୨ৎ

20 | 𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖓𝖆

[wonnfavee]

𝘷𝘦𝘦.　　🎬　　𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘴　　🦢　　𝘮𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵　　꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱　 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝖘𝖎𝖙 𝖎𝖓 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝖊 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝖜𝖆𝖎𝖙 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗎𝗉. . .　　𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵　　𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯

#works #teasers #reads #talks #updates #replies /ᐠ - ˕ -マ　　𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 : March 18, 2025

©𝘷𝘷𝘦𝘦𝘣𝘦𝘦, 𝘦𝘴𝘵 2025 𝘈𝘓𝘓 𝘙𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛𝘚 𝘙𝘌𝘚𝘌𝘙𝘝𝘌𝘋 | 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺, 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘦, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘺 𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘥

[scorpieuns]

ACTS OF SERVICE | JAKE SIM

summary: completely drunk, fed up and bored with the dramatics of casual relationships and the continuous disappointment of hookups—you and your best friend decide the best way to solve this dilemma is being fuck buddies. But that was just a joke…right?

genre: smut. college. best friends.

word count: 16.3k

warnings (+18): adult content. swearing. party themes. pet names (angel, baby). playful banter. alcohol. kissing. lots of humor. heavy petting. nipply play. dom!jake. fingering (f. recieving). rough sex (?). unprotected sex. vocal!reader and jake. light teasing. (very) minor brat taming. overstimulation. multiple orgasms. icehockeyplayer!jake and academicoverachiever!reader have slightly odd views on relationships. jake is a (nice?) fuckboy. reader and jake are very horny people. mentions of icehockeyplayer!maki, jay, heeseung and sunghoon. other brief mentions of intak, yuna, jungwon, sohee, chaewon, sunoo and isa. jay is also in a band, very ‘green day’ - ‘nirvana’ adjacent.

MINORS DNI!!

A/N: and she lives! been gone for a while (my sincerest apologies) but we’re back!! this one is pretty lengthy, the hiatus may have given me a running mouth (and a long list of future ideas too!) just hoping it hasn’t made me rusty.

It started as a joke. 

Nestled into the corner of a worn leather couch that had definitely seen better days, nursing a mixture of whatever you could find on the messy drinks table—over the rowdy music that you could practically feel humming in your chest and bouncing off the walls in a way too crowded frat house. 

Your teeth worried at the rim of your cup, shoes kicking at the array of streamers and confetti on the floor. 

You were floating in that perfect sweet spot between tipsy and drunk, where everything felt softer around the edges—your limbs all loose and warm like honey. 

Jake was mid-rant beside you, his long legs stretched out, one arm draped across the back of the couch behind your shoulders. 

He looked frustratingly put together for someone five drinks deep—dark hair slightly mussed in that effortless way that probably took him zero effort, his Dicelis Hockey hoodie pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms that had no business being a bit distracting. 

The party sign on the wall now hung haphazardly close to floating to the floor, now just reading ‘HBD SUNGCH…’. The abandoned Cards Against Humanity game sat on the coffee table, half the white cards now decorated with pretzel crumbs and beer rings–

“(Y/N)!” Jake snapped his fingers in front of your face. “Are you even listening to me?” 

Rude. 

“I’m listening!” you protested, batting his hand away with a defensive shrug. 

You were listening–mostly. You were also wondering when Sunghoon would storm in and lose his mind over whoever massacred his card game with snacks and cheap beer. 

Jake’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “Oh yeah? Then what I was just talking about?” 

“Umm…” You took a tactical sip of your drink, buying a bit of time, “your latest conquests?”

He groaned, dropping his head back against the couch. “Not just any conquest, angel. I was talking about thee Yuna Shin.” 

Your eyebrows shot up. “Wait, pause–” You shifted to face him better, nearly sloshing your drink. “All-Star cheer captain Yuna Shin?” 

A slow, devastating smirk spread across Jake’s face, “so you weren’t listening.” 

“…sorry?” You flashed him that sheepish smile that usually got you out of things and Jake rolled his eyes, though there was no real heat behind it. 

“As I was saying, before I lost you to whatever was going on in that pretty head of yours—I thought Yuna and I were on the same page.” He gestured with his free hand, frustrated. 

“Nothing serious, y’know? Just hooking up, blowing off some steam.” 

“Something fun and casual.” You added, and your best friend pointed at you like you just solved a world problem. 

“Exactly. I mean, you get it. You know how insane my schedule is: practice, games, film sessions. Sometimes you just need to–”

“Decompress?” You supplied, fighting a giggle. 

“Right!” The man’s face lit up with vindication. “But then,” he paused, leaning in conspirationally, “two weeks in, she hits me with it.” 

“...What are we.” You both chorused, dissolving into laughter. 

Jake groaned like he was in physical pain, raking a hand through his hair. “I mean, we talked about this. Day one, cards on the table, and now she wants to put a label on it and make it into this whole...thing.” 

“Why can't we just have…fun?” He asked basically no one but himself after a few beats of silence. 

Fun. 

One word. Three letters. Embossed in bold, shiny gold letters across the hardcover of Jake Sim’s ‘Relationship 101 Handbook’ that was his trusted guide to every romantic interaction he’d had since sophomore year of high school. 

Jake had never been one to take relationships seriously–if you would call what he had ‘relationships’. 

You’d been watching this routine repeat itself in different variants for years now.

Jake didn’t do relationships—not real ones at least. 

Labels made him twitchy, commitment gave him hives and the word ‘girlfriend’ might as well have been in an ancient lost language for all the meaning it held for him. 

At least he wasn’t cruel about it though. He at least had the courtesy of always being upfront and honest about what he could and couldn’t offer. 

But that didn’t stop girls from hoping that their particular combo of pretty face and personality would be the exception to finally make Jake Sim want to ‘settle down’. 

Spoiler alert: it never was. 

The pattern repeated itself like clockwork, from the conundrum of summer flings before senior year of high school—when Jake scored the alluring job of a beach lifeguard—to senior year’s abundance of girls who wanted to wear his varsity jacket—each one lasting a few weeks before the inevitable ‘what are we’ conversation sent Jake running for the hills. 

Now here you were, junior year of college and Jake was still the same: Dicelis’ Division I ice hockey star defenseman—and of course, the list of girls struck by Eros himself were an endless, constantly replenishing supply. 

Most of them wanted something more: wearing his extra team shirt, going on dates—even something as simple as cuddling after sex—wrapped up in a bow of commitment, affection and the pretty title of ‘girlfriend’—all of which were things that lived on Jake’s hard ‘no no’ list, scribbled in red marker and underlined twice. 

This was the third rant this month alone. 

Jake sighed dramatically, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. “I’m at my wit’s end here, (Y/N), I really am.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh, because the theatrics of his chagrin were quite comical.

“Oh you poor thing,” you said, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “So many beautiful women wanna date you. How do you survive?” 

He shot you a look. “Don’t be a dick.” 

You tilted your head, pouting your lips with insincere disappointment, “aw, but you make it so easy.”

He kicked your foot lightly. “I’m being serious. I mean, you get it right? You do the whole ‘no-strings’ thing sometimes.” 

You made a noncommittal sound, swirling the contents of your cup. “Well , if you consider drowning in yearbook club projects and philosophy readings ‘fun’, then sure. I’m having a time.”  

Jake’s brows furrowed in confusion, “wait, hold up. I thought you were seeing someone?” 

He snapped his fingers, trying to summon the memory through his alcohol-clouded brain. “That guy—Intak! From the men’s basketball team right?” 

You deadpanned. “Jake, we broke up a month ago. You're late to the party as usual.” 

“A month?” He raised a brow. “Shit, really? I thought you guys were doing good.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Oh you know. It was the usual bullshit—spending too much time with my best friend.” You grumbled, already anticipating his reaction.

“Apparently you ‘clearly want to jump my bones’ and he couldn’t handle the competition.” 

Right on cue, that insufferable smirk spread across Jake’s face, slow, inevitable and way too bright. 

“Don’t,” you warned, pointing at him threateningly. “Do not start—” 

“I mean, geez.” Jake leaned back, radiating false modesty as he stroked his jaw in efforts to conceal his growing smile. “Are they really that intimidated by me?” 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves now.” 

“I can’t help it!” His grin was shit-eating and unrepentant. “This is like the third time this has happened. Maybe fourth? I’m losing count.” 

“Trust me, I’m well aware.” You sank back into the cushions in defeat, letting your head tip back. “My exes are a bunch of guys who couldn’t handle my best friend being a guy. It’s exhausting.”

And it really was.

Boyfriends, for you, were complicated in a way they never seemed to be for other people.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d kept one around for longer than two months.

It always started the same: fun, sweet, easy, great sex—and then they’d notice the Jake shaped figure looming in your orbit. 

The way he’d text you at random hours. The way you had inside jokes and a language that no one else could decode. How he’d show up at your apartment unannounced, or the way you’d disappear to meet him without explanation.

Somehow—every single time, “I don’t care if you have a guy best friend” would morph into “but does he really need to be around this much?” which would spiral into “I’m not comfortable with how close you two are” and eventually land on a messy breakup with the claims that either the both of you were blind, stupid—or both. 

Intak had been the final straw.

The breaking point that made you throw your hands up and say fuck it to the whole institution of dating.

After two months of increasingly passive-aggressive comments about Jake, Intak had finally snapped during what was supposed to be a cozy movie night at your apartment. 

You’d briefly checked your phone to see what Jake texted you and Intak had paused the movie with an irate, bitter smile.

“You know what? I’m done. I’m not going to keep playing third wheel in my own relationship while you’re clearly in love with someone else.”

“I’m not in love with Jake—”

“Oh, please.” Intak rolled his eyes with a sharp, mean laugh. “You light up when he texts. You prioritize his schedule over mine. Half the stories you tell start with ‘Jake and I.’ I’ve been competing with him since day one and I’m tired of losing to someone who’s supposedly ‘just a friend.’” 

He’d stood up, furiously grabbing his things. “Here’s some free advice (Y/N): either fuck him and get it out of your system, or admit that you’re emotionally unavailable and stop wasting people’s time. But don’t pretend you’re capable of actually being in a relationship when you’re clearly already in one.”

And then he’d left.

You’d sat there, stunned and furious, his words ringing in your ears, unable to shake his absurd accusation. 

After that ended, (with you telling him exactly where he could shove his pseudo-psychological analysis) you'd tried the casual hookup thing. 

Just sex, no expectations, no jealous boyfriends getting territorial over your best friend.

But that had its own problems too.

The hookups themselves were usually fine, all tension and excitement and the thrill of something new. 

But the aftermath? The awkward morning-afters, the forced small talk over bad coffee, the weird dance of pretending last night meant more or less than it actually did. 

Then there were guys who’d say they wanted casual but then got weird when you didn’t text back immediately, those who treated it like a transaction and made you feel hollow—and others who couldn’t find the goddamn clit with a map and a flashlight.

It was exhausting in a completely different way than dating had been, and after a few particularly disappointing encounters, you’d just…stopped.

So here you were: very single, very sexually frustrated, listening to your equally single and frustrated best friend complain about the exact same problems from the opposite side.

The universe had a twisted sense of humor, you’d give it that.

You stared at the ceiling above in pensive thought, scrutinizing the crowded half-deflated helium balloons, bobbing lazily like they’d given up on floating.

“I’m just so tired of all the drama,” you said finally. “Why can’t people just…enjoy each other without all the complications? Like it’s not that serious.” 

Jake let out a low hum of agreement, stretching his legs out beside yours until your knees almost touched, “right?”

You snorted. “Maybe you’re the problem.” 

He turned his head toward you, grinning. “Don’t say that. I'm trying to be deep here.” 

“You? Deep? That’s generous.” 

“Wow, rude.” Jake grabbed a pretzel from the decimated snack pile on the table and threw it at you. “Here I am having an existential crisis about the lost art of hookups, and you’re attacking my character.” 

You caught the pretzel, popping it into your mouth. “Someone has to keep your ego in check.” 

“My ego is perfectly sized, thank you.”

“Is that before…or after inflation?” You pouted with artificial curiosity, and Jake laughed—that full bodied sound that always made you smile despite yourself. 

Silence settled between the two of you for a moment, focused on your respective drinks as you lazily people-watched.

Then Jake slowly sat up straighter, his eyes lighting up with a sudden realization. “Okay but seriously though…”

You gave him a skeptical side glance. 

“What if–and hear me out–”

“Literally nothing good ever starts with ‘hear me out’.” You turned to him, suspicious. “What are you about to say?” 

Jake’s eyes had that chaotic gleam they got when he was about to suggest something either brilliant or completely idiotic.

 “What if the solution to our problem is kind of obvious?” 

You blinked at him. “What solution? What are you talking about?” 

“I’m saying,” Jake gestured vaguely between you both, his movements loose and animated from the alcohol. “What if we just…did it?” 

Your brain took a moment to process. “Did what?” 

“The whole no-strings thing!” Jake was warming to the idea.

“Think about it. We both want the same thing–something fun, uncomplicated, with someone who actually understands. And we’re both sitting here complaining about it when–”

“When what?” You were starting to catch on, a laugh building in your chest. 

“When we could just…y’know.” He waves his hand between you again like saying the actual thing was illegal, “…with each other.” 

A shocked laugh burst out of you as you slowly sat up. “Oh my god, are you serious right now?” 

Jake was grinning now, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Why not? We already now each other. There’d be no games, no messy let downs–” 

“No jealous boyfriends,” you added, getting into it now despite yourself. “Exactly.” Jake pointed at you enthusiastically. 

You felt yourself getting pulled into the conspiracy, despite how ridiculous it sounded—listing benefits with Jake like it was a pitch idea.

There wouldn’t be any jealousy, awkward morning-afters, no wondering if they’d text back and ‘what are we’ conversations because you already knew what you were—

“Best friends who are just having fun.” you’d finished, and you found yourself mulling over it with in entertained curiosity.

There was a beat of silence. 

Jake’s eyes twinkled with amusement and something else—something that made your stomach flip in a way you were too inebriated to examine. 

“I mean…” Jake said slowly, “it kind of makes sense?” 

“It really does actually,” you heard yourself agree, your voice almost wondering. “Like weirdly perfect sense.” 

You both stared at each other for a long moment, squinting through matching mischievous smirks, the idea suspended in the air between you like something tangible.  

Then, simultaneously, you both shook your heads and said: “Nah” before breaking into fits of laughter. 

“Oh my god, can you imagine?” Jake wheezed, nearly spilling his drink.

“We’d be terrible at it.” You agreed, laughing so hard your sides hurt. 

“We’d probably get into a fight about who’s doing it wrong–”

“Uhh, you’d definitely be doing it wrong.” You nodded up at him, and Jake threw you a challenging look,“I’ll have you know I’ve never had complaints in that department.” 

“That you know of, for all we know Yuna could be speaking bad on your skills right now.” You shot back, and Jake threw another pretzel at you.

“See? This is exactly why it wouldn’t work. You can’t even compliment my skills.”

“I’m not going to stroke your ego about your sex life, Sim.” 

Jake fought a snicker, “the word ‘stroke' in that sentence is very unfortunate timing.” 

Your mouth fell agape in comic shock, smacking his arm, “you’re disgusting.”

“I thought this was a safe space!” He shrugged with mock innocence. 

“It’s never a safe space for your dirty jokes.” You chided, still laughing. 

“And yet, you still gracefully endure.” Jake settled back into the couch, still grinning like an idiot.

“…But seriously though, for a second there, it almost made sense, right?” 

“For a very brief second.” you admitted with a warning lift of your finger. 

It was ridiculous. Funny. You even swiftly moved on to a different topic of conversation before you threw back a few more drinks and joined the dancing crowd—forgetting the entire thing completely as the night peeled away. 

But now—weeks later, the bold declaration of your official dry spell started to sound extremely over ambitious and the stupid (very stupid) idea had begun to look more like a good suggestion than just an alcohol-fueled joke. 

You were aggressively multitasking right now: murdering a bowl of cereal at your kitchen counter, tapping away at your computer—all while glaring daggers at your roommate while she hummed in the kitchen like the birds sung her awake this morning. 

The smile on Chaewon’s face was so radiant you probably didn’t need to worry about your electric bill for the next few months. It was the kind of smile no insult could wipe away.

Last night had been peaceful, just catching up on coursework after Sunoo dragged you clubbing three nights in a row.

You’d finally made a dent in your art history essay, wrapped up on your yearbook duties for the week, and even gotten ahead on your philosophy readings.

Then you’d heard the front door click shut around midnight, and more than one pair of footsteps in the hallway—along with Chaewon’s distinctive giggles, followed by the low rumble of a decidedly male voice.

You’d smirked to yourself, amused. She’d definitely overshare at breakfast—she always did, in excruciating detail you never asked for.

It was funny, right up until her bedroom door clicked shut and you’d been reminded, once again, that your apartment had walls made of paper.

What followed was a very thorough, very enthusiastically salacious reminder of everything you were definitely, frustratingly not having.

Now she was making coffee like she hadn’t just disrupted your entire night, and you were taking out your sexual frustration on your innocent breakfast.

“So,” Chaewon started. 

“No.” You shoved another spoonful into your mouth, and her shoulders dropped, “I didn't even say anything yet!” 

“Well, whatever you're about to say,” you pointed your spoon at her, “the answer is no.” 

She laughed pouring her coffee with an infuriating amount of grace. “I was just going to say that you seem a little tense this morning. Trouble sleeping?” 

You fixed her with your flattest stare. “The walls are thin and your headboard is loud. Go figure.” 

“Oh,” Chaewon had the audacity to look pleased, “yeah, Eric is pretty good with–”

“If you finish that sentence, I will move out.”

“Just saying,” The girl continued, completely undeterred by your threat, “it was mindblowing.” she supplied, staring off into the distance with a reminiscent smile, then she sighed. “I miss his dick, already.” 

“Oh trust me, the entire apartment complex knows you do.” You muttered, and Chaewon turned to you with a bemused smirk, “careful babe, your green is showing.” 

“I’m not jealous.” You glanced at her with a grimace. “I’d just rather prefer the noise of downtown nightlife over the sounds of a porn rendition next door.” 

Your roommate laughed earnestly, “you could have that too you know? You’re hot.” 

“Chae, it’s not that I can't, it's that I won't. I’m just swamped with work right now.” 

Chaewon paused, eyeing you with the kind of suspicious scrutiny that made you look away too quickly, “…when’s the last time you actually got laid? Like properly laid?” 

“It is way too early for an interrogation right now.” You stabbed your cereal with unnecessary force, each spoonful more violent than the last.

“That’s not an answer.” 

“Well, it's the only one you’re getting.” You returned to your laptop, trying to ignore the nosy figure hovering over you. 

Maybe she’d eventually relent if you feigned interest in the laptop you were barely paying attention to—but Chaewon knew you far too well to ignore your badly structured facade of content. 

She leaned against the counter, cradling her coffee mug, shifting her expression to something gentler. “I’m serious though, (Y/N). When was the last time you did something for yourself?” 

“You’ve been on the Dean’s List for two years, your streak isn’t going anywhere any time soon, you should have some fun!” 

Fun. There was that word again. 

“I…have fun.” You protested weakly. 

“Editing the yearbook forum at 2AM doesn't count as fun.” She elaborated. 

“It does if you’re passionate about what you do.” You pointed, with a cheeky grin and an almost-questioning lift of your brows—as if daring your best friend’s disagreement. 

“…Girl.” She set down her mug, fixing you with an unimpressed look.

“You’re like a soda can ready to explode. You need to blow off some steam.” She sighed insistently, like your voluntary abstinence was her problem. 

“Go out. Meet someone. Have a meaningless hookup that rocks your world and leaves you useless for days.” 

The worst part was that she wasn’t wrong. 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d felt that kind of rush—the anticipation, the foreplay, the earth shattering feeling of an orgasm that wasn’t from your fingers.

Your vibrator was getting more action that you’d had in months, and even that was starting to feel depressing.

“Hm, I’ll think about it.” You muttered. 

Chaewon smiled and turned knowing. “That’s all I’m asking.” 

Philosophy 302 felt like the universe was personally mocking you. 

You slumped in your usual seat near the back—close enough to hear Professor Sorenson but far enough to avoid being called on unless absolutely necessary.

Your laptop was open to a fresh document, cursor blinking expectantly, but your brain felt like static. 

“Today,” Sorenson announced, pacing at the front of the lecture hall with the kind of energy that suggested she had far too much coffee, “we’re driving into Socratic philosophy. Specifically his views on desire and jealousy.” 

Of course. Of course this was the topic today. 

You resisted the urge to drop your head onto your desk or peel away from class and risk your perfect attendance. 

“Socrates believed that jealousy is, at its core, simply desire unmet,” she continued, gesturing expansively.

“Its the gap between what we have and what we want. The tension between reality and longing.” 

Someone in the front row raised their hand—probably to ask something pretentious about the Symposium—but you’d already tuned out. 

Jealousy is desire unmet. 

Okay but really, who needed ancient philosophy to define something you could already feel gnawing at your insides? 

It had been over a month. Over a month since you’d had any action that didn’t involve machinery and your own imagination.

The closest you’d come was three weeks ago—some cute guy at a club who’d bought you a drink and kissed you against the bar. 

It was nice against your own judgment. Flattering even. 

But Sunoo had been your ride that night and he’d been ready to leave the second Jungwon drunkenly suggested the idea of getting everyone in the place a round of shots—so you got his number and told yourself you’d text him. 

You never did. 

Now here you were listening to a poetic lecture about some guy that lived eons before you, while your body reminded you in increasingly aching ways that you were a living breathing human with needs that were currently being spectacularly ignored. 

You’d tried to drown it out. Buried yourself in assignments, spent hours in the editing lab and even deep cleaned your apartment at 1AM last Tuesday. 

You had spent plenty of ‘quality time’ with yourself, but it wasn’t enough. It was like trying to satisfy a craving with wrong food—it filled the space but it didn’t quite hit the spot. 

What you wanted was the earth-shattering, knees-weak sex Chaewon was apparently having.

You’d made an attempt to settle in the blissful comfort of envied denial, chalking her dramatic retellings as mass hysteria—but who the hell were you kidding? 

You too, wanted to be fucked six ways to Sunday. You needed to feel both wrecked and alive in a way that a class ten in the morning on a Wednesday definitely wasn’t providing. 

“The question then becomes,” Sorenson said, pulling you momentarily back to reality, “how do we reconcile our desires with our reality? How do we bridge that gap without losing ourselves to jealousy or desperation?”

Your laptop screen blurred slightly as you stared at it. 

How do you bridge that gap? 

Jake’s face flickered through your mind, unbidden–that stupid smile, those dark eyes, the way he’d looked at you on that couch two and a half weeks ago. 

“What if we just did it?” 

You had laughed it off. Dismissed it as drunk stupid rambling. 

But the idea had slowly burrowed into your brain like a splinter, small and persistent. You’d catch yourself thinking about it at random moments—in the shower, before bed, during particularly boring lectures like this one. 

It was insane. Completely insane. 

But…was it really?

You shook your head, trying to psychically dislodge the thought. This was stupid and wrong. You were friends. Best friends. You didn’t cross that line because some lines existed for a reason. 

Even if you were currently so horny you could barely think straight. 

Even if Jake was objectively gorgeous and made zero effort to hide it. 

And even if the idea of uncomplicated fun with someone you actually knew wouldn’t fuck it up sounded exactly like what you needed right now. 

Stop it, you told yourself firmly. 

Class continued in the background, but you were too busy trying to convince yourself that Jake’s drunken suggestion hadn’t been slowly, insidiously making more and more sense over the past weeks. 

Your phone buzzed in your lap.

jake from state charm: bro practice is killing meee  

jake from state charm: coach has us running drills like we’re training for the olympics  

jake from state charm: im dying

jake from state charm: pls send food  

jake from state charm: or a medic  

Despite everything, you smiled.

you: u are SO dramatic 💀

jake from state charm: im SUFFERING  

jake from state charm: this is a cry for help 

jake from state charm: also im rlly bored, entertain meeee

you: you’ll live 

jake from state charm: ur breaking my heart 

you: 🎻

jake from state charm: bros wining the idgaf war

You snorted softly. 

jake from state charm: are you free friday? 

jake from state charm: jays having one of his gigs again

you: what’s your gpa and answer quick 🤔

jake from state charm: chill, i study hard and party hard ✋🏻🙂‍↕️🤚🏻

jake from state charm: balance is key smarty pants

you: right right…

jake from state charm: i’ll take that as a yes, see you friday ;)

You shook your head, slipping your phone back into your bag, still smiling despite yourself.

This was fine. Everything was fine—you were fine. You absolutely were not thinking about what Jake looked like under that hockey uniform.

Nope.

Jake was going to lose his fucking mind.

He slammed his locker shut with more force than necessary, the metallic clang echoing through the half empty locker room. 

Practice had been brutal all week—three hours of drills on ice, conditioning, and Coach riding their asses about the upcoming season.

But that wasn’t what was making him want to punch something.

“Yo, Jake!” Jay’s voice carried from the showers. “You coming to Giselle’s tonight or what? S’posed to be a rager.”

“Maybe,” Jake called back half-heartedly, yanking his t-shirt over his head.

He probably wouldn’t go. 

Jake had been to three parties in the last two weeks and they’d all ended the same way: some girl would approach him, they’d flirt, she’d make it clear she was interested, and Jake would…

Nothing.

He’d do absolutely nothing.

Which was weird because Jake never did nothing.

Jake was the guy who hooked up at parties, who had girls’ numbers saved in his phone, who never spent a weekend alone unless he chose to.

But lately? Nothing. Three weeks of absolutely nothing, and it was starting to make him feel like he was losing his edge.

“Dude…you good?” Maki appeared from around the corner, towel around his waist, eyeing Jake suspiciously. “You’ve been weird lately.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what your face says. You look constipated.”

“Thanks, asshole.”

Maki laughed, grabbing his bag. “Seriously though, what’s up? You turned down Yujin last weekend. Yujin Ahn. The girl you’ve been trying to hook up with in physics class.”

Jake had turned her down. Yujin had been perfectly willing, perfectly attractive, perfectly available. She’d been wearing a dress that should have been downright illegal and she’d made her intentions very clear.

And Jake had made an excuse and left.

Not because he wasn’t attracted to her. Not because he didn’t want to have fun. But because he’d been down this road too many times now, and he knew exactly how it would end.

“Just not feeling it lately,” Jake muttered, shoving his practice gear into his bag with unnecessary aggression.

“Not feeling it? Bro, you’re like—” Maki stopped himself, a knowing look crossing his face. “Oh. Oh. This is about the crying thing, isn’t it?”

Jake’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit. This is totally about the crying thing.” The blonde sat down on the bench, looking far too entertained. “Dude, that wasn’t your fault. You were upfront with her from the start.”

“Doesn’t matter. She still cried. In the middle of the cafeteria.” He deadpanned. 

“Okay, yeah, that was rough,” Maki admitted with a chuckle. “But again—not your fault. You told her it was casual.”

Jake had told her.

He’d been crystal clear about it, just like he always was—no expectations, no promises, just fun. 

Yuna nodded as fast as she could manage, said she completely understood and was on the same page before crashing into his lips and pushing him into the sheets. 

Three weeks later, she’d asked where they were going and Jake had gently reminded her of their initial conversation, and had tried–tried–to let her down as softly as possible. 

He’d even told her she was amazing, that any guy would be lucky to date her, but he just wasn’t that guy.

Yuna gave him that doleful look, managing a weak smile even through watery eyes. She had constantly repeated that she was okay when Jake had asked—begging her not to cry–and she did anyway. 

Right there in the cafeteria, mascara running, while half the room paused their lunch break to stare. 

Evil incarnate was what he was apparently. 

And before Yuna? There was Amber, who’d teared up when he’d ended things. And before her—Macy, who’d actually cried in his chest and told him she thought they had really had something.

By the time he’d made the fifth girl cry, the team would've coined some mortifying nickname, one that would definitely leave the locker room and follow him everywhere, stamped across his forehead for the rest of his days. 

Jake felt like he wasn’t even doing anything wrong.

He didn’t ghost them or act like a dick and pretend they meant nothing. He sat them down, explained gently but firmly that this wasn’t going to turn into something more, and appreciated the time they’d spent together.

According to the rest of the team, that made him ‘the sweet one’. The fuckboy with a conscience. At least he wasn’t getting slapped like Heeseung, or screamed at in the quad like Sunghoon last month.

But ‘sweet’ didn’t stop the tears and ‘nice’ didn’t make the breakups hurt less—and Jake was getting really fucking tired of being the guy who made girls cry, even when he’d done everything inherently ‘right’.

“You’re too good at letting them down easy,” Sunghoon said, reading his mind.

“That’s your problem. You’re so nice about it that they think there’s hope.” He fished a water bottle out of his locker. “Like maybe if they just try harder, you’ll change your mind.”

“I tell them from the start—”

“Yeah, but you’re also charming as fuck, bro. Remembering their coffee orders and asking about their classes and actually listening when they talk: that’s boyfriend behavior.”

“That’s literally just being a decent human being.”

“Right, but most guys hooking up casually aren’t decent human beings. So when you are, they think it means something.” Sunghoon pointed out, shaking his hair dry. 

Jake scrubbed a hand over his face with an exasperated groan. “So what, I’m supposed to be an asshole? Treat them like shit so they don’t catch feelings?”

“No,” Maki said grinning, clearly enjoying this, “he’s saying maybe you need to be more selective. Or—” he snapped his fingers. 

“Or find someone who actually gets it. Someone who won’t fall for your whole ‘sweet guy’ routine because they already know all your bullshit.”

Someone who already knew his bullshit…and his mind immediately (and traitorously) went to you. 

Right.

“I’m not talking about this anymore,” Jake said, standing abruptly and yanking his bag onto his shoulder.

“I’m just saying,” Maki continued, following him out, “you’ve been in a weird mood for like three weeks now. Ever since Sungchan’s party at our place—what happened that night anyway?”

Brief fragments of that night came to mind, but one stood out like a sore insistent thumb: that stupid joke about you two being the perfect fuck buddies.

You’d both laughed it off and went back to normal. 

Nothing technically happened.

Except everything had shifted anyway, tilted slightly off-axis in a way Jake couldn’t quite correct. 

Because that suggestion—made half-drunk and mostly joking—had been rattling around in his head ever since, getting louder and making more sense as the weeks flew by.

You did get it.

You understood the appeal of something casual and uncomplicated because you wanted the same thing.

You wouldn’t develop expectations he couldn’t meet because your friendship had already established what you were to each other.

There would be no crying. No uncomfortable conversations where he had to explain that he liked you but not like that. No wondering if he was leading someone on or breaking someone’s heart.

It would just be…easy. Fun. The way it was supposed to be.

And he couldn’t deny—had never been able to deny, if he was being honest with himself—that you were beautiful. Objectively, empirically gorgeous in a way that had nothing to do with your friendship and everything to do with the fact that Jake had working eyes.

He’d just never let himself think about it too much because you were you, the one person in his life who was uncomplicated and easy and safe from all his usual bullshit.

But lately, he’d been thinking about it. A lot.

About the way you looked when you laughed, head thrown back and completely unselfconscious. How you’d lean against him during movie nights, warm and comfortable in his space. 

About that night on the couch when you’d been wearing that silly slogan tank top and the chilly September night made him realize that you weren’t wearing a bra.

Jake had very carefully kept his eyes on your face because anything else teetered the edge of dangerous.

But he briefly let himself think about how you’d probably kiss—rough and defiant, the same way you argued with him about.

And what you’d sound like if he got his hands on you. What you’d look like underneath him, that bratty tongue of yours finally lost for words while he—

An idiot.

He felt like an idiot letting himself think of such things. Getting a hard on from the thought of your best friend was wrong—he could practically feel the shame burning the hairs on the back of his neck. 

You were his best friend. Off-limits. The one person he couldn’t mess things up with. 

Even if the idea of fucking you had become impossible to ignore. 

Sunghoon slapped him on the shoulder with an irritating pitying smile. “You’re a good dude, Jake. Even if you are currently going through some kind of weird celibate phase.”

“It’s been three weeks, not three years.”

He scoffed. “For you? That’s basically a lifetime.”

Jake’s eyes went skyward, though a small grin betrayed him.

Yeah. A lifetime. 

If you mashed together an older brother's basement rehearsals with the scratchy, emotionally manic soundtrack of a ‘turn of the millennium’ teen movie, you’d get Jay’s band: The Fallout. 

Collective was practically packed wall-to-wall with people, the atmosphere slightly thick with neon lights slicing through the gloom of fog and the overwhelming cigarette smoke—which was a headache waiting to happen if you stayed long enough. 

Peeling posters of long forgotten rock bands and stars graced the brick walls, alongside a pristine collection of old Rolling Stone magazines and passionate slogans about how ‘rock ruled’ or whatever. 

The people who came to these shindigs were a harmonious blend of heavily opinionated music nerds, students at their third location, and anyone who thought loud music excused questionable hygiene. 

You attended one of Jay’s gigs back in freshman year, if that was what you’d call it then.

Back then, he only performed at frat parties, which somehow made the obnoxious traditions of those gatherings slightly cooler. 

Now, he was performing small bar gigs and open mics, pouring himself into each note with the same passion he’d had since he was in high school, performing to no one but the entire neighbourhood from his garage—or his parents (who were clearly held hostage). 

He’d once joked to you that you could still get with him before he was untouchable—be his cool girlfriend to bring on tour to make every body else jealous and you’d scoffed: “Yeah sure, because rockstars are so known for their monogamy.” 

The Fallout was mid-set, and the crowd was eating it up.

You stood near the back with Chaewon and Sunoo, nursing a second vodka cranberry that was more vodka than cranberry, watching Jay dominate the small stage like he was born with a Les Paul in his hands. 

Jay was good—really good. His fingers flew across the guitar strings with practiced ease, his voice rough and melodic as he leaned into the mic.

He also looked unfairly hot doing it, damp hair casted over his eyes and concentrated intensity, his t-shirt clinging to him in a way that suggested the stage lights were doing their job.

“Okay, I need to know if he’s single immediately,” Chaewon announced over the music. “Because I am already planning our future together.”

“You don’t even know his last name.” You pointed out, raising a brow. 

“Park,” Sunoo supplied helpfully. “Jay Park. Hockey player, lead guitarist, and according to a few of his exes…a lot of trouble.’”

Chaewon’s eyes practically sparkled. “Perfect. I’m dressed like a rockstar’s girlfriend already.” She gestured to her outfit—an off-shoulder band tee she’d artfully cut herself, paired with leather shorts and doc martens. “This was clearly fate.”

You had to admit, Chaewon wasn’t wrong. The girl looked about ready to be splashed across a tabloid magazine, hanging off a rockstar with effortless cool.

You had gone a different direction—a patterned halter top showing more cleavage than you usually went for, paired with a mini skirt and your favorite boots, with eyeliner sharp enough to kill. 

You looked good. You felt good.

The music was great, bouncing off the walls with just the perfect amount of volume and reverb.

The energy was really infectious and lively, but you were still somehow…restless.

“So,” Sunoo said, leaning in conspiratorially, “when are you going to put yourself out there tonight?”

“Not you too.” You dramatically groaned.

“I’m just saying!” The pretty man said, hands miming passionately.

“You look hot, the music is good, everyone’s got liquid courage—this is literally prime hookup territory.”

“I’m not hooking up with a random stranger at a bar.”

“Why not?” Chaewon joined in with a whine, fussily shaking her shoulders, “You need to unclench babe.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re repressed.”

“I’m…selective.” You supplied with a shrug. 

“You’re pent up,” Chaewon corrected. “There’s a difference. And honestly, babe? It’s starting to show.”

You shot her a look. “Excuse me?”

“You stress-cleaned the apartment in the dead of night last week, then you reorganized the entire living room.” She quipped with an accusatory look.

“Finding my scented candles was like finding Waldo–you totally messed with my entire system.” 

You glanced at her like she just asked if it was night, “I was trying to be organized? And I told you to pack away your candles after using them to ‘cleanse the vibes’.” 

“Okay mom.” Chaewon drawled with an amused smirk, ignoring your simmering glare. 

Sunoo rolled his eyes, ignoring your lover's spat, “you’re just channeling your sexual frustration into other activities,” he said sagely. “That’s classic displacement behavior.”

“You crash one of Jungwon’s classes and suddenly you're a psychologist.” 

