirage. He’s here.
You don’t speak at first. You just stare at him, the pulse of uncertainty and curiosity rattling in your chest. He watches you with that same unnerving, unreadable expression.
And then, with a soft chuckle, he speaks.
“Nice try.” Your stomach drops. “You let me in,” he says, his voice low, but there’s something in it now– something darker, almost triumphant. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice?”
You take a step back, your heart hammering in your chest. He’s… he’s been in there. He read you. All of it.
“Why didn’t you respond?” you ask, your voice shaking, unable to hide the edge of panic creeping up your throat. “Why didn’t you–”
“I’m not as easy to read as you think, sweetheart,” he interrupts, voice smooth, teasing– but there’s a coldness underneath that you didn’t hear before. “I knew what you were trying to do. Let me in, huh? Open the door...”
You shake your head, trying to steady yourself. “I just wanted to know. You’ve been gone. I needed to know what’s going on with you.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You think you can just open up to me, and I’m supposed to tell you all my little secrets?”
“You–” You swallow hard, shaking your head. “What do you want from me, Jake?”
A flicker of something crosses his face– a hesitation, a vulnerability that he doesn’t want you to see. But it’s gone before you can catch it.
“You opened the door,” he says again, slower this time, his voice almost too soft. “But you forgot to close it.”
And then, just as you feel the weight of his words sink in, he smirks, a slow, arrogant curve of his lips.
“But it’s cute,” he adds, stepping closer, “how you think you can control me. I think that’s what you’ve been doing all along, huh? Thinking you can fix me. Save me. Turn me into something… good.” He steps forward again, his voice dropping. “You really think you can change me, don’t you?”
You open your mouth to respond, but he doesn’t give you the chance.
Before you can say anything, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your arm– cold, almost too cold– and for a moment, the air between you two feels thick and suffocating. Like it’s filled with everything unsaid, every wall both broken and rebuilt.
“I don’t need saving,” he says, the words a low hiss. “And neither do you.”
Then, he’s gone again. Gone with barely a whisper of cold air, slipping away like the phantom he is.
The door to your mind is locked again. And this time, it feels more like a cage.
You stand there, heart pounding in your chest, feeling the space around you close in. He’s read you. He’s been inside your thoughts– and now, you have no idea if you’ve learned anything at all, or if he’s hiding behind the same walls that you thought you’d taken down.
—
It’s been another day and a half. No sign of him.
You keep replaying what you did– how you opened the door to your mind, how he didn’t respond. You keep asking yourself: Did he hear? Did he look? Obviously he did– he knew you had hopes of changing him.
And then the air shifts again.
The temperature dips. The shadows in the corner stretch. And Jake is there, leaning against your wall like he’s been there for hours, arms crossed, a lazy smirk playing at his mouth.
You don’t even bother hiding the jolt in your chest this time. You just glare at him.
“Did you read it?” you demand, voice low but shaking.
“Read what?” he asks innocently, like you’re talking about a grocery list.
“You know what,” you snap. “What I let you see. Did you read anything else?”
His smirk deepens, slow and wolfish. He takes one step closer, then another. “You’re asking if I was a good boy, hm?” he drawls. “If I only peeked at the neat little box you left open for me.”
Your stomach twists. “Jake–”
He cuts you off, his voice going softer but somehow heavier. “I was in there long enough to find all of it.”
You swallow hard. “All of it?”
“All the little thoughts you thought you were hiding,” he says, moving closer until there’s only a breath between you. “The clean ones. The dirty ones. The ones that kept you awake at night.”
Your cheeks burn, but you stand your ground. “I didn’t mean for you to–”
“Oh, I know.” His eyes flicker dark. “You wanted to control what I saw. You wanted to test me.” He tilts his head, lips curling into something between a smile and a snarl. “But you left the door wide open, sweetheart. And you taste a lot sweeter on the inside than you pretend to on the outside.”
Your breath catches. “You… you’re disgusting.”
He laughs softly. Not cruel. Not kind. Just low and velvety. “Am I? Or am I just the first person you’ve ever let close enough to see what’s actually in there?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
He leans in, his mouth near your ear now, voice a dark whisper, “You wanted me to see you,” he murmurs. “You just didn’t think about what it would feel like when I did.”
A shiver runs down your spine. You hate how your body reacts to him– how it doesn’t match the anger on your face.
“Don’t–” you start, but the word barely escapes.
He steps back slightly, smirk still in place but his eyes softer now, like he’s tasting the power but also testing the boundary. “Relax,” he says quietly. “I didn’t take everything.” He lets the pause stretch just enough to make your pulse skip. “Just enough to know exactly how you’ve been thinking about me.”
You hate the way the heat rises up your neck at his words. You hate the way he notices.
“See?” he murmurs, his voice a dark kind of playful now. “You open the door, and I walk through. That’s the game, right?”
You stare at him, heart hammering. “And what are you going to do with it?”
You don’t say anything for a long moment.
His smile widens, slow and wicked, “Depends how badly you want me to play.”
Jake watches you with that too-knowing look, the one that says he’s already ten steps ahead.
Neither does he. You’re both just standing there, the silence thick between you, charged. Your pulse is skittering in your throat, but you keep your chin up.
And then, without looking away, he says:
“Funny thing about thoughts...” He takes a slow step closer, “They don’t just sit there all nice and organized. They bleed into each other. Drift.”
Your mouth goes dry.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly– like he’s zeroing in on something delicious.
“You tried to show me the safe ones,” he murmurs. “But the ones I liked... those were buried just beneath the surface.” Another step, and you can feel the air tighten. “You know the one I mean.” His voice lowers, velvet-wrapped threat, edged with amusement. “You against the wall. My hand in your hair. Your mouth open and desperate and lying, telling me not to.”
You flinch, and he smiles.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “That one.”
You don’t move. You can’t.
Because it’s not just that he knows– it’s that he felt it. How much you wanted it. How much you still do.
He leans in again, voice a breath against your cheek, “You thought about the way my hand would feel closing around your throat, just enough pressure to make your breath catch– but not enough to stop you. You wanted me to kiss you like I was angry. Like I couldn’t help myself.” Your breath hitches. He doesn’t miss it. “You wanted it rough,” he whispers. “You wanted it real.” He lingers there, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him, and says: “And the best part?” A pause, like he’s savoring it, “You were afraid of how much you'd like it.”
You snap then– not with fear, but with something sharper, angrier, needier than you want to admit.
“Get out of my head.”
His smile widens, wicked and pleased.
“I already am,” he says, stepping back, slow and deliberate. “But you let me in. You wanted me there.”
You glare, chest heaving.
He looks you over once more, eyes flicking down, then back up– not leering, not crude. Just intentional. Like he’s memorizing the effect he has on you.
“You want in?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s something dangerous simmering beneath it. “You want to see what I really want to do to you?”
Your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can hear it. You nod, breath catching.
The world shifts, and you’re pulled deep inside his mind.
It’s not just dark– it’s alive. Electric.
You see him, standing close, that familiar fire in his eyes turned up to something fierce, something hungry. His hands find you– fingers tracing the curve of your neck, sliding down your shoulder. You watch, breathless, as his lips brush your skin, soft at first, then harder, demanding.
He leans in, pressing you against a wall– strong, unyielding.
The space between you is charged, the air thick with the sharp, urgent promise of what’s to come.
You feel his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer, and the way his mouth trails along your collarbone makes your skin tingle.
It’s all so vivid– too vivid– and just as you wrap your legs around his hips, it cuts off.
You’re back in your living room, cheeks flushed, heart racing like you just ran a marathon. You stare at his chest, unable to meet his eyes for a beat.
“Shy now?” he teases, that signature smirk tugging at his lips.
You shove him lightly, a blush creeping up your neck. “Maybe a little.”
Jake’s grin widens, eyes sparkling with dark amusement.
“Good,” he says softly. “Because I’m just getting started.”
The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy with everything that just passed. You bite your lip, fighting the flutter in your chest. Finally, you break the silence, voice small but steady.
“So… what do I have to do,” you ask, eyes locked on his, “for things to be normal again?”
Jake blinks, surprise flickering in his dark eyes.
“Normal?” His voice is slow, amused, like the idea itself tastes strange. He takes a step closer, close enough that you can see the flicker of something softer beneath his usual smirk. “Normal’s a funny word when it comes to us,” he says quietly.
You swallow, heart racing.
“Tell me,” you say. “Because right now, everything feels anything but.”
Jake studies you for a long moment, then his grin returns, low and knowing. “Maybe… normal isn’t what you want,” he says. “Maybe what we have isn’t about being normal at all.”
You stare, breath catching, the weight of his words settling in.
“And maybe,” he adds, voice dropping to a whisper, “the real question is if you’re ready for what’s next.”
You swallow hard. His words hang in the air like smoke– if you’re ready for what’s next.
So you ask. Softly. Carefully.
“What’s next, Jake?”
For once, he doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t tease. His expression shifts– just slightly, but enough for you to see the mask slip.
There’s something heavier in his eyes now. Something real.
“I don’t know,” he says finally, voice lower, quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “But you might be right.”
You blink. “About what?”
He looks away for a beat, like saying it costs him something. “That I want to be good,” he murmurs. “Or… I want to know if I can be.”
The admission lands like a punch in your chest. You didn’t expect him to actually say it. And he must see that flicker in your face, because he laughs– soft, humorless.
“Not that I think I deserve to be,” he adds. “But something about you makes me want to try. And that scares the shit out of me.”
You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because for the first time since you met him, Jake’s not hiding. And it’s not the dangerous grin or the sharp tongue or the heat of his thoughts that undoes you–
It’s the truth in his voice when he says he wants to be better.
For you. Because of you.
Jake’s voice is still hanging in the air– quiet, real, unfinished. Something about you makes me want to try.
Your chest tightens. Not with fear. Not with doubt. With clarity. You step closer, just enough that he can’t mistake what you’re about to say for anything less than the truth.
“Then I’m gonna try my damnedest to help you,” you say, voice steady.
His eyes snap to yours. There’s something guarded in them– like he’s bracing for disbelief, for pity, for the moment you’ll take it back.
But you don’t.
You hold his gaze, firm. Honest.
“You’re not a monster, Jake,” you say softly. “You’ve done monstrous things. I know that much, even if I don't know the extent. But if you really want this– if you really want to fight it– then I’m not walking away.”
He doesn’t say anything at first.
Just looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Like no one’s ever said something like that to him and meant it.
Finally, he exhales– long, shaky, almost like relief.
“You’re reckless,” he murmurs, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know that?”
You shrug. “So are you.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but the tension hasn’t left his shoulders yet.
“I’m not going to be easy,” he warns. “There’s a lot of darkness. I’ve lived in it so long, I don’t always know where it ends.”
You nod. “Then I’ll hold the light for you until you can see it again.”
He looks at you like he might kiss you.
But the way he looks at you is almost worse– like he’s falling and terrified of what he’ll do if he hits the bottom.
He doesn’t.
—
The air is warm. Still damp with steam, heavy with something unspoken.You’re lying half-curled in your sheets, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. It doesn’t.
The shower cuts off. You hold your breath as the door creaks open. And then he’s there.
Jake steps into the room like he never left– like he belongs there. The towel slung low around his hips is barely holding on. Water glides down the line of his chest in lazy rivulets, catching the pale gold of morning light.
He’s lithe, all lean muscle and long limbs, cut with a raw kind of grace. Shoulders broad but not bulky. Every part of him coiled, precise, intentional.
There’s a scar beneath his collarbone, faint but visible, like a memory he never talks about. And his skin– warm-toned, flushed from the heat– seems almost too real in this light.
But it’s his face that does it.
Sharp and bold and strangely beautiful. Eyes dark, hooded, indecipherable. High cheekbones, full mouth. Wild hair hanging in damp waves past his jaw, a few strands sticking to his cheek.
He looks like something ancient. Something feral. Something that doesn’t apologize.
You should look away.
You don’t.
And the moment your eyes drag too slowly over him, he sees it and he stops.
That mouth curves– not into a smile. Into something slower. Hungrier. Smug in the way only he can pull off.
“Didn’t know you were awake,” he says, voice rough with sleep and steam.
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
Because now he’s really looking at you– head tilted, lashes low, gaze sliding over the exposed curve of your neck, the edge of the sheet clutched too tight against your chest.
And then he laughs, low, dark, intimate, “Caught you staring, huh?”
Your breath stumbles. “I wasn’t–”
There’s something in the way he walks– hips loose, shoulders relaxed. But underneath it? Something darker. Focused. Jake stops just close enough to tower over the edge of the mattress.
“Sure you weren’t.” He starts moving toward the bed, slow and deliberate, like a cat watching its prey squirm.
His eyes burn into yours– that same fire he had last night, when the truth cracked through and he didn’t hide. But this? This isn’t about honesty.
This is about control.
You hold the sheet tighter. He notices.
That smirk comes back, slower this time. Sharper.
“You know,” he says, tilting his head, damp hair falling across his jaw, “if you want something, you could just ask.”
Your jaw tightens. “What makes you think I want anything?”
Jake leans in, hand braced on the bed beside your knee. Close, but not touching. The heat of him wraps around you like smoke.
“Because you’re looking at me,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Like you ache.”
You blink. The silence between you snaps tight. And then– almost gently– he pulls back.
“I’m not gonna touch you,” he says, voice low, unreadable. “Not unless you ask.”
And something about the way he says it– the restraint in it– makes it so much worse.
Because he wants to. You can see it in every muscle. Every breath. But he won’t. He’s making you want it first.
Jake turns away, leaving the room thick with tension.
And you’re left in the sheets, still catching your breath, wondering if you just lost the game… or if it hasn’t even started yet.
“Coffee?” he calls over his shoulder, already halfway down the hall.
—
You find him in the kitchen, barefoot, back turned, the kettle hissing low on the stove.
The towel’s still slung carelessly at his hips. His shoulders rise and fall slow with his breath, every inch of him deliberate– like a man who knows exactly how he looks in this light and isn’t in a rush to apologize for any of it.
You hover in the doorway for a beat, wrapped in a sheet and something thinner– control, maybe.
He senses you before he turns. You can see it in the shift of his spine, the tilt of his head.
Then, “Morning,” he says, smooth as silk.
You step into the room, slow.
“Barely,” you reply.
Jake turns, one brow lifted, not surprised. Just amused. That infuriating curve of his mouth right there, just this side of arrogant. You smile, soft, edged. Let the silence sit between you a beat too long before you move.
And then, with no warning at all, you reach out, fingers brushing the edge of the towel at his hip– and tug.
He looks down at you, not rattled, not flustered.
Not hard, just enough. Jake doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. But he does still. Everything in him quiets, sharpens– like a blade being drawn slow from its sheath.