Sunoo shrugged, flashing you an expectant look, theatrically sipping his drink, “but I am wrong though?” 

Well…no. Irritatingly so. 

“We’re just trying to help!” Chaewon protested.

“Look, I know what happened with that guy Sunoo tried to set you up with last time—”

“Do not bring up Sohee.”

“—but that was one bad experience! Not every hook up ends with the guy crying mid-coitus because he misses his ex.” 

“He came in about two minutes, then immediately started crying about his ex-girlfriend while literally using my tits as a pillow.” You grimaced at the memory. 

“I didn’t even get to come and I had to play therapist. The worst trade deal in history.” 

Sunoo winced with an apologetic smile. “Yeah sorry, that was…rough. My bad. But this time—”

“Nope.” You cut him off with a half playful warning. “No setups. No ‘I have a friend who would be perfect for you.’ Just…no.”

“Fine, fine.” Sunoo held up his hands in surrender. “But you could just, I don’t know, find someone yourself? Take initiative?”

“I don’t need to take initiative. I’m perfectly content with my current situation.”

“Your current situation is you and your vibrator,” Chaewon deadpanned.

“Oh my god, Chaewon!”

“What? It’s true! And while I do support your solo activities, they’re clearly not cutting it anymore. You need the real thing.” She insisted.

“Preferrably someone hot, very charming and yes, capable of leading a band while looking like angels sculpted him themselves.”

That was directed more so towards herself than you, catching her shifting glance to Jay with that particular look on her face. 

You guaranteed somewhere in the week you’d be victim to another sleepless night and a TMI recap over your morning breakfast. 

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress a laugh at the way she dreamily stared at the lead guitarist like he hung the moon.  

Thankfully, the end of the song saved you from another failed defense against your tag teaming jury, the crowd erupting into applause and cheers as Jay grinned, adjusting the mic. 

“Thank you, thank you!” His voice carried over the sound system, warm and genuine. “You guys are fucking amazing. This next one’s a new song we’ve been working on—it’s called ‘Bad Decisions’ which feels appropriate for a Friday night, right?”

The crowd cheered in agreement.

The band launched into the song and you found yourself swaying despite your mood, the bass thrumming through your chest.

“Okay, but Jay is legitimately hot,” You admitted, watching him absolutely shred on guitar. “Like, objectively speaking.”

“Right?” Chaewon was practically drooling. “The way his arms look when he plays? Criminal. Absolutely criminal.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t crawled over to the stage and tackled him.” Sunoo observed with a humored smile.

Chaewon flashed him a chaotic grin, “oh I’m considering it.” 

“Give me a few more drinks and you’ll have to hold me back.” She sang with a warning, and you both told her to behave herself amidst laughter.

This was a good way to unwind from the harrowing week you spent with your nose in your books. The Fallout was good, the company was good…but that relentless thought hadn’t gone away.

If anything, it was getting worse.

“I need another drink,” You announced.

“I’ll come with—” Chaewon started, and you waved dismissively with a warm scoff, “no, it’s fine. You stay and appreciate Jay’s arms. I’ll be right back.”

You pushed through the crowd toward the bar, weaving between bodies and dodging elbows.

The music was loud enough to rattle your ribcage—and you were grateful for the excuse that it was just the bass that was making your chest do complicated things.

Definitely just the music. 

Jake spotted Isa Lee the moment he walked into the bar with Heeseung and Sunghoon.

She was standing near the stage with a group of her cheer friends, looking effortlessly beautiful in a casual dress that somehow looked both comfortable and perfectly put together. 

Her dark hair was down in loose waves, and when she laughed at something her friend said, Jake felt…nothing.

Well, not nothing. She was gorgeous, and he’d been trying to catch her at the right time since September.

But that usual spark of interest, the rousing anticipation of a potential hookup—just wasn’t there.

“Dude, Isa Lee is totally checking you out,” Heeseung said, nudging Jake’s shoulder.

“What?”

“Three o’clock. Don’t make it obvious.” Sunghoon grinned. “She’s been looking over here since we walked in.”

Jake glanced over casually, and Isa caught his eye with a slow smile, a clear invitation.

“Go talk to her, man,” Heeseung encouraged. “You’ve been wanting to hook up with her for months.”

He had been.

Isa was smart—chem major, very talented cheerleader, genuinely nice from everything he’d heard. She was exactly the kind of girl who should interest him.

Should being the operative word.

“Yeah,” Jake said, not moving. “I will. In a minute.”

“…What are you waiting for?”

Jake didn’t have a good answer for that. Or rather, he had an answer, but it was one that would make his friends theatrically concerned and ask a conundrum of questions he didn’t want to answer.

He had to break this cycle, somehow. 

But his two teammates were looking at him expectantly and mildly confused, while Isa was still smiling in his direction.

“Fine,” Jake said. “I’m going.”

He crossed the room, smoothly weaving through the crowd until he reached Isa’s group of friends who’d nudged her persistently with barely concealed grins and giggles.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in so she could hear him over the music.

“Hey!” Isa’s face lit up. “Jake, right? You’re on the hockey team with the lead guitarist.” 

“Guilty. You’re Isa?”

“That’s me.” She touched his arm lightly, as she eyed him down. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

“Wouldn’t miss one of Jay’s shows. He’s been practicing that new song for weeks.” Jake gestured toward the stage where Jay was currently in the middle of a guitar solo.

“He’s pretty good, right?”

“He’s amazing! I love live music.” Isa moved closer, her shoulder brushing his. “Do you play any instruments?”

“Yeah, but Jay and I have different musical directions. A band breakup would be waiting to happen if I joined.” 

Isa laughed, and Jake found himself going through the motions—smirking, leaning in, saying the right things.

It was all easy and familiar. He’d done this dance a hundred times.

But his heart wasn’t really in it.

You lingered at the bar, idly people-watching while you patiently waited for the bartender to remember that pouring drinks was, in fact, his primary job—not shamelessly flirting with a gaggle of far too inebriated girls clearly trying to snag free drinks.

Your fingers drummed against the sticky wood counter, letting your gaze drift over the crowd before your eyes landed on an awfully familiar tall figure. 

Jake.

Had he been here the whole time? 

He stood slightly off to the side, leaning down to hear a girl speaking into his ear.

Jake looked unfairly good under the haze of the colored lighting, shoulders stretched broad beneath a fitted tee layered over a long sleeve, the bottom cuffs shoved carelessly up his forearms. 

Show off. You scoffed with a slight smile. 

And of course he was talking to someone.

Jake could strike up a conversation with a brick wall and have it blushing in under five minutes. 

The girl—you realized—was Isa Lee. 

That tracked. 

Isa was one of Jungwon’s all-star cheer teammates.

She was the kind of girl professors adored and campus baristas remembered, all honey warm laughs and the uncanny ability to make you feel like the most interesting person in the room.

She was a real sweetheart, almost offensively so. 

You watched, faintly amused, as Isa’s hand slowly brushed Jake’s chest like she was checking its structural integrity.

She then leaned in closer, whispering something…and there it was: the beam of that smile.

Not enough to look sweet, and just enough to look dangerous—and Jake definitely knew what he was doing. 

You suppressed a disbelieving laugh. 

Jake always had that stupidly charming half-smile, but somewhere between sophomore year and that hockey camp before junior year it transformed along with everything.

From the adorable boy next door to what you could only perfectly describe as one of those absurdly pretty guys you noticed at the airport and felt mildly disappointed when your boarding group got called. 

Back then you found it deeply annoying. 

Now you just found it entertaining. 

Isa laughed again, tracing absent patterns on his chest, and you lifted a brow. 

Bold. 

Jake’s hand hovered briefly at Isa’s waist, polite but noncommittal. He was looking down at her, nodding and listening intently.

And then his eyes shifted, finding yours. 

You didn’t look away, simply curving your lips in a mild, impressed half-smile, communicating with your countenance: Busy night? 

Recognition flashed across his face, followed by a slow grin that made something in your stomach flip against its will. 

Jake briefly turned back to Isa, saying something that was clearly unreadable. She blinked up at him, mid suggestion before Jake began to step back, to your surprise. 

He murmured something that made Isa’s face flicker—confusion? disappointment?—before he offered an apologetic smile. 

And then he turned, making a direct beeline for the bar. 

You found yourself straightening slightly, ignoring the flicker of something that suspiciously felt like anticipation. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Jake greeted, sliding in next to you with a growing smile.

You tilted your head. “Stalking me, Sim?”

“Always. It’s my favorite hobby.” Jake leaned against the bar, throwing an arm around your shoulders in a way he always annoyingly did. 

He leaned back to take your outfit in properly for the first time. “Damn, (Y/N). Do you always dress like that or did I get lucky tonight?”

You smirked, striking a deliberately exaggerated gesture of throwing your hair back. “You like? I figured if Chaewon gets to dress like a rockstar’s girlfriend, I might as well make an effort.”

“An effort,” Jake repeated, his eyes trailing over the strappy top that showed off your shoulders, the mini skirt that made your legs look about a mile long.

“That’s one way to put it. You look unfair.”

“I know.” Your smile was purely unabashed. 

That was your usual reaction whenever Jake harmlessly flirted with you—completely unaffected by his usual behavior in that way that was so quintessentially you. 

But right now it strangely felt like you were reading lines off a script, irked by that annoying little buzz in your gut that refused to mind its own business. 

“Well, I didn’t spend two hours getting ready for nothing.”

“Two hours?!” Jake raised his eyebrows with a grin that was equally amused and shocked. 

“Perfection takes time, Sim. You wouldn’t understand with your three-second hair routine and your basic graphic tee and boring jeans.” You judgmentally eyed his frame. 

Your feigned scrutiny faltered as your eyes betrayed you, lingering on his perfectly toned arms and the waistband of his jeans teasingly low—Calvin Klein's mocking you. 

Why did it take hours for girls to get ready while guys practically slapped on whatever they could find and looked like…that. 

Jake laughed with a bashful shrug, and without breaking eye contact—he casually flicked a subtle hand toward one of the bartenders. “What can I say angel? I’m just naturally blessed like that.” 

“Naturally something,” You muttered with a grumble.

The man briefly shifted his attention to the bartender, ordering drinks for the two in a way that you shouldn’t have found hot, but did.

You’d been standing there for seven minutes flagging the bartender like an overzealous fangirl—your voice cycling through desperate octaves to try and get their attention and he’d just…done it. 

The drinks you had so far were definitely to blame. It had to be that.

Alcohol lowered standards, it was basic peer reviewed science—and you could pull a journal article about that right now.  

Sober you would never feel a flutter in her chest over a man simply summoning a bartender over with his index finger all while keeping his undivided attention on her.

Ridiculous.  

Jake turned back to you, “and FYI, The Smiths?” he pointed at his shirt, “isn’t basic, you’re just uncultured like that.” 

“Says you and every other performative male yearning for substance,” You said once you had your drinks. “All you’re missing are some glasses, vintage headphones and a Jane Austen book.” 

Your best friend clutched his chest with mock hurt, “you wound me (Y/N), I keep you company, I buy you a drink and yet you still judge me.” 

You threw him a well meaning smile and he couldn’t conceal his own any further, shaking his head with a chuckle.  

You paused, searching the crowd in confusion. “Wait what happened to Isa? I saw you two looking cozy.”

The question came out before you’d really thought about it. Not that you cared exactly—Jake could talk to whoever he wanted. He always did.

But you’d noticed the way she was with him earlier, with the kind of body language that usually meant Jake would disappear in an hour or less. 

And yet here he was at the bar. With you. 

It was weird and out of pattern. That's all.

“She’s nice.”

“Incorrect answer.”

“That’s all I can say.” Jake took a sip of his beer, deflecting. “What about you? Having fun?”

“Define fun.”

“That bad, huh?”

You shrugged, taking a long sip.

Everything about the night should’ve been perfect, but there was this restless irritation fizzling in your veins that wouldn’t quit, and admitting your night was subpar at best, would require admitting why. 

You ultimately concluded that you’d rather spare yourself more external efforts from friends to squander your sexual embargo.

It also just weirdly felt more mortifying than irritating to hear Jake have an opinion on your nonexistent sex life. 

“It’s fine. Music’s good.” 

Jake studied you for a moment, and you could feel him reading between the lines in that way he always did—but thankfully, he didn’t push, simply replying with an understanding nod.

You both fell into a comfortable silence, Jay’s band comfortably filling the space.

The place was still busy, with the frenzied humdrum only a Friday night could bring out, but somehow both of you felt more relaxed standing here at the bar with each other than you had all night.

“Jay looks good up there,” You observed, watching the stage. “Like, really good. The whole angsty hot musician thing really works for him.”

Jake glanced at you skeptically. “Are you thirsting over my teammate right now?” 

“I’m making a simple observation about his attractiveness.” Your eyes gleamed with mischief. “Chaewon’s already decided they’re soulmates based entirely on the way he plays guitar.”

“That tracks. Jay has that effect on people.” Jake paused. “Please tell me you’re not under his spell too.”

“Relax, Chaewon called dibs. Besides, musicians are too high-maintenance for me.” You turned to face him fully, leaning your hip against the bar.

The question bubbled in your chest again—the nagging curiosity about why Jake was here instead of leaving with Isa.

It wasn’t jealousy, you just knew Jake. 

You knew his patterns and knew that when a girl like Isa showed interest, he usually took the opportunity without much hesitation. 

So why hadn’t he?

“How’s your night actually going? You looked like you were about to leave with Isa.”

Jake shrugged, suddenly seeming very interested in the typography of his beer label. “Just wasn’t feeling it, I guess.”

“Really?” You couldn’t keep the surprise out of your tone, “you’ve been trying to hook up with her since September.”

Jake made an amusing noise of frustration, “how does everyone know that?” He threw his hand up, “have I been that obvious?”

You pursed your lips with intentional silence, darting your eyes back to the stage. 

“Wow, coming for my throat tonight.”

“You’re always obvious.” You tilted your head, studying him. “But seriously, you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

Jake considered lying—you could see it cross his face, the automatic playful smile he used with everyone else—but instead, his shoulders dropped slightly with a sigh.

“Honestly? I’m just spent,” he admitted. “Rather drown myself in hockey practice and physics homework than do that whole dance again.”

Jake took a long swig from his drink. “I don’t know. Maybe I need a break from all of it.”

“A break? You?” You looked genuinely surprised. “Jake Sim, taking a break from hooking up? Did I slip into an alternate dimension?”

“Ha ha. But yeah, maybe. The whole thing is…exhausting.”

You were quiet for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was softer. “Yeah. I get that.”

Something in your tone made Jake look at you more closely. You were staring at your drink, the crease in your eyes an adorable yet clear indication that you too, looked like you wished you could be anywhere else.

“...You want to get out of here?” The words came out before Jake could think about them.

You looked up. “What?”

“This place. The gig. Everything.” Jake gestured vaguely. “You wanna just leave? Go somewhere quieter?”

“What about Chaewon and Sunoo?”

“What about Heeseung and Sunghoon? They’ll survive without us.” Jake bumped your shoulder with his. “Come on. Let’s bail. But only if there’s alcohol at your place.”

Your smile was slow and considering. “Sunoo did leave a few bottles of something.” 

“Sold.” Jake downed the rest of his beer, setting the bottle on the bar. “Let’s go.”

“You sure? You’re not going to regret leaving Isa behind?”

Jake looked at you in a way that made your face unusually warm, “I’m pretty sure.” 

“Come on.” Jake laced his fingers through yours, tugging you away from the bar.

You tried desperately to down the rest of your drink as he pulled you toward the exit, nearly spilling it on yourself in the process.

“Jake wait—I’m still—” you protested between gulps, giggling.

“Chug faster!” He laughed, “I didn’t drag you to all those parties for nothing.” 

You managed one final heroic swig before he dragged you through the door, both of you laughing like idiots as the cool night air hit your faces.

When you reached your apartment, Jake immediately gravitated to your speaker with the familiarity of someone who’d done it a thousand times before, immediately fiddling with the device.

“Oh, make yourself comfortable,” you called from the kitchen, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Already am!” Jake crashed on the couch, kicking off his shoes and propping his feet up on the coffee table. “What’ve you got?”

“Let’s see…” You stared at the haphazard arrangement of bottles left on the counter in a rush to catch an uber. “Vodka, rum, some tequila that Sunoo left here, and—oh, he got amaretto.”

“Fancy.”

“He does contain multitudes.” You started grabbing at bottles. “Want me to make something, or are we just doing shots?”

“Make something. Show off your bartending skills.”

“I don’t have bartending skills.”

“Then improvise. I believe in you.”

You laughed, pulling out glasses and starting to mix something that looked more complicated than it probably needed to be. 

“So,” You said, briefly looking up from your mixing, “how’s hockey going?” 

Jake looked away a bit too quickly as he cleared his throat, shrugging. “Hockey’s been the same. We’ve got a game in a few weeks, so everyone’s pretending they’re in the NHL.” 

You hummed intently, dangerously pouring something amber into something clear.

Jake watched you for a second, “You should come to the game.”  

You made a face, “I’ve been to games.” 

“Not in months.” He pointed at you accusingly. “Fake fan behavior.” Jake clicked his tongue in disappointment. 

“I’ve just been…busy.” You shrugged, crashing beside him and handing him a drink. 

The speaker finally came to life after he did enough damage—the harmony of East High students filling the room with way too much glee and optimism for a mellow evening. 

“Shit, my phone’s still connected.” You lunged for your phone, frantically disconnecting the music amidst Jake’s unshakable laughter. 

“High School Musical 3?!” He managed between laughs, shoulders shaking while you rolled your eyes with a flustered groan. 

“Whatever! It’s a good movie and a good playlist, I’m not backing down on that.” You insisted, trying to fight the burn that settled in your cheeks. 

“Aww.” Jake cooed, reaching over to pat your head, “you are such a dork (Y/N).” Still grinning.

“Uhh…says the guy who just ditched a sure thing to hang out with me.”

“Who says you’re not a sure thing?”

The words came out more flirtatious than Jake intended, and your eyebrows shot up nimbly. “Careful, Sim. Keep talking like that and I might actually think you actually like spending time with me.” 

“I tolerate you.” Jake corrected. “There’s a difference.” 

“Right, that’s why you drove forty minutes to watch me tank soccer try outs in junior year.” 

“That was moral support.” He defended.

“You laughed the entire time.” You said dryly, though you were still smiling. 

“I’m sorry (Y/N),  but you were absolutely hilarious, you were playing an entirely different sport.” 

“I only grabbed the ball because the midfielder hurled it right at my face!” 

The rest of the night melted into something comfortable and way better than where your night had been going a few hours ago. 

You had reached the point where you could feel the pleasant buzz of the alcohol in your veins, just the right amount of tipsy that made everything entertaining.  

You two talked about anything and basically everything—ranging from entertaining moments in your yearbook club and hockey, to harmless gripes about your respective roommates. 

Jake grumbled about how Sunghoon ran the apartment like being captain didn't leave the threshold of the ice rink, while you mentioned Chaewon’s inability to do basically anything without the TV playing ‘That 70s Show’ reruns—even if she was fast asleep. 

But being slightly plastered also invited unwarranted impulsivity and honesty in you that only liquid courage could reinforce—slightly unfettered by your sober self to filter your pensive thoughts.

For the most of the conversation your mind had been embarrassingly elsewhere.

Whenever Jake had a few drinks in him, he always talked animatedly—hands waving, fingers gesturing wildly at something he was talking about.

It was adorable.

Though now, you weren’t hyper fixated on his fingers due to dramatics—but because they were nice, and pretty, and long. Your mind couldn’t help itself with the thought of his fingers at a place you ached for them be.

It was shameful, you’d admit.

Here he was talking your ear of about something you’d tuned out ten minutes ago, and your cunt practically had its own maddening pulse at though your best friend finger fucking you.

You were so horny it was driving you crazy.

“Okay, I’m calling it,” Jake announced suddenly, drawing you out of your thoughts. “You’ve been in another world for like the past ten minutes.”

“I was here!"

“Really? Care to repeat what I said?”

You opened your mouth, scrambling for an excuse, and closed it. “Sunghoon…did another annoying thing?”

“Wow. Riveting summary.” Jake shifted to face you, grinning. “What’s going on? And don’t say ‘nothing’ because you’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m an excellent liar, actually.”

“You’re really not. Remember poker night at mine?”

You groaned with a roll of your eyes. “That doesn’t count.”

“Oh, it counts.” He was already grinning at the memory. “You had a garbage hand and kept licking your lips.”

“My lips were dry!”

“Your lips are never dry, (Y/N).” He stated with light humor in his tone, and you tried to maintain a neutral expression at that clearly harmless observation.

“You were panicking.” Jake poked your side, making you squirm. “Come on, spill. What’s the deal?”

Diversion was the obvious way out.

You could change the subject, and insist on moving on—but honestly? You were way too tired and tipsy to thinking about your sexual frustrations alone. And if you couldn’t talk to Jake about this stuff, who could you talk to?

“Okay, fine.” You sighed, sitting up a bit straighter, “but you have to promise not to be weird about it.” 

Jake’s eyebrows shot up, intrigued. “This already sounds amazing. I can’t promise anything.”

“Jake.”

“Okay, okay. I promise to be minimally weird. That’s the best you’re getting.”

You rolled your eyes but continued. “Remember at the party when we were complaining about hookups and relationships?”

“You mean two weeks ago when I was having my Yuna crisis?”

“Yes, that. Well, I’ve been thinking about what you said,” you shifted in your spot, suddenly hyperaware of his unwavering gaze,“…about wanting something fun without all the complications.” 

Jake’s lips quirked up into something mischievous. “Oh? Do tell.”

“Don’t make this weird.”

“Too late, already weird. Continue.”

You grabbed a throw pillow, hugging it to your chest. “I’m just saying, you had a point. Everyone’s either looking for their future partner or treating hookups like sports tryouts. And both options sound exhausting.”

“You’re not wrong. So what, you’ve been sitting here thinking about that?”

“Maybe. Is that so weird?”

“Not at all. I’ve been having the same crisis for three weeks.” Jake’s tone was light but his eyes still focused on you with unusual intensity. 

“What brought this on? Finally tired of guys getting jealous of your devastatingly handsome best friend?”

You sighed with theatrical awe, “your humility is truly inspiring.”

“I’m just stating facts.” He grinned. “But seriously, what’s up?”

Your fingers picked at the loose threads on the pillow. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been…frustrated lately. And not in a ‘my assignment is due’ way.”

“Oh?” Jake’s grin widened. “What kind of frustrated are we talking about here?”

“You’re such a child.”

“You brought it up!”

“I’m trying to have a serious conversation!”

“About being sexually frustrated?” Jake was fully grinning now, clearly enjoying himself. “By all means, continue. This is fascinating.”

“I hate you.” You threw the pillow at his face, and he caught it, laughing. 

“No you don’t.” Jake tossed the pillow back.

“But okay, seriously—I get it. The whole ‘too stressed to date but too stressed not to’ thing. It’s an annoying cycle.”

“Exactly!” You gestured emphatically. “Like, I don’t have the energy to deal with someone getting clingy or possessive, but I also—” You cut yourself off, feeling the warmth blossom in your cheeks.

“But you also want to get laid?” Jake supplied helpfully.

“Oh my god.”

“What? I’m just finishing your sentence!”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Can you blame me? You’re usually so put together and now you’re over here blushing about wanting to have sex. It’s adorable.”

You glared at him. “I will kick you out.”

“No you won’t. You need me for emotional support during your dilemma.” Jake’s grin softened into something more genuine. “But for real though, I get it. It’s like… you want the fun parts without any of the dramatic parts.”

“Right! Is that too much to ask? Just something simple and uncomplicated?”

“Apparently, yes. Because people are terrible at keeping things simple.”

“The worst.”

You fell quiet, both contemplating the unfairness of modern dating.

Then Jake spoke up, voice casual but carrying an undercurrent of something else, “we could solve both our problems pretty easily.”

“Remember when I also suggested that we…” He trailed off, letting the allusion of what you two playfully conspired that night—and your heart skipped.

“Yeah. I remember.”

“I’m just saying.” Jake turned to face you fully, one arm draped over the couch back.

“It makes sense. We both want the same thing and we’re both sitting here whining about it when the solution is right in front of our faces.”

Your mouth went dry. “Jake—”

Jake’s eyes were dark with the kind of mischief that meant the gears were already turning. “We already know each other. There’s no feelings, no games, no jealousy, no crying in cafeteria halls—”

You broke into a chuckle at the memory. “Oh yeah, that was hilarious.”

“Not my point—but see? With you, there’s none of that. Just…fun. Simple. Easy.” He shifted closer, his knee bumping yours. 

“We’re both adults. We’re both frustrated. We trust each other. Where’s the harm in having a little fun?”

“The harm is that it could make things weird.” You supplied, with a lift of an eyebrow. 

You were mostly convincing yourself more than anything, because this was a bad idea.

But the traitorous part of your mind, honest enough to admit that you wanted to be thoroughly, enthusiastically fucked senseless seemed to scrap your sensible thought.

“Or it could make things better.” Jake’s voice dropped lower. “No messy baggage, just…two friends helping each other out.”

You chewed on your lip, and Jake couldn’t help but track the movement, his gaze sending a shock straight to your core.

“So what, we just…do it? Hook up?” 

“Why not?” Jake was warming to the idea all over again.

Your eyes briefly flickered to his slender fingers, absentmindedly brushing against his lips and you wondered what it would feel like to kiss them—all soft, plump and pretty.

“Okay.”

Jake blinked, eyes going wide for a brief second. 

“But—but—if we actually did this, there would have to be rules.”

Jake’s face lit up, and he had to physically school into something nonchalant. “Rules. Yes. I’m great with rules.”

“You break rules constantly.” You stated, with an unimpressed squint. 

“Hockey rules. These would be different. Important rules.” He sat up straighter, all business now, “rule one: this would just be for fun. No expectations.”

“Obviously.”

“Rule two: nothing changes. We’re still best friends first.”

“Agreed.”

“Rule three: if it gets weird, we stop. No questions asked.”

“That’s actually reasonable,” you admitted.

“I have my moments.” Jake was grinning now, clearly pleased with himself.

“And rule four,” you added, “we don’t tell anyone. Not because it’s shameful, but because everyone would make it into this huge dramatic thing.”

“Makes sense.”

“And rule five—” Jake’s expression turned more sincere. “This doesn’t fuck up what we have. Because you’re too important to lose over something that’s supposed to be fun.”

Your chest felt tight, shifting to manual breathing. “Do you really think we can pull this off?”

“I think we can.” Jake reached over, softly brushing a thumb over your knuckles. “But only if you actually want to.”

Did you want to?

God, yes. Jake was right. This could work. You could make this work.

“Okay,” you said, the word coming out more confident than you felt.

Jake’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay?”

“Okay. Let’s try it.” You nodded, feeling slightly terrified and exhilarated in concert. “But this would just be a one time thing.”

“Yeah, just a one time thing,” Jake rehashed with a dutiful nod. 

You held his gaze for a second, the space between you abruptly feeling tighter, charged with something chancy—something you’d never imagined would exist with Jake. 

“So…” you started, suddenly feeling awkward. “Do we just like…now?”

“I mean, we could?” Jake laughed, hand pushing through his hair. “Unless you want to schedule it? Put it in our calendars? ‘Hook up with best friend, Friday 9PM’?”

“Oh my god, shut up.” You dragged your hands over your face, groaning between giggles.

“I’m just saying, we could be organized about this—”

Before Jake could get another word out, you fisted your hands in his shirt and dragged his lips to yours. 

It was impulsive, born from equal parts frustration and avidity and the need to just do something before you overthought yourself out of this entirely.

Jake made a small sound of surprise before kissing you back, his hand sliding into your hair while his other arm wrapped around your waist.

And oh. Oh.

Jake’s lips were just as soft as you’d expected, moving against yours with a certainty that made your stomach flip.

He tasted like the drinks you’d been sharing and that cologne that was so distinctly him, and it was intoxicating in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.

Your hands found his shoulders, gripping tight as the kiss turned hungrier and urgent. Jake pulled you closer, eliminating any space between you, and you went willingly, your brain finally, blessedly shutting off.

This was happening. This was really happening.

And it felt right in a way that should probably concern you but currently didn’t.

When you finally broke apart for air, both breathing heavily, Jake’s gaze carried something indecipherable that had never been aimed at you before. 

“So,” he said, voice rough. “Your room?”

You laughed, slightly breathless. “Well, we’re literally at my place. Seems efficient.”

“Right.” Jake blinked himself out of a haze. “Efficient.” He stood, pulling you up with him. “Lead the way?”

You grabbed his hand, leading him down the short hallway to your room. Your heart was practically beating out of your chest, anticipation and nervousness and want all tangled together in your chest.

This was probably a mistake.

But god, you wanted it anyway.

The door closed with a defining click behind Jake as he leaned against the door, trying to catch his breath and his bearings.

“Okay, so how do you want to—”

His voice died completely when you grabbed the hem of your top and pulled it over your head in one swift, confident motion.

Jake’s brain short-circuited.

Whatever he’d been about to say evaporated the second your bare skin hit the air. 

You adorned a black lace bra that was definitely not your usual practical style, and Jake’s eyes dropped before he could stop them.

Holy shit.

“If we do this,” you said, seemingly unbothered by his staring, “we both have to swear it’s just one time and nothing changes. I’m still the annoying girl who steals your music taste, and you’re still—”

You cut yourself off when you realized Jake wasn’t even listening to a single word. His eyes were locked shamelessly on your chest, his expression somewhere between awe and hunger.

You clapped your hands sharply. “Hey! Can you pay attention?”

Jake’s gaze jerked upward, heat flooding his cheeks. “Sorry,” he laughed, the sound stupefied and breathless. “It’s just—you’re kind of—I mean—Wow.” He signaled vaguely at you, swallowing hard, “man, do I love Victoria’s Secret.”

Despite yourself, you felt a smile tug at your lips, “god, you men are so easy.”

“No, no—that’s unfair.” Jake leaned closer, defensive but grinning. “I’m still fully dressed while you’ve already started stripping. That’s cheating.”

“Well?” You crossed your arms beneath your chest, deliberately emphasizing your cleavage as you tilted your chin up. “What are you waiting for?”

Jake huffed out a laugh, already reaching for his shirt. “You’re bossy. Are you always this bossy when you do this?”

In one quick move, he tugged his shirt off and tossed it aside. The fabric hit the floor, and suddenly his body was right there in front of you—all lean muscle and defined lines that you had definitely not been noticing for weeks now.

You’d seen Jake shirtless more times than you could count, but somehow, here in your small bedroom with the air different between you, it felt like the first time.

“Depends,” you said, reaching out to run your fingers through his messy hair, and his eyes softened, closing briefly with a soft groan.

“If my time’s being wasted, I take charge.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Jake’s voice dropped low, conspiratorial, as his hands found your waist. “I’ll make it worthwhile.”

You scoffed, arching a brow even as your stomach flipped at the promise in his tone.

“Sure.”

“Still doubting me?” His hands were a satisfying contrast to your skin, thumbs tracing idle circles just above your hips—pulling you closer until you could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“I’ve been let down before,” you muttered, though your heart was hammering at the gentle pressure of his touch.

“Okay, fair.” Jake reached over to brush the edge of your jaw before his palm settled warm against your cheek. He leaned in slowly, his lips hovering just above yours teasingly, “but you just haven’t done it with me.”

The cocky murmur had your pulse tripping. 

Just as Jake tilted forward to close the distance, you darted back, laughing when he immediately followed, chasing your mouth.

“Woah, ease up there, big boy. The rules—”

“One time only, nothing changes, yeah, yeah.” His words tumbled out in a rush, impatient and wanting—and before you could object again, Jake’s mouth crashed into yours.

You practically melted, all your carefully constructed defenses dissolving like sugar in water. Your arms snaked around his neck as he leaned into you with a muffled sound of satisfaction. 

You were both conjectural at first. Maybe you’d both eventually change your minds and call it quits, probably laugh at this absurd night a few weeks later over watered-down liquor in some crowded house.

But his lips were so soft…so inviting—and every time you tried to briefly pull away to catch your breath, he was seeking your lips like he’d been starved for way too long, and the only thing satiating him was this.

Jake’s hand slid from your cheek into your hair, tilting your head just so, while the other pressed firm against the small of your back, bridging any remaining distance.

Heat curled low in your stomach as his tongue brushed yours, teasing, pulling a tiny, involuntary sound from your throat.

The sound made him groan into your mouth, kissing you harder, needier, until the room seemed to shrink around just the two of you.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his grip shifted—one strong arm hooking under your thighs, the other steady at your back. 

In a swift, dizzying motion, he lifted you clean off the ground, your legs instinctively locking around his waist.

Jake barely pulled away from your mouth, even as he carried you, the kisses now messy, consuming, teeth grazing your lower lip before he tugged it gently between his. 

You gasped, a sharp inhale against him, and he swallowed the sound like he’d been waiting for it.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan low in his chest—the vibration thrumming against your lips, down your throat, charging through you like static. 

Jake’s hand slid higher along your back, palm splayed broad and possessive, holding you flush against him as if the closeness still wasn’t close enough.

The bed eventually sank under your weight as he leaned over you, the chill of the cotton sheets against your spine a quiet counterpoint to his solid frame. 

He kissed you harder, tilting his head to deepen it, his tongue sweeping against yours with a deliberate fervor that made your legs tighten around him.

Your breath hitched when his teeth grazed your jaw, trailing marks along the skin as he dragged his mouth along your neck—every brush of his lips, every nip, sending shivers racing down your spine.

Jake murmured something against your skin, too low and ruined by a groan to catch, but the sound alone had your chest heaving.

Jake felt solid beneath your grip, steady even while you were falling apart, dizzy from the heady mix of stolen breath, and the throbbing ache between your legs.

When his lips returned to yours, it was reckless—your breathless sighs lost in it, swallowed whole as his hand snuck beneath your back and searched for the clasp of your bra. 

Jake only pulled away to gauge your reaction, cautious enough to ask, “are you sure want me to—“ 

“Now’s not the time to be considerate,” You interrupted, voice breathless and edged with frustration.

“Geez,” he laughed against your mouth, “you’re kinda hot when you’re demanding.” 

“I’m hot all the time,” you rolled your eyes, “now take the damn thing off.” That came out whinier than you intended it to be, but he obliged—pulling back just enough to slide the straps down your shoulders, the lace falling away completely. 

For a moment, he just stared, and you watched his expression shift from playful to something darker—hungrier.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard.

“Fuck,” Jake said, voice rough. “Your tits are perfect.”

You felt a flush of pride and satisfaction despite yourself, “tell me something I don’t know.”

“I’m serious.” His hands came up to cup your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that made you gasp. 

“Like, I knew you were attractive, obviously, but this is—” He shook his head, seemingly at a loss for words. “This is unfair. You’re unfair.”

“Are you done admiring, or are we actually doing this?” Your voice came out as a breathless moan, your body already arching into his touch for more.

“Oh, we’re doing this.” Jake’s grin turned wicked as he lowered his head, his mouth trailing down your neck. “But I have to take my time enjoying this.”

“Jake—”

“Relax.” His lips brushed against your collarbone, trailing lower. “I said I’d make it worthwhile, remember? Trust me.”

You wanted to argue, and then Jake’s mouth closed over your nipple and your brain short-circuited completely.

“Oh fuck,” you breathed, hands flying to his hair, gripping the soft strands between your fingers.

Jake hummed against your skin, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through your entire body.

His tongue circled slowly, deliberately, while his hand worked your other breast with the same focused attention.

Your head fell back into the pillow with a soft broken moan, eyes falling shut as your lips went agape.  

Okay, maybe him taking his time wasn’t the worst idea.

“Still want me to rush?” Jake asked, his voice smug as he switched sides, swirling and sucking on the sensitive bud with satisfied groans.

“Shut up,” you managed, between gasps. 

“That’s what I thought.”

His hands slid down to your hips, fingers slipping into the waistband of your skirt. He pulled back to throw you a demanding look, “these need to come off,” he rasped.

You lifted your hips helpfully and without complaint, eager to eliminate any remaining barriers between you.

Jake made quick work of your small bottoms and underwear, stripping them away in one smooth motion, groaning at the sight of your arousal practically sticking to the lacy fabric.

Then he sat back on his heels, just looking at you laid out on your bed, completely bare before him.

“You’re staring.” You pointed out, trying to sound unaffected even as your skin prickled under his gaze. 