Just dangerously amused.
He hums, gaze flicking from your hand to your eyes. “You sure you want to play like that?”
You arch a brow. “Why? You scared?”
That makes him laugh, low and lazy, like smoke curling at the edges of a fire.
“Not even close,” he says. “I just think it’s cute when you pretend you’re not the one who's scared.”
You open your mouth– a retort forming– but then he leans in just slightly, just enough to tilt the world off its axis.
“See, here’s the thing,” he murmurs, voice close, almost a whisper. “You touch me like that again, and I’m not walking away. You get that, right?”
He studies you, slow, appreciative, smug, like he’s already won, but he’s not quite ready to collect. Then he pulls back, effortless, in control. Picks up his mug like it’s just another morning and not the aftermath of something electric.
You don’t answer.
Jake glances at you once more, head cocked, eyes still lit with something darker.
“You know what happens when you play stupid games, sweetheart?” His voice wraps around you like smoke, caressing your skin.
Despite yourself, you look up at him, forcing a smirk onto your face. You make a show of dropping your eyes to his lips, briefly, before you speak, “What's the prize, Jakey?”
He does pause at that, surprise flashing in his eyes before he quickly recovers. He straightens up with his own smirk dancing across his mouth, “Drink your coffee,” he says, already turning toward the hallway. “Before I change my mind.”
And then he’s gone, towel still intact, self-control dragging behind him like a shadow.
You’re left standing in the quiet kitchen, heart pounding, pulse thrumming, heat blooming under your skin.
Is it just me, or did the temperature in here go up about ten degrees?? 👀 That chapter was pure delicious tension. I think I am still holding my breath.
chapter warnings: mind reading, mind trapping, arguing, yearning, a little smoochie, lusty comments, lemme know if i missed any!
TGMS MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST
You knew you shouldn’t go back.
He told you not to.
The last time you touched Jake’s mind, he felt it. And he warned you.
“I can shut you in a lot easier than you can read me.”
You almost listened.
But here you are again, standing in the storm-swallowed space that is Jake’s mind. It’s quieter this time. Not calm– never calm– but less violent, less volatile. Almost… still.
You move through it carefully, like your steps might wake something ancient and hungry. The shadows press close but don’t touch you. You don’t know if that means you’re welcome or simply tolerated.
You don’t plan to stay long.
Just… curious.
You keep telling yourself that.
But then you feel it.
A pulse.
Familiar. Warm, strangely. You follow it without meaning to, and before you realize what you're doing, you're in it– his thoughts, his emotions, thick and raw and close.
And you feel your name echo through them.
Not spoken. Felt.
A flash of your face, your voice, the way your lips part when you’re about to argue with him. A memory of you standing too close. A scene– real or imagined, you don’t know– of his fingers curled in your shirt, dragging you against him.
The hunger is sharp, yes.
But it’s not just that.
There’s softness under it. Something protective. Something warm. Something Jake would never admit.
Your breath catches.
And that’s when it happens.
Everything goes still.
Like the whole mind holds its breath.
And then his voice, I told you what I’d do.
Your heart stops.
You spin, but he’s not there– not physically. Just pressure. Rage. Embarrassment, too. Not just because you saw, but because you felt something back.
You try to pull away, to retreat–
Too late.
The walls close in.
Jake’s mind seizes around yours, slamming you into place like a trap snapping shut. Panic floods you instantly.
“Jake– no– wait, please!”
You’re caged in his thoughts, and this time he doesn’t let go.
Not for seconds.
Not for minutes.
Time stretches painfully long.
“Jake,” you whisper, “Please.”
When you’re finally released, it's like being kicked out of a dream mid-scream.
You crash back into your body with a gasp, heart pounding like you’ve run a mile uphill through fire. You don’t know how long you lie there, breathing, shaking.
But then–
“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
You flinch at the fury in his voice but meet his eyes anyway. “I didn’t mean to see that, I–”
“Oh, that,” he snaps. “Right. That little part where you found out I’ve been thinking about pinning you against every surface we’ve ever argued near? That?”
You flush hot, rage blooming under the embarrassment. “It wasn’t like I went digging for it! I didn’t even know I’d landed in that thought!”
“But you did,” he growls. “And then you lingered.”
Your hands curl into fists. “You think I wanted to feel that? Do you know what it’s like, hearing your mind whisper things about me like– like that?! Like I’m some kind of–”
He steps closer, fast.
“Like what? Like someone I want?”
You stop breathing.
He’s close now, too close, eyes narrowed. The heat of him rolls off his body, fury and shame and something else underneath. That same dark want you felt in his thoughts.
“You don’t get to judge me for wanting you,” he says low. “Not when you keep climbing into my head to feel it.”
“I wasn’t–” Your voice falters. “I wasn’t trying to–”
“But you stayed,” he says. “You stayed until I caught you.”
Silence. Heavy. Scalding.
You stare at each other, neither moving, like you’re both one wrong word away from starting a fire you can’t put out.
Then, finally, you breathe, “I didn’t think you’d ever think of me like that.”
His jaw flexes. His voice is quiet now. Rough, “You shouldn’t want me to.”
You nod.
The silence between you thickens, like it’s alive. He’s still standing there, watching you, his gaze unwavering, that smoldering, unreadable look in his eyes making your heart pound harder.
But you don’t say anything else. You can’t. There’s nothing left to say. So you turn on your heel and walk away.
You move toward your room, each step heavier than the last. The air feels thick with the weight of him– the taste of his thoughts still lingering in your mind, sharp and soft at the same time. You can’t escape it. You’re trying to shut it out, but it clings.
The door to your room shuts behind you with a quiet thud, and suddenly, you’re alone.
Alone, but not really.
You lean against the door, eyes squeezed shut, breathing in deep. His words echo in your head: You shouldn’t want me to. You want to laugh. You want to scream. You want to slap the confusion out of your mind.
But you know the truth.
You’ve felt it too.
You couldn’t help it when you saw what was in his mind, what he wanted from you. That sharp hunger, wrapped in that softness that doesn’t quite match the demon inside him. It doesn’t make sense, but you feel it– deep in your chest, running through your veins. A part of you doesn’t want to admit it. But you can’t stop it.
You slide down the door, sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to your chest, staring into the emptiness of the room.
And you think about him.
You think about the way his body fills a space. How his eyes, glowing faintly, track you when you’re near. The strength in his hands. The way his fingers curled at your shirt, how he’d dragged you toward him without a single word, his breath hot on your skin as if he knew what he was going to do next.
The memory of him, standing so close, but still unreachable, makes your skin flush.
God, why does this feel so… right?
You can feel the heat of his thoughts again, rising like a tide, not angry now, but something darker. The way he looked at you, the way his mouth curved, almost like he wanted you to see that part of him, the soft part tangled with everything raw and fierce.
You’re not stupid. You know what it is. You know what he’s thinking. You can’t pretend you don’t. And now, you can’t stop thinking about him either.
What does it mean?
You tell yourself you don’t care, that it’s just lust– just complicated, that’s all. That’s all it is.
But your heart beats faster in your chest, and your thoughts twist again, remembering the heat in his touch, how it lingered when he grabbed your wrist that one time, the low sound of his voice close to your ear, the way he just barely touched you and yet made you feel like he could break you with a whisper.
A shudder runs through you.
You bite your lip, hands suddenly restless.
This isn’t just about him being a demon. It’s more than that. You’re in deeper now, and you can’t pretend anymore.