You moved to close your legs, suddenly too aware of how exposed you were. 

Jake’s hands caught your knees before they could come together, gently but firmly pushing them back apart. “I can’t help it.” His hands ran up your thighs, spreading them wider. “Such a pretty pussy.”

“Being a kiss ass isn’t necessary—”

“It’s not being a kiss ass if it’s true.” His fingers traced idle patterns on your inner thighs, maddeningly close to where you wanted him but not quite there.

“Jake, I swear to god, if you don’t—”

Your complaint died in a moan as his fingers finally, finally touched you where you needed him most, practically slipping between your slick folds with ease.

"You’re so—“ his voice died in his throat, eyes fluttering shut for a second as his cock painfully throbbed in the constraint of his jeans, a shuddery breath escaping his lips. 

“So fucking wet." Jake groaned, his fingers sliding through her slickness. “Is this all for me?”

A ragged moan tore from your lips as he began to pump them inside you, barely giving you the chance to respond—grabbing at his shoulders as you tried to anchor yourself. 

You struggled to form a proper sentence, your hips rocking in time with his fingers—too lost on the incredible sensation.

His fingers found your clit, rubbing it in erratic circles and your hand practically flew to his wrist, with a sharp cry.

"Fuck, right there." You moaned, “don’t stop.”

"Are you begging?" He smirked, his eyes gleaming as he watched your expression contort, pleasure rippling through your body. “I wish this could last forever.”

"Don’t—don’t look so smug about—oh fuck—”

Jake’s expression shifted entirely, eyes going dark and predatory in a way that made you clench around his fingers helplessly. 

Then his pace slowed. 

The focused attention that had been driving you toward the edge became something torturously gentle and maddeningly unhurried.

“Last warning (Y/N).” His tone irritatingly calm, “Be good for me or I stop and leave you like this.” 

One slow, intentional curl of his fingers made you whimper, “and we both know you won’t come nearly as hard with your fingers.”

“Okay, I’ll behave—I’ll be good I swear,” you gasped out, any pretense of your control dissolving as your hips chased the rhythm he was denying you.

“Good.” His smirk was brief but devastating before he returned to a different pace, this time with no intent of stopping—plunging into until you were a moaning mess.

“That’s it. Just like that.” He growled, his thumb finding your clit again and rubbing it in torturous circles, sending sparks of pleasure through you. “Look at you.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, helplessly bucking into his hand, the sound of your whimpers music to Jake’s ears as he pumped his fingers at a jaw dropping speed.

Your back arched, the coil inside you snapping, and waves of pleasure rolled over you as you came, a strangled cry tearing from your throat.

Jake eventually pulled his fingers out of you when your loud mewls reduced to whimpers—licking them clean, and the sight alone had you nearly begging him to finger fuck you again.

But he had better plans as the satisfying sight of him stripping met your hazy sight. 

Your breath caught when Jake finally stripped off his jeans and boxers, your eyes widening slightly despite yourself.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

You’d known, theoretically, that Jake was…proportionate. Tall guy, athlete, the math checked out. 

But theory and reality were two very different things, and reality was currently standing in front of you.

You clenched around nothing as you stared at his hard cock, the head glistening with pre-cum and wanted nothing more than to feel him inside you, stretching and filling you to the hilt—at least that’s what you’d hoped.

The last thing you needed was for a pretty cock to be rendered useless.

You were impressed and maybe slightly intimidated, swallowed thickly, a flutter of nervousness mixing with the sheer need for to be in you now.

Jake caught your expression, his expression softening into something gentler. “Hey. We don’t have to—”

“No,” you said way too quickly, meeting his eyes. “No, I want to. I just…give me a second.”

“Take all the time you need.” Jake moved over you, settling himself between your soaked folds, brushing it against your slick making your head spin. 

“We’ll go slow.”

Slow, Jake thought, every muscle in his body tense with restraint. Right. Slow. He could do slow.

Except he wasn’t sure he could. Not when you were spread out beneath him looking like every fantasy he’d been trying not to have for three weeks. 

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

You nodded, before he grabbed this side of your face capturing your lips with his, stealing your air in a consuming, needy manner. Your arms looped around his neck, clinging as his mouth slanted deeper against yours. 

You could feel him prodding at your center, aligning himself at your dripping entrance before he slowly slid in and both your mouths fell slack against each other as you both gasped at the sensation. 

The stretch was intense, almost overwhelming, your body struggling to accommodate him. Jake moved incrementally, giving you time to adjust, and you could feel him shaking slightly with the effort of holding back.

“You okay?” Jake’s voice was strained and rough.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Yeah, keep going.”

Jake pushed in further, still maddeningly slow, and your nails dug into his shoulders with a small cry. It was almost too much, riding that edge between pleasure and pain but then it shifted—and you thought you were losing your mind.

“Holy shit,” Jake breathed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck, (Y/N), you feel amazing.”

Your hips rolled experimentally, and Jake’s control nearly snapped. “Shit,” he hissed. “(Y/N), if you do that again—”

You did it again purely uncontrolled, drawing a broken moan from the both of you. “Fuck.” Jake’s hips jerked involuntarily, pulling out slightly before sliding back in, and you gasped.

He started to move then, slowly, setting a gentle rhythm that was meant to ease you into it. Long, measured strokes that had your breath hitching but weren’t quite enough. 

You wanted more.

But you were also acutely aware that you would regret that tomorrow.

Hell, you’d probably regret it in an hour. Walking was going to be interesting. Sitting in class on Monday was going to be a nightmare.

But if you were only doing this once, then you wanted all of it. 

“Jake,” you gasped out.

“Yeah?” His voice was breathless, his rhythm steady but clearly controlled.

“Stop—” you gripped his shoulders harder. “Stop being so gentle.”

Jake stilled, pulling back to look at you. “What?”

“I’m not—” your face flushed, but you held his gaze. “I’m not going to break.” You pulled him down, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Stop playing nice and fuck me properly.”

Jake went completely still for a heartbeat, his pupils blowing wide until his eyes looked almost black, “You sure?” His voice was rough, dangerous.

“Please,” you breathed, and that was all the green light he needed.

Jake slipped out of you before snapping into you, and your head tipped back with a broken moan. 

He set a new pace—still controlled but no longer careful, his cock dragging along your walls with deliberate and powerful strokes—hitting spots inside you that made you see stars behind your eyelids. 

Holy fucking shit.

You could feel him everywhere—deep, so deep you could barely breathe. Your body was stretched impossibly full, pleasure radiating out from your core in waves that made you shake.

It was good—so good—but that careful pace was driving you crazy.

“Jake,” you panted, your nails raking down his back. “Please” you struggled to form words, your brain short-circuiting with pleasure. “I want—I need—”

“Tell me.” Jake’s voice was rough, shockingly controlled despite everything. “Tell me what you need.”

Everything, you thought desperately. You needed everything.

“Faster,” you gasped out. “Please, Jake. Stop treating me like I’m fragile and just—fuck me.”

He shifted his grip, one hand sliding under your knee as he hooked your leg over his shoulder, opening you further as he slammed into you—over and over again.

“Like that?” Jake’s voice was rough, commanding. 

“That what you wanted?”

“Yes—oh god—yes—” the cries practically tumbled out your lips at its own accord, dumbstruck by the punishing pace, all his careful restraint abandoned. 

Your nails clawed at Jake’s back, his shoulders, anything you could reach marking his skin as he pounded into your relentlessly, reducing any coherent thoughts to pure overwhelming sensation

“Nobody’s ever made you feel like this, have they? Be honest.”

You shook your head. “So good, so good, so fucking good.” 

The room echoed with desperate sounds of your voice, breathless moans and the obscene sounds of him pistoning into you.

You didn’t even notice you’d caught your lip between your teeth, trying to stifle the pathetic sounds, until Jake made a sound of disapproval, thumb dragging your lower lip, freeing it from your bite.  

“Uh-uh, I want to hear you.” He demanded, watching you squirm beneath him with pathetic cries as he pounded into you, clenching around him like a vice. 

“That’s it,” Jake growled. “Let me hear you. Want to hear you say my name.”

“Jake—Jake—oh my god, Jake—” your sounds pitched higher and higher, breaking into breathless pleas.  

So much for one time, you thought.

“Fuck, (Y/N)—” Jake’s words dissolved into a groan. “So, so fucking perfect—”

You shattered, vision going blurry as your second orgasm crashed through you in waves so intense you couldn’t breathe or think. 

You were wrecked, helplessly fluttering around him, distantly aware of screaming his name—probably loud enough for the entire floor to hear, but you were beyond caring.

The aftershocks rolled through your body, your mind completely white-static as your legs shaked uncontrollably—barely able to remember your own name, let alone form a sober thought.

But Jake—Jake was still moving, still buried inside you with no intent of stopping.

How the hell was he still going? 

“Too much,” you whimpered, trying to push him away even though some deeper part of you absolutely did not want him to stop. 

“I can’t—”

Jake caught your wrists gently but firmly, pinning them gently above your head with one hand. 

His other hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as he slowed his rhythm just slightly.

“Yes you can,” he said, his voice raspy and strained but somehow still demanding. “You can give me one more.”

Fuck. So close. Jake was so fucking close, and you felt incredible.

“I can’t,” you gasped, even as your body betrayed you, already building toward something else despite your protests.

The assailing sensation was intense—almost too much but not quite, toeing that perfect line between pleasure and overwhelm.

“You can,” Jake insisted, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you steady as he maintained that stupefying pace. “You’re doing so good, (Y/N). So fucking perfect. Just a little more, baby.”

Jake adjusted his angle slightly, hitting that heavenly spot inside you that made you feel dizzy all over again.

“That’s it,” Jake groaned, his grip on your wrists tightening slightly. “Feel so fucking good. You’re taking me so well.”

Your eyes fluttered close, your mouth open in a silent cry as the oversensitivity morphed into something else entirely, your body responding despite your exhausted protests, that familiar coil building again impossibly fast.

“Jake,” you gasped out, his name broken and desperate.

“I know. I know, baby.” His voice was wrecked now, losing that controlled edge. “Come with me. Need you to—fuck—need you to come with me.” His eyebrows drew together, his mouth falling open as his rhythm stuttered. 

The steady, controlled movements were becoming erratic, punctuated by the gorgeous sounds of his deep groans, catching and transform into higher, breathier whimpers when you clenched around him.

The hand on your hip slid between you again, thumb finding you oversensitive clit, and you nearly screamed.

“Every sound you make—god, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.” He whimpered breathlessly chasing his own release.

“Please,” Jake groaned, and you'd never heard him sound so desperate, so undone. “Please, (Y/N). One more. Give me one more.”

So pretty, your mind supplied hazily. He sounded so fucking pretty when he was losing control.

The combination of his fingers, his words, the way he was looking at you like you—it was too much.

You came apart again, harder this time, your vision whiting out as your whole body arched up into his as pleasure crashed over you in a surge that felt endless.

You felt Jake’s rhythm stutter, burying himself into you as he finally, finally found his own hit with a groan that sounded like it was torn from his chest.

You felt him pulse inside you, his whole body going rigid before collapsing against you, his face buried in your neck as he came with a sound that was absolutely the prettiest thing ever. 

“Fuck.” His head dropped to your shoulder, his whole body shuddering, still holding your wrists above your head like he’d forgotten to let go.

Consciousness you lost for a brief second, the dark spots clouding your visions before they gradually faded away. 

Both of you were trembling and gasping for air, your hearts pounding against each other.

Jake lifted his head slightly, his hair a complete disaster and his eyes still unfocused. 

“You okay?”

You let out a breathless hazy laugh. “Ask me that question in five minutes.”

Jake’s laugh was weak but genuine, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before he carefully pulled out, both of you wincing slightly at the sensitivity, before collapsing beside you. 

You laid there in silence for a moment, both trying to catch your breath. 

“That—” you couldn’t even find words. “Jake, that was—”

“Yeah.” Jake echoed breathlessly. 

Fucked. 

Absolutely fucked. In every sense of the word, was what you were.  

There was no way this would be a one time thing. 

[wonnfavee]

I NEED A PART TWO IM CRYYING I WANNA KNOW WHAT HAPPENS

[wonnfavee]

im going on a 10 year hiatus why belift why they cant be ot6.

[seongjesdoll]

the house that whispers back

pairing: husband!sim jake x fem! reader x perv ghost!park sunghoon

wc: 18.5k

summary: you and jake just got married and moved into your dream house, a cozy little place that’s supposed to be a fresh start. but from the moment you settle in, things feel off. the shower curtain moves on its own. you feel hands on you when no one’s there. jake thinks you’re stressed, but you know something is wrong with this house. whatever it is, it’s only getting closer.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

tags/content: smut, 18+, brief oral (f! receiving), daddy kink (for jake as per usual, used in both casual moments and a bit of the smut in the beginning), voyeurism (on sunghoon’s end), jake thinks you’re a little crazy but he still loves you, mentions of reader being on medication/pills for her hallucinations, drugging via said medications (sunghoon replaces them with aphrodisiacs without readers knowledge), noncon (since reader is drugged), mean dom sunghoon who insists on making you beg, p in v, unprotected sex, jake lowkey gets cucked a little but then he joins in, cheating kinda (on jake w sunghoon, sunghoon loves to emphasize that you're jake's wife), sunghoon also has one sided beef w jake, fingering, threesome, double penetration, jake can NOT see or hear sunghoon for a majority of the story, fear play kinda bc jake is scared out of his mind but gets hard anyway, multiple orgasms for reader, slut shaming + humiliation from sunghoon,

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The box marked KITCHEN – MISC sat half-open on the counter. Three minutes had passed while you stood there hoping the spatulas and measuring cups might somehow organize themselves into something useful.

“Jake.”

From the living room, he glanced up from where he was kneeling beside a tower of boxes labeled BOOKS in his cramped handwriting. His hair jutted out at odd angles from repeatedly dragging his fingers through it. “Yeah?”

“Did you see where the coffee mugs went?”

“Uh.” He sat back on his heels and squinted at the kitchen like the answer might be written on the cabinets. “Weren’t they in the box with the plates?”

“No. I already unpacked that one.” Your foot connected with the flattened cardboard, sending it sliding across the tile until it thumped against the wall. "I've checked every kitchen box we brought in."

Jake pushed himself up and made his way over. The scent of cardboard dust clung to him, mixed with the cologne he saved for occasions he deemed important. Apparently moving qualified. He bent over the counter, peering into the box you'd been rifling through. "Could they still be out in the car?"

“I brought everything in already.”

“ What about the bedroom?”

“Why would I put mugs in the bedroom?”

Both his hands came up in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm just throwing out ideas. You're the one who did the packing."

That was true. The memory came back sharp and clear. You'd wrapped every single mug in newspaper, arranged them with care in a box you'd marked FRAGILE – MUGS with a red Sharpie. You'd insisted on carrying it in yourself since Jake and the neighbor had been wrestling the couch through the doorway, and you didn’t trust anyone else with your favorite mug from the café in Seoul.

“This is so weird.” You turned in a slow circle like the mugs might materialize if you looked hard enough. The kitchen was small and bright. Sunlight poured through the window above the sink, bathing the compact kitchen in warm light that made everything seem pristine and hopeful. This was meant to be your new beginning. "Things keep disappearing. My phone charger went missing yesterday. The day before that, my toothbrush."

“You found your toothbrush.”

“In the bathroom closet. I never put it there.”

Jake opened the cabinet above the stove, examining the interior despite knowing it held nothing but the shelf liner you'd spent time measuring and cutting the previous day. "Could be you're just exhausted. Three solid days of unpacking will do that."

“I’m not tired.”

“You’re definitely tired.”

Part of you wanted to push back, but your spine throbbed from hunching over countless boxes and your fingertips stung with tiny cuts from wrestling with packing tape. The realtor had sold you on this house by emphasizing how much easier it would be compared to the cramped apartment. Look at all this room, Jake had said during the tour, we could actually entertain guests. The bay window had charmed you, along with the east-facing bedroom that would flood with morning light. Right now though, you just wanted those damn mugs.

“Who’s moving my stuff?” you said. It came out lighter than you meant.

Jake's mouth quirked up as he pressed a kiss to your temple. "Must be the house ghost."

"That's not funny."

"They'll show up eventually." He returned to the living room, dropping back down beside his book collection. His voice drifted through the open floor plan. "Try the bathroom. Maybe you stuck them in there without thinking

You were certain you hadn't, but you went to look anyway since you'd exhausted other options. The small bathroom still reeked of the bleach you'd used to scrub every surface two days prior. A crack spider-webbed across one corner of the mirror, something the landlord had sworn he'd repair. You crouched down and opened the cabinet beneath the sink.

There they sat. All six mugs, stacked with precision, with your Seoul café mug rested on top.

You stared at them for a long time. There was absolutely no way you had placed them here.

“Any luck?” Jake called from the living room.

You closed the cabinet door and straightened up. Your knees cracked. “Yeah. They were under the sink.”

“See? Told you they’d turn up.”

You didn’t mention that you’d never looked under the sink. You wouldn’t have put mugs there even if you were unpacking at three in the morning with your eyes closed. Jake was already back to organizing his books by author, and you didn’t want to stand in the bathroom doorway and argue about something that didn’t matter.

The hours that followed melted into one another. You tackled the bedroom while power tool sounds and muttered curses floated up from where Jake wrestled with bookshelf assembly instructions. Eventually you both converged on the closet, bickering over the distribution of space between his sneaker collection and your dresses. He secured victory by highlighting how you'd already claimed the entire dresser. You had to admit he had a point.

By the time sunset arrived, the house had transformed into something almost livable. Boxes still created obstacles along the hallway and packing paper buried the kitchen table, but at least you could navigate most rooms without tripping. Progress, you supposed.

Jake called in an order from the Thai restaurant a few blocks away. The two of you sat cross-legged on the living room floor since unfolded laundry had claimed the couch. He kept cracking jokes about breaking in the new place properly, and you managed to laugh despite feeling like you were wading through deep, deep water.

The wedding had been five weeks ago. You'd opted for a simple courthouse ceremony to avoid the chaos of event planning. Afterward came two weeks wandering through Japan, walking until blisters formed on your feet, staying awake far past any reasonable hour, and making hollow promises about catching up on sleep during the flight home.

You hadn’t. Jake had fallen asleep with his head on your shoulder and you’d spent seven hours staring at the seatback screen without watching anything.

Upon returning, you'd immediately begun shoving your lives into cardboard boxes since this house's lease kicked in on the first and paying double rent wasn't an option. Two solid weeks of packing and hauling everything into a borrowed truck from some coworker of Jake's whose name you couldn't remember.

The drive here yesterday had eaten up six hours. Jake had offered to take turns behind the wheel but you'd insisted you could handle it. That had been a lie. Your fingers had locked around the steering wheel in a death grip and your eyes had stung from the endless stretch of highway.

Now you sat on unfamiliar floorboards in a house that didn't feel like yours yet, every muscle in your body demanding rest. Jake's voice washed over you as he talked about work or maybe friends or something else entirely. You managed to nod at appropriate intervals, tried to anchor yourself to what he was saying, but his words kept dissolving before you could grasp them.

"You okay?" His question cut through the fog. When you looked up, concern had softened his features.

“Just tired.”

“You should take a break tomorrow. I can finish unpacking.”

“We’re almost done.”

“Baby. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Collapse seemed dramatic. You were simply running on empty. Perfectly normal after a move. Things would improve once you actually settled in, once you weren't surrounded by half-empty boxes and packing tape.

Jake gathered the dishes and headed to the kitchen. Water started running in the sink. You remained on the floor, gaze fixed on the wall. The realtor had described this soft cream shade as warm and inviting. Right now it just seemed blank and expressionless.

You should get up and be useful, help with the dishes or finish unpacking the bathroom.

Instead you pulled yourself up and told Jake you were going to take a shower. He said something about joining you later and you made a noncommittal sound that could’ve meant anything.

The water pressure here beat the apartment's pathetic dribble. Small victory. You tipped your head back, letting heat seep into your knotted shoulders. Steam had already saturated the bathroom, condensing on every surface and shrinking the space.

You worked your fingers through your hair and felt the tension start to drain out. Three days of hauling boxes and arguing about where the couch should go. Jake had won again. It faced the window now instead of the TV.

The shower curtain moved.

Not much, just a quick pull to the side like someone was peeking in.

“Jake.” You kept your eyes closed. Shampoo suds slid down your neck. “You’re such a pervert.”

No answer.

“I’m literally covered in soap. Can you wait like five minutes?”

Only the steady percussion of water against porcelain answered you. You scrubbed at your stinging eyes with the back of one hand, blinking away the burn. The curtain now hung partially open. Beyond it, the bathroom stood empty.

No Jake leaning against the sink with that stupid grin he got when he was trying to be smooth. No shadow moving past the frosted window. There was only steam and the towel hanging on the rack and the crack in the mirror you kept forgetting about until you saw it.

“Jake?”

The sound of your own voice startled you with its volume. Water drummed against your shoulders and ran down the drain in a steady rush. You reached out and pushed the curtain open further. It scraped along the rod with a metallic sound that made your teeth hurt.

The door was still closed. You would’ve heard it open. The hinges squeaked every time. You’d mentioned it to Jake yesterday and he’d said he’d oil them this weekend.

You twisted the faucet off. Silence rushed in to fill the void. The house exhaled around you with creaks and groans. Ancient wood adjusting. Pipes losing their heat. Somewhere beneath the floor, the heater kicked on with a mechanical click.

Water dripped from your hair onto the bathmat as you stood frozen, staring at that closed door. Each heartbeat thundered in your ears.

“Jake?” you said again.

Nothing.

You secured the towel around yourself and eased the bathroom door open. Darkness swallowed the hallway except for a strip of light bleeding from the bedroom down at the far end. Your feet left damp impressions on the hardwood as you walked.

Jake was in bed with his phone. He looked up when you came in. “Hey. Feel better?”

“Were you just in the bathroom?”

“What?” He set his phone on the nightstand. “No. Why?”

“The shower curtain moved.”

“It’s an old house. Probably just a draft.”

“The door was closed.”

Jake patted the bed beside him. “Come here. You’re shivering.”

You weren’t shivering. Were you? The room felt colder than it should. You climbed into bed and pulled the towel tighter around you. Jake wrapped an arm around you and you pressed your face against his shoulder. He smelled like the laundry detergent his mom always used. It was supposed to be comforting.

“I think someone opened the curtain,” you said into his shirt.

“Like a person?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

His hand moved in slow circles on your back. “Baby. There’s no one here but us.”

You fell silent. Somewhere below, the house groaned like something heavy was being dragged across the floor. Jake's expression didn't change. Perhaps the sound never reached him. You let your eyes drift shut, trying to match the rhythm of his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Steady and constant.

His hand moved lower on your back, slipping under the edge of the towel. “You’re so tense.”

“I’m fine.”

"You're really not." Something shifted in his voice, dropping into that particular tone he used when he had intentions. "Let me help you relax."

Your eyes opened to find him watching you with that half-smile that typically got him what he wanted. His hand traveled up your spine before tracing back down with deliberate slowness.

“Jake.”

“What? I’m being a good husband.” His mouth found your shoulder, then migrated to your collarbone. His fingers found the knot holding your towel closed. “You’ve been stressed all week. Let Daddy take care of you.”

You didn't protest when he worked the towel free. The fabric slipped away and gathered on the sheets beneath you. Cold air met your exposed skin. Jake's hands offered warmth. His kisses traveled down your sternum, across your stomach, and despite everything gnawing at your mind, you felt yourself beginning to surrender.

He pushed your legs apart and settled between them. Heat from his breath ghosted across your inner thigh. “Just relax.”

You let your head fall back against the pillow, and tried to focus on the feeling of his mouth instead of the sound the house had made and the shower curtain moving on its own. For a moment, it worked. His tongue traced a slow path along your folds and you gasped, your fingers threading into his hair. 

The bedroom door creaked open.

Every muscle in your body locked. Jake's grip on your hips intensified but his mouth didn't stop its work.

“Jake.”

“Mm?”

“The door.”

He lifted his head. Moisture glistened on his lips. “What about it?”

“It just opened.”

Jake threw a glance over his shoulder. The door now stood halfway open, hallway darkness spilling through the gap. When he looked back at you, his features had rearranged themselves into something gentler, laden with concern. "Baby. The door wasn't latched properly. It does that."

“I closed it.”

“You didn’t close it all the way.” He shifted to sit beside you, drawing the blanket over your legs like you required modesty now. "This is exactly what I mean. You're too stressed. You're seeing things that aren't there."

“I’m not seeing things.”

“The curtain moved because of a draft. The door opened because old houses do that. There’s nothing weird happening.” His palm cradled your face while his thumb swept across your cheekbone. “I’m worried about you.”

Your throat felt tight. “I’m fine.”

"You're not sleeping properly. You picked at dinner. And now every little sound makes you jump." He pressed his lips to your forehead in a gesture that felt more appropriate for a child than a wife. "Maybe we should find you a doctor here. Someone you can talk to."

“I don’t need a doctor.”

“There’s nothing wrong with needing help. Especially after everything we’ve been through lately. The wedding and the move and all of it piling up. It’s a lot to process.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him that you weren’t imagining things. Something was wrong with this house and he needed to believe you.

But he was looking at you like you were fragile and might break if he pushed too hard.

You pulled the blanket up higher and turned onto your side away from him. “I’m just tired.”

“I know.” His arm came around your bare waist, pulling you flush against his clothed body. Normally, you might have ground back against time, tried to reignite what he’d started. Tonight you just want to sleep. “Get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”

They wouldn’t. You already knew that with absolute certainty. You closed your eyes anyway and listened to Jake’s breathing gradually evened out behind you.

The door remained open. Darkness from the hallway seemed to press into the room like something physical. You could feel eyes on you from that space beyond, watching and waiting. Jake's arm lay heavy across your ribs. Moving would wake him. So you remained motionless, gaze fixed on the wall, counting down the hours until dawn

────୨ৎ────

The whole reason you moved here was to escape the old one, full of unfriendly neighbors and people who filed noise complaints over the smallest things. Someone had once left a passive aggressive note on your door about your footsteps being too loud at seven in the morning. Jake had wanted to frame it.

You’d heard this neighborhood was friendlier, more community-oriented. The realtor had gone on about block parties and how everyone knew each other’s names.

Instead, the people on your street kept staring and whispering.

This morning, the woman two houses down had been collecting her mail when you reversed out of the driveway. Her gaze had followed your car all the way to the stop sign. You'd lifted your hand in a friendly wave. She'd pivoted and disappeared inside without so much as a nod.

Yesterday, the older couple across the street had been deep in conversation on their driveway when you'd emerged to water the housewarming plants from Jake's mother. Their voices had died the moment they spotted you. You'd felt their eyes boring into your spine the entire time.

According to Jake, you were making it up. New neighbors always attracted attention. It was normal curiosity and you were reading too much into it.

Perhaps he had a point. Jake had always been oblivious to social undercurrents. He could enter a room crackling with tension and remain completely unaware until someone spelled it out for him.

You pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. The new curtains sat in the passenger seat in their plastic bag from the home goods store. You’d spent an hour debating between ivory and cream before settling on something called vanilla linen that looked identical to both.

The old curtains had been too dark. That’s what you’d told Jake this morning when he asked why you needed new ones. They made the living room feel smaller. He’d shrugged and said whatever made you happy.

Bag in hand, you stepped out of the car. Daylight softened the house's edges, made it seem less threatening. The blue-gray paint looked almost charming, and the porch had decent structure despite the wobbly railing Jake kept promising to secure this weekend.

The front door was unlocked. It swung open easily under pressure from your hip, and you sealed it shut with your heel.

“Jake?”

Silence answered. Still at work, probably. You'd gotten lost browsing the store and hadn't tracked the time.

Sunlight poured through the bare living room windows, carving geometric patterns across the hardwood. The boxes had finally disappeared. You'd spent yesterday afternoon breaking them down and hauling them to the garage. The space was starting to resemble an actual home now.

You set the curtain bag on the couch and went to the kitchen for scissors. The drawer stuck like it always did. You had to yank it twice before it opened.

Movement flickered at the corner of your eye.

You spun around. The kitchen was empty. There were dishes drying in the rack by the sink and a coffee maker on the counter. Nothing was out of place.

Scissors acquired, you returned to the living room. Plastic crackled as you ripped the bag open. Vanilla linen fabric tumbled onto the couch in soft folds that were absolutely just overpriced ivory.

The curtain rod remained mounted from the previous set. You'd stripped those down last night, shoving them into a trash bag because the sight of them had started constricting your chest. Jake had checked if you were alright. You'd claimed you simply wanted something lighter and brighter.

What you didn't mention was the persistent image of the shower curtain moving by itself.Heavy fabric didn’t just shift without someone touching it.

You hoisted yourself onto the couch's arm and stretched toward the rod. Your fingers had barely made contact with the cool metal when sound filtered down from above.

Footsteps upstairs, slow and deliberate, moving from the bedroom toward the hallway.

You froze with your arms above your head and the curtain rod pressing into your palms. The footsteps stopped before they started again, closer to the stairs now.

“Jake?” The question emerged barely above a whisper.

The footsteps reached the top of the stairs. You could hear the floorboards creaking under invisible weight. One step. Then another.

You scrambled down from the couch, hands trembling. The scissors still lay on the coffee table. You snatched them up reflexively, brandishing them like some kind of weapon even though you knew how useless they'd be.

The footsteps stopped halfway down the stairs. Your eyes locked on the staircase, on the space where a body should be visible. The house had gone so silent that your own pulse thundered in your ears.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

The scissors had gone slick in your sweating palm, the metal handles warming against your skin. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you strained to hear any other sounds from above, but the house had fallen into an oppressive silence that felt almost deliberate, like it was holding its breath and waiting to see what you'd do next.

The front door swung open behind you with enough force to make you jump.

You whirled around, nearly dropping the scissors in the process. Jake filled the doorway, work bag draped over one shoulder and his tie loosened from a long day at the office. His attention landed on you first, taking in your defensive stance and wide eyes, then traveled down to the scissors clutched in your white-knuckled fist. His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline in a mixture of confusion and concern.

“Uh. What are you doing?“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"There was someone upstairs." The words tumbled out in a rush, breathless and shaky.

Jake nudged the door shut with his heel, the lock clicking into place with a soft sound that seemed too loud in the quiet house. "What?"

"I heard footsteps. They were coming down the stairs." You stared at the scissors like they'd materialized in your hand through no action of your own, like you couldn't quite remember picking them up or why you'd thought they might protect you from whatever had been walking through your house. You set them carefully on the coffee table, your hands still trembling. "Someone was in the house. I heard them moving around up there."

Jake abandoned his bag by the entrance and crossed the room in quick strides. His hand came up to press against your forehead, palm flat and assessing like he was checking a child for illness. The touch was gentle but clinical, and something about that detached concern made your stomach twist. "You're burning up."

"I'm not sick." You tried to step back but his hand followed, persistent.

"Did you eat lunch? When was the last time you had water?" The questions came rapid-fire, each one dismissing what you'd just told him in favor of finding some mundane explanation.

“Yes. Jake. I’m fine. I know what I heard.”

His hand shifted to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone in what was probably meant to be a soothing gesture. That expression had returned, the one from last night where he looked at you like you were made of porcelain that might crack under too firm a grip, like you were a problem he needed to solve rather than a person he needed to believe. "Baby."

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

"Look at me like I'm losing my mind." The words came out sharper than you intended, edged with frustration and fear and exhaustion all tangled together.

His hand fell away as he dragged it through his hair instead, disheveling the strands that had already been mussed from the wind outside. The breath he released sounded carefully measured, like he was actively working to maintain patience in the face of what he clearly thought was irrational behavior. "I'm not saying you're losing your mind. I'm saying you're running on empty and stressed to your limit and maybe that's affecting your perception. You haven't been sleeping well. You've barely been eating. Your body is exhausted."

"I heard footsteps." You repeated it like if you said it enough times he might actually hear you, might actually consider that you were telling the truth.

"Old houses are noisy. The wood expands and contracts with temperature changes throughout the day. Pipes settle as they cool down. Floorboards creak under their own weight." He was using his reasonable voice now, the one he used when explaining things to clients at work. "It can sound exactly like footsteps when it's not. I've heard it too since we moved in."

Heat crept up your throat and into your face. "You weren't here. You didn't experience what I just experienced. You didn't hear them stop halfway down the stairs like someone was standing there watching me."

"Okay." The word came out gentle and placating in a way that made you want to scream. "Okay. If it makes you feel better I'll go check upstairs. I'll look in every room and make sure no one's here."

“Thank you.”

He pressed his lips to your forehead in a kiss that felt more like reassurance for himself than comfort for you before heading for the staircase. You tracked the sound of him taking the steps two at a time, his footsteps heavy and grounded and completely different from the measured, deliberate tread you'd heard earlier. His presence moved through the house above you, traversing the bedroom first, then migrating to the spare room where you'd been storing boxes, then finally the bathroom. Doors swung open with their familiar squeaks and thumped shut in succession, and each sound felt like another nail in the coffin of your credibility.

You retrieved his abandoned work bag from its spot by the door, the strap still warm from his shoulder, and carried it to the kitchen to give your hands something to do besides shake. Setting it on the counter with more care than necessary, you began extracting its contents one item at a time. An empty tupperware container that had held his lunch, the lid slightly ajar and a few grains of rice stuck to the rim. A water bottle with dried residue crusting around the threading that desperately needed a thorough scrubbing. Some crumpled papers he'd probably need for tomorrow that were already getting bent at the bottom of the bag.

You pulled open the cabinet to store the water bottle, and that pervasive mildew smell hit you immediately, musty and organic and wrong. Mental note: pick up baking soda or whatever product actually eliminated that kind of persistent odor, maybe some of those moisture absorber packets you'd seen at the hardware store.

Someone materialized behind you without warning. Arms encircled your waist in an embrace that felt startlingly intimate, sliding around you with a familiarity that should have been comforting. A head came to rest against your shoulder blade, the weight of it solid and grounding. The full presence of another person pressing into your back, their body heat seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt.

You melted into the contact without thinking, your muscles loosening as you allowed yourself to be supported by what you assumed was your husband. Jake must have finished his inspection upstairs and come down quietly to surprise you, to offer comfort after dismissing your fears. "Long day at work?"

No verbal response came. Just the steady rhythm of breathing against your spine, warm exhales that you could feel through your clothes. The arms surrounding you felt undeniably solid and present, more real than anything else in this moment. You registered the rise and fall of a chest expanding and contracting against your back with each breath, the subtle shift of fabric, the particular pressure of hands resting just below your ribcage.

You glanced down expecting to see Jake's familiar hands, maybe still wearing his watch, maybe with the small scar on his left thumb from that cooking accident last year.

There was nothing there.

No arms around your waist. No hands resting against your stomach. Only empty space and the counter stretching before you and your own solitary body standing alone in the kitchen with nothing touching you at all.

The presence evaporated. Not gradually but instantaneously, like someone had released their hold and retreated in a single motion, leaving behind only the fading impression of where they'd been. The warmth against your back disappeared so quickly you wondered if you'd imagined it, except you could still feel the ghost of those arms, the memory of that weight.

You lurched forward involuntarily, your body trying to catch itself from falling into an embrace that was no longer there. Your hip collided with the counter edge with enough force to send a sharp spike of pain radiating through your pelvis, the kind that would definitely leave a bruise by tomorrow. The water bottle escaped your grip and went clattering into the sink basin with a hollow plastic sound that seemed far too loud.

“Everything’s clear up there.” Jake’s voice came from the stairs, slightly winded from his search. “No one’s home but us.”

You remained frozen where you stood, unable to pivot and face him, unable to explain what had just happened. Your fingers had locked onto the counter edge hard enough to drain all color from your knuckles, the pressure the only thing keeping you upright. Your breath came in short, shallow gasps that you couldn't quite control, and somewhere in the back of your mind you registered that you were probably having a panic attack but that knowledge did nothing to stop it.

Jake walked into the kitchen, his presence announced by the familiar sound of his work shoes against the hardwood. Real footsteps, heavy and grounded and unmistakably human, each one landing with the full weight of a living person moving through space.

"See? Nothing to worry about." His hand touched your shoulder in what was meant to be a comforting gesture and you flinched so violently you nearly sent the dish rack crashing to the floor. The dishes rattled precariously in their slots before settling. "Whoa. Hey. It's just me."