The thought of him fills your mind, undeniable. The way his eyes could devour you. The way his body pressed against yours in that moment, the dark, dangerous side of him, the part he hides so carefully.
And you want it. You want him.
And it scares you.
—
You wake up with a headache and the bitter taste of last night still clinging to your tongue.
For a moment, you think maybe you dreamt it. Him, the mind trap, the way your heart wouldn’t stop racing after you saw what he really thought about you. But then you hear it.
Footsteps.
Someone in the kitchen.
You sit up slowly, every part of you on edge. Your body’s still humming from yesterday, like your skin hasn’t forgotten the feel of him even if you’re trying to.
You pad quietly down the hall, heart already annoyed and anxious and something you’re not ready to name. You turn the corner, and there he is.
Jake.
In your kitchen.
Still here.
Still impossibly him.
He’s leaning against the counter, sleeves pushed up, black shirt creased from sleep– or not sleeping at all. He doesn’t look at you when you walk in. Just sips from the mug in his hand and says, flatly, “Coffee’s terrible.”
You glare at him. “Don’t drink it then.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t say I wouldn’t. Just said it’s terrible.”
“Then shut up and drink your terrible coffee.”
His eyes flick toward you, finally. That same lazy, irritated spark dancing just behind them. “Morning to you, too.”
You cross your arms, leaning against the fridge. “Why are you still here?”
“I stayed.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“That’s not an answer.”
Jake doesn’t move. Just lifts the mug again, sips. “Didn’t feel like leaving.”
You roll your eyes. “Right. Because my house is so welcoming.”
He glances at you then. His voice drops, just slightly. “You didn’t ask me to go.”
You hate that he’s right. But you’re not going to say it. Not out loud.
So instead, you mutter, “Didn’t think I needed to.”
He gives you a tight smile. “Guess I missed the sign on the door that says ‘no demons after midnight.’ ”
You shoot back, “Guess I missed the part where I invited you to set up camp in my kitchen like you own the place.”
Jake puts the mug down with a clink. “Wouldn’t have to if you stayed out of my head like I told you.”
There it is.
You both freeze.
The memory hangs between you like smoke– thick, suffocating, full of heat.
You glance away first. “I didn’t go back on purpose.”
He scoffs. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true,” you snap. “I didn’t plan to go poking around in your brain, Jake.” Liar.
He doesn’t answer for a second. Then, voice low, “You lingered.”
You go still.
The silence stretches again.
Finally, you say, “You locked me in.”
“I warned you.”
You look at him– tired, angry, confused. “I didn’t know you thought about me like that.”
He looks back at you– tired, angry, something else. “Yeah, well. Now you do.”
Neither of you says anything after that.
The coffee cools on the counter. The air between you stays tight and strange. Too many thoughts. Too much silence. Neither of you willing to take the first step, but neither of you walking away either.
Eventually, you say, too quietly, “You’re not going to stay here forever.”
He doesn’t answer you right away. You turn to walk away, thinking that’s the end of it. But then his voice cuts through the silence behind you– low, tight, and bitter, “Relax. I don’t want to be stuck with you any more than you want to be stuck with me.”
You stop.
The words hit like cold water, even if you were thinking the same thing. Even if you’ve said the same thing before. Still, something about hearing it from him, now, after last night…
You don’t turn around. You just say, “Good,” and walk out.
—
Back in your room, the walls feel smaller than they did yesterday. The ache in your chest twists tighter, stubborn and stupid. You hate this– this weird emotional hangover, this heat under your skin every time you look at him now.
You drag the old book onto your lap and start flipping through pages again. Half of it’s written in symbols you can barely translate, but you’ve been digging at this bond for weeks– looking for loopholes, rituals, anything that might get you out of it.
You’re not sure why you ever stopped.
Maybe part of you got too used to him being around. Maybe part of you stopped wanting to get out. But now?
You tear through the pages, and something catches your eye. Scribbled in the margins, nearly hidden: a reference to a severance ritual. Not just a suppression or block– an actual unbinding.
Your heart jumps. You scan it twice. Three times.
It’s not complete, and it’s messy, but it’s something. Real. Possible. A way out.
You burst into the hallway, book in hand, practically glowing with adrenaline. “Jake.”
He’s still in the kitchen, hunched over the counter, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the universe.
You hold the book up. “I found something. A ritual. A real one. I think it could undo the bond.”
He glances at you, unimpressed. “I've heard that before.”
“No,” you insist, crossing the room, flipping the book around so he can see. “Not like this. This is different– it’s not suppression or containment, it’s a full severance. It’s ancient, but it’s legit. We might actually be able to end this.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at the page. Just watches you.
You expect him to be relieved. Or at least interested. But instead, his expression darkens.
“You might be able to,” he says flatly. “It’s not guaranteed.”
You blink. “I know it’s not guaranteed, but it’s worth trying. Isn’t it?”
He straightens slowly, eyes unreadable. “Sure. Try it. Burn a circle, light some candles, chant the words, whatever you think’ll work.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re not even curious?”
He shrugs. “We don’t know what it’ll do. You sever a bond like this wrong, it could kill both of us. Or worse.”
You falter. “I thought you’d want this.”
“Yeah, well.” His jaw tightens. “Maybe I don’t like the idea of dying just to get you out of my head.”
Your stomach drops. The excitement drains like water through your hands.
“You don’t have to be such an asshole about it,” you mutter.
Jake’s eyes flick to yours. Something sharp flickers there, too fast to name, “You came in here acting like you’d found a golden ticket,” he says. “But you don’t know what this will do. You just saw a chance to run and got excited.”
You snap the book shut. “So what, you'd rather just stay bonded forever?”
“I don’t know.” His voice is quiet now. “Maybe I don’t want to rip something out of me that’s been there long enough to start feeling like part of the whole.”
You freeze.
That silence returns– not empty, but heavy. Like the two of you are teetering on the edge of something again, and neither of you wants to fall first.
When you speak, your voice is smaller. “Jake…”
He looks away.
“Just... think about it,” you say. “Please.”
Then you leave the room again, book still pressed to your chest.
Neither of you says anything else.
But neither of you stops thinking about it, either.
—
You find the note buried deep in the margins, nearly lost under layers of old ink and dust.
“The severance ritual is detailed fully in the grimoire used to summon the entity. A bond born can be unmade. The origin holds the key.”
Your pulse skips.
The book.
Still hidden in the ruins of that decaying house where you first read from its pages, where Jake was dragged into your world.
You should’ve burned it then. You didn’t.
And now it might be your way out.
You don’t tell Jake.
Not after this morning. Not after what he said. Not after the way his voice cracked like he regretted saying any of it.
You wait until the house is quiet, the lights off, the night thick and breathless. You slip out through the back, flashlight clutched in one hand, the other curled tightly around the book that led you here.
The abandoned house greets you like a mouth full of teeth– dark, half-collapsed, walls sagging under the weight of time and rot.
You step inside anyway.
The air stinks of mold and something fouler underneath. The boards creak with every step, and dust shivers loose from the ceiling.
You make your way to the back room– the study. With the dusty, rotting desk and cobwebbed corners.
It hasn’t changed.
You kneel near the old desk, heart pounding as you reach behind it where you stuffed the grimoire after the summoning. But your hand finds nothing.Your chest tightens.
Slowly, you stand, turning.
He’s there.
Half-hidden in the shadows, leaning against the doorway, only the edge of his face lit by moonlight filtering through broken glass. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them– cold, sharp, and burning just underneath.