You managed to turn around despite your body's resistance to the movement. Jake stood there with both hands raised in a gesture of surrender, palms out like he was approaching a frightened animal that might bolt at any sudden movement. His expression had shifted from patient understanding to something rawer, genuine worry creasing his forehead and pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“What happened?”

"I felt someone." Your voice emerged trembling and unsteady, each word requiring conscious effort to form. "Right now. Just seconds ago. Someone was standing behind me exactly where you are. They had their arms around me. I felt their weight against my back, felt them breathing."

“I was upstairs. No one else is here.”

“I know. I thought it was you. I felt them, Jake. It wasn't my imagination. Their arms were solid and real and they were holding me.”

Jake closed the distance between you and pulled you firmly against his chest, eliminating any space that might exist between your bodies. His heart beat steady and strong under your ear, that reliable rhythm you'd memorized over the years together. His arms came around you and they felt fundamentally different from whatever had been holding you mere moments ago. Warmer, more substantial, anchored in reality in a way that the other presence hadn't been despite feeling so convincing.

“You’re okay,” he said into your hair. “You’re okay. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

Your breathing wouldn't cooperate, wouldn't fall into any normal pattern. It kept catching in your throat like you'd forgotten the basic mechanics of drawing air into your lungs, each attempt stuttering and incomplete.

"Hey." His voice underwent a transformation, dropping into that lower register he reserved for specific moments, the tone he used when you needed grounding, when your mind was spiraling and your body needed an anchor. "Look at me."

You tilted your head back with effort, forcing your gaze upward. His eyes had gone serious and focused, all his attention concentrated entirely on you with an intensity that left no room for anything else in his awareness.

"Breathe with me. In." He demonstrated with a slow, deliberate inhale and you attempted to mirror the movement, your lungs expanding with air that felt inadequate. "Out."

Your exhale emerged shaky and uneven but you managed it, the air leaving your body in fits and starts.

"Good girl. Again." In. Out. His hand traveled up and down the length of your spine in time with the breathing, the repetitive motion creating a rhythm your body could follow. The simple physical pattern gave you something concrete to focus on beyond the panic.

"That's it. Just like that." His thumb traced along your jawline with deliberate gentleness. "Let Daddy take care of you. You don't have to think right now. You don't have to figure anything out or make sense of what happened. Just breathe."

Something in your chest began to loosen its grip. Not completely, not enough to make you feel normal again, but enough that air could flow in without the sharp pain that had been accompanying each breath.

"There you go." He kissed your forehead before moving on to pepper gentle kisses across your face, each one a small point of warmth and reassurance. Your temples, your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, your closed eyelids. "Shhh. I've got you. You're safe here with me."

You allowed yourself to go completely boneless against him, surrendering your weight and trusting him to hold you upright. His hand cupped the back of your head with protective care and kept you pressed securely against his shoulder, creating a small pocket of safety in the space between your bodies.

“We’re okay,” he murmured. “Everything’s okay. You’re safe with me.”

You wanted desperately to tell him that safety wasn't actually the problem, that something was fundamentally wrong with this house and he needed to listen to you instead of trying to rationalize everything away. But your body was finally beginning to release the tension it had been holding, your muscles gradually unclenching one by one, and your thoughts were developing fuzzy edges that made forming coherent arguments feel impossible. You were so profoundly tired of being scared, exhausted from the constant vigilance and the way fear had taken up permanent residence in your chest.

Jake rocked you slightly. “What do you need right now, hm? You want to sit down? Get some water?”

You shook your head against his chest, the fabric of his work shirt soft against your cheek.

"Okay. Then we're just going to stand here for as long as you need." His hand maintained its gentle movement through your hair, the repetitive strokes soothing in their predictability. "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. I'll stand here all night if that's what you need."

You couldn't detect the presence anymore, couldn't sense anything beyond the immediate reality of Jake's arms creating a solid barrier between you and whatever else might exist in this space. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear. The warmth radiating from his body and seeping into yours. These tangible, provable things.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you genuinely needed to see a doctor and get something to help you sleep, to quiet your mind enough that it stopped creating experiences that felt real but couldn't possibly be. Maybe the exhaustion and stress had damaged something in your perception of reality.

Or maybe something was very, genuinely wrong with this house and you were the only one whose senses were attuned enough to detect it, the only one it had chosen to reveal itself to for reasons you couldn't begin to understand.

Jake had convinced you to lie down after the episode in the kitchen. He'd guided you upstairs with a hand on your lower back and tucked you into bed with the kind of careful attention usually reserved for someone running a fever, pulling the blankets up to your chin and smoothing them down with excessive care. He'd promised to finish unpacking his work things and dealing with the curtains, assured you that everything would be handled and you just needed to rest. You'd closed your eyes obediently and listened to him moving around downstairs, the familiar sounds of cabinets opening and closing, of objects being set down and picked up, all while trying desperately not to think about the weight of those phantom arms that had felt so impossibly real.

Sleep refused to come despite your body's exhaustion. You'd lain there staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, watching the way shadows moved across the plaster as clouds passed outside, counting the small imperfections in the paint job, anything to occupy your mind. Finally you'd given up on the pretense of rest.

You needed air. Real air, outside air, something that didn't taste like this house.

Now you were walking down the street with your hands buried deep in your jacket pockets and your breath forming small clouds that dissolved in the evening air. The temperature had dropped noticeably since you'd left the house, enough that you wished you'd grabbed a heavier coat. Everything looked softer in the fading light, edges blurred and colors muted as the sun continued its descent toward the horizon. The whole neighborhood seemed wrapped in that particular quiet that came with approaching dusk, when people retreated indoors and the day began its transition into night.

You passed three houses before encountering another person, your footsteps the only sound breaking the stillness. A woman roughly your age was approaching from the opposite direction with a little girl who couldn't have been more than six years old trailing slightly behind her. The child wore light-up sneakers that flashed brilliant pink with every bouncing step she took, the only spot of brightness in the growing dimness.

The woman's eyes landed on you when you were still about twenty feet apart. Something shifted in her expression, transforming from neutral to something you couldn't quite identify but that sent an uncomfortable prickle down your spine. Without breaking stride, she reached out and took her daughter's hand with sudden firmness, then began angling toward the opposite side of the street, her trajectory deliberately taking them away from you.

The little girl immediately pulled against her mother's grip, her small face scrunching with confusion and resistance. "Mommy, I want to say hi."

"Not now." The woman's response was clipped and final.

"But they're new. We're supposed to be nice to new people." The girl's voice carried that particular brand of childish logic that hadn't yet learned about unspoken social rules. She managed to free one hand long enough to offer you an enthusiastic wave. "Hi!"

You lifted your own hand automatically to return the greeting, a reflexive response to the innocent friendliness.

The woman immediately yanked her daughter's arm down with enough force to make the girl stumble slightly. "Stop it. Don't talk to them."

"Why not?" The question emerged with genuine bewilderment, the kind only a child could muster when confronted with arbitrary adult rules.

"Because." The woman's voice dropped lower, probably attempting discretion, but the evening quiet carried her words across the distance with perfect clarity. She wasn't really trying very hard to keep you from hearing. "They're from the bad house."

"What's a bad house?" The girl's confusion deepened, her small voice rising with the question.

"Shh." The woman accelerated her pace, practically dragging her daughter along now. The child had to break into an awkward half-jog to keep up, her light-up shoes flashing pink in rapid succession as they hurried away from you like you were carrying some contagious disease.

You remained frozen on the sidewalk, rooted to the concrete as you watched them disappear around the corner at the end of the block. Your heart had begun hammering against your ribs with unnecessary force, adrenaline flooding your system even though nothing overtly threatening had occurred. The street felt dramatically emptier than it had just moments ago, the absence of their presence somehow more pronounced than the quiet had been before they'd appeared.

The bad house.

Those two words kept circling in your mind, each repetition adding new weight to them. You turned slowly and looked back toward your house, studying it from this new perspective. It sat there among its neighbors looking fundamentally identical to every other structure on the block. Nothing about it screamed warnings or danger. Nothing about it appeared visibly different from the houses on either side or across the street.

But that woman had physically pulled her daughter across the street to avoid you, had forbidden the child from even speaking to you, all because you lived there. Like whatever was wrong with the house was something that could contaminate you just by proximity.

You started walking back, your feet moving faster than the situation warranted, propelled by some instinct you couldn't name. The sun had almost completely disappeared now, leaving behind only that purple-gray twilight that made familiar things look strange. Shadows stretched impossibly long across front lawns and driveways, distorting the shapes of trees and cars into something vaguely menacing. You kept your eyes fixed on your house as you approached, tried not to let your mind spiral into speculation about what "the bad house" might actually mean, what might have happened there before you and Jake had signed the lease.

Jake's car still occupied its spot in the driveway, exactly where he'd left it when he'd come home from work. Warm light glowed through the living room windows, golden and inviting in the gathering darkness. You could make out his silhouette moving around inside, probably still dealing with those curtains or maybe starting to think about dinner.

You climbed the porch steps carefully, muscle memory guiding you even as your mind remained elsewhere. The third step released its familiar creak under your weight, the sound seeming far too loud in the evening quiet, like an announcement of your arrival that anyone within a hundred feet could hear. You pushed open the front door and stepped gratefully into the warmth, the temperature difference immediately making your cold-stung cheeks tingle.

Jake had indeed returned to hanging the new curtains. He'd repositioned the couch so he could use it as a makeshift ladder and was currently balanced on the cushions, arms extended overhead as he worked to slide the vanilla linen fabric onto the rod. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the door, offering you a quick smile. "Hey. Feel better?"

“A neighbor just called this the bad house.”

His hands went still on the curtain, the fabric bunching slightly where his fingers had stopped moving. "What?"

"I was walking and this woman with her kid deliberately crossed the street to avoid me. The kid asked why they couldn't say hello, and the mother said because we're from the bad house." You closed the door behind you and engaged the lock with more force than necessary, the metallic click somehow reassuring. Your hands were trembling visibly now. "What does that mean? Why would she say that?"

Jake stepped down from the couch with careful deliberation, his work shoes landing softly on the hardwood. "Maybe she's just weird. Some people are like that. You know how neighborhoods can be."

“She pulled her daughter away from me like I was dangerous.”

"Okay. So she's rude and weird and probably watches too many true crime documentaries." He crossed the space between you and took both your hands in his, his warmth immediately noticeable against your chilled skin. He began rubbing your hands between his palms, trying to restore circulation. "You're freezing. How long were you outside?"

“Jake. This is serious.” You tried to pull your hands back but he held on.

"I know it feels serious. But people say weird stuff all the time, especially in small neighborhoods where everyone thinks they know everyone's business. It doesn't necessarily mean anything." He tugged gently, trying to guide you toward the couch. "Come on. Let's finish these curtains and then we can figure out dinner. You'll feel better once you eat something substantial."

You let him lead you closer to the couch but resisted actually sitting down, your body remaining tense and resistant. "What if something's genuinely wrong with this house? What if there's a reason she called it that?"

“Nothing’s wrong with the house.”

"Then why would she say that? Why would an entire neighborhood apparently know it as 'the bad house'?" Your voice was climbing despite your efforts to keep it level.

“I don’t know. Maybe the last people who lived here were assholes. Maybe they played loud music at three in the morning and everyone hated them.” He released your hands to pick up the curtain again, clearly ready to move past this conversation. “It has nothing to do with us.”

You watched him climb back onto the couch with practiced ease, threading the fabric onto the rod like everything was perfectly normal and you hadn't just been deliberately avoided by a stranger who thought your house was dangerous enough to warn her child about. The living room seemed to shrink as the curtains went up, the fabric blocking out what little remained of the evening light. You couldn't see outside anymore, couldn't monitor the street or know if anyone else was out there looking at your house and whispering about the people foolish enough to move in.

Jake stepped down from the couch and moved back to assess his handiwork, his head tilting as he examined the way the fabric hung. "There. What do you think? Much better than those heavy dark ones, right?"

You thought the room felt like it was actively closing in around you, the walls pressing closer with each breath. You thought about how badly you wanted to pack everything back into boxes and leave this place immediately, drive until you found somewhere that didn't make your skin crawl, somewhere that neighbors didn't warn their children away from.

“It looks good,” you said.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

────୨ৎ────

You were still trying to catch your breath when you saw it.

Jake had collapsed beside you moments ago, one arm flung dramatically over his face in that particular way he always did after sex, like the effort had completely drained him. His chest continued rising and falling in heavy, labored pulls of oxygen. The sheets had become hopelessly twisted around both your bodies during the preceding activity, the fabric now clinging uncomfortably to your sweat-dampened skin.

Your body was still humming with residual pleasure, nerve endings firing in that pleasant way that usually left you feeling boneless and satisfied. You should have felt good right now, relaxed and content in that post-orgasm haze. Instead your heart was racing for an entirely different reason, adrenaline flooding your system and wiping away any trace of the satisfaction you'd felt seconds ago.

There had been someone in the closet.

You'd seen them. The memory was crystalline and undeniable, seared into your brain with the kind of clarity that only came from genuine fear. It had happened right at the end, at that precise moment when your eyes had rolled back and Jake's name had torn from your throat in a cry you couldn't have suppressed if you'd tried. The closet door had been cracked open just enough, and in that sliver of darkness there had been a face. Watching. Present. Real.

You'd made direct eye contact. You were absolutely certain of it. Brown eyes that had locked onto yours with unmistakable awareness, staring directly at you while Jake moved inside you and you came apart underneath him, while you were at your most vulnerable and exposed.

"Jake." Your voice came out rougher than intended, still affected by how you'd been using it moments before.

"Mm." The sound was drowsy and satisfied, already halfway to sleep. His hand found yours somewhere in the tangle of sheets and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“There’s someone in the closet.”

His hand went still. “What?”

“I saw someone in the closet. They were watching us.”

Jake lifted his arm from his face with visible reluctance and turned his head on the pillow to look at you directly. His hair stuck up in complete disarray, standing at odd angles from where you'd run your fingers through it. "Babe."

“I’m serious. There was someone there. I looked right at them. We made eye contact.”

He sat up with a heavy sigh, the sheet pooling around his waist and exposing his bare chest still marked with faint scratches from your nails. "You saw someone. While we were having sex."

"Yes. Please. You need to check right now." You pulled the sheet higher, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity.

Jake dragged both hands down his face, pulling at his features before releasing a long, controlled breath through his nose that spoke volumes about his patience wearing thin. Then he extracted himself from the bed completely and crossed the room without bothering to cover himself, his naked body moving through the lamplight. He grabbed the closet door handle and yanked it open with more force than strictly necessary, the door swinging wide to reveal the interior.

Your clothes hung in their neat, organized row exactly where you'd left them. His shoes were lined up along the bottom in the careful arrangement he always insisted on. Boxes that you'd been procrastinating about unpacking sat stacked in the corner, still sealed with packing tape.

"There's no one here." He gestured at the empty closet like it was evidence in a trial.

“Check behind the boxes.”

He released another one of those long-suffering sighs before bending to grab the boxes. He moved them aside one by one, shifting them away from the corner they'd been occupying. Nothing lurked behind them except bare wall, the paint slightly darker where it had been protected from light exposure. He straightened and turned back to face you with both hands spread in an "I told you so" gesture. "See? Empty. No one here but us."

Something fluttered down from the top shelf like a falling leaf, a photograph. It descended in a lazy spiral before landing face-up on the floor directly between Jake's bare feet, the timing so perfect it felt orchestrated.

He looked down at it for a moment before bending to retrieve it from the hardwood. You instinctively pulled the sheet up higher over your chest, suddenly feeling the need for more coverage, and leaned forward with anxious curiosity to see what he'd found.

It was a photograph of a man. Young, probably late twenties at most. Dark hair that looked carefully styled, and a smile that revealed too many teeth in a way that should have been charming but somehow wasn't. He stood positioned in front of a house that you recognized immediately with a sinking sensation in your stomach. Your house. Except in this photo, the blue-gray paint looked pristine and freshly applied, and the porch railing stood straight and sturdy instead of loose and requiring Jake's promised repairs.

Jake held it out to you. “Must’ve been left by whoever lived here before.”

You accepted it with hands that had begun shaking again, your fingers trembling as they made contact with the aged paper. The photograph was clearly old, its edges yellowed and gone soft from excessive handling over the years. You found yourself staring at the man's face with growing horror, at those brown eyes that looked directly at the camera lens with unnerving focus.

“That’s him.”

“What?”

"That's who was in the closet. That's the exact face I saw watching us." Your voice began climbing higher with each word, panic making it difficult to control your volume. You could hear yourself getting louder, more frantic, but stopping seemed impossible. "Jake. That's him. I saw him. Those eyes. That face. He was watching us have sex."

"You saw a picture fall out of the closet." Jake's tone had gone flat and carefully neutral, the voice he used when he was trying very hard to remain patient.

"No. I saw him before the picture fell. He was looking at me." The words came out in a rush, desperate and pleading. "His eyes were at a different angle than in this photo but it's the same face. The exact same face. Jake. I'm so scared."

Jake lowered himself onto the edge of the bed with deliberate slowness, the mattress dipping under his weight. He reached over and carefully extracted the photograph from your trembling fingers, then set it face down on the nightstand like even having it visible in his peripheral vision was too much. Like he could make the problem disappear by simply not looking at it. Then he pulled you firmly against his bare chest, his arms wrapping around you with protective intensity. Your entire body was shaking with an internal tremor you had no control over, muscles quivering like you'd been left out in freezing temperatures.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. That’s it. We’re getting you help.”

“What?”

“I’m calling a doctor tomorrow. We’re getting you on something.”

You pulled back to look at him. “I don’t need medication.”

"Yes you do." He wasn't angry, which somehow made it worse. Anger you could have fought against, could have met with your own defensive rage. But he just sounded exhausted, worn down to nothing, like this conversation was draining the last reserves of energy he possessed. "Baby. You're having hallucinations. You're seeing things that aren't there. You're terrified constantly, jumping at every sound, unable to sleep. That's not normal. That's not healthy."

"I'm not hallucinating." You tried to inject conviction into the words but they came out weak and unconvincing even to your own ears.

"You just told me you saw a dead guy watching us have sex." He stated it plainly, without embellishment, and hearing it repeated back like that made it sound insane.

“I didn’t say he was dead.”

"Well he's clearly not alive and physically standing in our closet, so what else would he be?" Jake's hands came up to frame your face with careful gentleness, his palms warm against your cheeks. His thumbs pressed against your cheekbones with just enough pressure to ground you. "I love you. So much. More than anything. But I can't keep doing this. I can't keep checking every single room and closet and telling you nothing's there while I watch you fall apart piece by piece. You need help. Real, professional help. Not just me reassuring you that everything's fine when clearly it's not."

Your eyes began burning with the familiar pressure of approaching tears. You felt them spill over and track down your cheeks, the moisture collecting against his hands where they still held your face. "You don't believe me."

"I believe that you're genuinely seeing things. I believe that you're absolutely terrified and that your fear is real." He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. The gesture felt like an apology, like he was asking forgiveness for what he was about to say. "I don't believe there's actually a ghost in our house. I believe your mind is creating these experiences because you're exhausted and stressed beyond your breaking point."

You wanted desperately to argue, to defend yourself against the implicit accusation that you were losing touch with reality. You wanted to grab that photo and shove it in his face and make him understand that you weren’t crazy. It was real and he needed to listen instead of looking at you like you were broken. You wanted him to look at you like his wife instead of like a patient who needed managing.

But he was holding you like you were made of something fragile that might shatter, and the combination of fear and exhaustion had left you with nothing left to fight with.

"Okay," you whispered, the surrender tasting bitter on your tongue.

Relief washed across his features so visibly it was almost painful to witness. "Yeah? You mean it?"

“Yeah. I’ll see a doctor.”

He pulled you back against his chest immediately and held you with enough force that your ribs protested, his arms creating a cage around you that was probably meant to feel protective but somehow felt more like containment. "Thank you. God, thank you so much. Everything's going to be okay. I promise. We're going to figure this out and get you feeling better."

You closed your eyes and pressed your face hard into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin mixed with the lingering smell of sex. You could still feel those brown eyes on you, watching from somewhere you couldn't see, their presence as real and tangible as Jake's heartbeat against your cheek.

────୨ৎ────

Three weeks on the pills and things had been better.

Not perfect. The house still released its nightly symphony of creaks and groans, wood settling and pipes contracting in ways that sometimes sounded almost deliberate. You still experienced that persistent phenomenon of misplaced objects, things migrating from where you'd carefully set them down to locations that made no logical sense. But the hallucinations had stopped. You weren't seeing faces materialize in closet shadows anymore, weren't feeling the sensation of phantom hands pressing against your body when you were alone. Most importantly, Jake had stopped treating you like delicate glass that might shatter at any moment, stopped monitoring your every word and expression for signs of deteriorating mental health.

You stood at the kitchen sink in the quiet morning light and tipped two pills from the prescription bottle into your palm. They were small and white and deceptively ordinary looking for something that had apparently rewired your brain chemistry. You placed them on your tongue and chased them down with water, felt them slide down your throat in that particular way pills did, slightly catching before completing their descent.

Jake had departed for work several hours ago, his goodbye kiss still a fading warmth on your forehead along with his cheerful instruction to have a good day. You had a whole list of mundane tasks planned: errands to run, groceries to buy, dry cleaning to pick up. All the tediously normal things that normal people with stable mental health did on ordinary weekdays.

You climbed the stairs to get dressed, your hand trailing along the banister out of habit. In the bedroom you pulled on your favorite jeans and a comfortable sweater, the fabric soft from repeated washing. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror showed someone who looked tired around the eyes but fundamentally stable, grounded in reality. Progress, even if it was hard-won. You collected your keys from their designated spot on the bedroom dresser and made your way back downstairs, your footsteps echoing slightly in the quiet house. Your purse waited by the front door exactly where you'd left it the night before. You performed your usual pre-departure check, fingers locating your wallet and phone in their expected pockets. Everything accounted for and in order.

Your skin felt warm.

You froze with your hand already extended toward the doorknob, fingers hovering just inches from the cool metal. The warmth was spreading with unsettling speed, an internal heat that had nothing to do with the house's temperature. It originated somewhere deep in your chest and was now radiating outward like you'd swallowed something molten, creeping up your neck in a slow crawl, traveling down your arms in tingling waves, settling into your stomach with uncomfortable intensity.

The heat intensified with alarming rapidity. Within seconds your skin was burning, the sensation so overwhelming it felt like you'd stepped directly into a sauna set to maximum temperature or positioned yourself too close to an open flame. You grabbed at the neck of your sweater with clumsy fingers, pulling at the fabric that suddenly felt suffocatingly thick and restrictive, like it was actively trying to strangle you.

Something else was happening simultaneously, a secondary sensation that made your stomach drop with confused alarm. A different kind of heat had begun throbbing low in your belly, an unmistakable arousal pooling between your legs with an intensity that was both shocking and unwelcome. Your thighs pressed together in an automatic, unconscious response and the resulting friction against sensitive flesh made you gasp out loud, the sound startlingly loud in the empty house.

What the hell.

You abandoned your plan to leave and instead leaned heavily against the door, using it to support your suddenly unsteady body. Your heart was hammering violently against your ribs like it was trying to escape your chest. Your breathing had deteriorated into shallow, rapid gasps that weren't pulling in nearly enough oxygen. The dual sensations of burning heat and building arousal kept intensifying with each passing second, feeding off each other in some terrible feedback loop. Your body felt hypersensitive to the point of pain, every nerve ending firing at maximum capacity. The brush of your jeans against your legs, the pressure of your bra against your chest, every sensation registered as too much, overwhelming your ability to process sensory input.

You were simultaneously burning up and desperately turned on and you had absolutely no understanding of why this was happening or how to make it stop.

The pills. Your thoughts felt sluggish and fuzzy, like your brain was operating through layers of cotton, but that single word managed to surface through the haze. Had you somehow taken the wrong medication? Grabbed the wrong bottle in your morning routine? You stumbled back toward the kitchen with uncoordinated steps, your legs feeling weak and unreliable beneath you like they might give out entirely at any moment. The prescription bottle still sat on the counter exactly where you'd left it. You snatched it up with trembling hands that could barely maintain their grip and forced your eyes to focus on the tiny print of the label.

It was the same prescription. Same exact dosage. They were the same pills you’d been taking every morning for three weeks.

This wasn't a documented side effect. The doctor had been thorough when prescribing the medication, walking you through the complete list of potential reactions. Nothing like this had been mentioned. Jake had done his own research and would have definitely said something if this kind of response was even remotely possible.

You set the bottle back down with a clatter and gripped the counter's edge hard enough that your knuckles immediately drained of all color, the skin stretching white and tight over the bones. The heat had become genuinely unbearable now, so intense you genuinely felt like your skin might actually split open from internal pressure, like something was attempting to force its way out from inside your body.

Your sweater had to come off immediately. You grabbed the hem with both hands and yanked it over your head in one desperate motion, not caring when it caught briefly on your hair. The garment hit the floor in a heap of discarded fabric. The removal provided approximately ten seconds of relief, blessed coolness against your overheated skin, before the burning sensation returned with even greater intensity than before.

You lurched toward the refrigerator and wrenched open the freezer door with enough force to make the entire appliance rock slightly. Cold air billowed out in a visible cloud and you immediately pressed your face directly into the frigid stream, desperate for any kind of relief. It felt incredible, almost transcendently good in a way that felt vaguely scandalous, pleasure and relief tangling together in your overloaded nervous system. A sound escaped your throat before you could suppress it, a moan that was entirely too loud and breathy and suggestive for someone standing alone in their kitchen.

This was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Your physical responses had begun mimicking exactly what you'd feel if Jake was actively touching you, as if invisible hands were currently sliding across your bare skin with deliberate intent and  phantom lips were pressed against your neck leaving invisible marks. But you were completely alone in the kitchen wearing nothing but your bra and jeans and there was absolutely nothing and no one physically touching you.

You could feel it anyway, could feel all of it with perfect clarity. Phantom sensations that felt as real as anything you'd ever experienced made your spine arch involuntarily and your breath catch in your throat. Waves of pleasure were building inside you with relentless momentum, completely beyond your control or ability to stop.

"Stop," you said out loud to the empty kitchen, your voice emerging wrecked and desperate and barely recognizable. "Stop it."

It didn't stop. The invisible touch moved lower with deliberate intent, phantom hands sliding down your stomach toward the waistband of your jeans. Your hips rolled forward in an involuntary response against absolutely nothing, your body betraying you with its automatic reaction. Your hand shot out wildly and connected with the pill bottle still sitting on the counter edge. It went flying, hitting the floor with a sharp crack of plastic against tile. Pills exploded everywhere, scattering across the kitchen floor in a spray of white tablets that pinged and rolled in every direction.

You sank down to your knees, your legs finally giving out completely under the dual assault of sensation and fear. The tile was shockingly cold against your overheated skin, the temperature contrast almost painful. You pressed your forehead directly against that cold surface and tried desperately to breathe through what was happening to your body, tried to find some kind of mental anchor that might let you regain even a fraction of control.

The phantom sensations kept building with relentless momentum, pushing you inexorably toward something you absolutely did not want. Not like this. Not alone on the kitchen floor half-dressed while something invisible touched you everywhere at once, while pleasure you hadn't asked for built inside you beyond your ability to stop it.

You squeezed your eyes shut with enough force to see stars behind your eyelids and bit down hard on your lip, the sharp pain grounding you slightly. You tasted copper as skin broke under your teeth.

And then you felt breath against your ear, warm and real and so close you could feel the shape of words even though no sound came out.

Someone was here with you.

You forced your eyes open, terror overriding every other sensation flooding your system.

The man from the photograph was crouched directly in front of you, close enough to touch. His dark hair fell across his forehead in soft waves, partially obscuring brown eyes that watched you with unmistakable amusement. He was near enough that you could catalog every detail of his face with perfect clarity.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were something fascinating he'd discovered. "Hey."

You screamed.

He laughed in response, the sound casual and completely at odds with the situation. One hand pressed over his heart in an exaggerated gesture while a mockingly touched expression crossed his features. "Yeah, I know. I get that a lot. The ladies love me."

"What?" Your voice emerged as barely more than a rasp, your throat already raw from screaming. You scrambled backward desperately, your nearly naked back scraping against the cabinet hardware as you tried to put any amount of distance between yourself and this impossible presence. "What are you? A pervert? What the hell are you doing to me, you freak?"

"Ouch." He settled back on his heels, looking genuinely wounded by your words. The amused smile faded into something closer to an actual pout, his bottom lip pushing out slightly. "That's rude. I have a name, you know. It's Sunghoon. Can you call me that instead of these mean names?"

You sputtered incoherently for a moment, your brain completely unable to process the sheer audacity of this ghost or hallucination or whatever he was acting offended while you were literally sprawled half-naked on your kitchen floor.

"You know," he continued conversationally, like you were having a normal chat over coffee instead of this nightmare scenario, "I wasn't sure exactly how long it would take to kick in. The bottle said thirty minutes for full effect but I figured with your body weight, maybe closer to twenty?" He glanced down at his wrist like he was checking a watch that wasn't actually there, miming the gesture with his empty arm. "Pretty close to my estimate. I'm getting really good at this."

You stared at him, your oxygen-deprived brain struggling to process the words coming out of his mouth or reconcile what you were seeing with any version of reality that made sense. "What?"

"The pills." He reached down and plucked one of the scattered tablets from the floor, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger for your inspection like it was evidence in a trial. "I switched them out. Well, not all of them obviously. That would've been way too obvious and you would've noticed immediately. Just enough that you'd take them at your normal time and," He gestured broadly at you sprawled on the kitchen floor in just your bra and jeans, skin flushed and breathing labored. "Here we are."

"What did you give me?" Your voice cracked.

"Aphrodisiacs. Really strong ones too." He shifted to crouch at your level, bringing his face even closer to yours, that infuriating smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. "Took them from the previous owner's bedroom stash. They left in such a hurry they forgot all sorts of interesting things up there." He paused, his head tilting again in that particular way that made him look predatory despite the casual tone. "I could touch you whenever I want, you know. Make you feel anything. But where's the fun in that? This is so much better. You have no idea what's happening to your own body. You can't fight it or control it or make it stop." His eyes dragged over your half-clothed form with deliberate slowness, taking in every detail of your current state. "You should see your face right now. It's perfect."

Horror crashed through you in a wave so intense it momentarily overrode even the chemical heat flooding your system. "You're insane. You're harassing me!" The burning arousal was still coursing through your body with undiminished intensity but fear was cutting through it now, slicing everything into sharp focus and making your panic spike even higher. "Get away from me right now."

His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline in exaggerated surprise. "I'm harassing you? That's rich. You're the one who moved into my house without permission."

“Your house? This is my house. Jake and I bought it.”

"Bought it." Sunghoon's laugh filled the kitchen, bright and cheerful and completely wrong given the circumstances. "Yeah, okay. Sure. Pretty sure I was here first though. Like, years before you showed up. And I tried so hard to get you to leave, I really did put in the effort. The mugs appearing in weird places. The shower curtain moving. The footsteps on the stairs." He gestured broadly like he was presenting a resume of accomplishments he was particularly proud of. "I even watched you guys having sex. Stood right there in your closet and watched the whole thing. Thought that would definitely do it for sure, thought you'd be out of here within a week."

Your stomach turned violently at the confirmation that all of it had been real, that you hadn't been losing your mind. "You're disgusting."

"Hey, I didn't enjoy it." He paused, a wink accompanying his next words. "I mean, I didn't not enjoy it either. You're cute. Your husband is incredibly boring but you? You're cute."

"Change them back," you gasped out desperately, your hands gripping the cabinet behind you hard enough to hurt. The pharmaceutical heat was still overwhelming every other sensation, still building despite your terror. Your body was still responding to whatever he'd given you, and knowing the cause wasn't doing anything to make it stop. "Give me the real pills. Please."

"Can't. Already flushed them down the toilet." He sat back on his heels, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who'd just admitted to drugging another person. "These should wear off in a few hours though. Maybe six? The bottle wasn't super clear on dosage recommendations. But hey, look on the bright side! At least now you know you're not crazy. Well, not about the house stuff anyway."

“Get away from me.” You tried to press further back but there was nowhere to go. The cabinet was solid against your spine.

"Can't do that either. This is my house, remember? I literally can't leave." Sunghoon reached out slowly like he was going to touch your face, his hand moving through the space between you with deliberate intent. His fingers stopped just short of making contact with your skin, hovering there in a way that felt more threatening than an actual touch would have been. "Besides, you can take all the real pills you want now, see all the therapists your insurance will cover. I'm still going to be here. I tried to scare you off, I really did put in genuine effort. But you're still here after all of it."

He leaned forward, eliminating what little distance remained between your bodies. His face was now mere inches from yours, close enough that you could count his eyelashes if you wanted to, close enough to see the unnatural stillness of his chest that never rose or fell with breath. You shouldn't be able to see this much detail on something that was supposed to be dead. "And honestly? I don't mind anymore. You're entertaining. Way better than the last people who lived here. They were so boring, so predictable. Didn't even scream when I moved their stuff around."

The chemically-induced heat pulsed stronger through your system, your traitorous body responding with renewed intensity even though your mind was screaming at it to stop. You let out a choked sound that was half desperate sob and half something else entirely, something you didn't want to acknowledge.

"Yeah. See? You like it." His voice dropped several registers lower, becoming softer and more intimate in a way that made your skin crawl. "I can make you feel so good. Better than your husband does, and I've been watching so I know exactly how he touches you. I know exactly what you need, what makes you fall apart."

“You’re sick.”

"I'm dead actually. Pretty different thing when you think about it." He sat back slightly, creating a few more inches of space between you. The increased distance felt like it should provide some relief but it didn't help at all. You could still feel phantom touches crawling all over your body with increasing boldness. "But sure, yeah. Call me sick if it makes you feel better about the situation. Doesn't change the fact that you're stuck with me now."

You tried to stand, tried to force your legs to cooperate and get you upright and away from this nightmare. Your muscles refused to obey the commands your brain was desperately sending. The drug-induced pleasure was building again with terrifying momentum, cresting toward something you absolutely did not want to reach, not with him watching with those amused eyes.

You squeezed your eyes shut with brutal force, trying to block him out of your awareness, trying to pretend this wasn't happening. The phantom pressure against your overheated body intensified in immediate response to your attempt at escape. The sensation of a mouth traced a deliberate path along your jawline. It wasn't human, lacked all the normal qualities of an actual kiss. There was no wetness or natural warmth, just an impossible suction of penetrating cold that somehow burned against your flushed skin. Your head thrashed violently to the side in denial, a pathetic whimper escaping your lips as the ghost of a tongue dragged down the vulnerable tendon of your neck with agonizing slowness.

The searing phantom heat raging inside your body was fighting a war with the invasive cold attacking from outside, and the conflict between the two extremes was systematically shredding your nerves into ribbons. You were going to scream, or dissolve into hysterical tears, or worse, give in completely to the relentless chemical need he'd deliberately poisoned you with.

"There you go," his voice purred directly in your ear despite the fact that his physical form still sat visible in front of you, just observing your breakdown with clinical interest. "Fighting it makes it so much sweeter to watch."

“Stop,” you begged, the word a broken thing. “Please.”

"That's the wrong word to use." His voice carried the texture of velvet wrapped around a threat. "Try 'more' instead."

He simply shifted forward on his knees, closing the distance you'd been trying to maintain. His mouth, suddenly solid and undeniably real, pressed against the exposed base of your throat. You felt the distinct pressure of teeth against your vulnerable skin before he bit down with deliberate force.

A gasp ripped from your chest involuntarily. It was a deep, marrow-chilling shock that seemed to leech the very warmth from your blood, a branding cold that arced through your entire system. It provided a strange and terrible counterpoint to the drug's artificial fever burning through you. The cold stole your breath completely. For one blessed second, the overwhelming internal heat was eclipsed entirely by this violent, invasive cold.

He released you and leaned back casually, his tongue darting out to lick his lips in a gesture that was deliberately provocative. A smirk played across his face while his eyes gleamed with dark, perverse satisfaction. The spot on your neck where his teeth had been throbbed with a lingering, icy ache that pulsed in time with your racing heartbeat.

"You taste like panic," he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "And lavender laundry detergent. Interesting combination."

You couldn't speak, couldn't force any words past the constriction in your throat. You brought a trembling hand up to your neck, fingers searching for damage. The skin was unbroken, no mark visible or tactile, but you could still feel the exact imprint of his teeth branded into your flesh.

The spell of the drug, momentarily stunned, came roaring back with a vengeance, intensified by the adrenaline crash. A violent shudder wracked your body, and your vision swam. The kitchen tiles tilted. Everything blurred into a nauseating swirl.

The spell of the drug, momentarily stunned into submission by the shock of his bite, came roaring back with absolute vengeance, intensified exponentially by the adrenaline crash flooding your system. A violent shudder wracked your entire body and your vision swam alarmingly. The kitchen tiles seemed to tilt at impossible angles. Everything blurred into a nauseating swirl of color and sensation.

Your muscles clenched, a tight coil of absolute need. You tried to think of anything else, grocery lists, the bland color of the living room walls, Jake’s face smiling at you this morning. The thoughts melted like wax before the flame. A low, wounded sound was trapped in your throat. Your body wasn’t listening to you anymore. It was listening exclusively to the poison coursing through your bloodstream.

The sensation built with terrifying inevitability, a cresting wave that had nothing to do with genuine pleasure and everything to do with biological hijacking. Your back arched violently off the floor, your fingers scraped desperately against the unforgiving tile hard enough to break skin, and a silent, shuddering release tore through you with brutal force. For approximately three seconds, it flooded you with relief.

Then the heat roared back twice as fierce as before. This time it manifested as a raw and scraping hunger that made the previous burning seem like gentle warmth by comparison. A choked cry of despair escaped you. The release hadn't helped at all. It had only made the empty, aching need more desperate and consuming.

"Oh, wow." Sunghoon's voice dripped like liquid honey from somewhere above you. He hadn't moved from his position. He was just sitting there comfortably, legs crossed, chin resting in his hand, watching you completely unravel on his kitchen floor like it was entertainment. "That looked incredibly unsatisfying. All that work and you're still right back where you started. Maybe even worse now, yeah?"

You couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to see whatever expression was on his face. Humiliation coated your mouth like thick paste, mixing with the panting breaths you couldn't control. Your whole body was trembling uncontrollably, oversensitive and raw, screaming for a relief that the orgasm had cruelly teased and then stolen away.

“The body wants what it wants,” he sighed, as if discussing a mildly inconvenient fact. “And yours wants a lot right now. It must be so confusing for it. All dressed up with nowhere to go.”

The phantom touches started again. Not the broad, overwhelming waves from before, but precise, expert taps and strokes along the most overheated, frantic parts of you. It was deliberate. It was torture. You jerked against the cabinet, a fresh sob breaking loose.

“Do you want me to make you feel better?”

The question hung in the air, so simple and so monstrous. It was a taunt.

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to bury your face in your arms. The movement sent another vicious pulse of need through your core.

“I can,” he pressed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. The cold spot of his presence materialized right beside your ear. You felt the shape of words against your skin. “I know exactly how. I’ve been practicing. I can make it stop hurting. I can make it feel so good you’ll forget your own name. Just say the word.”

Every cell in your body was a lit fuse. The rational part of you, the part that was still you, screamed in negation. But that part was small, and drowning, and so very tired of the burning. The animal part, the part the pills had put in charge, only understood the agony of need and the promise of pleasure.

The silence stretched, broken only by your ragged breathing.

He let out a soft, disappointed hum. “Okay. Suit yourself. I’ve got all day. All week, really. Forever’s a long time to be this uncomfortable.”

Another expert, invisible stroke. A pained whimper was torn from your throat. “Fine! Yes!”

Sunghoon shifted, his form solidifying more as he settled cross-legged on the floor in front of you, blocking your view of the scattered pills. He looked like a boy about to listen to a good story, his head tilted, that pretty mouth pressed into a line of mock-sympathy.

“See, that’s a start,” he said, his voice a silken thread. “But ‘yes’ is… vague. You always beg so nicely for your husband.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Can’t you be more specific?”

The phantom touch, which had paused, returned with a sharp flick right where you were most sensitized. You jolted, a cry strangling in your throat. He was provoking you.

“You want me to make you feel better?” he prompted, his eyes dark and hungry for more than just your body. He wanted the words. “Then ask for it. Properly.”

Tears of frustration and shame burned hotter than the drug. Your body was a traitor, arching slightly toward the source of the touch even as your mind recoiled. “Please,” you whispered, the word torn from you.

“Please what?” he singsonged, relentlessly cheerful. “Please stop? Or please don’t stop? Context is everything.”

Another slow, swirling stroke, this one drawn-out and deliberate. Your hips gave a tiny, involuntary rock against nothing. The breath hitched in your chest, coming in shallow pants.

“I can’t,” you sobbed.

“You can. You’re a big girl.” His smile was chilling in its patience. “Use your words. What do you want me to do? Be explicit. I’m not your husband. I don’t do guesswork.”

The pressure built again, a tantalizing promise of release held just out of reach. The need was a physical pain now, a raw, scraping hollow that demanded to be filled. Your sanity was a distant shore. There was only the fire and the ice-cold boy who controlled the faucet.

You squeezed your eyes shut, hot tears tracking through the dust on your cheeks. The words felt like swallowing ground glass.

“Please… touch me.”

A beat of silence. Then a sigh, disappointed. “Again with the vagueness. Where?” The last word was a sharp whisper, accompanied by a sudden, pinpoint burst of sensation so intense it blurred your vision. “Here?”

You gasped, nodding frantically, your forehead nearly touching the tile.

“Say it.”

Your voice was a broken thing, ragged and small. “There. Please. Touch me there.”

“Better.” The approval in his voice was the worst part. It felt like a stain. “But we’re still being so clinical. So detached.” The phantom touch withdrew completely, leaving you shaking, the emptiness somehow more violent than the teasing. “I want to hear you want it. Really want it. Beg for it.”

The withdrawal was a new kind of torture. The chemical tide, denied its outlet, turned inward, scraping at your nerves. A low moan escaped you. The last fragile thread of resistance snapped.

“Please,” you babbled, the words tumbling out in a desperate, humiliated stream. “Please, I need it. Please, just… do it. Make me come. I can’t-I need to come. Please, Sunghoon, please.”

There it was. His name, followed by the specific, degrading request. 

“See? Was that so hard?” The smile didn’t leave his face. It was a real smile now, reaching his eyes and crinkling the corners. He looked like a boy who’d just been given the best present. He unfolded himself from his cross-legged position and crawled toward you. 

You tried to shrink back, but the cabinet was still there, unyielding. Your body, thrumming with the poison, betrayed you further, tilting toward him as he closed the last of the distance.

“Shhh,” he whispered, though you hadn’t made a sound. His hand came to rest on your bare knee.  “Just relax. I’ll take care of it.”

His other hand came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. The touch was intimate, possessive. His eyes scanned your face, reading every flicker of terror and unwilling need. “This is better, right?” he murmured. “Asking for what you need?”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat was sealed shut with shame.

He leaned in. You braced for a cold kiss, but he just rested his forehead against yours. His skin was like marble. You could see the faint, impossible pores in his nose, the individual black lashes. He was so there.

“Now,” he breathed, the word floating into your mouth. He slid your panties off quickly, wasting no time before sinking into you.

The sensation of him thrusting inside you carved a white-hot line of pure pleasure through the drug’s fever. It was fullness where there had been an agonizing need. It was so profoundly wrong that your mind short-circuited. A shattered sound was trapped in your frozen lungs.

Sunghoon’s forehead still pressed to yours, his brown eyes wide open, watching you dissolve. A soft, appreciative sigh escaped his lips. “Oh,” he whispered, as if genuinely moved. “That’s it. See?”

He began to move.

There was no rhythm to it. Each movement was calculated, a cruel parody of intimacy you usually get when it’s Jake inside you. Sunghoon’s targeting places that made your back bow and your fingers claw against the tile. The chemical need, met with this chilling mockery of relief, created a feedback loop of sensation that was intolerable. Pleasure and revulsion twisted together, inseparable.

Tears streamed down your face silently. You were pinned between the solid wood of the cabinet and the solid cold of him.

“You feel that?” he murmured, his voice thick with a dark kind of wonder. “That’s all me. I’m everywhere you are.”

His form began to blur slightly at the edges, not vanishing but spreading. The cold wasn’t just inside you anymore. It was seeping into your muscles, your bones, a frost spreading through your bloodstream. The heat of the drug fought it, creating a war under your skin. You were shaking violently, a puppet with its strings cut and frayed.

The pressure inside you coiled tighter, drawn by his will. The climax, when it was ripped from you, was a devastating earthquake. It was a seizure of icy voltage, a shattering that left you hollowed out and raw. Your vision whited out at the edges, and for a few seconds, there was nothing. No sound, no sight, just the echo of the violation.

Then, when you open your eyes, you make eye contact with Jake.

Jake stood in the kitchen doorway, his work bag dangling from one limp hand. His face was a blank slate of incomprehension. He blinked, his brain visibly scrambling to process the scene: you, on the floor as your body shakes with an invisible weight, surrounded by a chaos of pills. 

“What…?” His voice was soft, almost polite with confusion. He took a step inside, his keys jangling. “Did you fall? Are you hurt?”

He was looking at the pills, at your state of undress, trying to fit it into a logical box. Maybe you’d fainted, had a seizure or something medical.

Sunghoon’s laugh was a humid whisper against your neck, his rhythm relentless and claiming. “He looks so stupid,” he murmured, the words slithering into your ear as your body jerked with his movement. “Just a confused little husband.”

“Talk to me,” Jake pleaded, his confusion sharpening into alarm as he watched your back arch against the cabinet. “Why are you… what’s happening?”

Your mouth moved. No sound came out. How could you form words around what had just happened? A ghost drugged me and then fucked me on the kitchen floor while I begged for it? The sentence was insanity itself.

“He looks pissed,” Sunghoon murmured, his voice a secret just for you. “Bet he’s never seen you like this. All used up. Bet he doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Jake took another step, his shoes crunching on a pill. “Talk to me. Right now.” The command in his voice was new. It was fear, sharpened into anger.

“She can’t,” Sunghoon answered for you, his tone sing-song with mock sympathy as he drove himself harder into your yielding body. “She’s a little busy being full. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Jake’s gaze dropped, following the helpless, rhythmic clench of your body in thin air, and the color drained from his face. The logical world he built his life on splintered right there on the kitchen tiles.

“Stop it,” he growled, though he didn’t know who or what he was commanding, his voice thick with a rising terror. He took another step, hand outstretched not to you, but to the empty, charged space between your thighs.

Sunghoon’s pace became punishing, a brutal celebration of his own invisibility. “See how he watches?” he cooed, his breath chilling your skin. “He’s starting to get it. That his wife is coming apart on nothing.”

A sob tore from your throat as the sensations crested, a terrifying wave you couldn’t fight. Your eyes locked with Jake’s, screaming an apology he couldn’t possibly understand.

“Tell him,” Sunghoon insisted, each word a thrust. “Tell your husband why you’re gaping open like a cheap whore while he watches.”

“It’s him,” you choked out, the words raw and scraped from your throat as your body betrayed you with another uncontrollable shudder. You forced your gaze away from Jake’s shattered expression, turning your head as if to address the cold air at your cheek. “Sunghoon. Show yourself.”

Jake moved then, a jerky, mechanical step to the side, his eyes fixed lower. From behind you, he saw everything. The impossible, intimate flutter of your walls around something that was stretching you out despite the empty space. His breath hitched, a sharp, pained sound.

“What?” he whispered, the question hollow.

A rich, amused laugh answered, swirling through the chilled kitchen air, the sound closer to your ear than Jake’s voice had ever been. “Why would I do that?” Sunghoon purred, his movement inside you shifting to a slow, possessive grind that made your knees buckle. “I only like pretty girls seeing me.”

Jake’s confusion finally broke into a frantic, disbelieving motion. His face was a mask of revulsion and desperate denial, his mind scrambling for any explanation other than the one his eyes reported.

“This isn’t happening,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, his voice thin. He took one last, jerky step forward, his hand outstretched with a trembling hesitation.

His thumb brushed your inner thigh, a touch so familiar it made you weep, before his index finger pressed tentatively against the slick heat of you, right at the point of that impossible, rhythmic clenching.

He felt it immediately.

The undeniable, solid presence of something moving inside you, something cold and foreign thrusting hard and deep. His finger was pressed right alongside it, trapped against the invading shape by your own tortured flesh.

He froze.

His eyes, wide and unblinking, locked onto yours. His breath stopped in his chest. All the color and  warmth left his face. The sensation against his finger was a concrete, physical truth his logic could not absorb or explain away.

Sunghoon thrust again. A full, brutal slide that made your entire body jolt and a sick, wet sound escape you. Jake’s finger moved with it, forced aside by the motion. You moan at the fullness, stretched beyond what you could handle. He snatched his hand back as if burned, staring at his own fingers as if they belonged to a stranger.

Sunghoon chuckled, a sound of pure delight that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. He slowed to a torturous, rolling grind, savoring the audience. “Believe it now, Jake?” he whispered, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

“You felt that,” you managed to say, the words tearing out of you on a ragged exhale. “You felt him.”

“I felt something,” Jake corrected, his voice a hollow rasp. He looked down at his own body, then back at you. His expression crumbled into something worse than fear, shame. His sweatpants tented unmistakably.

Sunghoon’s grinding inside you paused, replaced by a low, delighted hum. “Oh, this is good,” he breathed into your ear, his fingers tracing a cold line up your ribs. “Look at him. Terrified out of his skull and still pitching a tent. You must just give off a vibe, huh?”

“Jake, please,” you begged, fresh tears hot on your cheeks.

“Don’t ‘please’ me,” he snapped, but the anger was thin, covering a bottomless well of panic. He didn’t move from the refrigerator, as if pinned. “What is this? Some kind of… sleepwalking thing? A seizure?”

“It’s not me!” you cried, your body jerking again as Sunghoon began a slow, teasing slide.

“He thinks it’s you,” Sunghoon murmured conversationally, his lips ghosting your temple. “He thinks his sweet wife is having some hysterical episode, rubbing herself on the cabinet like a cat in heat while he watches. And he likes the show.”

“Stop saying that,” you whimpered, closing your eyes.

“What am I saying?” Jake yelled, pushing off the fridge, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He still wouldn’t come closer. “I’m not saying anything! You’re the one talking to the goddamn air!”

Sunghoon laughed, and the vibration traveled through you. “Tell him the truth. That I’m here, inside you. That your husband is so turned on by watching his wife get haunted that he’s about to bust a seam.”

The crude words, spoken in that intimate, boyish voice, finally broke something in you. You focused on Jake’s terrified, aroused, utterly lost face.

“You can’t see or hear him, but you felt him. He’s-” your words break off into a moan when Sunghoon presses down on your clit with his thumb. “He’s inside me.” 

Jake’s mouth fell open. A violent shudder ran through him.

“That’s it,” Sunghoon cooed, his pace increasing, becoming purposeful and deep. “Now we’re all on the same page. You’re both so fucked up. A matched set.”

“Who? Who are you talking to?” Jake demanded, his voice cracking. He took one step forward, then another, driven by a frantic need to fix this.

“Sunghoon,” you sobbed, the name now a permanent stain in your kitchen. “His name is Sunghoon.”

Jake reached for you, not the air this time, his hands aiming for your shoulders to pull you away from the cabinet, to shake you awake. But as his fingers brushed your skin, Sunghoon thrust hard, pinning you in place. You cried out, your back arching.

Jake flinched back, but his hands stayed on your shoulders. In that horrible moment, his hips unconsciously jerked forward an inch, a tiny, reflexive stutter against the roaring adrenaline and paralyzing fear.

Sunghoon saw it. You felt his delight like a static charge.

“You slut,” he whispered, warm and approving against your ear. “You’re so slutty you broke your husband’s brain. He wants to fuck you right now while he watches you get railed by a ghost. That’s a new one, even for me.”

Jake’s hands dropped from your shoulders as if your skin had electrified him. He took two stumbling steps back, his breath coming in short, ragged pulls. The visible evidence of his arousal was now a source of palpable shame, and he crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his posture folding in on itself.

“This isn’t real,” he whispered, but the words held no conviction, only a hollow hope. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, took in your body. He scanned your trembling legs, the sheen of sweat on your collarbone, the frantic rise and fall of your chest. Logic had nothing left to give him.

“Feels pretty real from here,” you gasped, as Sunghoon resumed a slow, excruciating rhythm, each deep stroke a cold mockery of intimacy.

A different kind of tension was coiling tight in your belly, separate from the violation. It was a low, chemical burn, a remembered heat flickering back to life in your veins. Your mouth felt cottony. The edges of the room pulsed softly.

Jake’s eyes narrowed slightly, doctor’s instinct cutting through the panic. He saw the unnatural flush on your neck, the dilated black of your pupils swallowing the iris in the dim light. His gaze darted to the empty water glass on the counter, then back to your face.

“The pills,” he said, his voice shifting from terror to a strained clinical concern. “Your prescription. Did it do something to you?”

Sunghoon’s movement inside you hitched, then stilled, a predator listening. A cold finger traced the shell of your ear.

“Oh, this is juicy,” he murmured, his voice a secret just for you. “The little medicine. It’s still buzzing in there, isn’t it? Must be getting pretty uncomfortable.”

You nodded at Jake, a stiff, jerky motion. “Just two.” The admission was thick on your tongue.

“Just two,” Sunghoon parroted, laughing softly. “But it still aches doesn’t it? Your system’s all lit up with nowhere to put the juice.”

Jake ran a hand over his face, the friction loud in the quiet kitchen. “Okay. Okay, that’s a side effect. A rare one, but it’s in the literature. The heightened… sensitivity. It can cause agitation, a feeling of…”

“Of needing to come so bad it feels like your skin’s on fire?” Sunghoon finished for him, cheerfully crude. “Tell him, sweetheart. Tell your smart husband what his wife’s little medicine is making her feel right now, with me inside her.”

You shook your head, biting your lip until you tasted copper.

“Tell him,” Sunghoon insisted, and he pushed deeper, a sharp, startling penetration that made you cry out. “Or I stop moving entirely. I’ll just sit here, inside you, and you can ride out that chemical burn all by yourself. See how long it takes before you’re screaming.”

The threat was worse than the motion. The burning intensified, a wave of raw, frustrating need that overrode dignity. Your hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk against the empty air, seeking friction, release, anything.

Jake saw it. His clinical analysis collided with the grotesque reality before him.

“It… it hurts,” you choked out, the confession shattering you. “Jake, it’s burning. It won’t stop. The pill and he… and I can’t…”

Sunghoon hummed in approval. “Good girl. Now ask him. Ask your husband to help you feel better.”

“No,” Jake said, the word immediate and final. He backed up until the counter’s edge dug into his spine. “I am not… I am not doing anything with you while that… while he’s…”

“He doesn’t care,” Sunghoon sang, his voice light. “I’m not going anywhere. This is the situation. Your wife is in physical distress, and you’re just going to stand there and watch her cook from the inside out? What kind of a husband are you?”

The burning was a live wire now, sizzling through your nerves, concentrating in a desperate, aching pulse between your legs made a thousand times worse by the occupying cold. Rational thought dissolved. 

“Jake, please,” you begged, your voice breaking into a sob. “Please, just help me. Make it stop. I don’t care, I can’t think, it just hurts.”

“I can’t,” he whispered, agony in his own voice. “Not with him there. Don’t ask me to do that.”

“You don’t have to do anything to me,” Sunghoon keeps talking as if Jake can hear him. “Just her. She’s the one suffering. Think of it as medical aid for the burning.”

You slid down the cabinet another inch, your legs giving way. The tile was icy against your thighs. “Please, Jake. I need you. I just need it to stop. Help me.”

The words hung in the chilled air. Jake stood paralyzed, a man torn between the impossible and the unbearable. He stared at his wife, broken and begging on their kitchen floor, and the last wall of his denial crumbled into dust.

A ragged breath tore from his lungs. He crossed the cold tiles in three stiff strides, his own body still tensed with a revolting mixture of fear and that traitorous, persistent heat.

“Okay,” he said, the word barely audible. “Okay, just… tell me what to do.”

Sunghoon’s laughter was a silent tremor you felt deep inside your marrow. The oppressive, moving cold within you stilled, becoming a static fullness. “Finally,” the voice sighed near your ear. “Just get her ready for us. She’s tight as a fist.”

Jake knelt, the linoleum cracking under his knees. His hands, usually so sure, hovered over your splayed thighs. He looked into your eyes, seeking permission.

You gave a tiny, desperate nod.

His touch was clinical at first, fingers slick with your own moisture, probing tentatively. He touched where the emptiness should have been, and his knuckles brushed against solid, cold resistance.

He flinched, a full-body shudder. “Christ.”

“He’s right there,” you whispered, watching his face. “Can you feel him?”

Jake’s jaw worked. He pressed two fingers in alongside that chilling presence, a slow, careful stretch. The sensation was wrong, all wrong. Your warmth hugged his fingers, but they slid against something unyielding and frigid, a sleek barrier sharing the same space.

“It’s like a wall,” he muttered, his voice thick with disbelief. “A cold, living wall.”

“I’m not a wall,” Sunghoon chided, amusement rippling through the connection. “I’m just comfortable. Hurry up, man. The anticipation is cute and all, but we’re burning daylight.”

Jake added a third finger, his movements becoming more urgent, a mechanic trying to fix a broken machine with the engine still running. He was breathing hard through his nose, eyes glazed, focused on the paradox under his hand.

You gasped, the stretch a raw contrast to the chemical fire. “Please, Jake. Now.”

He fumbled with the waistband of his sweatpants, his movements clumsy. When he positioned himself, the reality of it hit him like a physical blow. He could see nothing. But the space was occupied. He pressed forward, and the head of his cock met not just you, but the shocking, solid coolness of another.

“Oh, God,” he choked.

He pushed, and the impossible happened. He slid in, a tight fit alongside that other presence. They were packed together moving in a perverse unison. He could feel the other’s shape, its motion, a synchronous pressure alongside his own.

“See?” Sunghoon’s voice was a breath of pure delight. “Cozy.”

Jake’s first thrust was a stutter, a spasm of horror and base mechanics. His eyes were wide, unseeing, locked on a point past your shoulder. He was inside his wife, and he was not alone. The trippy, brain-breaking reality of it short-circuited expression.

He just moved.

The rhythm was jangling and off, two separate entities trying to share a single groove. You were utterly full, stretched beyond any sense, the burning panic now fused with an overwhelming, choking pressure. You could feel every inch of Jake, warm and familiar and trembling. And you could feel Sunghoon, cold and exacting and still, just… there.

“There you go,” Sunghoon coaxed, as if coaching a teammate. “Get a rhythm. It’s like a tandem bike. Or a threesome where one guy’s a ghost. Cheaper, I guess.”

Jake made a sound, a guttural mix of a sob and a moan. He found a pace, a deep, driving tempo born of desperation to finish this. Each forward push met that chilling presence, a constant, rubbing reminder.

Your sounds were cries strangled by sheer overwhelm. Your fingers scrambled against the cold tile, finding no purchase. Sunghoon began to move again, subtly at first, then with more definition, carving his own path within the shared space. Jake gasped, faltering.

“Don’t stop,” Sunghoon commanded, his voice losing its playful edge for a slit-second. “You’re doing so good. Just keep going. She’s almost there.”

It was a lie. You were nowhere near anything but insanity. But Jake obeyed despite not being able to hear the command. Jake’s rhythm became frantic, purposeful, a man trying to hammer a nail through his own nightmare.

Sunghoon matched him, thrust for thrust, a cold echo to Jake’s heat.

The pressure crested in a splitting fullness. You screamed, a raw, torn sound that seemed to startle the very air in the room. Your body locked, convulsing around the dual invasion. It ripped through you, locking your muscles and arching your spine off the cold tile.

Jake felt the violent, rhythmic clench around him and cried out, a sound of utter surrender. His own release was torn from him, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he spilled warmth inside you.

Inside you, the cold presence jerked, then pulsed. Another flood of wetness joined the heat, this time a cold wave that whipped a broken gasp from your throat. And as Sunghoon finished, a low, satisfied groan escaping him, something flickered.

A crackle of static, a warp in the air behind Jake’s shoulder. For a second, it was just a distortion. Then it solidified.

Sunghoon’s groan cut off into a sharp, startled hiss. “Shit.”

Jake, still buried in you, his body trembling with spent horror, felt the new presence like a change in pressure. He lifted his head from your shoulder, his bleary, tear-filled eyes following your frozen gaze over your shoulder.

And he saw.

A man, crouched on the floor of their kitchen, one hand braced against the cabinet as if steadying himself, his other hand still hovering near the back of Jake’s thigh. Mid-twenties, dark hair falling into eyes that were wide with momentary surprise before they shuttered into cold amusement. A pretty, boyish face that didn’t match the crude reality of where he’d just been.

Jake froze. All breath, all thought, all sound left him. 

Sunghoon recovered his grin, though it was tighter now. “Oops,” he said, his voice no longer a whisper in your ear but a clear, resonant sound in the room. He didn’t move his hand from beside Jake’s leg. “Got a little carried away. Hi, Jake.”

Jake did not speak. He was a statue etched in pure, paralytic shock. His eyes dragged from Sunghoon’s face, down his arm, to where his own body was still joined to yours. The geometry of it, the three of them connected in this vile chain, finally had a visible link.

The logical mind, so diligently clung to, gave its final, silent scream and went dark.

With a raw, animal noise that started in his gut, Jake wrenched himself back, separating from you with a wet sound. He scrambled away on all fours, like a crab, until his back hit the oven door, his sweatpants tangled around his knees.

He stared, unblinking.

“You’re…,” Jake breathed, the word rusted.

“I’m,” Sunghoon agreed, pushing himself upright with an eerie, weightless grace. He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, looking between you, still splayed and trembling on the floor, and your husband huddled by the stove. “Yeah. This is awkward.”

Jake’s hand rose, pointing a trembling finger. “You were… inside…”

“Yeah, we covered that part,” Sunghoon said, sighing as if bored. He examined his own nails, which looked perfectly solid. “The seeing part is new. For you, anyway. She,” he nodded toward you, “has been getting the full VIP specter experience for a while now.”

Jake’s head swiveled to you. His eyes were shattered windows. “You see him? Like this?”

You could only nod, pulling your knees to your chest, a futile attempt to shield yourself from both of their gazes. The burning was gone, replaced by a hollow, frozen ache and a shame so profound it felt like your own ghost was leaving your body.

“All this time,” Jake whispered. The words were flat, dead things. “You weren’t stressed.”

“Told you,” you managed to whisper, but it held no victory.

Sunghoon pushed off the counter and took a spectral step toward Jake, who flinched, pressing harder against the oven. “Don’t look so betrayed,” Sunghoon said, his head tilting. “You just had a conjoined orgasm with me. That’s a pretty intimate icebreaker. We’re practically besties.”

“Don’t touch me,” Jake spat, the command automatic and weak.

“I’m not,” Sunghoon said, holding up his translucent hands. He took another step, crouching down to bring himself eye-level with Jake, who recoiled. “But see? Now you believe. Now we can all play together properly. No more misunderstandings.”

Jake’s breathing was a series of sharp, panicked inhalations. He was looking at a ghost, a real ghost, in his kitchen, discussing shared orgasms. 

Sunghoon’s smile turned intimate, conspiratorial. “We should do this again sometime. Maybe without the pills. Now that we’ve broken the ice, you know?” He paused. “Or, you know. Now that I’ve broken you in.”

He straightened up, winked at you, and then his form simply unraveled, dissipating like smoke in a draft until the space by the counter was empty.

[wonnfavee]

okay so like this was insane but so good..

[nephynes]

THE 3RD DEGREE ──.୨ৎ kim sunoo x park sunghoon one shot

Just a night that was meant to be the peak of your relationship with Sunoo starting to look like the "best friend" you invited into your bed is never leaving.

nsfw warnings ── SMUT ── minors do not interact (oral f&m receiving) angst if you’re a pussy, reader is insecure but is justified (kinda), toxic dynamics, jealousy, threesome, established relationship, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, slow burn tension, secret pinning. let me know if i missed any.

wc ── 6.4k

You turn the spare key in the lock with a familiar, metallic click that usually signals the start of your favorite part of the week. It's Friday night so that means no work, no school, just you in Sunoo's clothes and his scent enveloping your senses for the next seventy two hours. You swing the door open, a playful "Guess who?" already perched on the tip of your tongue but the words die before they can even hit the air.

Your boyfriend's living room is bathed in the low glow of the lamp in the corner, there’s a low fi beat you recognize as something from your shared playlist and Sunoo is on the sofa with his legs tucked under him but he isn't alone...unfortunately. Sunghoon is leaned deep into his space, eyes fixed on a notebook they're both looking at, shoulders pressed firmly together.

"Oh," you say, the syllable feeling heavy and even a little clumsy in the doorway. "He's here."

Sunghoon looks up first, you hate the way his gaze is always so sharp and composed, it makes you feel like you're being cataloged. "Hey you," he says, sending a confusing jolt of memory straight to your gut.

Two weeks ago, that same voice had been whispered filthy things against the shell of your ear while Sunoo fucked his tongue into your pussy. Two weeks ago, the three of you had been a tangled breathless mess of "no regrets" and "just this once". It had been transcendent to say the least, like an explosion of heat that felt like a new experience in your relationship with Sunoo. But tonight, walking in to see the way Sunghoon's hand lingers just a second too long on Sunoo's knee as he points at something in the notebook, the "no regrets" feels like a lie you've been telling yourself.

It was the silence of the last thirteen days that did the most damage in your head, you call it the aftermath, that hazy period after the three of you had shared a bed for the first time. It was supposed to be a one time thing, a mountain you climbed together and then came back down from but while you were trying to find your footing back on solid ground, it seemed like Sunghoon had never actually left the damn mountain.

The observations started small, in these tiny pieces of a puzzle you were dreading finishing. It started with the ‘best friend’ shorthand and you only noticed it because of a stupid cup of coffee. They were sitting at the kitchen island when Sunghoon reached for Sunoo's coffee without asking, taking a sip and handing it back. It's a best friend move, sure but there was something in the way Sunghoon's eyes lingered on the rim of the cup, aiming for the exact spot where Sunoo's mouth had been, with a look of quiet satisfaction. It wasn't exactly bro energy, it almost seemed like a lingering taste of the intimacy they'd shared with you, only now Sunghoon seemed to be intentionally filtering you out of the memory.

Then came what you called the erasure, which was basically whenever three of you were in a room, Sunghoon's body language was a masterclass in subtle exclusion. He would pivot his chair or his body just a few degrees away from you, creating this closed unit with just Sunoo, he spoke in inside jokes from ages ago, weaving a web of history that you couldn't touch, like was reminding you and Sunoo that he was here first.

What came next was the look, this one really did keep you up at night. During the sex, you had been so caught up in the sensory overload from two mouths on you at the same time that you hadn't processed it. But in the quiet of your own apartment days later, you remembered how Sunghoon hadn't looked at you with the same desperation he had for Sunoo. When he touched you, it felt like he was performing for Sunoo, like he wanted Sunoo to see how good he was with you.

But when he looked at Sunoo or touched him? Oh that was different, you remember a brief moment when Sunghoon had his mouth wrapped around Sunoo's cock, working his hole with one long finger. You remember how loud he had your boyfriend moaning and whining, chasing his mouth when Sunghoon would pull back just to be a tease, you didn't have enough time to dwell on it though cause Sunoo had grabbed you and thrown you over his face, pressing you down so harshly on his mouth, his tongue frantic as his moans vibrated through you. You remember making eye contact with Sunghoon in that position before Sunoo sucked so good on your clit your eyes rolled back and that was a man looking at a life raft, there was an obvious hunger there that felt ancient and terrifying and it definitely wasn't for you.

Every time Sunoo laughed at one of Sunghoon's jokes this past week, you felt a little bit of your territory being taken. Every time Sunghoon accidentally left a shirt at the apartment, it felt like a flag being planted.

By the time you walked in tonight and saw them on the couch, the best friend label almost felt like a cruel joke. You weren't crashing out over nothing, you were watching a slow motion heist where the prize was the man you loved.

Sunoo finally beams at you, that bright cat like grin that usually melts you, but right now it feels like he's looking through you. "We're just finishing up this project for the gallery, baby. Sunghoon brought over those prints I needed."

"Right," you say, dropping your overnight bag by the door. "The prints."

You walk over and as you sit on the arm of the sofa, you notice Sunghoon doesn't even bother to pull away from Sunoo. If anything, he shifts closer, a subtle claim of territory that wasn't there before you invited him into your bed. He knows exactly what he's doing, you know he knows. He probably remembers the way your back arched under his touch two weeks ago, he probably remembers the way your face scrunched up when he made you cum all over his huge dick, calling his name in a way that stripped away every layer of your pride.

You hate to think that to him, you aren't just Sunoo's girlfriend anymore—he’s looking at you right now like a boundary he's already crossed. "You look tired, baby girl," Sunghoon says, the nickname rolling off his tongue with a terrifying ease but it hits you like a physical blow. It's a name reserved for intimacy, for the dark four walls of a bedroom, not a casual Friday night in the living room. You freeze, feeling your heart hammering against your ribs as your eyes darting instinctively to Sunoo, who doesn't even look up from the sketches. He just hums in vague agreement, a distracted smile playing on his lips as he flips a page. "He's right, you've been working too hard, baby. Come sit down."

You watch Sunghoon's smirk deepen just a fraction, a silent victory on the corner of his mouth. He definitely saw the flicker of hurt in your eyes, and he saw Sunoo's utter obliviousness—or even worse, what you’re interpreting as his permission cause by not correcting him, Sunoo has effectively handed Sunghoon the keys to the kingdom.

Sunghoon shifts, making a show of patting the small, narrow space on the cushion between him and Sunoo. It's a trap, you think, he’s daring you to squeeze in and reclaim your spot, knowing that if you do, you'll be pressed against his side just as much as Sunoo's.

"Yeah, come here," Sunghoon adds, dragging that memory of his whispered commands back to the surface of your skin. "Wanna see the prints?"

Sunoo looks back at you, his eyes bright and completely unaware of the psychological war being waged on his fucking velvet couch. "They’re really good, babe."

There’s a vibration in the air, like a low frequency hum of competition that Sunoo seems blissfully deaf to. You can feel Sunghoon's eyes on you as you slide off the arm of the sofa and press yourself into Sunoo's side, basically on his lap, your hand slides up his chest to tangle in the soft fabric of his shirt, attempting to erase the memory of last week with the reality of now.

"I missed you," you murmur, your voice shifting into that honeyed tone meant only for him.

Sunoo smiles and leans down to press a chaste kiss to your lips. It's soft and familiar but it sure as hell isn't enough, especially with the witness you have tonight. So you tilt your head and seek more, your tongue grazing the seam of his lips to pull him into something deeper but he flinches back just an inch and laughs as his hands come up to your waist.

"Woah, princess," he breathes, his eyes darting momentarily to Sunghoon before landing back on you with a playful reprimand. "We have company, remember?"

The rejection stings worse than the nickname does and you’re immediately flustered, it’s the way he says company as if Sunghoon hasn't seen both of you at your most vulnerable, as if he wasn't an active participant in the very thing Sunoo is suddenly acting shy about.

You feel this desperate clawing need in your chest to prove that the hierarchy hasn't shifted one bit, that Sunghoon is a guest and you are the constant. You let out a frustrated whine, as you tug at his collar, not giving him any space to breathe before swinging a leg over his, and crawling directly into his lap and kissing him again.

Sunoo's resolve breaks with a huff of surprise, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist tighter to keep you from falling. "Okay, okay," he mutters, his voice muffled against your lips, his grip tightening in a way that feels like a small win, for a minute he’s holding you and he feels like yours.

But then, you hear the sound of a page turning followed by Sunghoon's voice, devoid of any awkwardness as usual. "You're making her needy, Sunoo," Sunghoon says. You can hear the smirk in his tone, like he thinks you’re putting on a show for him. "Maybe we should finish the prints later?"

The way he says we makes your blood run cold, like he’s trying to start something, like he thinks the one time he was in your bed was an automatic invite to every single time you and your boyfriend got intimate. You scramble off Sunoo’s lap and stand to your feet with your chest heaving, "Why are you always here?" you seethe the words, "Every time I come over he’s here, Sunoo. Do you even remember what it's like to just have us? To have a night where he isn't breathing down our necks?"