Jake.
Holding the book.
“Looking for this?” he says, voice quiet. Too quiet.
You don’t answer right away.
His fingers tighten around the spine of the grimoire like he already knows what you were planning to do with it.
“How long have you been following me?” you ask, not even trying to hide the tremor in your voice.
“I didn’t follow you,” he says, stepping further into the room. The floor groans beneath his boots. “I knew you’d come here. I just got here first.”
“You were watching me?”
“I was waiting,” he snaps, then reins it back in– shoulders tense, jaw locked. “Waiting to see how far you’d go.”
“I’m trying to end this, Jake. Isn’t that what you want?”
“You think this is about what I want?” His laugh is hollow. Harsh. “You think I give a shit what I want anymore?”
He moves toward you slowly, deliberately, each step like a fuse inching toward flame.
You’re trembling now, but you don’t back away. “That book might be the only thing that can break the bond–”
“Exactly,” he cuts in. “Which is why it needs to be destroyed.”
Your breath catches. “Don’t.”
“I warned you,” Jake says, voice like gravel. “When you first pulled me into this world– I told you there were rules. You didn’t listen then, and you’re still not listening now.”
“Jake, please–”
He doesn't even look at you.
Just snaps his fingers.
The flame bursts upward instantly– unnatural, hungry. The grimoire screams as it burns in his hand, pages blackening, curling in on themselves, old ink bleeding out in smoky tendrils. You lunge forward, but the heat hits like a wall, forcing you back.
“What the hell are you doing?!” you shout.
He finally looks at you– not angry anymore, but furious. Controlled. Contained. That kind of rage that simmers so deep it’s almost calm.
“I’m making sure you don’t do something you'll regret.”
You freeze. Something in your chest pulls taut– raw, painful. “You think this is easy for me?” you say, voice shaking. “You think I want this?”
“No,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours. “I think you’re scared. And I think you’d rather risk anything than admit what this has become.”
The fire crackles behind him, throwing long shadows across his face, making him look less man, more monster. Or maybe both.
You take a step back.
He doesn’t follow. Just watches. And says, quieter now, “There’s no undoing it. Not anymore.”
Then he turns his back and walks into the dark hallway.
You stay standing in the ruins of the circle, the ashes of the book still glowing faintly, like something inside you is dying right along with it.
And maybe it is.
—
You spin toward the still-glowing ashes of the grimoire, jaw clenched so tight it aches. The heat from the fire’s gone, but the fury in your chest only builds– sharp, hot, helpless.
You throw the flashlight across the room.
It shatters against the wall with a satisfying crack, but it doesn’t help. Not enough.
“You– son of a bitch!” you shout into the empty space. “You think you can just decide for me? Burn the one thing that gave me a choice?! What the hell gives you the right?!”
No answer.
Of course not.
You storm into the hallway, vision blurring with angry tears. “You think I wanted any of this? You think I asked to be tied to you? To feel your rage in my veins– your thoughts crawling under my skin?”
Jake stands at the far end of the corridor, arms folded, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting.
Calm.
Still.
Watching you unravel like it’s the weather– inevitable. Predictable.
That just makes it worse.
“Say something, damn it!” you snap.
But he doesn’t. He just looks at you. His silence is unbearable.
You stalk toward him, furious, chest heaving. “You ruined my only shot at ending this. And now you just stand there like it doesn’t mean anything to you?!”
Still nothing.
That calm, maddening stillness in his eyes. Controlled. Measured. Like he’s already heard every version of this before and none of it surprises him.
You shove him hard.
He doesn’t flinch.
You hit his chest again, fists curling into his shirt. “Do something! Scream back, curse me out, anything!”
Jake just stares down at you. His voice is low, steady.
“I’m not going to fight you.”
“Why not?!” you demand.
“Because you’re not angry at me,” he says. “You’re angry that it’s not over. And that you don’t really want it to be.”
You freeze. The air goes still. You hate him for saying it. You hate him more because he’s right.
The ache in your chest twists. You try to step back, but his hand lifts– not grabbing, just hovering near your waist, like he’s offering without forcing.
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s him.
But the space between you closes all at once– fast and hot and reckless. Your mouths crash together like the argument never ended, like every word you didn’t say is burning its way out through the kiss.
His hands are in your hair, at your waist, pulling you closer like he’s been holding himself back for weeks. And you let him. You grab the front of his shirt, anchor yourself there like if you let go, you’ll fall through the floor.
You hate him. You want him. You can’t breathe with how much you want him.
When you finally break apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, neither of you says anything.
There’s nothing left to say.
Just the sound of your breathing.
The hum of the bond still alive between you.
And the quiet, terrible knowing that after this…
There’s no undoing it.
Your lips are still touching when the reality of it hits you.
What just happened. What it means. What you’re already starting to feel.
You shove him– hard.
Jake stumbles back half a step, breath still uneven, eyes burning with everything you don’t want to name– want, guilt, something deeper.
“Fuck you,” you breathe.
It doesn’t come out loud. It comes out shaken, choked. Your voice cracks in the middle of it, like your whole chest is splintering.
Jake doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. He just stands there, still catching his breath, lips parted, hands slack at his sides.
You don’t wait.
You turn on your heel and storm down the hallway, your boots slamming against the warped floorboards like you’re trying to shake the feeling of him out of your bones.
Your heart’s pounding too hard. Your mouth still tastes like him. You don’t know if you want to scream or throw up or run until your lungs collapse.
But you know one thing.
You had a choice– and he took it.
He let you kiss him. He kissed you back like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he was sure. And you can’t be sure of anything.
So you leave.
—
You don’t remember the walk home.
Not really.
Your body moves on autopilot, but your mind... your mind is a war zone. Loud. Smoking. Nothing left standing.
It’s not the kiss you can’t stop thinking about.
It’s what came after. What didn’t come after.
He didn’t chase you. He didn’t call out. He just let you leave.
And somehow, that hurts more than anything.
But then, maybe that’s good. Maybe that’s important. Because for the first time in a long time, you see it.
You’re not helpless.
You could’ve gone all in. Could’ve let him crack you open, hollow you out, shape you into some twisted version of the girl he thinks you are.
You could’ve let him drag you down into whatever shadows he’s drowning in.
But you didn’t.
You said no– even if it came out in a whisper, even if it came out broken.
And you left.
You left.
When you get home, the place is dark. Quiet. The kind of quiet that hums in your teeth, too loud to be silence.
You don’t bother with lights. You drop your bag by the door, kick off your boots like they’re too heavy to carry another second, and fall onto your bed fully clothed.
Staring up at the ceiling, you finally let the thoughts come.
What if you don’t let him ruin you? What if it’s not about resisting him– or surrendering to him– but about changing the entire story? What if you could turn him good?
Not like some tragic savior fantasy, not like fixing a broken thing just to prove you’re worthy–
But what if the power he has over you is real, and the power you have over him is just as strong? He thinks you’re like him. But what if you’re not? What if he’s like you– and he’s just never had someone who believed it? You close your eyes. It doesn’t feel like a plan, not yet. But it feels like a beginning.
chapter warnings: annoying demons, corruption (talk of it), sexual tension, getting on each other's nerves, getting in each other's heads (literally), mind games, lemme know if i missed any!
TGMS MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST
The knock at the door is too casual. Lazy, like whoever’s on the other side already knows they’re going to be let in.
You barely glance up from your seat on the couch. Jake, on the other hand, freezes.