Sunoo looks startled as his hands go up in a placating gesture and he rises from the sofa a little. "Baby, hey, calm down. It's just Sunghoon. He's my best friend, you know that—"

"Is he?" You whirl on Sunghoon, who hasn't moved a damn inch. He's lounging back, one arm draped over the cushions, watching you with a terrifyingly calm expression, like the look of a scientist watching a lab rat lose its mind. "Is that what we're calling it? Because I saw you, Sunghoon. I was there."

Your voice cracks and you hate the way your eyes are stinging with hot tears of frustration. "You barely even looked at me! Isn't the girl supposed to be the center of a threesome? Isn't that the point? But your eyes never even left my boyfriend! You just wanted an excuse to finally touch him, didn't you? You've been waiting for the opportunity to fuck him and you used me to get there!"

The accusation hangs in the air so heavy and ugly as you pant and wait for a denial, for Sunoo to be shocked and maybe even have an epiphany and take your side so the world can realign.

Instead, Sunghoon lets out a huffed laugh, it’s a dry sound that makes your skin crawl instantly. "Are you saying I didn't give you enough attention?" he asks, his voice is so patronizing that it makes you want to scream. He tilts his head, his eyes glinting with a cruel sort of amusement. "Is that what this is? You're upset because you weren’t the main character?"

"No—that's not—don't twist my words!" you sputter feeling backed up into a corner. You sound desperate and he knows it. "Because if I remember correctly you were screaming my name quite clearly," Sunghoon continues, ignoring Sunoo's uncomfortable "Hoon, maybe don't..." He stands up slowly, closing the distance between you until he's looming over you, forcing you to look up at him. "If you wanted me all to yourself, you should have just asked. But don't blame Sunoo because you're feeling insecure about where you fit in now."

"Sunghoon, stop," Sunoo pleads, finally stepping between you placing his hands on your waist. He's trying to pull you back and shield you but right now his touch feels like a consolation prize. "She's just tired, she didn't mean it like that."

"I did mean it!" you cry out, pushing at Sunoo's chest, your eyes fixed on Sunghoon's smug face. "He wants to steal you from me, Sunoo! He's trying to replace me!"

Sunghoon just raises an eyebrow, all mock concern. "She's hysterical. Maybe she should go lie down? I think the stress is getting to her."

This man is gaslighting you in real time, he’s painting you as the crazy girlfriend while he stands there like the loyal and mistreated friend. The worst part is that you can clearly see the doubt flickering in Sunoo's eyes as he looks at you.

It makes you shake as your vision tunnel until all you can see is the infuriating, porcelain perfect mask of Sunghoon's face. He scoffs a dismissive sound that cuts through your frantic breathing, turning his head toward Sunoo with a look of mock disbelief. "Dude, I can't believe your girlfriend is actually crashing out because I didn't give her enough attention," he says, voice dripping with a cruel and condescending pity. "Is she always this...delicate about sharing?"

The words leaving his mouth is the straw that breaks the camels back, it’s the final insult, the utter dismissal of your feelings as nothing more than a bruised ego.

"You absolute bastard!" You lunge, completely ungraceful in a blind hot burst of animalistic rage. Your fingers are hooked like claws, reaching for the curve of his jaw, ready to leave marks that no amount of gallery lighting could hide.

"Woah—hey! Stop!"

Before you can make contact, Sunoo's arms wrap around your waist, your boyfriend is stronger than he looks and without a grunt of effort he hauls you back, hoisting you up until your feet leave the plush rug. You're kicking and flailing as he hitches you over his shoulder.

"Put me down! Sunoo, let me go! He's doing this on purpose!" you shriek, your fists drumming uselessly against Sunoo's back.

From your upside down point of view, you can see Sunghoon step closer, leaning down so his face is inches from yours while you're draped helplessly over Sunoo's shoulder. He looks at you with a scary hungry glint in his eyes—the exact same look he had right before he ruined your life two weeks ago.

"Oh, poor you," Sunghoon whispers, loud enough for only you to hear the obvious sound of triumph in his voice. He reaches out with his fingers and ghosts them over the hem of your shirt with a flick. "Next time, I'll just have to fuck you harder. Maybe then you'll feel like the main character."

The audacity of this man, the way he says it right in front of Sunoo, knowing Sunoo is too busy trying to keep you from catching a domestic assault charge to hear the venom. You’re seeing red all over again. "There won't be a next time!" you scream as Sunoo starts carrying you toward his bedroom. "There is no next time, you fucking lunatic! Get out of here! Get out!"

Sunoo's grip is firm, his shoulder digging into your stomach as he carries you down the hallway. He's breathing hard, a mix of genuine distress and the sheer physical effort of containing your spiral. "My love, please, just breathe," he pleads. "You're not acting like yourself. You're scaring me a little."

He dumps you unceremoniously onto the center of his bed, but before he can even pull back to look you in the eye, the cause of all this is at the doorway. Leaning against the frame with his hands shoved into his pockets, you hate how looks perfectly unruffled, a stark contrast to your tear streaked face and Sunoo's slightly disheveled hair. He looks like he's watching a particularly entertaining film.

"She's not scary," Sunghoon says, "She's just frustrated because she doesn't know how to label what she's feeling. Right, baby girl?"

"Get out!" you scream, grabbing a decorative pillow and hurling it at him. He doesn't even flinch as it thuds against his chest and drops to the floor. "Sunoo, tell him to leave! Why is he still here?"

Sunoo looks between the two of you, his expression agonizingly torn. Sunoo isn’t as oblivious as you think he is, he's seen the way Sunghoon's eyes follow you when you aren't looking, the way Sunghoon's voice changed when he talked about that night after you'd fallen asleep. Sunoo knows this isn't just about him. It's about the fact that Sunghoon has decided he's moving in on both of you.

"Sunghoon, maybe just...give us a minute?" Sunoo asks but it's just a suggestion that the other boy completely ignores and steps fully into the bedroom, pinning you with a gaze that is suddenly honest.

"You're so fucking loud about me wanting Sunoo," Sunghoon muses, his voice low and dangerous. "And you're right. I do. I want him in every way a person can want someone. But you're too busy playing the damn victim that you can’t see what’s right in front of you."

He leans down, hands resting on his knees so he's level with you. "The real problem is that you liked it. You liked the way I looked at you—and the way I didn't. You're only throwing this tantrum because you realize that if I stay, you're never going to be satisfied with just him again."

"That's a lie," you whisper, your voice trembling. "I love Sunoo. I only want Sunoo."

Sunghoon tilts his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He looks at Sunoo, then back to you. "You’re such a bad liar, baby girl. Tell the truth and admit what you really think about me being in this bed."

You feel suffocated with the thick scent of Sunoo's expensive candles and the sharp tang of Sunghoon's cologne. You look at Sunoo expecting to see horror on his face, expecting him to be disgusted by Sunghoon's arrogance, or at least protective of you.

Instead, you watch in real time as Sunoo's expression softens. He reaches out and takes your shaking hand in his, giving you that look that usually makes you feel like the only person in the world. But this time, it's different, it’s more…knowing.

"Baby," Sunoo whispers, his thumb tracing circles over your knuckles. "Why do you think I let him stay? You really think I don’t see how he gets under your skin? How you let him?"

"Because he's your best friend and you're blind," you snap, though the bite in your voice has began to fade into a shaky uncertainty.

Sunoo shakes his head as a sweet smile spreads across his face. It's the smile of someone who has a secret they've been dying to share. "No. It's because he hasn't stopped talking about you since that night. He's obsessed with you, baby. He's not trying to take me away from you...he's just trying to find a way to stay with both of us."

Your heart stops. "You're lying. He's just saying that to get into your head, Sunoo. He's so fucking manipulative, he's—"

"I'm right here," Sunghoon interrupts, his voice is heavier now, weighted with an intensity that makes goosebumps spread across your skin. "Sunoo doesn't lie for me. He doesn't have to."

You look from Sunoo's encouraging gaze to Sunghoon's dark eyes. You want to keep fighting, you want to maintain the wall of "no, I hate him," but the wall is crumbling quickly. You're so exhausted from the rage and beneath it, there’s a raw pulsing memory of Sunghoon's touch from that night that is screaming to be felt again.

"You hate me," you whisper, but it sounds like a question now, a plea even. "I hate how clueless you are," Sunghoon corrects, stepping into the space between your knees as you sit on the edge of the bed. He reaches out and this time, he seems to hope you won’t lunge at him again. Your hands go limp from the claws they were in a moment ago. His fingers are cool as they graze your jawline, thumb hooking under your chin to tilt your face up. You look at Sunoo, one last desperate search for a reason to stop this, but Sunoo just nods and leans back against the headboard, watching the two of you with a quiet look of something that seems more like patience rather than jealousy.

As you look back at Sunghoon, the broken pieces of the last week start to come back together, forming a picture that makes your stomach drop. You had been so obsessed with the way he looked at Sunoo, so convinced you were being erased that you had become blind to the trail of breadcrumbs he’d been leaving specifically for you.

The flowers you met on Sunoo’s kitchen counter last Wednesday were from him but you thanked Sunoo so sweetly instead and neither of them had the heart to correct you, Sunghoon had watched you kiss him thank you with a little bit of hurt in his eyes. You told Sunoo he was the best when your favorite takeout order was already sitting on the table when you arrived last Friday, but it was Sunghoon who had remembered you hated cilantro.

Then, the most damning memory of all was the heat of that first night. You remember the blur of it, Sunoo’s voice thick and breathless in your ear as Sunghoon fucked into you so deliciously, your feet were kicking and you were damn near screaming as he pushed your knees further to your chest. Sunoo had asked him "Do you love this pussy, Hoon?" And Sunghoon hadn't answered with a "yes" or a grunt. He had looked you dead in your eyes, his gaze boring into yours with a sincerity that bordered of scary and rasped, "Ah—Fuck! Yes! Yes! I love it! I love her so much." You had immediately written it off as the heat of the moment, a slip of the tongue in a state of high lust. But looking at him now, you realize it was a confession. Sunghoon watches the realization dawn on your face, the way your eyes widen and your breath hitches. Finally.

He’s spent the last two weeks losing his mind, he’s a man who prides himself on precision and on getting exactly what he wants through calculated moves, but you were the one variable he couldn't solve. He had been practically screaming his intentions at you, marking your life with his presence and you had looked past him as if he were nothing more than a threat to your security.

It was maddening, every time he tried to take care of you, you praised Sunoo instead, every time he tried to catch your eye, you looked at the floor. He had started the "baby girl" comments and the territorial displays not to push you out but to force you to see him. To acknowledge that he wasn't just Sunoo’s best friend anymore—he literally belonged to you now.

He had expected you to be smart, to understand the weight of his words that night in the dark. Instead, he’d watched you spiral into a mess of insecurity and accusations of him wanting to steal what was already partly his.

His grip on your jaw tightens just a fraction, his frustration leaking through his composed exterior. He’s really tired of the games, tired of being the villain in a story where he’s trying to be the co-author.

"You’re finally catching up," Sunghoon murmurs, his eyes dropping to your mouth. "I was starting to think I’d have to be even more obvious and I don't think Sunoo’s heart could take much more of my bad behavior."

"I didn't use you to get to him. I used both of you to get exactly where I wanted to be. Right here. You are the prize, baby girl."

Sunoo slides off the headboard, moving until he’s kneeling on the mattress right beside you. He looks smaller like this, a little vulnerable too as his eyes search yours with cautious hope. He’s seen you scream, seen you lunge and seen you surrender, now he’s the one holding his breath. "Baby?" Sunoo’s voice is a whisper, his hand carefully reaching out to brush a stray hair from your damp forehead. "Do you...do you want this? Do you want us? Both of us, for real?"

The no you had been rehearsing all week is gone, dissolved by the heat of Sunghoon’s hand on your jaw and the beautiful reality of Sunoo’s devotion. You don't have the words yet, so you just nod with certainty.

Sunoo’s entire face lights up, that striking grin returning with a force that makes your heart ache. "Yeah? You mean it?"

He doesn't wait for a verbal answer before he lunges forward, capturing your lips in a messy kiss that’s all relief and pure joy. When he finally pulls away, breathless and beaming, you both look up at Sunghoon, he looks down at the two of tangled together, at the way you’re both looking at him with an invitation instead of an accusation now.

Sunghoon lets out a long breath, a hand running through his dark hair as a helpless laugh escapes him. "Fuck," he rasps, his gaze roaming over your flushed face and Sunoo’s triumph. "You’re both gonna kill me, uhn?"

Any lingering doubt instantly flies out the window the moment you’re laid back against the pillows, like your body an open book they’ve both been dying to read. You’re naked and spread out, your head lolling back as the intense wave of pleasure rolls over you.

Down below, both of them are a beautiful as they lap their tongues over your pussy. You’re moaning completely lost in the feeling as both your hands tangle in their hair, pulling them closer as they lose themselves in you and each other. Sunghoon’s mouth is a hot and demanding wrapped around your clit and sucking while Sunoo is pushing his tongue deeper into your pussy just the way he knows you like it, they switch positions but not before meeting each other’s lips mid pussy eating to kiss right over your cunt. You almost can’t believe it, you feel so lucky that the three of you have finally found a rhythm that works, and by the way Sunghoon refuses to let go of your hand even as he kisses Sunoo, you know they aren't going anywhere.

It's like a coordinated assault on your senses that’s leaving you pinned to the sheets. You're so lost in the friction that you can't even tell whose locks you're tugging on. When they finally pull back looking all flushed, the air immediately hits your damp skin with a cold shock. Sunoo doesn't move far, he crawls upward and slides his body right next to yours until his chest is pressed up against your side. He leans in, ghosting his lips over the shell of your ear and when he speaks it makes your toes curl.

"Open your eyes, baby." Sunoo whispers, his hand sliding up to cup your chin and tilt your face. "Look at how much he wants you, princess. He's been a nightmare all week because he thought he’d never get you like this again."

You open your eyes and the sight of Sunghoon above you is nothing like the composed man you’ve known so far, the smug mask has been replaced with something so raw and real. He even seems to be shaking as he grabs your ankles, dragging you down the bed until you're flush against him again.

"Sunoo, move," Sunghoon commands, his voice completely stripped of its usual silk and he’s looking at you with a hunger that feels so old you just never noticed it, his eyes blown out and dark. "I can't—I need to be inside her. Now."

If you weren’t shaking so much, you’d be able to notice he’s shaking as well, his movements are lacking their usual grace as he positions his stiff cock right at your hole that won’t stop gushing, his gaze locked onto yours as if Sunoo’s words were true and Sunghoon genuinely thought he’d never get you under him again. "Tell me you're mine," he rasps, his hands sliding up to pin your wrists beside your head. "Tell me I didn't imagine any of this."

As he drives into you, the stretch is so intense you immediately shut your eyes and let out a moan, "Ohh—Fu—Sunghoon!" But Sunoo doesn’t let you keep your eyes closed for long, his lips are still pressed to your ears as he whispers again, "No, baby. You gotta keep your eyes open."

And you really do try to heed your boyfriends words but the feeling of Sunghoon getting deeper and deeper and reaching that spot that makes you lost it is way too intense, you even reach down to place a hand on his stomach to slow him down but that just earns you a grunt, "Move your fucking hand." Sunoo is right then to help him move your hand out of the way as Sunghoon sets a tempo, his hips start to roll into yours with strokes that make it impossible for you not to feel every ridge and vein of his cock against your gummy walls. He's slowly reclaiming his composure, even as his skin glistens with sweat and he watches the way your breath hitches and you let out moans in sync with his thrusts.

Sunoo however, is slowly becoming restless with each moment that passes and he’s the only one still fully clothed, you can feel it in the way his body shifts against your side, his touch becoming more frequent and more demanding, he moves from pinching your nipples to sucking on them but it’s clear he’s no longer content just being spectator. His fingers trail restlessly over your collarbone, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he finally lets out a soft impatient whine against your skin.

Sunghoon catches the movement immediately and a small, dark smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, though his focus remains locked on the way you're unraveling beneath him.

"Look at him," Sunghoon rasps, his voice vibrating deep in his chest as he pushes into you again, slow and deep. "You're both exactly the same." He says before pausing for a heartbeat, staying buried deep within your cunt as he shifts his gaze to Sunoo. Sunghoon murmurs, a trace of fond exasperation through the lust. "Always so hungry for it. Always needing to be touched."

"Oh fuck—Hooooon!" You moan out when he suddenly finds a rhythm that has you egding towards your orgasm so quickly, it’s embarrassing. "I know, baby. I know." He chuckles, slowly returning to his usual smug self, he’s clearly proud he’s gotten you so pilant under his frame. Without breaking his rhythm with you, Sunghoon reaches out and slides his hand down Sunoo's hip, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Sunoo's gray sweats and pulling them down. The sudden exposure makes your boyfriend gasp, his back arching and hips chasing Sunghoon’s hand.

"If you're going to be restless, Sunoo, at least make yourself useful," Sunghoon commands, his thrusts picking up just a fraction of speed, his eyes darting between where you’re taking his thrusts with a plap plap plap and the boy who is now also completely at his mercy. "I'm not the only one she needs to feel tonight."

Sunoo doesn't need to be told twice, with his sweats pooled around his knees, he crawls back over you, and through the blurriness of your vision you watch the last shred of his gentle boyfriend persona vanish, getting replaced by demanding hunger that catches you off guard.

He moves over you with a predatory grace, he positions his leaking red cock right at your lips and his fingers that are usually so soft when they brush hair from your eyes, are now knotted firmly at the base of your skull. He uses that grip to anchor you and pulls your head back to guide your rhythm with a dominance that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. The contrast is staggering, your sweet boyfriend who brought you tea when you had cramps and held you when you cried is now using his strength to dictate exactly how you suck his dick.

As you start sucking him the way you know he likes, he immediately lets out a high whine that somehow vibrates through your jaw. He's vocal in a way that feels unhinged, his hips even start to buck instinctively against your mouth, sending his cock deeper and deeper into the warmth of your mouth while he whimpers your name.

Sunghoon, who’s still pounding into you, watches the display with a darkened gaze. He feels the way your gummy walls squeeze him every time Sunoo's grip tightens just a little in your hair, the dual pleasure is beginning to create a sensory feedback loop that's becoming impossible to manage and it doesn’t help that Sunoo is still pinching and prodding at your over sensitive nipples.

"Fuck," Sunghoon curses, the word rips from his throat as he loses the steady rhythm he'd worked so hard to maintain. His head falls back and his throat works as he tries to keep his composure while being caught between the sight of your mouth wrapped around Sunoo and his own wet friction inside you.

Through his moans and whines, Sunoo manages a breathless chuckle but doesn't let up his grip—if anything, he pulls tighter on your hair and locks eyes with Sunghoon with a look of pure mischief.

The room is practically thick with the sound of desperate breathing and the frantic slap of skin against skin added with the squelch of your throat and lips as Sunoo uses your mouth. You are sitting right in the edge of what you know is about to be am earth shattering orgasm, your body stretched tight like a bowstring ready to snap. Sunghoon's movements have lost their calculated grace and he's now fucking into your cunt with a raw, heavy power, that has him hitting that one specific spot that makes your vision go white every time his hips collide with yours. "I—I’m so close, Hoon! Right there please!" You pull off Sunoo to moan out.

You can feel the tremors starting in his thighs, there’s a way his muscles are corded and vibrating with the effort of holding back and when one particularly deep thrust sends a jolt through you, making clench around him in a desperate vice.

"Oh shit, baby—" Sunghoon gasps, his head falling into the crook of your neck as that clench shatters his remaining restraint. He's falling over the edge very quickly and his body begins to shudder as he spills all his cum into you, pumping you full of his essence that immediately triggers yours. Your vision goes white at the edges and you suddenly go completely incoherent, babbling and screaming nonsense. "Aha! Sss—hoon, Sunoo!"

Sunoo who is still above you with his cock already starting to leak into your mouth, his knuckles have turned white where they're still knotted in your hair and his face twisted in a mask of agonized frustration. "Baby you’re gonna make me cum," he whines, his voice breaking as his hips buck his length into your mouth. "I can't—I'm so close."

Sunghoon doesn't pull away or pulled out of you, even as he's coming down from his own high, he reaches up and wraps his hand around the back of Sunoo's neck and pulls him forward. "Come here," Sunghoon commands, his voice a guttural rasp. "Right here."

Sunoo pulls out of your mouth and collapses forward, he joins Sunghoon and lets out a shattered cry as he finally lets go, the release hits him with a force that leaves him trembling against your skin, spilling his cum right over your pussy. You're caught in the middle of them, caught in the middle of two men who know just how to break you and put you back together. Sunghoon moves so suddenly, pulling back to look at you and he doesn’t look quite satisfied, he looks down at the messy evidence of their shared claim on you, and decides there and then to sweep it all together and push it back into you with two fingers. You let out a soft moan when he begins to finger you into another orgasm, you don’t know whose fingers begin to rub at your clit but from the familiarity you suspect it’s Sunoo. They both have you shaking and damn near crying from the overstimulation.

"There," Sunghoon whispers, bring his hand to your lips and tracing his thump over the line of your lower lip as he leans in to kiss you, making you taste the mix of salt and victory on his tongue.

Sunoo has already curled his body around your side and Sunghoon basically falls over you, the territorial wars and the erasures of the past week feel like a fever dream that has finally broken.

nene’s note ── not so comeback comeback, i can’t stay gone for too long. enjoy!💋

taglist i ── @fancypeacepersona @usuallyunlikelyfox @starry-eyed-bimbo @strayy-kidz @mheretoreadff @bloomiize @xoenhalover @mamuljji @gabrielinhaa @ieatwon @rialikesbts @lunacrtk @dulcetnostalgia @lovel1z @dearestdreamies @kristynaaah @rosepetals09 @c1eod1n3 @kiikiisblog @plumdove @pqrkjyx @tojiworshipper @loverseon @yazmike @ravenslocked @enhxlvr @mangoescrazy @hees-h0e @stayalittlelonger143

[wonnfavee]

uhmmm HELL YEAH???

[cherry-lala]

Finding Where We Fit

Pairings: Autistic! Jake x Caretaker! fem! reader Wordcount:32k

Summary:Hired to help a brilliant, autistic young man navigate a world that is far too loud, you, a newly graduated social worker learns to speak his unique language of logic, LEGOs, and quiet routines. As you become the one permanent variable that makes the static in his mind finally stop, the strict boundaries of your job description slowly blur into a profound, life-changing connection.

Warnings:Caretaker/Client Relationship (Blurring of Professional Boundaries), Autism Spectrum Representation, Sensory Overload & Severe Meltdowns, Ableism & Public Bullying, Mild Self-Harm (Frustration Stimming/Hitting Head - quickly stopped by Yn), Panic Attacks/Hyperventilating, Emotional Angst (Self-Doubt/Feeling "Broken"), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Reader, Extreme Fluff, Touch-Starved Jake, Slow Burn, First Time/Virginity Loss (Jake), Smut (M/F)(FULL CONSENT I’m not a weirdo 😒), Sensory-Focused Intimacy, Emotional Overstimulation (Happy Tears).get those tissues ready for the absolute softest boy.

A/N: can you tell I love writing for jake because I can. I did a lot of watching videos with people that have autism and this fic came to mind, how we all should treat people even if they’re different from us the same because they’re trying too! But I’m such a sappy girl.Anyways Like always Please Like, Reblog and Comment! They are very appreciated.

[Masterlist]

The diploma on your wall was still crooked. It had been hanging there for three weeks, a piece of expensive cardstock in a cheap black frame that declared you were now a Bachelor of Social Work. It was supposed to feel like a victory lap. Instead, it felt like the starting gun of a race you weren't sure you were qualified to run.

You were twenty-two years old. You had a head full of theory—systems theory, behavioral psychology, crisis intervention models—and absolutely zero real-world experience. The imposter syndrome wasn't just a whisper in the back of your mind; it was a scream.You sat at your small kitchen table, staring at the file folder the agency, New Horizons Support Services, had couriered over that morning.

Client Name: Jake Sim.

Age: 23.

Diagnosis: Autism Spectrum Disorder (Level 1/High Support Needs during sensory events). Notes: History of high caregiver turnover. Client experiences acute sensory overload. Rigid adherence to routine is required. Previous workers reported difficulty establishing rapport."High caregiver turnover." That was the phrase that stuck. In the social work world, that usually meant the client was "difficult"—aggressive, non-verbal, or physically demanding.But looking at the photo clipped to the inside of the file, you didn't see "difficult." You saw a boy—no, a young man—looking away from the camera. He wasn't smiling. His hair was a fluffy, dark brown mop that seemed to be trying to swallow his head. He was wearing a hoodie that looked three sizes too big. He didn't look aggressive. He looked… retreating. Like he was trying to fold himself into a shape that the world wouldn't notice.You closed the file. You drank your lukewarm coffee. You adjusted your blazer, which felt too stiff and too "adult," and grabbed your keys. "Okay," you whispered to the empty apartment. "Don't mess this up." The house was in a quiet suburb, the kind with manicured lawns and basketball hoops in every other driveway. It was a beige two-story with a wrap-around porch.

You parked your beat-up sedan on the street, checking your watch. 8:55 AM. Five minutes early. "On time is late, early is on time," your practicum supervisor used to say. You walked up the path, your heels clicking loudly on the pavement. You made a mental note to wear sneakers next time if you got the job. Click-clack sounds could be a sensory trigger. Think, Y/N. Think.

You rang the doorbell.It opened almost immediately, revealing a woman who looked like she hadn't slept a full eight hours in a decade. She was beautiful, with the same dark eyes as the boy in the photo, but there were deep lines etched around her mouth."You must be Y/N," she said. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were scanning you, assessing you. It was the look of a mother bear who was tired of fighting off wolves but was ready to do it again if she had to. "Hi. Yes, I am," you said, extending a hand. "It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Sim."

"Sarah, please," she shook your hand firmly. "Come in. Take your shoes off at the door, if you don't mind. We try to keep the outside noise… outside."

You stepped into the foyer. It was cool and smelled faintly of lemon pledge and lavender. It was aggressively tidy. Not a speck of dust, not a stray shoe.

"So," Sarah said, leading you toward the kitchen. "You've read the file?"

"I have."

"Forget half of it," she said bluntly. She leaned against the granite island, crossing her arms. "The agency writes those reports to cover their liability. They make him sound like a list of symptoms. 'Sensory processing disorder.' 'Social deficits.' It makes him sound broken." She looked at you, her expression fierce. "Jake isn't broken. He’s just… on a different frequency. He’s brilliant. He’s funny, in his own way. But he feels everything. Imagine if you couldn't turn down the volume on the world. That’s Jake’s life. Every light is a spotlight. Every sound is a siren." You nodded, listening intently. "I understand. My goal isn't to 'fix' him, Sarah. It’s to help him navigate the volume."

Sarah softened. She let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping. "The last girl… she treated him like a toddler. She used that high-pitched 'baby voice.' Jake hated it. He’s twenty-three. He’s a grown man. He just needs help with the logistics of being a grown man."

"I promise," you said seriously. "No baby voice."

Sarah smiled, a real one this time. "Okay. He’s in the living room. It’s his… sanctuary. He’s having a good morning, so he’s building. Just… go in slow. Let him come to you. If you push, he’ll shut down."

"Got it."

"Good luck," she whispered. You walked down the hallway. The floorboards were carpeted here, muffling your footsteps. The house was unnaturally quiet. No TV, no radio, no hum of appliances. You reached the archway of the living room and stopped.The room was large, with heavy blackout curtains drawn halfway, filtering the morning sun into a soft, hazy glow. The furniture was pushed to the perimeter of the room.The center of the floor was occupied by a city.There were thousands—literally thousands—of LEGO bricks. But they weren't scattered. They were organized into plastic trays by color, size, and function. Grey plates. Blue pins. Technic beams.

And sitting in the middle of it all was Jake.

He looked exactly like the photo, but realer. Vivid. He was sitting cross-legged, hunched over a massive, half-built grey structure. He was wearing a faded brown hoodie with fraying cuffs, the hood down, revealing that fluffy hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck.He was muttering. A low, rapid-fire stream of words.

"...clutch power on the 2x4 is insufficient for the torque... need to reinforce the sub-frame... bag twelve, bag twelve, where is the axle connector..."

You took a breath. You stepped into the room.

"Hi, Jake," you said softly. He didn't flinch. He didn't look up. He didn't acknowledge you existed. His long, elegant fingers continued to snap pieces together with a rhythmic click-click-click. You remembered your training. Parallel play. Don't force interaction. Join the space. You walked over to the sofa, which was a safe ten feet away from his construction zone. You sat down slowly. You placed your bag on the floor. You didn't pull out your phone. You just sat there, hands in your lap, watching him. Minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Most people would have been awkward. They would have cleared their throat or tried to start small talk about the weather. But you found yourself strangely captivated. There was something hypnotic about the way he worked. He wasn't playing. He was engineering. He would pick up a piece, rotate it, inspect it for flaws, and then place it with the precision of a surgeon.

He was beautiful. That was the unprofessional thought that popped into your head. He had a strong jawline, soft lips that were currently pursed in concentration, and eyelashes that were unfairly long. Fifteen minutes in, he paused. He held a long, grey Technic beam in his hand. He frowned. He looked at the instruction booklet—which was thick enough to be a phone book—then back at the beam. "The inventory is incorrect," he said. He didn't look at you. He spoke to the air. But it was an opening.

"Is a piece missing?" you asked, keeping your voice low and level.Jake stiffened slightly. He turned his head slowly, like a wary deer. For the first time, you saw his eyes. They were big. That was the only word for them. Big, dark, liquid brown eyes that held a depth of innocence that hit you right in the chest. They were "puppy eyes" in the truest sense—guileless, open, and slightly fearful.He looked at you. He blinked. He looked at your feet. He looked at your hands. Then, finally, he looked at your face.

"It’s not missing," he corrected you. His voice was smooth, deep, and sounded very matter-of-fact. "It’s the wrong molding variant. This is a 32523, but the instructions call for a 32524. The friction ridges are different. If I use this, the stabilizer fin will wobble." He held the piece out, not to you, but in your general direction.

"That sounds frustrating," you said. "A wobble would ruin the structural integrity."

Jake’s eyes widened a fraction. He pulled his hand back. "Yes. Structural integrity is the primary variable. Most people don't care about the wobble."

"Well, if you're building the UCS Millennium Falcon," you said, gesturing to the box you recognized in the corner, "you want it to be perfect. It’s a collector's item."

He froze. He turned his body fully toward you now, abandoning the LEGOs for a second. "You know the model number?" he asked. It was a test. "75192," you said. "Released in 2017. It’s the biggest set they ever made, right?"

You thanked your lucky stars for your younger brother, who had begged for this set for three Christmases in a row.Jake stared at you. He was processing this data. New girl. Not loud. Not baby voice. Knows the Falcon.

"It was the biggest," he corrected gently. "Until the Art World Map. But the World Map is just tiles. It’s 2D. The Falcon is 3D engineering. It’s superior."

"I agree," you smiled. "Maps are boring compared to spaceships."

The corner of his mouth twitched. A micro-smile. It was there and gone in a second, but you saw it. "I'm Jake," he said. He looked at your name tag, which you had clipped to your blazer. "You are Y/N."

"I am."

"Are you going to tell me to clean this up?" He gestured vaguely to the chaos on the floor. "The last one... Jenny. She said it was a tripping hazard. She made me put it in bins before I was done." The distress in his voice was subtle, but clear. He remembered the disruption of his routine. "No," you said firmly. "I am not going to make you clean it up. It’s not a mess, Jake. It’s a system. I can see you have the plates sorted by size." Jake let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since you walked in. His shoulders slumped, the tension draining out of him.

"It is a system," he whispered, relieved. "Sorted by function, then color."

He picked up the grey beam again. He looked at it, then at you.

"Do you want to... inspect the sub-frame?" he asked. "It’s very dense."

It was an invitation into his world.You stood up and walked over. You didn't rush. You sat down on the floor, crossing your legs, keeping a respectful distance.

"Show me," you said.For the next two hours, Jake Sim taught you about the physics of plastic bricks. He showed you how the internal technic frame supported the weight of the outer shell. He explained the concept of "SNOT" (Studs Not On Top) building techniques.

He didn't make eye contact often. mostly he looked at his hands or the model. But every now and then, when he was explaining a particularly clever bit of engineering, he would look up at you to see if you were following. And when he saw that you were listening—really listening, not just nodding politely—his face would light up.It wasn't a loud happiness. It was a quiet, glowing satisfaction."You're a good listener," he said abruptly, around 11:30 AM. "Thank you, Jake."

"Most people stop listening after the first sentence about gear ratios."

"I like gear ratios," you lied. Well, a half-lie. You liked him talking about gear ratios.

"Okay," he said. He turned back to the pile. "I'm hungry now. It is Tuesday. Tuesday is grilled cheese."

"Do you want me to make it?"

He paused. He looked anxious. "Do you know the cut?"

"Diagonal?" you guessed. He nodded vigorously. "Diagonal. It tastes better. The surface area of the crust is distributed more evenly."

"I can do diagonal." You went to the kitchen. Sarah was sitting at the table, pretending to read a magazine, but she was clearly listening to the silence in the living room. She looked up as you entered. "He’s... talking," she said, sounding stunned. "I heard him talking."

"He was telling me about the Falcon," you smiled, grabbing the bread. "He’s brilliant, Sarah. He knows more about engineering than I know about anything."

Sarah’s eyes welled up. She blinked them back quickly. "He likes you. He usually ignores them for the first week. Or hides in his room."

"I think we're going to get along just fine."You made the grilled cheese. You cut it diagonally. You placed it on a plate (blue, his favorite color, according to the file).

You brought it to him. He ate it sitting on the floor, wiping his hands meticulously on a napkin between bites so he wouldn't get grease on the LEGOs.

When the shift ended at 3 PM, you felt exhausted but exhilarated. You gathered your bag."I have to go now, Jake," you said.He didn't look up from bag thirteen. "Okay."

"I'll be back tomorrow."He paused. He placed a brick. Then, without looking up, he spoke."Bring sneakers," he said.

"Sneakers?"

"Your shoes," he pointed to your heels you put back on without looking. "They go click-clack. It echoes. Sneakers are quieter. Stealth mode."

You smiled. "Stealth mode. Got it. Sneakers tomorrow."

The morning sun was hitting the pavement differently today. Yesterday, it had felt like a spotlight of judgment; today, it felt like a gentle invitation.You parked your sedan in the same spot, checking the time. 8:50 AM. You were establishing your own routine: ten minutes early, park, breathe, enter. Consistency was the currency of trust, and you intended to be rich in it. You looked down at your feet. Gone were the stiff, "professional" black heels that pinched your toes and echoed like gunshots in a quiet hallway. In their place were a pair of white Converse—clean, soft-soled, and silent. You had spent twenty minutes the night before scrubbing a scuff mark off the toe, irrationally worried that a smudge might disrupt the visual harmony of Jake’s morning. "Stealth mode," you whispered to yourself, grabbing your bag. You walked up the path. You made a conscious effort to step lightly, rolling from heel to toe. The silence was noticeable. You felt less like an intruder and more like a ghost, slipping into the ecosystem without disturbing the wildlife. Sarah opened the door before you could ring the bell. She was holding a mug of coffee with two hands, looking slightly more awake than yesterday, though the tired lines were still etched deep around her eyes. She wore a soft grey cardigan wrapped tight around her frame. She looked down immediately. She saw the sneakers. A small, genuine smile touched her lips—not the polite, strained smile of yesterday, but something softer. A crack in the armor.

"You listened," she said, opening the door wider. "He asked for sneakers," you said simply, stepping into the cool, lemon-scented foyer. "I figure he knows his ears better than I do."

"You’d be surprised how many people argue with him on that," Sarah murmured, closing the door with a soft click. "They say, 'Oh, you'll get used to the noise.' As if he can just will his neurology to change."

"I'm not here to argue with him, Sarah. I'm here to work with him."

"I'm starting to believe you." She gestured toward the kitchen. "He’s eating. It’s a... process. Keep your voice low. Morning transitions are hard. His brain is still booting up." You followed her down the hallway, your rubber soles making no sound against the hardwood. The house was still unnaturally quiet, a sanctuary of stillness against the chaotic world outside. When you entered the kitchen, the scene was almost tableau-like in its precision. The kitchen was bathed in natural light, but the blinds were tilted just so to prevent any glare. At the round wooden table sat Jake.

He was wearing a different hoodie today—a navy blue one, equally oversized, the sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. He was hunched slightly over his plate, his focus absolute. On the plate were two scrambled eggs and three strips of bacon. But "scrambled eggs and bacon" didn't quite do justice to what you were seeing. The eggs were a uniform yellow—no brown spots, no runny bits. They were separated perfectly from the bacon. The bacon itself had been cut into precise, one-inch squares.Jake held his fork in his right hand. He didn't shovel the food. He speared one square of bacon, lifted it, inspected it for a brief second, and then ate it. He chewed rhythmically. He swallowed. He took a sip of water from a clear glass (no ice, you noted—ice clinks). Then, and only then, did he spear a forkful of eggs.

It was a ritual. A sequence.

"Hi, Jake," you said, pitching your voice to a soft murmur, staying near the doorway.

He paused mid-chew. He didn't look up immediately. He finished chewing, swallowed, and took his sip of water. Then, slowly, he turned his head. His hair was messy from sleep, sticking up in tufts in the back, giving him a disarmingly boyish look. His eyes were heavy, blinking slowly as they found you. He looked at your face. Then, immediately, his gaze dropped to the floor. He stared at your white Converse for a long, intense five seconds. You stood perfectly still, letting him inspect the data.

"White," he said. His voice was raspy with sleep, deeper than it had been yesterday.

"White," you agreed. "And rubber soles. No clicking."

He nodded once—a sharp, decisive chin dip. "Stealth mode active."

"Active," you smiled. He turned back to his eggs. "Acceptable." Sarah let out a silent breath beside you. She touched your elbow gently and tilted her head toward the sunroom adjacent to the kitchen. It was close enough to see him, but far enough to talk without hovering over his plate. You followed her, sitting on a wicker chair while she perched on the edge of a loveseat. She watched her son eat with a mixture of fierce love and terrified vigilance. "Okay," Sarah whispered, turning to you. "Lesson number one: The morning sets the algorithm."

You pulled a small notebook out of your bag. "I'm listening."

"Jake’s energy is a battery," Sarah explained, keeping one eye on the navy-hooded figure at the table. "Most of us start the day at 100%. We spend energy, we get tired, we sleep. Jake starts the day at maybe... 60%. Just existing costs him energy. The lights, the texture of his sheets, the smell of the coffee I’m drinking—it all costs him."

You wrote down: Baseline energy lower. High sensory tax.

"If breakfast goes wrong," Sarah continued, her voice tight, "if the eggs are slimy, or the bacon is burnt, or the spoon is the wrong weight... he loses 20% right there. Then he starts the day in a deficit. And a deficit means a meltdown is almost guaranteed by noon."

"So the routine isn't just about being picky," you said, realizing. "It’s about conservation."

"Exactly," Sarah nodded, looking grateful that you got it. "He’s controlling the variables he can control, because the rest of the world is completely out of control for him. That plate?" She pointed to his breakfast. "That’s safety. He knows exactly what the bacon will taste like. He knows the texture of the eggs. It’s predictable. Predictability is safety." You watched Jake spear another square of bacon. The deliberate nature of it made sense now. He wasn't just eating; he was grounding himself for the day ahead. "Tell me about the food," you asked. "I noticed he cut the bacon before he started." "Texture and size," Sarah said. "He has trouble with proprioception—knowing where his body is in space, and sometimes, manipulating utensils while chewing is too much multitasking. If the food is big, he worries about choking. Or getting grease on his face. He hates having a dirty face. It feels like burning to him."

"So we keep it bite-sized," you noted. "Clean face, no unexpected textures."

"And no mixing," Sarah added quickly. "The eggs cannot touch the bacon. If the syrup from a waffle touches the sausage? The whole meal is ruined. It’s contaminated."

"Separation is key."

"Yes." Sarah took a sip of her coffee, her eyes darkening slightly. "The last aide... she thought it was 'silly.' She tried to mix his corn and mashed potatoes to 'save space' on the plate. He flipped the table." You looked at the calm, quiet boy eating his squares of bacon. It was hard to imagine him flipping a table. "He felt bad about it for weeks," Sarah whispered, seeing your expression. "He cried for two days. He kept saying, 'I broke the plate, Mom. I’m bad.' He’s not violent, Y/N. He’s never hurt a fly on purpose. But when the sensory overload hits... it’s like a power surge. His body just explodes to get the feeling out."

"I read about the meltdowns in the file," you said gently. "But the file called them 'behavioral outbursts.'"

Sarah scoffed. "Behavioral implies he’s doing it to get something. To manipulate. He’s not. It’s a system crash. It’s pain. Imagine someone blasts an airhorn in your ear while flashing a strobe light in your eyes and scratching a chalkboard. That’s what a disrupted routine feels like to him. The screaming, the rocking? That’s him trying to survive the input." You looked at Jake again. He had finished his food. He was now wiping his mouth with a napkin. Once. Twice. Fold. Wipe again. "What do I do if he crashes?" you asked. "You don't talk much," Sarah said firmly. "That’s the biggest mistake people make. They try to talk him down. 'Calm down, Jake. Use your words, Jake.' He can't use his words. His language center shuts off. Talking just adds more noise."

"So... silence?"

"Presence," Sarah corrected. "Quiet, heavy presence. He responds to deep pressure. You saw the weighted blanket yesterday? He lives under that thing when he’s stressed. If he’s spiraling, don't touch him lightly—light touch feels like bugs crawling on him. But a firm squeeze? A hand on his shoulder, pressing down? That tells his brain where his body is. It anchors him." You wrote down: No light touch. Deep pressure. Silence > Words. "He’s an empath, you know," Sarah said suddenly, her voice softening. You looked up. "The file said he has 'social deficits.'"

"The file is garbage," Sarah waved a hand dismissively. "He struggles with social cues. He doesn't understand sarcasm or hidden agendas. But emotions? He absorbs them like a sponge. If you are stressed, he will be stressed. If you are sad, he will be devastated. He can't filter out other people's feelings. That’s why he withdraws. It’s too loud emotionally." She looked at you pointedly. "So, you have to be calm. Even if you’re panicking inside, you have to be a rock on the outside. If you bring chaos into this house, he will shatter." It was a heavy responsibility. You were twenty-two. You were barely an adult yourself. But looking at Sarah’s exhausted face, and Jake’s solitary figure at the table, you felt a steel rod of determination form in your spine.

"I can be calm," you promised. "I can be a rock." Just then, the chair scraped against the floor in the kitchen. Jake stood up. He picked up his plate and glass. He walked to the sink, rinsed them both, and placed them in the dishwasher. Then, he turned and walked toward the sunroom. He stopped in the doorway, his hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie. He looked at his mom, then at you. "Breakfast is complete," he announced. "Good job, honey," Sarah said.

Jake looked at you. His eyes were clearer now, the sleepiness gone, replaced by that keen, observant intelligence you had seen yesterday. "Are we going to the living room?" he asked you.

"We can," you said, standing up. "Or we can do something else. What’s the plan for Wednesday?"

Jake frowned slightly. "Wednesday is... mid-week. The energy is medium." He tapped his fingers against his thigh. "I want to disassemble the sub-frame of the Falcon. I dreamed about a better anchor point for the hyperdrive."

"Disassembly," you nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

He turned to leave, then paused. He looked at your feet again.

"They really are quiet," he murmured, almost to himself. "Like a ninja." Then he disappeared down the hallway. Sarah let out a laugh, a short, breathy sound. "A ninja. That’s high praise. He likes ninjas. They have discipline."

"I'll take it," you smiled.

"Go on," Sarah shooed you gently. "I'm going to actually take a shower without worrying the house is burning down. You have the conn."

"I have the conn," you repeated. You walked down the hallway, your sneakers silent on the carpet. You found Jake in the living room, exactly where you left him yesterday. He was kneeling beside the massive LEGO structure. He didn't look up when you entered, but his shoulders didn't tense up either. He knew you were there. He accepted you were there.You walked over to your spot on the sofa and sat down.

"So," you said softly. "The hyperdrive anchor. What was wrong with the old one?"

Jake picked up a section of the ship. He rotated it, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "It was too rigid," he said. "If the ship moves, the stress fractures the connector. It needs flex. The universe has flex. Ships should too."

"That’s a good philosophy," you noted. "Flexibility prevents breaking."

He looked up at you then. A long, steady look. "Yes," he said. "

People break because they don't flex. They are rigid about the wrong things."

You felt a chill go down your spine. For someone who supposedly struggled with social concepts, he had just nailed the human condition in two sentences.

"I'll try to be flexible, Jake," you said. "Good," he said. He handed you a small bucket of grey pins. "You can sort these. By length. The short ones go on the left."

It was an order, but it was also an inclusion. He wasn't just letting you watch; he was letting you help. You took the bucket. You slid off the sofa and sat on the floor—keeping a respectful three feet of distance.

"Short ones on the left," you repeated. You worked in silence for twenty minutes. It was a comfortable silence. The only sounds were the click-click of his building and the soft rattle of your sorting.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah, Jake?"

He didn't look up. He was fitting a gear into place.

"Thank you for the shoes," he said. His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the room. "The clicking... it hurts my teeth. It makes my spine feel itchy."

"I didn't know," you said. "I'm sorry about yesterday."

"You didn't know the variable," he said simply. "Now you have the data. You updated your software."

"I did."

"That is efficient." He paused, then added, "Jenny never updated her software. She just wore the loud shoes every day." Your heart broke a little for him. You could imagine him sitting here, day after day, his spine "itching" from the sound, unable to articulate why he was so agitated, while a well-meaning but oblivious support worker clattered around him. "I will always try to update my software, Jake," you vowed. "If something hurts, you tell me. I’ll fix it."

He looked at you. He studied your face, your eyes, your posture. He was looking for the lie. He was looking for the condescension. He didn't find it. "Okay," he said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, red 2x4 brick. He held it out to you. "This doesn't belong in the Falcon," he said. "The Falcon is grey and beige. This is red. It’s an anomaly." You reached out and took the brick. It was warm from his pocket. "What should I do with it?"

"Keep it," he said, turning back to his work. "It’s a good color. High saturation. But it needs to be somewhere else. You can hold it."

You closed your hand around the red brick. It felt like a token. A peace offering. A key. "I'll keep it safe," you said.You spent the rest of the morning sorting pins and listening to him explain the difference between torque and horsepower. You watched the way his hands moved, so sure and graceful. You watched the way the sun caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes.You thought about Sarah’s warning: He feels everything.You looked at the boy who was building a spaceship to escape to a galaxy far, far away, and you thought, I will make sure this room is safe enough that you don't have to leave.By lunchtime (grilled cheese, diagonal cut, blue plate), you had learned more about thermal exhaust ports than you ever thought possible.

But more importantly, when you put the plate down in front of him, he didn't just stare at the food.He looked up. He gave you a micro-smile—a tiny quirk of the lip.

"Diagonal," he noted approvingly.

"Flexibility," you countered with a smile.

"Touché," he whispered.

And as he took his first bite, you realized that the crooked diploma on your wall didn't matter. The textbooks didn't matter. This mattered. The quiet boy, the blue plate, the silent shoes, and the fragile, beautiful bridge you were starting to build, brick by brick.

The warm, soapy water in the kitchen sink was turning a pale, creamy orange—the remnants of the roasted tomato bisque you had served for lunch. You moved the sponge in slow, rhythmic circles against the bottom of the ceramic bowl, the motion meditative. Three months. It had been ninety days since you first walked into this house with your squeaky dress shoes and your imposter syndrome. Ninety days of learning that "on time" meant ten minutes early, that "quiet" meant silent, and that the world was a cacophony that Jake Sim fought to tune out every single minute of his life. Sarah had left an hour ago. It was a milestone, really. For the first two months, she had hovered. She was a ghost in the periphery—folding laundry in the next room, "checking emails" at the dining table while you and Jake were in the living room, watering plants that were already drowned. You didn't blame her. The stories she had told you about previous support workers were horror shows of incompetence and impatience. But last week, she had looked at you, then looked at Jake, who was calmly explaining the aerodynamics of a LEGO helicopter to you, and she had exhaled. A long, heavy breath that released years of tension.

"I'm going to the grocery store," she had said today, pulling on her coat. "Alone. And then... I might go to the library. I might be gone for three hours."

"Go," you had smiled, handing her keys. "We have the conn."

"You have the conn," she’d repeated, a small, terrified smile on her face.

And she had left. Now, it was just you, the soup bowls, and the faint sounds of explosions coming from the living room. You rinsed the bowl, placing it in the drying rack. You wiped your hands on the towel, taking a moment to scan the kitchen. It was spotless. Jake liked spotless. Clutter was "visual noise." If a spoon was left on the counter, he wouldn't say anything, but he would stare at it, his brow furrowed, his internal processor snagging on the anomaly until you moved it.You thought about the lunch you had just shared. Tomato soup. Pureed. No chunks. You had learned the hard way about Jake’s dietary landscape. It was a map filled with landmines.

No surprises. That was the golden rule. A piece of onion in a smooth sauce was a betrayal. A crunch in a soft food was a systemic failure. And the colors... that was a fascinating chapter in your education. Jake hated white foods. You remembered the "Cauliflower Incident" of Month Two. Sarah had been sick, so you tried to make dinner. You mashed cauliflower, thinking it was a healthy alternative to potatoes. You put a scoop on his blue plate. Jake had looked at it like it was radioactive waste. He had pushed his chair back, his breathing hitching.

"It’s a ghost," he had whispered, his eyes wide with genuine distress. "It has no data. It’s blank."

"It's cauliflower, Jake," you’d said gently.

"It’s deceptive," he’d countered, his voice trembling. "It looks like nothing, but it tastes like wet earth. It’s lying to my eyes." He hadn't eaten it. He hadn't eaten anything that night until you brought him a glass of milk. Milk was the exception. You had asked him why, fascinated by the logic. "Milk is structural," he had explained, drinking it down in three large gulps. "It builds bone density. Calcium is a metal. It’s not food; it’s construction material. Therefore, the color is irrelevant."

Logic. It was always about logic. You smiled to yourself, folding the dish towel. You checked the clock. 1:15 PM. Transition time. You walked out of the kitchen, your worn-in Converse making zero sound on the hardwood. You moved like a shadow, a skill you had perfected to avoid startling him.You stopped in the archway of the living room.The blackout curtains were drawn, creating a twilight effect that Jake preferred. The only light came from the massive 65-inch TV screen, which was currently exploding with red and blue light. Spider-Man: No Way Home. Again. Jake was sitting on the floor. He never sat on the couch when he was watching Spider-Man. He needed to be grounded, literally. He sat on the plush rug, his legs crossed, his posture rigid with focus. And he was wearing the pajamas. It was 1:15 PM on a Tuesday, but Jake was wearing a matching set of flannel pajamas covered in little Miles Morales masks. He had three sets. One with the classic logo, one with the Venom symbiote (which he only wore when he was moody), and this one.

He loved them because they were "high-tensile cotton," soft but durable, with no tags. He loved them because Peter Parker was his hero. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, just watching him.It was... cute. There was no other word for it. He wasn't just watching the movie; he was participating in it. He held a small LEGO minifigure of Spider-Man in his left hand. Every time Tom Holland shot a web on screen, Jake’s left hand would twitch, mimicking the thwip motion. It was a subtle stim, a way of processing the action. You knew why he loved Spider-Man. He had told you, in bits and pieces, over the last three months. "He has to wear the suit," Jake had said once, tracing the logo on his pajama shirt. "Because the world is too loud. The suit dampens the input. It holds him together."

"And the Spidey Sense?" you had asked. "Overload," Jake had replied, his voice serious. "When the air changes pressure. When he hears everything at once. He has to learn to dial it down. That is... relatable." Peter Parker was a boy who was overwhelmed by his own senses, who had to hide his true self to survive, who was awkward and nerdy but deeply good. Of course Jake loved him. Jake was him, just without the radioactive spider bite. On the screen, Spider-Man was swinging through New York, the camera panning dizzyingly. Jake rocked slightly back and forth, syncing his vestibular system with the movement on screen.You waited for a quiet moment in the dialogue before speaking. You never interrupted an action sequence. That was a rule. The scene changed to Peter and MJ talking on a roof. "Does the mask fit today?" you asked softly. Jake didn't jump. He knew you were there. He had probably heard your breathing change when you entered the room.

He turned his head slowly. His hair was a chaotic, fluffy halo around his head—he had shampooed it this morning, and it always got extra floofy on wash days. His big brown eyes blinked at you behind his glasses. "The mask is theoretical," he said. His voice was that familiar, soothing baritone. "But the pajamas are optimal. The flannel is at peak softness."

"They look very comfortable," you said, walking over and sitting on the sofa behind him. You didn't sit on the floor with him unless invited. "Is that the bridge scene?"

"It is the preamble to the bridge scene," Jake corrected gently. He turned back to the TV, but he leaned back slightly, resting his shoulders against the front of the sofa, right between your knees. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world. It meant you are safe. You are part of the furniture. I can rest on you. You resisted the urge to reach out and run your fingers through his hair. You knew he liked head scratches, but only when he initiated. Unexpected touch was "bugs." Initiated touch was "grounding."

"I made a discovery today," Jake said, his eyes still glued to the screen.

"Oh?"

"The soup," he said. "The viscosity was different."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Different bad or different good?"

He paused. He tapped the LEGO minifigure against his knee three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Different... efficient," he decided. "You roasted the tomatoes longer. The caramelization added depth. It reduced the acidity. It was... surprisingly pleasant."

You let out a breath. "I'm glad. I tried a new recipe."

"It is approved," Jake said. "You may add it to the rotation."

"Noted. Roasted tomato bisque: Approved." He went quiet for a moment, watching Peter Parker awkwardly try to explain his feelings to MJ. "Peter is bad at talking," Jake observed. "He is," you agreed. "He gets nervous."

"He has too many variables in his head," Jake said, twisting the LEGO figure. "He wants to say 'I like you,' but his brain is saying 'villains, aunt may, geometry, web fluid.' The output gets jammed."

"Does your output get jammed, Jake?" you asked softly.

He went still. The rocking stopped. He turned his head around to look up at you, craning his neck. His face was upside down from your perspective. His eyes were wide, searching yours. "Sometimes," he whispered. "With you."

Your breath caught. "With me?"

"Yes." He blinked. "Usually, with people, the output is jammed because I don't have the script. I don't know what they want me to say. It’s... static."

He paused, thinking hard, his brow furrowing.

"But with you," he continued, "the output jams because... there is too much data. I want to tell you about the soup. And the LEGOs. And the way your shoes don't make noise. And the way you smell like vanilla and oats. It all tries to come out at once. And I get... stuck."

He looked so earnest, so frustrated by his own inability to verbalize the torrent of thoughts in his head.

"That’s okay," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "You don't have to say it all at once. You can just give me one piece of data at a time."

He seemed to consider this. He righted his head and turned back to the TV.

He reached into the pocket of his Spider-Man pajama pants. He pulled something out.

He held his hand up over his shoulder, blindly offering it to you.

"Data point one," he said.

You reached out and opened your hand. He dropped a small, plastic object into your palm. It was a LEGO piece. A translucent blue "power blast" piece that came with the Spider-Man sets. It was meant to look like energy or webbing.

"It’s a web," he explained, staring at the screen. "It connects things. It holds things together when they are falling." You closed your fingers around the small, sharp plastic. It was better than a diamond ring."Thank you, Jake," you whispered. "I love it."

"It’s polycarbonite," he added practically. "It won't break."

"Neither will we." He hummed—that happy, vibrating sound that meant he was content. He leaned harder against your legs. "Do you want a snack?" you asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "It’s 1:30." Jake stiffened. The snack question. It was always a gamble. "No sweets," he said immediately. "Sugar makes my teeth feel fuzzy sometimes. It makes my brain go bzzzzzt." He made a chaotic hand gesture. "No sweets," you promised. "I was thinking... pretzels? Or cheese cubes?"

"Cheese cubes," he said decisively. "Cheddar. Sharp. Cut into 1x1 centimeter blocks."

"I can do that."

"And... maybe milk?"

"Milk is structural," you recited his rule back to him.

"Correct," he said. "Milk is structural."

You stood up to go to the kitchen. Jake turned to watch you go.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah, Jakey?"

He looked at you, really looked at you, with that puppy-dog innocence that masked a profound, deep-feeling soul.

"Sarah is gone," he stated.

"She is."

"And the house is not on fire."

"Nope. No fire."

"And I am not screaming."

"You are definitely not screaming."

He nodded, a slow, satisfied movement. "This is a successful variable test."

"I think so too."

"Okay. Cheese cubes now."

He turned back to the movie, lifting his LEGO Spider-Man in the air to help Peter Parker swing across the screen. You walked to the kitchen, clutching the translucent blue LEGO piece in your pocket like a talisman. You opened the fridge and pulled out the block of sharp cheddar. You got the knife. You cut the cheese into precise, measured cubes. You thought about the last three months. You thought about the crooked diploma on your wall that you used to feel unworthy of. You didn't feel unworthy anymore. You didn't feel like a social worker "managing a case."

You felt like a web. You were holding him, and he was holding you, and together, you were swinging through the chaos of the world, one quiet, comfortable afternoon at a time. You put the cheese on the blue plate—making sure none of the cubes were touching—and poured the milk. "Coming through," you whispered to the empty kitchen. "Stealth mode active." You walked back into the living room, where the boy in the Spider-Man pajamas was waiting for you, safe in the sanctuary you had built together.

The six-month mark didn't arrive with fireworks. It arrived with a quiet, steady hum of competence. You were no longer the nervous grad with the squeaky shoes. You were Y/N, the keeper of the routine, the translator of the static, the one who knew that if the humidity was above 80%, Jake’s hair would frizz and the sensation would make him irritable unless he wore his hood up. You knew him. You knew the specific cadence of his breathing when he was happy (slow, deep) versus when he was anxious (shallow, catching in his throat). You knew that he categorized people by color auras he imagined for them—Sarah was a soft yellow, you were a "protective blue." Sarah trusted you completely now. She had started taking yoga classes on Tuesday mornings. She had gone to lunch with a friend. She was reclaiming pieces of her life because she knew that when she left the house, you had the conn. "We need apples," Jake announced one Tuesday morning. He was standing in the kitchen, staring at the fruit bowl. It contained three bananas (too ripe, brown spots—he wouldn't touch them) and one orange. Zero apples. "We do," you agreed, closing the dishwasher. "Honeycrisp. No bruises."

"The Gala ones are mealy," Jake said, a shudder running through his shoulders. "Mealy is... bad texture. It feels like wet sand."

"Honeycrisp it is." He looked at you then. He was wearing his "going out" clothes: dark jeans that were soft and worn-in, and a grey hoodie that didn't have logos. He looked calm. His hands were steady at his sides. "I can assist," he said. You paused. "You want to come to the store?"

"Yes." He nodded once, firmly. "I have calculated the variables. It is Tuesday. The store is statistically less crowded at 10:00 AM. I can select the apples myself. To ensure quality control."

It was a big step. You hadn't taken him to the grocery store in two months. The last time had been... okay, but tense. He had gripped the cart handle so hard his knuckles turned white."Are you sure?" you asked gently.

"I am operating at 90% battery," he stated confidently. "I have my hoodie. I am prepared."

"Okay," you smiled, grabbing your keys. "Let’s go on a mission."

The drive was easy. You played his favorite playlist—lo-fi hip hop beats with no lyrics. He tapped his fingers against his thigh in time with the rhythm, looking out the window at the passing trees. "The leaves are changing," he noted. "Entropy."

"It’s pretty though."

"It is acceptable decay," he conceded. You pulled into the parking lot of the massive supermarket. It wasn't too full, just as he predicted. Tuesday mornings were for retirees and stay-at-home parents. You turned off the engine.

"Okay," you said, unbuckling. "Game plan. In, apples, maybe some of that specific cheddar you like, and out. Fifteen minutes max."

"Stealth mission," Jake whispered. You got out of the car. Jake got out.

He reached into his hoodie pocket. And froze. He patted his left pocket. Then his right. Then his jeans. He turned to look at the backseat of your car. "Y/N," he said. His voice wasn't calm anymore. It had a sudden, sharp edge to it.

"What is it?" You walked around the car to him.

"My headphones," he said, staring at the empty backseat. "I... I put them on the table. By the door. I didn't pick them up."

Your stomach dropped. The headphones. The Sony noise-canceling over-ear ones. His shield. His buffer against the world. He never left the house without them.

"Oh, Jake," you said, scanning the car quickly, hoping they had just fallen. But you knew. You had seen them on the console table when you grabbed your keys. You had been so focused on making sure you had your wallet that you hadn't done the equipment check. "I forgot them," he whispered. He looked at the looming sliding glass doors of the supermarket. Suddenly, the building didn't look like a store. It looked like a monster's mouth.

"We can go back," you said immediately. "It’s a ten-minute drive. We’ll go get them."

Jake shook his head. He was clenching his fists at his sides. "No," he said. He looked at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading. He wanted to be brave. He wanted to show you he could do it. "No. It’s Tuesday. 10:00 AM. Low crowd density. I can do it. I have to flex."

"Jake, you don't have to flex on this. The store is loud."

"I can do it," he insisted, his voice rising slightly. "If we go back, we lose the window. The crowd density increases after 11:00. We are here. I am capable."

He looked so determined. He pulled his hood up over his head, tightening the strings until only his nose and eyes were visible.

"Hood up," he muttered. "Muffled." You hesitated. Every instinct in your social worker brain said abort mission. But every instinct in your heart wanted to support his autonomy. He was an adult. He was telling you he could handle it. "Okay," you said, your voice low. "But the second—the second—you feel the static getting too loud, you squeeze my hand three times. And we leave. We leave the apples, we leave the cart, we just go. Deal?" "Deal," he said. "Three squeezes. Emergency exit." He took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks. "Let’s execute." The mistake became apparent the moment the automatic doors whooshed open. You had forgotten how aggressive a grocery store is. You filtered it out—your brain ignored the hum of the freezers, the beep of the scanners, the squeak of cart wheels, the generic pop music playing over the PA system. But for Jake, without his headphones, there was no filter.

He flinched as we stepped onto the linoleum. The air conditioning blasted him, a physical wall of cold air.

"Okay?" you checked, moving close to his side.

"Buzzy," he muttered, keeping his head down. "Lights are... flickering. 60 hertz cycle."

"We'll be fast," you promised. "Produce is right here."

You steered him toward the apples. He kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. He was making himself small.

"Honeycrisp," you said, grabbing a plastic bag. "Help me pick three good ones."

He focused on the task. The task was a lifeline. He inspected the apples with intense scrutiny, turning them over in his hands.

"Bruise," he whispered, rejecting one. "Soft spot."

He found three perfect apples. He placed them in the bag gently.

"Good," he said. "Done."

"Okay. Cheese next? Aisle four."

"Aisle four," he repeated. "Dairy. Cold."

You started walking. The store was indeed mostly empty, but 'mostly' isn't 'completely'.

A cart rattled past us. One of the wheels was stuck, making a rhythmic thud-squeak-thud-squeak sound.

Jake winced. He pressed his shoulder against yours. You leaned back into him, offering your solidity.

"Almost there," you murmured.

We turned into Aisle Four. And that’s when the variables shifted. An employee was restocking the yogurt. He was tossing the plastic containers onto the shelf. Clack. Clack. Clack. At the other end of the aisle, a price scanner beeped loudly. BEEP. And then, the intercom crackled to life. "Price check on register three. Clean up in aisle nine." The voice was distorted, loud, and metallic. It echoed off the high industrial ceilings. Jake stopped walking. "Jake?" you whispered.He didn't answer. He was staring at the yogurt cups. His breathing had gone shallow. In-in-out. In-in-out. "Too many," he whispered. "Too many layers."

"Okay," you said instantly. "We're done. Let’s go."

You reached for his hand.But then, the final variable dropped. A woman turned the corner into the aisle. She was pushing a stroller. Inside the stroller was a baby.

The baby wasn't just crying. It was shrieking. It was that high-pitched, piercing wail that evolution designed to be impossible to ignore. It cut through the air like a jagged knife.Jake gasped. It sounded like he had been punched in the stomach.

His hands flew out of his pockets and slapped over his ears, pressing the fabric of his hood tight against his head. "No," he whimpered. "No no no."

"Jake," you said, stepping in front of him. "Look at me. Eyes on me." But the baby screamed again. A sharp, fluctuating cry. Jake’s knees buckled.

He didn't fall; he crumbled. He dropped straight down to the cold linoleum floor, curling into a tight ball. He tucked his head between his knees, his hands clamped over his ears so hard his knuckles were white. "Make it stop," he keened. It was a high, thin sound of pure distress. "It’s needles. It’s needles in my ears."

The woman with the stroller stopped. She looked at the grown man curled on the floor. She looked at you.

"Is he okay?" she asked, her voice loud, concerned but intrusive.

"He's fine," you said, your voice sharp, protective. "Please, just keep moving. The noise." She looked offended, but she pushed the stroller away. The crying faded, but the damage was done. Jake was rocking now. Fast. Forward and back. Forward and back. Thump. His head hit his knees. Thump. "Jake," you said, dropping to your knees beside him. You abandoned the cart. You didn't care about the apples. "Jake, I'm here. I'm right here." He couldn't hear you. The static had swallowed him. He was in the red zone. System failure. You saw the panic in his posture. He was hyperventilating, gasping for air that felt too thick to breathe. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a relentless strobe to his overloaded brain.You knew what you had to do.You moved in. You sat on the floor behind him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling his back against your chest.

You wrapped your arms around his chest, over his arms, locking your hands together.

And you squeezed. "Deep pressure," you whispered into his hood. "I've got you. I am the shield." You squeezed him with everything you had. You compressed his ribcage, grounding him. He fought it for a second, his body rigid and trembling, radiating heat. He let out a sob—a broken, terrified sound. "Hurts," he choked out. "Everything hurts."

"I know," you murmured, resting your chin on top of his hooded head. "I know, baby. Transfer it to me. Give me the noise." You started to rock with him. You synchronized your movement with his. Forward. Back. Forward. Back.People were staring. A manager was walking over, looking concerned.You held up one hand, palm out. Stop.

The manager paused. He saw the way you were holding him. He nodded once and backed off, diverting traffic away from the aisle. Thank god for small mercies.

"Breathe with me," you commanded softly, pressing your sternum against his spine. You took a deep, exaggerated breath. In. You held it. Out. Jake struggled. His breath was catching in jagged hiccups. "Focus on my arms," you said. "Feel how heavy they are. Feel the floor. The floor is hard. You are here. You are Jake. I am Y/N."

"Y/N," he gasped. It was a lifeline.

"That’s right. I'm right here. I forgot the headphones, Jake. I’m so sorry. I messed up. But I’ve got you now." He was shaking violently, the adrenaline crash hitting him.

We sat there on the floor of Aisle Four for what felt like an eternity. It was probably ten minutes. Slowly, the rocking slowed. His hands, still clamped over his ears, loosened their grip slightly.

"Static," he whispered. "It’s... lowering."

"Good. Keep breathing."

"The baby?"

"Gone. The baby is gone."

He slumped back against you, his weight fully supported by your chest. He was exhausted. A meltdown burned energy like a marathon. "I fell down," he whispered, shame creeping into his voice. "You sat down," you corrected firmly. "You did what you needed to do to survive the input. That is valid."

"People are looking."

"Let them look. They’re just jealous of how good I am at hugging."

He let out a weak, watery huff of laughter. It was a tiny sound, but it broke the tension. "Okay," you said, loosening your grip just a fraction. "Can we move? Or do we need more time?"

"Car," he said immediately. "I want the car. The bubble."

"Okay. We're going to the car. Do you want to walk, or do you want me to help you?"

"Help," he whispered. "My legs are... jelly. The signal is weak."

"I've got you."

Standing up was an ordeal. You had to hoist him up, his arm draped heavy over your shoulders. He kept his head down, eyes squeezed shut, hiding inside his hood.

You left the cart with the apples and the cheese. You didn't look back.

The walk to the exit was a gauntlet, but you moved fast. You glared at anyone who lingered too long with their gaze. Move along, your eyes said. This is my person.

When the automatic doors whooshed open, the humid, real air hit you. It was better than the recycled freeze of the store.

You got him to the passenger side. You opened the door. He practically collapsed into the seat. You ran around to the driver's side and got in. You locked the doors. You didn't start the car. You just sat in the sudden, blessed silence of the sedan.

Jake pulled his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball on the seat. He pulled his hood down further. "I failed," he said. His voice was muffled and thick with tears.

"No," you said, turning to him. "No, you didn't."

"I did," he insisted, a sob breaking through. "I said I could do it. I said I could flex. But I broke. The baby cried and I broke." He turned his head to look at you, and your heart shattered. His face was wet with tears, his eyes red and swollen, looking at you with such profound disappointment in himself. "I wanted to be good for you," he whispered. "I wanted to show you I could be normal." You unbuckled your seatbelt. You reached across the console. You couldn't hug him fully, so you put your hand on his knee and squeezed hard. "Jake," you said fiercely. "You are good. You are so good. You don't have to be 'normal.' Normal is boring. Normal is overrated."

"But I ruined the mission. No apples."

"Screw the apples," you said. "Jake, look at me."

He blinked at you. "This was my fault," you said. "I forgot the headphones. I am the support worker. It is my job to check the equipment. I sent you into a construction zone without a hard hat. Of course it hurt. That’s not you failing. That’s physics."

"Physics?"

"Yes. If you pour too much water into a cup, it spills. The store poured too much noise into your ears. You spilled. That’s just cause and effect."

He sniffled, processing this logic. "So... I didn't malfunction?"

"No. Your sensors were just overwhelmed. And you know what? You signaled. You didn't scream at the lady. You didn't throw the yogurt. You sat down. That was control."

He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "It felt like dying."

"I know," you softened. "I know it did. And I am so, so sorry I let that happen to you."

He looked at your hand on his knee. He reached out and covered it with his own. His hand was cold and clammy. "You squeezed me," he said softly.

"Always."

"You blocked the noise. You felt like... a wall."

"I will always be your wall, Jake." He looked up at you then, and the look in his eyes was so open, so raw, it took your breath away. It wasn't the look of a client looking at a worker. It was the look of a man looking at his safe harbor. "I don't like it when you're sad," he whispered, reaching up to touch your cheek. You hadn't realized you were crying until he brushed a tear away with his thumb. "I'm not sad," you lied, your voice wavering. "I just... I hate seeing you hurt."

"I'm okay now," he said. "The static is gone. You're here."

He leaned his head across the center console, resting it awkwardly on your shoulder. It wasn't comfortable, the gear shift was digging into his side, but he needed the contact.

"Can we go home?" he asked. "To the blanket?"

"Yes," you sniffed, resting your cheek on his head. "Home. Blanket. And I’m ordering pizza. No cooking tonight."

"Pizza," he agreed. "Pepperoni. Symmetrical distribution."

"Symmetrical distribution," you promised.

You started the car. The engine purred to life. As you drove out of the parking lot,  He reached over and took your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. He squeezed three times.

Thank you

It was the signal you had established for "emergency exit," but in the quiet of the car, with the sun filtering through the trees, it felt like it meant something else entirely.

You squeezed back three times.

You're Welcome 

You drove home in silence, hand in hand, the apples forgotten, but the trust between you stronger than any reinforced concrete. You had weathered the storm. You had survived the spill. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that as long as you had the conn, he would always be safe.

The plan for New Year’s Eve was simple, safe, and delightfully boring. You were going to wear your ugliest, most comfortable sweatpants, order an obscene amount of pad thai, and binge-watch the new drama that had dropped on Netflix. You had bought a bottle of cheap sparkling cider (because champagne gave you a headache) and planned to be asleep by 12:05 AM. You were looking forward to the silence. After 9 months of working as a support specialist—a job that required hyper-vigilance, constant emotional regulation, and a lot of noise management—silence was a luxury.

Then, at 9:45 PM, your phone buzzed.

Caller ID: Sarah Sim.

Your stomach did a little flip. Sarah never called after hours unless something was wrong. You answered immediately, pausing the drama where the lead actors were staring longingly at each other in the rain. "Sarah? Is everything okay?"

"Y/N, I am so sorry," Sarah’s voice was breathless, pitched high with stress. In the background, you could hear the distinct panic motion. "I hate to do this to you on a holiday. I really, really hate it."