He doesn’t curse, but you can feel it– see it in the slight shift in his shoulders, the flicker of annoyance in his eyes.
“Don’t answer that,” he mutters.
“Okay,” you say slowly, setting your mug down. “Should I be worried?”
“No.” He’s already moving toward the door.
He yanks it open, and there he is. Tall, dressed in a slick black coat like he stepped out of a dream and meant to make it a nightmare. His eyes are silver, unsettling and cold, and his grin is lazy, hungry.
“Jake,” the man says smoothly. “Still knocking around the mortal realm? I thought you’d have grown bored of these little games by now.”
Jake doesn’t smile. “What do you want?”
He steps inside like he owns the place, eyes sliding immediately to you. He takes his time looking– really looking– and it makes your skin crawl. Not in the same way Jake does. Jake’s presence is dangerous but alive. His is colder. Distant. Like he’s already imagining how your bones will look when the light leaves your eyes.
“So this is her,” He says, tilting his head. “The soul bound to you? Huh. Pretty little thing.” He eyes you again, this time more focused. “Still… bright.”
Jake’s jaw ticks. “She doesn’t know what you mean,” he says tightly.
“Oh, but you do.” The man’s grin widens. “I can feel it from here. Untouched. Unspoiled. That soul of hers is practically glowing. Doesn’t it ache, being that close to something so pure?”
You’re standing now. You don’t remember deciding to. The bond is buzzing under your skin– hot, agitated, electric.
Jake moves subtly, stepping just enough in front of you to block the intruder’s view. His voice is low now. Dangerous. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
The man raises both hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I’m just admiring. You never told me you got this close to something still… savable.” He chuckles, voice like ice cracking. “No wonder they’re watching you. Hell hates a redemption arc.”
Jake’s hands curl into fists at his sides.
“That’s enough.”
He looks past Jake, back to you. His stare makes you want to scrub your skin raw.
“She has no idea, does she?” he muses, almost to himself. “How rare it is. What you’re tethered to. How much it hurts you.”
Jake doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. The air around him shifts– thickening, darkening. A warning.
The man smiles one last time, like he’s made his point.
“Enjoy your little experiment, brother. Just don’t forget what side you’re on.”
And with that, he vanishes– just smoke and cold air and something heavy left in the room.
You look at Jake, pulse hammering.
“Jake… what the hell was that?”
But he’s already pacing, hands on his hips, eyes glowing like fire behind storm clouds. “He’s no one,” he snaps. “Don’t think about him.”
You're still staring at the spot where that other demon vanished, your skin buzzing like you stood too close to a lightning strike. The room feels smaller now. Heavy with words left unsaid, things half-heard and barely explained. Jake hasn’t moved in over a minute, which for him, is basically a crisis.
You grab your bag off the counter. “I’m going to the library.”
Jake’s head snaps toward you. “What?”
“I need space,” you say, slinging the bag over your shoulder. “Time to think. That guy just showed up talking about my soul like I’m some glowing antique on a shelf. And you’re not exactly big on clear answers.”
“I told you–” he starts.
“No,” you cut in. “You told me just enough to keep me scared and obedient. And I’m sick of feeling like I’m drowning in questions I’m not allowed to ask.”
The room falls silent. Jake’s jaw tightens. You know that look. It’s not rage, not quite– but it’s something close. A storm waiting to break.
“You’re not going out there alone,” he says finally, voice low.
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“You’re vulnerable,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re tethered to me. Which means any bored demon or soul-sniffer within fifty miles can sense you now. You leave this apartment, you’re painting a target on your back.”
“I’m not yours,” you snap.
Jake’s expression flickers– just for a second. A flash of something wild and unsettled. But he covers it quickly, smoothing his features into a blank, unreadable stare.
“You’re bound to me,” he says evenly. “That’s not something you can just walk away from. Not even for an afternoon.”
“I’m not walking away,” you say, softer now. “I just need to think. Without you breathing down my neck, without… all of this.” You gesture vaguely to the room, to him, to the thread humming under your skin that connects the two of you. “Just a few hours. That’s all.”
Jake doesn’t answer right away.
Then, quietly, “You think I’m the one clouding your head.”
“I know you are.”
A pause. Then his voice drops lower, rougher. “You have no idea what’s out there.”
You look him dead in the eyes. “I'm going.”
—
The library smells like old paper and dust– like secrets. You’ve always liked it here, but today, the stacks feel heavier, as if every shelf is watching you.
You slide into one of the deeper rows, your laptop and a pile of borrowed books spread out in front of you. Most are on folklore, demonology, and obscure theology. Half of them are written in languages you can barely pronounce.
You start with the simplest thing: soul contracts. The word burns on the page. You read about binding rites, the “exchange of essence,” how intent can be as powerful as signature. One line catches your eye.
“When the bond is mutual, both souls exert force upon one another. Corruption and redemption are two sides of the same coin. It is not always the demon who consumes.”
You sit back, heart hammering. Redemption. The one word Jake hasn’t said.
You keep digging. A 17th-century text mentions “counter-rites,” rituals that strengthen one side of the bond. Another scroll from an online archive suggests that original grimoires contain the “true terms,” hidden from both parties unless deciphered by hand.
And then you find it: a digital scan of a woodcut illustration. A circle of symbols that looks exactly like the one in that abandoned house. Except this one’s labeled.
Your breath catches. It’s the same script– the same ink– but not exactly. This copy includes a second layer of glyphs you’ve never seen before, like a hidden translation under the main contract.
You lean closer to the screen, your pulse pounding. It’s not enough to read, but it’s enough to know one thing for sure– the book you found that night wasn’t some random occult knockoff. It was an original.
And if it’s an original, then it’s not finished with you yet.
Jake told you the bond ends if you “change.” But the lore says otherwise. If you can find the book again– the one you traced from– you might be able to read the whole contract. All the terms. All the loopholes.
The deeper you dig, the stranger the texts become. Half the pages you’ve pulled from the library’s archives aren’t even supposed to be in circulation– brittle, yellowed manuscripts covered in cramped handwriting.
You’re scanning one now, your finger tracing the faded ink. It’s a commentary on “reciprocal soul-binding.” Most of it you’ve already read before, about mutual influence, temptation, the inevitable change. But then, buried halfway down the page, there’s a line that freezes you:
“If the mortal’s essence be untainted, the demon may yet be redeemed, for such a soul may cleanse as well as corrupt. But beware: to redeem is to bind the self deeper still.”
You stare at the words until they blur. Redeem. Cleanse.
That’s why Jake never told you. He wasn’t lying when he said the contract ends if you change. He just… left out the part where it also ends if he changes.
Your heart beats harder. Because suddenly you’re not just a mark he’s supposed to corrupt. You’re also a threat to him– a possibility he’s spent who knows how long making sure you never realize.
You lean back in your chair, pressing your palms to your eyes. Two options form in your mind like a split in the road:
You could find the book– track down the original grimoire, decipher it, and end the contract cleanly. No more Jake. No more bond. You’d be free.
Or… you could try. You could reach for him, push back at the darkness creeping in around his edges, and see if what’s left of him can be turned toward the light. Redeemed. Freed. Saved.
Except that last line keeps echoing: to redeem is to bind the self deeper still. If you try to change him and fail, you risk being dragged down with him– and if you succeed, who knows what the bond will become.
For the first time since you started reading, you feel your hands shake.
Jake is a demon. Dangerous. Manipulative. And yet you’ve seen something flicker in his eyes when he thinks you’re not looking. A shadow of regret. A moment of hesitation. Something almost human.
You shut the book softly, the sound like a decision you’re not ready to make.
Do you risk losing yourself trying to save him? Or do you cut and run while you still can?
Either way, time is running out. And sooner or later, you’re going to have to choose.
—
The texts are getting older, harder to read. Entire pages are in dead dialects. But then, in a cracked leather folio written in jagged black script, you find a section you’ve never seen referenced anywhere else: “The Quieting of the Bond.” Your eyes skim the lines, heart thudding:
“The tether between souls is a channel both ways. In the mortal lies a hidden capacity — to close the channel, to veil thought and intention. Few know this art, and fewer still survive it, for the demon will sense the silence and may lash to reestablish the link.”
You sit back, a sharp breath escaping you. A way to block him. A way to think without him inside your head. You keep reading.
“The mortal must call upon their own essence, not external magic. It is a willful act of separation. Imagine a veil, a wall, a locked door. Hold it firm. Each time it is torn down, rebuild it stronger.”
You press a trembling hand to your chest where the bond hums faintly, hot and restless. The idea of privacy– of thinking without him hearing the echo– feels like breathing after being underwater.
But the warning is clear– he’ll know. The moment you do it, he’ll feel the gap. He’ll know you’re hiding something.
You close the book softly, glancing around the empty library.
You could practice here. Try now. But part of you wants to wait until you’re alone. Part of you wants to be ready before he senses the silence.
You exhale slowly, palms flat on the table. For the first time since he appeared, you’re holding something he doesn’t know you know.
It’s dangerous.
The bond flickers under your skin like it senses you thinking too loud.
You look down at the script again, whispering under your breath, “A veil. A locked door.”
And for just a heartbeat– a single flicker– the bond goes quiet.
You almost smile.
Then the hum surges back, stronger than before, like it’s angry.
You slam the book shut.
He’ll feel that.
—
Your bedroom door is shut, the curtains drawn. The hum of the bond under your skin feels louder tonight, like it knows what you’re about to do.
You sit cross-legged on the bed, the cracked folio open in your lap. The page on “The Quieting of the Bond” stares back at you, its jagged script like a dare.
A veil. A locked door.
You close your eyes and draw in a slow, steady breath. You picture the bond not as a thread but as a door– heavy, iron-bound, set deep in stone. You imagine it shutting, slowly, the sound echoing behind your ribs.
For a second, nothing happens. The hum of the bond stays steady, like a low heartbeat.
Then, very faintly, it fades.
You gasp. It’s like a sudden pressure lifting off your skull, like someone unplugged the constant static you didn’t realize you’d gotten used to. The silence is warm and strange– a little dizzying.
You exhale, focusing harder. Lock the door. Reinforce it. Imagine it sealed.
It holds.
For the first time since Jake appeared in your life, your head feels empty. Yours.
You almost laugh with relief.
And then you feel it: a ripple. Not from you– from him. The bond throbs once, like a knock on the door you just shut.
You freeze.
Somewhere in the apartment, there’s a low sound. A voice.
“Y/n.”
You open your eyes. He’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he’s been there a while, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. He doesn’t look angry, he looks… intrigued.
“What are you doing?” Jake asks softly.
You swallow hard, snapping the book shut. “Nothing.”
His smile is slow, sharp, and not entirely kind. “You’re trying to shut me out.”
“I’m not–”
He steps closer, the floor creaking under his boots. “I can feel it. The silence. Like someone slammed a door in my head.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s not supposed to be possible.”
You press your hands to the book in your lap, heart racing. “Then maybe you should’ve told me the truth.”
Jake stops at the edge of the bed. He’s not angry, not exactly. But there’s a tension in him, something coiled and dangerous.
“You’re playing with something you don’t understand, sweetheart,” he says quietly. His voice softens, almost a whisper now.
But there’s something in his eyes– something he’s not saying. A flicker of… hurt?
You clutch the book tighter, torn between defiance and guilt.
The bond hums faintly, like it’s waiting for your choice. The silence stretches between you.
Jake stands at the edge of your bed, dark eyes fixed on you with that same unreadable calm that always feels like a coin toss– is he restraining himself, or watching you test how far he’ll let you go?
“You’re not supposed to know how to do that,” he says, voice low.
“I’m not supposed to know a lot of things, apparently,” you murmur, the book still warm beneath your hands. “But I’m learning.”
Jake’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t argue.
You look at him, the way the light flickers across his face, the sharp lines of someone sculpted in something older than stone. There’s something softer in his expression now. Not quite regret… but close. A weight he’s been carrying since the moment he stepped through the veil into your world.
“Why does it bother you so much?” you ask quietly. “That I want my thoughts to myself?”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he finally does, his voice is rough around the edges. “Because I’ve never been locked out before.” His eyes meet yours, steady. “And I hate it.”
Your pulse kicks up. “So what? You get full access to my head forever? That’s the deal?”
“No,” he says, after a pause. “That’s not the deal. But I didn’t think you’d want to shut me out. Not now.”
You look down at the book again, then back up. “You mean after all the lies? After all the half-truths and cryptic warnings?”
Jake’s lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t defend himself this time.
You sit up straighter, spine stiff with decision. “I need space, Jake. Real space. Not just from your body, but from your voice in my head. From your… presence.”
He steps back a half pace, barely visible, but you feel it. The bond flickers.
Then, slowly, you close your eyes again.
A veil. A locked door.
You call on that stillness inside you, the part that is just yours. No magic. No sigils. Just will. A slow, deliberate push. You picture the door slamming shut– harder this time. You feel the thread between you recoil.
The hum of the bond cuts off like a cord yanked from a wall. Silence– real silence.
You open your eyes.
Jake’s face has changed.
He’s staring at you like you just pulled a blade from your chest and pointed it at him.
His voice, when he speaks, is sharp with something unfamiliar– vulnerability disguised as warning, “Don’t do that again.”
You meet his eyes. “Or what?”
For a moment, you expect heat– anger, fire, the full demon. But instead… there’s just hurt.
Brief. Flickering. Gone too fast.
Jake exhales slowly, hands dropping to his sides. “You think that book makes you powerful,” he says. “But power means nothing if you don’t know what it costs.”
You don’t flinch.
“I guess we’ll find out,” you say softly.
He lingers for a moment longer, like he wants to say something else– then turns and walks out of the room, the bond between you still silent.
You’re alone. For the first time since the night he appeared.
And yet, somehow, you’ve never felt him more.
—
The apartment feels unnaturally quiet without the constant hum of the bond pressing at the back of your mind. You didn’t realize how used to it you’d become until it was gone– now it’s like a noise-cancelling field wrapped around you, and for the first time since he appeared, your thoughts are yours.
Jake hasn’t come back into the room since last night. You don’t know if he’s sulking, plotting, or just giving you the space you demanded. But the air feels heavy, like a storm building somewhere out of sight.
You spread the cracked folio out across your kitchen table again. The section on “Quieting the Bond” is there, marked in the margin by your own shaky handwriting. But today, you turn the page.
A new heading stares back at you in that jagged black script:
“The Mirror of the Tether.”
You read quickly, your heart thudding harder with every line.
“When the mortal masters the art of veiling thought, the bond may be inverted. The channel opened one way becomes a channel opened both ways. The demon’s mind may be glimpsed as the mortal’s once was– their secrets, their fears, their essence laid bare. But beware: looking too long may draw the mortal further into the demon’s nature, for minds entwined are not easily untangled.”
Your fingers tighten on the edge of the page. Not only can you block him– you can listen back.
For a moment, you just sit there, staring at the words. The implications. The danger.
Jake’s spent weeks shadowing you, whispering into your head, trying to push you toward a fall. He’s hidden things, lied by omission, left you in the dark.
And now, you’re holding a key to his inner world. His secrets. His weakness.
You press a hand over your chest where the bond usually hums, feeling only silence now.
You could try it. Reach across the tether instead of shutting it. Peek inside his head. Hear what he thinks about you. About the contract. About everything.
But the warning on the page glows in your mind: looking too long may draw the mortal further into the demon’s nature.
You shut the book softly, staring at it like it might bite.
It’s power. It's a risk. It’s a chance to finally know the truth.
And it’s sitting right there in front of you.
—
You wait until the apartment is silent. No footsteps. No flickers of darkened eyes in the shadows. Jake hasn’t been around since last night, and for once, the absence is a relief.
You sit on the floor beside the coffee table, the ancient folio open across your lap again. The section on The Mirror of the Tether stares back at you, as if daring you to try. You take a breath.
The bond is still quiet.
But now you reach for it– not to close it, but to listen.
You picture the tether in your mind like a bridge, running both ways. For so long, Jake used it to watch you, whisper to you, pull you closer to him.
Now, you try to reverse it. One step across. Then another.
You whisper the words under your breath, shaping the bond like a mirror instead of a leash. You expect resistance– cold, fire, pain– but instead, it gives.
And suddenly–
you’re not alone.
A rush of sensation hits you, not your own: heat, static, a flash of sharp memory– someone screaming. Someone begging. Chains. Fire. A voice saying his name like it was never meant to be spoken in kindness.
And beneath all of it, pulsing like a heartbeat– Your name. Repeated. Over and over again.
Y/n.
Y/n.
Y/n.
Then, a voice– his voice– but not out loud.
Tell me she didn't try it.
And then– “Y/n.”
You flinch violently.
Jake’s voice cuts through the bond like a blade. Not distant. Not mental. Behind you.
You spin.
He’s there, standing just a few feet away, expression unreadable. You don’t know how long he’s been watching, but the book is still open in your lap, and your hand is still stretched over it like a guilty child caught with something they shouldn’t have touched.
He doesn’t speak at first. He just stares. His eyes are brighter than usual, not glowing, exactly, but alive. Like the tether between you has reawakened and he felt everything.
“You reached into my mind,” he says at last, voice low, slow, too calm.
You open your mouth. “I just–”
“Don’t lie,” Jake cuts in, still not loud. That’s what makes it worse. “You looked.”
You shut the book with a hard snap and stand, heart pounding. “You’ve been in my head since the moment you appeared. You don’t get to act betrayed.”
He steps closer. “I didn’t dig. I didn’t go searching for things I wasn’t ready to see.”
“No,” you snap, “you just stood there watching and let me think you controlled everything. Let me think I was powerless–”
His eyes flash. “You think power is about reading minds? About who’s holding the book?” His voice drops. “You don’t want to see what’s inside me, Y/n. Trust me. You don’t.”
You stare at him, chest heaving. “Too late.”
Silence falls. The bond between you buzzes now, reconnected, alive again, but changed. You’re not just connected. You’ve seen each other now, even just a glimpse. And nothing is going to be the same.
Jake exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re playing with fire,” he mutters.
The apartment feels too small for the two of you now. The air crackles between you like static before a storm, the tether humming under your skin again, hotter, sharper than before. You can still feel scraps of what you saw inside him– fire, chains, your name echoing like a wound– and it makes your stomach turn.
Jake doesn’t move right away. He just watches you, hands loose at his sides, but his eyes… his eyes are burning. Not glowing like before. Burning.
Finally, he speaks. His voice is quiet, but the quiet is worse than a shout, “You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”
You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m learning fast.”
He takes one slow step closer. “Fast enough to break things you don’t understand.” He tilts his head slightly. “You think you can slip into my head, peek around, and then slam the door on me like I’m some cheap trick?” You open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off with a low, humorless laugh. “I let you,” he says. “That little peek? That wasn’t you winning. That was me letting you scratch the surface.”
Your throat tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Jake says, stepping closer still, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “that I can shut you in a lot easier than you can read me. I can close the door, seal the bridge, and leave you screaming into an empty void. You’d never know what was real. You’d never feel me there again.”
The words land like a physical weight. You swallow hard, trying not to flinch. “Is that a threat?”
“No,” he says, but his eyes glint. “That’s a fact.”
He stops just short of you, close enough for the bond to buzz at the edge of your senses. “You’re smart, Y/N. Smarter than most. But stop thinking that book makes you equal to me. You’re not.”
You stare at him, jaw tight. “Maybe not. But you’re scared enough to come here the second I tried.”
Something flickers across his face– frustration, yes, but also something softer, an ache he’s trying to bury. His voice drops another octave, rougher now. “You have no idea what’s hunting you because of me. And if you shut me out before you’re ready…” He leans in, so close his breath brushes your ear. “…they won’t even have to try.”
For a heartbeat, no one moves. The bond thrums like a living thing between you.
Then Jake straightens, the dangerous edge retreating just enough to let the calm slide back into place. “Think before you play games you can’t win,” he murmurs, and turns toward the door.
But as he moves away, you realize something: for all his threats, he hasn’t shut you out yet. Not completely. You can still feel him there. Watching.
—
You wait until he’s gone.
The moment the front door clicks shut, the apartment feels bigger again, still heavy, but not suffocating. You sit at the kitchen table with the old folio spread out before you, his words echoing in your head.
I can shut you in a lot easier than you can read me.
You grit your teeth and turn the pages. Somewhere in here is a way to tilt the scales back. Somewhere in here is the part of the game he hasn’t told you about.
And then you see it– a section so faint you almost miss it, scrawled sideways in the margins of a chapter about The Mirror of the Tether:
“The Hidden Path: The mortal may walk unseen within the demon’s thought. Not as a shout, but as a whisper. Entering with silence, not force. In this way, the mortal may observe without awakening the other. This requires perfect calm and intention, for a single stray thought may alert the bound one to the intrusion.”
You lean closer, scanning faster:
“This art is not without peril. The demon’s mind is vast and alien. To drift too far is to lose one’s self; to linger too long is to invite the tether to reverse.”
Your fingers tighten on the edge of the page. This is it. Not just mirroring, not just blasting the connection open– but slipping through it like smoke. Quiet, invisible. Your heart hammers as you read on, memorizing the instructions:
– Anchor yourself first.
– Empty your thoughts.
– Become a shadow.
– Listen, but do not speak.
– Return the way you came.
You close your eyes, breathing out slowly. The bond is still there, humming faintly, but now you know how to treat it differently. Not as a door to slam open, but as a keyhole.
If you do it right, he won’t feel a thing. If you do it wrong…
You glance at the door, half-expecting him to already be standing there. He’s not. You draw the book closer. The words burn in your mind: walk unseen within the demon’s thought.
You whisper them to yourself, feeling the weight of the choice settle in. This isn’t just power anymore. This is a weapon.
This is great! You have quite a creative mind and I’m loving it!
I am so intrigued by this Jake. There is definitely more simmering under the surface. I’m so glad Y/N wants to forge ahead and do terrifying things against his warnings 🤭
Taken By The Madness @takenbythemadness - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