"Sarah, breathe. What’s going on?"

"It’s my sister. Linda. She slipped on some ice in her driveway and... well, it looks like she broke her hip. She’s at the ER, and her husband is out of town on business, and the kids are..." She trailed off, a jagged sound of frustration escaping her. "I have to go. I’m preparing to go there now. But I can't take Jake. The ER waiting room on New Year's Eve? It would be a nightmare. The sirens, the people, the smell of antiseptic... he’d spiral before we even checked in."

"Say no more," you said, already standing up and reaching for your keys. "I’m coming over."

"Are you sure? It’s New Year’s. You must have plans. You’re twenty-three, you should be out at a party."

You laughed, grabbing your coat. "My plans involved noodles and pajamas, Sarah. I’m not missing anything. I’ll be there in twenty minutes."

"Thank you," she sobbed, a sound of pure relief. "Thank you. He’s... he’s anxious. The fireworks have started early in the neighborhood. He’s got his headphones on, but he’s pacing."

"I’ve got him," you promised. The drive to the Sims' house was a gauntlet of festive chaos. Even though it wasn't even 8:00 PM yet, the suburbs were alive. You saw teenagers running on lawns with sparklers, and every few minutes, a distant pop-pop-pop of firecrackers echoed off the houses.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter. You knew exactly what those sounds were doing to Jake. To him, a firecracker wasn't a celebration. It was a sonic assault. It was unpredictable, sharp, and threatening. It was a breach of the peace he worked so hard to maintain. When you pulled into the driveway, Sarah was already standing on the porch. The front door was open behind her, spilling warm yellow light onto the snow-dusted concrete. She had her purse over one shoulder and her car keys clutched in her hand like a weapon. She looked exhausted, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a coat over what looked like lounge clothes.

"You made good time," she said as you walked up the path, your sneakers silent on the pavement.

"Traffic was light," you said. "Go. Go take care of your sister. Don't worry about anything here."

"He’s in the living room," Sarah said, glancing back at the house. "He ate dinner—chicken nuggets, oven-baked, no sauce. He’s... rigid tonight. The noise is getting to him. He keeps checking the windows."

"I'll handle it," you assured her. "We'll build a fort if we need to. We'll turn up the white noise."

She squeezed your arm, her eyes wet. "You're a lifesaver, Y/N. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year, Sarah."

She hurried to her car, and you watched her back out before you turned to the house. You took a deep breath, shaking off the cold and the residual stress of the drive, and stepped inside.The transition was instant. The outside world was a cacophony of wind and distant explosions. Inside, it was a sanctuary. The air smelled of lemon and old books. It was warm.You locked the door behind you, turning the deadbolt with a soft click. "Stealth mode active," you whispered to yourself, toeing off your shoes and leaving them on the mat.You walked down the hallway. The house felt different at night. The shadows were longer, the silence heavier. You could feel the tension in the air, a static charge that radiated from the living room. You reached the archway.

The blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the room against the flashing lights outside. The only illumination came from the TV screen. Jake was sitting on the couch.Usually, he sat on the floor with his LEGOs, or in his recliner. But tonight, he was curled up in the corner of the sofa, knees pulled to his chest.

He was wearing a blue hoodie you hadn't seen before. It looked incredibly soft, a velvet-touch fabric that caught the light of the TV. His pajama pants were a dark plaid flannel. He had his big Sony headphones on, but they were slightly askew, as if he had been adjusting them frequently.He was watching Big Hero 6. The scene where Baymax and Hiro are flying over San Fransokyo at sunset. It was a quiet, visually stunning scene.

He didn't hear you come in.

You stood there for a moment, just watching him. He looked small. He was a grown man, broad-shouldered and tall, but curled up like that, protecting his vital organs from the invisible threat of the noise, he looked like the boy in the file photo from six months ago.You stepped into his line of sight, moving slowly so you wouldn't startle him.Jake’s head snapped up. For a second, there was fear in his eyes—a deer-in-headlights look. Then, recognition flooded in. His face transformed. The tension in his jaw released. His shoulders dropped three inches.

His eyes—those big, expressive, puppy-dog eyes that had hooked you from day one—lit up. It wasn't a dramatic smile; it was a softening. A light turning on in a dark room. He pulled his headphones down around his neck.

"Y/N," he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn't spoken in hours.

"Hi, Jake," you said softly, walking over to the couch. "Your mom had to go help her sister. So you're stuck with me tonight."

"I am not stuck," he corrected immediately, uncurling his legs. "This is an upgrade. Mom is stressed. Her aura is jagged yellow. You are blue. Blue is calm."

You smiled, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch, giving him space but close enough to be an anchor. "I'm glad I'm blue. How are you holding up? It’s loud out there." Jake frowned, looking toward the curtained window.

"The explosions are irregular," he murmured. "There is no pattern. Pop. Then silence. Then boom. My brain tries to predict the next one, but it can't. It’s a broken algorithm."

He picked at the fuzz on his blue hoodie. "I hate the sound. It vibrates in my teeth."

"I know," you said sympathetically. "It’s the worst kind of noise."

"But..." He hesitated. He looked at the TV screen, where colorful lights were dancing. "I like the data. I like the chemistry."

"The chemistry?"

"Strontium carbonate," he said, listing it like a fact from a textbook. "That makes red fireworks. Barium chloride makes green. Copper chloride makes blue. It’s just burning metal. It should be beautiful. Physics is beautiful."

He looked at you, his expression wistful and sad. "I want to see the chemistry. But I can't handle the physics of the sound wave."

Your heart gave a little tug.You thought about the parking lot downtown. The one on the hill that overlooked the river. It was a popular spot, but if you stayed in the car...

An idea formed."Jake," you said slowly. "What if I told you there was a way to see the chemistry without feeling the sound wave?" He tilted his head. "That is impossible. Light and sound travel together. Well, light is faster, but the sound always arrives."

"Not if we're in a bubble," you said. "My car. It’s insulated. If we drive to the lookout, park, roll the windows up tight, turn on the heater, and put your headphones on... you’d see them through the windshield. But you wouldn't hear the boom. Or at least, it would be a tiny thud. Not a bang."

He stared at you. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes. He was calculating the risk. "The car is a Faraday cage," he whispered. "For sound."

"Exactly. A shield." He looked at the window, then back at you. He trusted you. You had established that over six months of grilled cheese sandwiches and LEGO builds. You were the one who saved him in the grocery store. You were the one who brought the frozen peas for his headache.

"Can I bring my blanket?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And the headphones?"

"Non-negotiable."

He took a deep breath. He stood up. He smoothed down the front of his soft blue hoodie.

"Okay," he said. "Let’s go to the bubble."

The preparation for the expedition was precise.

Jake put on his shoes (velcro, no laces to trip on). He grabbed his grey weighted blanket. He put his headphones on, checking the battery life (84%—acceptable). He grabbed a small bag of pretzels, just in case he needed to chew to regulate his jaw tension.

You walked him to your car. The cold air bit at your cheeks. Somewhere down the street, a firecracker went off—a sharp CRACK. Jake flinched violently, stopping in the middle of the driveway. His hands flew to his ears over the headphones.

"Hey," you said, stepping in front of him, blocking his view of the street. "Eyes on me. Look at my coat. Look at the buttons." He focused on your coat. He breathed in. He breathed out.

"Car," he gasped.

"Car," you agreed.

You got him inside and slammed the door. You ran to the driver's side and got in. You immediately cranked the heater and turned on the radio to a classical station—low, steady cello music. "Status?" you asked, looking at him. He was adjusting his headphones. He pushed the noise-canceling button. The world outside muted.

"Status green," he said, though his voice sounded far away to himself. "The seal is tight."

"Okay. We're moving."

The drive to the lookout took twenty minutes. The traffic was light; most people were already at their parties. You drove carefully, avoiding potholes, keeping the ride as smooth as possible. Jake sat in the passenger seat, clutching his weighted blanket to his chest. He watched the streetlights pass by, counting them under his breath.

"You look nice," he said suddenly. You glanced at him, surprised. You were wearing sweatpants and a puffy coat. You had zero makeup on. "I look like a marshmallow, Jake."

"No," he said seriously. "Your face is... nice. And you look calm. You always look calm. It makes the inside of the car feel slow."

"Slow is good?"

"Fast is scary. Slow is safe. You feel safe."

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the heater. "Thank you, Jake. You look nice too. That hoodie looks very soft."

He looked down at his chest. He rubbed the fabric. "It is velvet-fleece blend. Sarah bought it. I usually only wear hoodies with zippers, but this one... the texture is superior. It feels like a cat."

"A cat hoodie. I like it." You reached the lookout. It was a large paved lot on a bluff overlooking the River. Across the water, the city skyline was lit up. There were other cars parked there, facing the river, their engines idling, mist rising from their tailpipes.

You found a spot near the edge, away from a truck that was blasting bass-heavy music. You put the car in park. "We have arrived," you announced.

Jake leaned forward, peering through the windshield. The view was panoramic. The dark water reflected the city lights, creating a shimmering mirror.

"The vantage point is optimal," he noted.

"We have about fifteen minutes until midnight," you said, checking the dashboard clock. 11:45 PM.

"Fifteen minutes," Jake repeated. "900 seconds."

He leaned back, relaxing slightly. He pulled the weighted blanket up so it covered his chin, leaving only his eyes and nose visible. He looked like a cozy, anxious turtle. "Y/N?"

"Yeah, Jake?"

"Why are you here?"

The question caught you off guard. "What do you mean?"

"It’s New Year's Eve," he said. "The social convention is to be at a gathering. Drinking ethanol. Counting down with many people. You are twenty-three. The data suggests you should be partying." He turned his head to look at you. His eyes were searching yours in the dim light of the dashboard.

"I didn't want to be at a party," you said honestly. "Parties are loud. And the floor is usually sticky. And you have to talk to people you don't know."

"You don't like loud?" Jake looked surprised.

"Not really. I do it for work, but... I like quiet. I like slow."

"Like the car."

"Like the car." You turned in your seat to face him fully. "And besides... I’d rather be here. With you." Jake went still. He stared at you. You could see him processing the statement, turning it over in his mind, looking for the hidden meaning.

"With me?" he whispered. "But I am... work."

"No," you shook your head gently. "You stopped being just work a long time ago, Jake. We're friends. Right?"

He blinked. "Friends."

"Yes. And I like hanging out with my friend. Especially when he teaches me about strontium carbonate." A slow, shy smile spread across his face. It started at the corners of his mouth and reached his eyes, crinkling them. He snuggled deeper into his blanket. "Friends," he tested the word. "That is... acceptable. Highly acceptable."

He looked back out the windshield. "Sarah says friends don't get paid to hang out."

"Well, tonight I'm not getting paid," you lied (technically the agency would bill for this, but the sentiment was real). "Tonight I’m just Y/N."

"Just Y/N," he echoed. "And just Jake."

"Just Jake."

The dashboard clock clicked to 11:59 PM.

"One minute," you said. "Sixty seconds."

Jake tensed up. He pressed his hands over his headphones, ensuring the seal was perfect. "The bubble holds," he whispered to himself.

"The bubble holds," you confirmed.

Across the river, in the city center, a single flare shot up into the sky. A white streak against the black. Then—bloom. A massive golden sphere exploded in the air. It was huge, glittering, and silent. Inside the car, you heard nothing. Just the cello music and the heater. Jake flinched visually when the light exploded, his shoulders jerking up. He waited. He braced himself for the boom.

One second. Two seconds. No boom. Just a soft, dull thud that vibrated vaguely in the floorboards, barely noticeable. Jake let out a breath. His shoulders dropped.

Another one went up. Red this time. Strontium carbonate. It burst into a heart shape.

Jake leaned forward. He pressed his hands against the dashboard. His eyes went wide. "Red," he breathed. Then came the finale. The sky erupted. Greens, blues, purples, golds. It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of chemistry and light. The river below caught the reflections, doubling the show.

You weren't watching the sky.

You were watching Jake.

The colored light from the fireworks washed over his face in waves—blue, then red, then gold. His glasses reflected the explosions, making his eyes look like they held galaxies.

His mouth was slightly open in awe. The fear was completely gone, replaced by a childlike wonder that was so pure it made your chest ache. He wasn't the anxious young man in the grocery store aisle. He wasn't the client with the file. He was just a boy loving the lights.

He looked beautiful.

The soft slope of his nose, the messy hair falling over his forehead, the way his eyelashes caught the light. You felt a swell of emotion so strong it almost knocked the wind out of you. It wasn't just affection. It wasn't just protectiveness.

It was love. You had known it for a while, but here, in the quiet bubble of the car, with the new year raining down in sparks of fire, it felt undeniable.

Suddenly, Jake turned his head.

He caught you staring. Usually, when you were caught staring, you would look away. You would check your phone. You would pretend you were looking past him.

But tonight, you didn't. You held his gaze. The fireworks were still exploding behind him, framing his silhouette in halos of light.Jake looked at you. He saw the way you were looking at him. He didn't flinch. He didn't look down at his shoes.

He smiled.It wasn't his polite smile. It wasn't his nervous smile. It was an innocent, soft, intimate smile that said I see you seeing me, and I am okay with it.

He reached up and pulled one side of his headphones back, just an inch, breaking the seal.

"Happy New Year, Y/N," he said softly.

The cello music swelled. The heater hummed.

"Happy New Year, Jake," you whispered.

He didn't put the headphone back. He kept looking at you. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up to your eyes. It was a fleeting glance, one he probably didn't even realize he made, but you saw it.

"The chemistry is beautiful," he said.

"Yeah," you breathed, looking right into his brown eyes. "It really is."

He held your gaze for another long second, the air between you thick and warm and incredibly soft. It felt like the start of something. Not a frantic race, but a slow, steady walk.Then, he turned back to the windshield as a massive blue weeping willow firework drifted down toward the water. "Copper chloride," he noted, sliding his headphone back into place. But he reached out his hand, the one not holding the blanket, and placed it palm-up on the center console.

It was an invitation. You reached out and placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours. His hand was warm. He squeezed three times.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You squeezed back three times.

The fireworks ended. The smoke drifted over the river. The year turned over.

But in the quiet car, holding Jake’s hand while he hummed a happy little tune under his breath, you knew the best part of the year had already begun. The new year didn't come in with a bang. It came in with a soft, steady warmth, wearing a blue hoodie and holding your hand.

March arrived with a slow, hesitant thaw, washing away the stubborn winter snow and leaving behind a world that felt raw, muddy, and ready to wake up.

It had been months since you first walked up the driveway of that quiet suburban home, a fresh-faced social work graduate clutching a file folder that tried to summarize a human being into a list of clinical symptoms. Back then, you had been terrified of making a mistake, of wearing the wrong shoes or breathing too loudly. Now, as the first hints of spring began to show through the living room windows, you navigated the complex, beautiful landscape of Jake Sim’s life with a quiet, practiced confidence.

You were officially his support worker. But unofficially, you had become his translator, his anchor, and his closest confidante. The boundaries of your job description had blurred into a deep, unwavering affection. You weren't his girlfriend—you strictly maintained your professional role, aware of the ethics and the fragile nature of his trust—but the feelings you harbored for the twenty-four-year-old were a warm, heavy reality in your chest that you could no longer deny.

Over the winter, the walls Jake had built to protect himself from a world that was too loud, too bright, and too unpredictable had slowly begun to lower. He was more trusting now. The rigid, closed-off young man from the file was gone, replaced by someone who sought out your presence.

You knew him completely. You knew his dietary map so well you didn't even need to consult the notes Sarah had left you on your first day. You knew he despised the texture of anything "mealy," like certain types of apples or boiled potatoes. You knew he had a strict rule against white-colored foods because they felt "deceptive" to his brain, with the sole exception of milk, which he categorized as "structural calcium" rather than a beverage. You had even managed to successfully introduce new variables into his routine. It had happened on a quiet Tuesday in early March. You had taken a massive gamble and driven him to a small, dimly lit Mexican restaurant on the edge of town for a late lunch. Jake had been rigid in the passenger seat, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his gray hoodie.

"Spicy is a pain signal," he had informed you, his brow furrowed anxiously behind his glasses. "Capsaicin tricks the brain into thinking the tissue is burning. I do not wish to be tricked. My baseline for sensory input is already at capacity."

"I promise we won't get anything spicy," you had assured him, parking the car in the empty lot. "But they have chips. Corn chips. And I think you’ll like the texture. They're uniform and crunchy." He had agreed to the mission, trusting you enough to step inside. The restaurant was practically deserted, which kept his anxiety at bay. When the basket of warm tortilla chips arrived, Jake had inspected one like a scientist examining a new element. He noted the uniform triangle shape. He took a tiny bite.

The loud, satisfying crunch made his eyes widen. He hummed, a low vibration of approval in his chest.

Then, you introduced the mild salsa. You explained that it was blended completely smooth—no hidden chunks of onion or tomato to surprise his palate. He had dipped the microscopic corner of a chip into the red sauce. He ate it. He blinked, processed the flavor profile, and dipped again, a little deeper this time.

"The acidity of the tomato cuts through the oil of the corn chip," he had observed, looking at you with a profound sense of realization. "It is mathematically balanced. It is... highly acceptable."Chips and smooth salsa had instantly become a staple. You started keeping jars of it in the pantry, and he would happily eat it as a snack while watching his shows.That same evening, the shift in his trust had become distinctly physical. You were sitting on the couch in the living room, the blackout curtains drawn, watching an animated movie.Usually, when you watched movies, Jake would either sit on the floor, grounded on the rug, or he would sit on the far end of the sofa, leaving a careful, deliberate two-foot gap between you. He wasn't big on physical proximity unless he was in the middle of a meltdown and needed deep pressure to ground himself.But that night, he had sat down on the sofa and looked at the gap. He looked at you. And then, he scooted over.He didn't press flush against you, but the gap shrank to a mere inch. You could feel the warmth radiating from his arm. When he leaned forward to watch a visually intense scene, his shoulder brushed against yours, and he didn't pull away.You had frozen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering tap-dance against your ribs. You didn't pull away, but you didn't push closer, either. You just sat there, hyper-aware of his presence, feeling incredibly honored that he felt safe enough to let his guard down and share your personal space.

A few days later, a new sensory challenge presented itself.

It was a rainy Thursday afternoon. The house was quiet, but Jake was not. He was pacing the length of the living room, his steps heavy and agitated. He kept reaching up to swat at the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders, and grimacing as if something invisible was attacking him. "Jake?" you asked softly from the kitchen counter, where you were organizing his schedule for the week. "Is your shirt tag bothering you? I can cut it out."

He stopped pacing. He looked at you, his brown eyes clouded with severe distress. He reached up and grabbed a handful of his dark, fluffy hair at the nape of his neck. It had gotten long over the winter—curling over the tops of his ears and brushing against the collar of his hoodie. "It’s not the shirt," he said, his voice tight and breathless. "It’s my hair. It’s touching me. Every time I turn my head, it feels like cobwebs. Constant, heavy cobwebs. It is distracting my processor. The input is overwhelming."

"Do you want me to ask your mom to make an appointment at the barber?" you suggested gently. The look of sheer, visceral terror that crossed his face made you instantly regret the question. The barber was a sensory nightmare for him. It meant the loud buzzing of electric clippers vibrating against his skull, the strong smell of chemical barbicide, the bright fluorescent lights, and the unpredictable, light touch of a stranger’s hands on his sensitive scalp."No," he breathed, taking a step back, his hands flapping slightly at his sides as he tried to regulate his rising panic. "No barber. The buzzing hurts my teeth. The cape is too tight on my throat. I can't. I can't go."

"Okay," you said instantly, keeping your voice low and soothing. "No barber. I promise, Jake. We won't go." You thought for a second, watching him scratch frantically at the back of his neck.

"What if... what if I did it?" you offered.

He blinked, his hands freezing. "You?"

"Me. Right here in the kitchen. No buzzing clippers, just regular scissors. We can take breaks whenever you need to. I won't tie a cape around your neck; we'll just use your favorite soft towel."

He considered this. His logical brain weighed the risk of a bad haircut against the immediate relief of getting the "cobwebs" off his neck. He looked at your hands. He trusted your hands."Do you have the data?" he asked skeptically. "Are you trained in cosmetology?"

"I don't have the data yet," you admitted with a reassuring smile. "But I have YouTube. Give me ten minutes to study the algorithm."

He let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping a fraction. "Okay. Ten minutes."

You set up a wooden dining chair in the middle of the kitchen linoleum. You found a pair of sharp styling shears Sarah kept in the bathroom vanity. You propped your phone up against the sugar bowl and watched a video titled How to Trim Men's Medium Length Hair - Scissors Only.When you were ready, Jake walked into the kitchen. He had changed into an old, faded t-shirt. He sat down in the chair, his posture rigid as a board. You draped his favorite plush bath towel over his shoulders, securing it loosely with a binder clip so nothing constricted his throat."Okay," you murmured, standing behind him. "I'm going to touch your hair now. Deep pressure, just like we always do."

"Deep pressure," he echoed, closing his eyes tightly.

You placed your hands firmly on his scalp, letting him feel the solid weight of your touch before you ran a comb through his dark waves. He shivered slightly, but he didn't pull away."I'm going to start at the back," you narrated, knowing that unexpected sensory input was his biggest trigger. "You're going to hear the scissors. They make a sharp snip sound."

Snip. Snip.

"It sounds like a metronome," Jake observed softly, his hands gripping the edges of the wooden chair seat. "A fast metronome."

"Just focus on the rhythm," you soothed, working meticulously.

You weren't a professional, but you were infinitely careful. You trimmed the heavy curls away from his collar. You cleared the bulk from the sides. Every time you had to fold his ear down to cut around it, you warned him first.

It took forty-five minutes. A barber would have been done in ten. But this wasn't about efficiency; it was about safety. He sat perfectly still for you, enduring the falling hair and the metallic snip of the blades because he knew you were on the other end of them."Alright," you said finally, stepping back and carefully brushing the loose trimmings off the towel. "I think we're done, Jake. The cobwebs are gone."

He opened his eyes. He reached a hesitant hand up to the back of his neck. He felt the smooth skin, the clean line of hair that no longer brushed his collar. He felt around his ears, marveling at the empty air.

A slow, brilliant smile broke across his face. He stood up, shaking off the towel, and turned to look at you."It is optimal," he breathed, running his long fingers through the top of his hair, which you had left perfectly fluffy. "The static is reduced. My head feels... lighter. The processing speed is back to normal."

"You look very handsome," you smiled, reaching out to brush a stray clipping from his shoulder."Thank you, Y/N," he said softly, holding your gaze for a long moment. "I trust your scissors."

The trust they shared spilled over into the following week.

It was a chilly afternoon, the kind that made the house feel like a cozy, insulated bubble. It was the perfect afternoon for baking. "Cookies," Jake had announced around 2:00 PM, pulling his favorite glass mixing bowl from the cabinet. "The barometric pressure is low. We need to introduce a superior olfactory variable. Vanilla and butter."

"Sugar cookies?" you asked, rolling up your sleeves and washing your hands.

"Cutouts," he specified, retrieving his plastic container of cookie cutters.

Baking with Jake was a science experiment. He didn't believe in "eyeballing" ingredients. Everything was leveled with the flat edge of a butter knife. The dough had to be chilled for exactly thirty minutes. You did the main work—measuring, mixing, and rolling the heavy dough out flat on the counter—while he stood close beside you, supervising the chemistry of it all.

When it was time to cut the shapes, Jake took over. He treated the rolled-out dough like a puzzle of spatial geometry. He had chosen the star cutter and a specific dinosaur cutter.

"The goal is optimization," he explained seriously, pressing the star into the very edge of the dough. "We must minimize the negative space between the shapes to reduce the need for re-rolling. Re-rolling introduces excess flour and toughens the gluten matrix."

"You are a cookie architect," you laughed, watching his precise, careful movements.

"I am maximizing yield," he corrected gently, pressing the dinosaur cutter down directly next to the star.

You took the filled trays and slid them into the oven. "Okay, timer set for twelve minutes." But variables happen. Your phone buzzed on the counter—it was a call from the agency about a sudden change in scheduling protocols. You answered it, stepping into the hallway so you wouldn't disturb Jake, who was focused on washing the mixing bowl. The coordinator on the phone was chatty, and you got pulled into a frustrating, complicated discussion about paperwork.

You didn't hear the oven timer go off over the sound of the phone call.

You smelled it first. The sweet, buttery scent of baking cookies suddenly turned sharp, followed by the undeniable, acrid smell of burning sugar.

"Oh, shoot!" you gasped, hanging up on the coordinator mid-sentence.

You ran into the kitchen, grabbed the oven mitts, and yanked the trays out. Smoke billowed into the air.You slammed the trays onto the stovetop. The cookies were ruined. The stars were a dark, unhappy brown, and the dinosaurs looked like they had been caught in a prehistoric meteorite strike. They were hard as rocks and blackened around the edges."Dammit," you sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. You felt a hot prickle of tears in your eyes. You were his support worker; you were supposed to be on top of things. You had ruined his perfectly optimized geometric dough because you were distracted.Jake turned around from the sink, drying his hands on a towel. He looked at the smoking trays. He looked at your face.

He saw the disappointment. He saw the way you were picking at your thumbnail—a nervous habit he had memorized over the last six months.

He walked up to the stove. He looked at the burnt, sad little dinosaurs.

He reached out and picked one up. It was still hot, but he barely flinched.

"Jake, don't, it’s going to taste like ash," you warned, reaching out to stop him.

He lifted the burnt cookie to his mouth and took a bite.

A loud, aggressive CRUNCH echoed in the kitchen. You winced, waiting for him to spit it out. You knew how sensitive his palate was. Bitter flavors were usually an instant, gag-inducing rejection.He chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed. He looked at the cookie, then looked at you.

"The structural integrity is phenomenal," he stated, his face completely serious.

"Jake, they're burnt."

"They are heavily caramelized," he corrected smoothly. "The Maillard reaction was simply allowed to progress further than usual. It adds a... bold, smoky complexity."

He took another bite. Another loud crunch.

"And the crunch is superior," he continued, holding eye contact with you. "Soft cookies crumble. These cookies are resilient. They require effort. I appreciate the effort."

He was overriding his own intense sensory aversions. He was eating a burnt, bitter cookie just to protect your feelings, to make sure you didn't feel like you had failed him. He was a total sweetheart, wrapping his rigid sensory needs around his care for you.Your heart melted right into the linoleum. You couldn't help yourself—you walked over and wrapped your arms tightly around his waist, pressing your face into his chest in a brief, fierce hug.

"You are the absolute sweetest guy in the world, Jake Sim," you mumbled against his shirt.He patted your back awkwardly but affectionately with his free hand. "I am just analyzing the data," he said, taking a third, agonizingly crunchy bite. "But thank you. They really are good."The emotional safety established on those quiet afternoons paved the way for something far more delicate.

It happened late one evening, a few days later. Sarah had gone to a late movie with a friend, leaving the two of you in the living room. The lights were dimmed, and the TV was playing softly in the background.

Jake was sitting on the couch, his knees pulled up to his chest, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his hoodie. He had been quiet for an hour, a heavy, contemplative silence that usually preceded a deep thought.

"Y/N?" he murmured finally. His voice was low, lacking its usual confident, factual cadence."Yeah, Jakey? I'm here."

He kept his eyes glued to the loose thread. "I had a birthday a few months ago. Before you started working here."

"I know," you smiled gently. "Your mom told me. You turned twenty-four."

"I am twenty-four," he repeated, rolling the number around in his mouth like it tasted strange and unpleasant. "You are twenty-three."

"That’s right. You’re older than me."

He didn't smile. His brow furrowed deeply, and he stared down at his hands.

"Twenty-four is a prime integer for adulthood," he said softly. "I read articles online. At twenty-four, normal men are... doing things. They are driving on the interstate. They are navigating tax brackets. They are going to loud places and drinking ethanol. They wear suits that scratch their necks. They live alone."

He swallowed hard, the vulnerability in his voice jagged and painful to hear.

"I do not do those things," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I cannot drive on the highway because the cars move too fast and the input overwhelms my processor. I cannot do taxes. I wear pajama pants with cartoon characters on them. I spend hours sorting plastic bricks. I need Mom to help me make doctor appointments. I need you to help me go to the grocery store."He turned his head to look at you, his brown eyes swimming with a profound, deep-seated insecurity. It was the awareness of a man who knew he was out of sync with the timeline of the world, a man who felt like he was failing a test everyone else inherently knew how to pass.

"I feel... broken," he choked out, the word hitting the quiet room like a dropped glass. "Like I missed the manual on how to be an adult. And you... you have a degree. You fit in the world. I don't understand how you can stand being here with someone who is stuck on the wrong setting."Your heart cracked right down the middle. You shifted on the couch, turning fully toward him, and reached out to take both of his hands in yours. You held them tightly, anchoring him to the present moment."Jake, look at me," you said fiercely.He blinked, a single tear slipping down his cheek, but he met your eyes."There is no manual," you said, your voice steady and full of absolute conviction. "There is no 'normal' in adulthood. Everyone is just guessing and hoping they don't mess up."He sniffled, processing this. "But they do the normal things."

"Normal is a myth," you promised him. "You think because I have a degree I know everything? Jake, I had to Google how to fix a leaky pipe yesterday, and I still couldn't do it. I am terrified of making phone calls to strangers. I eat cereal for dinner three nights a week. Everyone has things they can't handle. Adulthood is completely new for everyone, and we're all just trying to survive the input."

You let go of one of his hands to reach up and cup his cheek, gently wiping the tear away with your thumb.

"You aren't broken, Jake. You are just you. You built a working replica of the Titanic from memory. You notice when the air pressure drops before the weather app does. You ate a burnt, charcoal cookie just so I wouldn't feel bad about my baking skills. Do you know how rare that kind of empathy is? How brilliant your brain is?"

He leaned into your palm, closing his eyes, a shaky breath escaping his lips.

"You don't have to like loud bars or scratchy suits to be a man," you whispered, maintaining your professional boundary but pouring every ounce of your care into your words. "You just have to be kind, and honest, and try your best. And you do that every single day. You don't have to fit into the rest of the world, Jake. Everything is new, and you just find where you fit most."

He opened his eyes. The fear was slowly draining away, replaced by a quiet, thoughtful relief.

"Find where I fit most," he repeated, testing the weight of the concept.

"Exactly. And you fit beautifully right here, just the way you are."

He let out a shaky breath, a small smile finally breaking through the sadness. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck, pulling you into a tight, grounding hug.

"You are my favorite variable, Y/N," he mumbled against your skin. "Thank you for the data." To prove your point that his interests were valid and wonderful, you stopped by a department store the very next morning before your shift. When you walked into the house, you handed him a plastic shopping bag. "What is this?" he asked, eyeing the bag suspiciously. "A reminder that what you like is perfectly fine," you smiled.

He reached in and pulled out a brand new, neatly folded package of pajama pants. They were dark navy blue, covered in small, minimalist red Spider-Man logos.

"I checked the tags," you said proudly. "They are tagless. And it’s a modal-cotton blend. Super soft." Jake’s eyes lit up instantly. He rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, checking the friction coefficient.

"It is superior," he breathed, a wide grin stretching across his face, the insecurities of the previous night completely forgotten. "The texture is incredibly smooth. Thank you, Y/N."

"You're welcome, Spidey. Go test them out."

He hurried down the hall. When he returned, he was wearing the new pants, looking incredibly cozy and relaxed. He did a small crouch in the living room, testing the stretch of the fabric."Range of motion is uninhibited," he declared happily. "They are perfect."The final days of March brought the first true, undeniable breath of spring. The sun came out, warm and insistent, waking up the dormant life in the backyard.

It was a Saturday morning. You were standing at the kitchen sink, washing out your coffee mug, while Sarah sat at the island, looking over some mail. Jake had been outside in the backyard for twenty minutes, "patrolling the perimeter" in his new Spider-Man pajamas and a light jacket.

You watched him through the window. He was pacing the fence line, his hands in his pockets, enjoying the gentle breeze.Suddenly, he stopped. He knelt down in the grass, inspecting something on the ground. Carefully, with precise, deliberate movements, he pinched something between his fingers and plucked it from the earth.

He stood up and turned around, walking back toward the house with a determined stride.

When the back door opened, he walked straight into the kitchen, bypassing his usual routine of wiping his shoes exactly three times. He walked right up to you, holding his hand out, his fist closed around something delicate.

"I found anomalies in the grass," he announced.

He opened his hand.

Sitting in his palm were a half-dozen dandelions. They were bright, aggressive yellow, their stems slightly crushed from his firm grip.

"They are weeds," Jake explained, looking at you earnestly. "Most people apply herbicide to them to make their lawns uniform. But I researched them. They are the first food for bees in the spring. They are incredibly resilient. They grow through cracks in the driveway. They do not care if they belong; they just grow where they fit."

He held the messy, yellow bouquet out to you."I picked them for you," he said, his brown eyes locking onto yours. "Because you are resilient. And because you help me find where I fit."You stared at the bright yellow flowers.You were horribly, violently allergic to dandelions. The pollen made your throat itch, your eyes swell, and your nose run like a broken faucet. If you held them too close, you’d be sneezing for the rest of the day in absolute misery.You didn't hesitate for a microsecond.

You reached out and gently took the crushed, beautiful weeds from his hand. You would never, ever tell him."They are the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen, Jake," you said, forcing your breathing to remain shallow so you didn't inhale the pollen directly. "Thank you so much. I love them."

His chest puffed out slightly with pride. "They require water. A small vessel. Their stems are short."

"I’ll put them in a shot glass right now," you promised.

You turned around, grabbed a small glass from the cupboard, filled it with water, and arranged the dandelions carefully on the windowsill above the sink. As soon as his back was turned to grab a glass of water, you quickly turned your head and stifled a massive, aggressive sneeze into the crook of your elbow.

"Bless you," Jake said, drinking his water.

"Just dust," you lied smoothly, your voice thick as you quickly washed your hands with soap to remove the pollen. "Spring dust."

Sarah had watched the entire exchange from the kitchen island, her mail forgotten. As Jake wandered into the living room to adjust the volume on the TV, feeling successful and completely at ease, Sarah stepped closer to you.

She looked at the dandelions in the shot glass, and then she looked at you, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You're allergic to those, aren't you?" she whispered, having seen you pop an antihistamine just yesterday when a neighbor mowed their lawn.

"Deathly," you whispered back, rubbing your itchy nose with the back of a clean hand.

Sarah let out a soft, watery laugh. She reached out and squeezed your arm, her grip tight and full of a mother's profound gratitude.

"He hasn't picked flowers for anyone since he was six years old," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "Before the world got too loud and he folded in on himself. I used to wonder if I’d ever see that sweet, expressive little boy again."

She looked out toward the living room, where Jake was happily sitting on the couch, completely in his element. He wasn't hiding behind his hands or his headphones. He was just a young man, comfortable in his own skin, wearing the Spider-Man pajamas you bought him."He’s not just surviving anymore, Y/N," Sarah said, looking back at you with fierce, unwavering respect and praise. "He is living. He is confident, and he is himself again. But he’s not doing it alone. He has you. You brought him back."

You looked at the dandelions, their bright yellow petals soaking up the sun in the window, stubborn and resilient against all odds. You weren't his girlfriend, and you were technically just doing your job, but looking at the life and light that had returned to Jake Sim’s eyes, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

"I think we're just finding where we fit, Sarah," you smiled, your eyes watering from the pollen, but your heart completely full. "I really do."

April crept in with a deceptive warmth, bringing days that started crisp and ended bathed in golden, gentle sunlight. Over the past month, the trust between you and Jake had solidified into something unbreakable. The boundaries of your job title as his support worker had softened so completely that you often forgot you were on the clock. You were just Y/N and Jake, navigating the world together, one carefully calculated variable at a time.

Because he had been doing so well—expanding his safe foods, managing his sensory input, and initiating communication—you had planned a special outing.

There was a specialty hobby shop about twenty minutes away. It wasn't a big-box toy store with screaming children and blinding fluorescent lights; it was a quiet, dimly lit collector’s shop. It smelled of old cardboard, modeling clay, and dust. More importantly, they carried retired, vintage LEGO sets. Jake had been talking about a specific, out-of-production Architecture set for three weeks. He had saved his own money for it, meticulously budgeting his allowance in a small notebook.

"The crowd density on a Thursday at 11:00 AM will be approximately 12% of peak capacity," Jake had announced that morning, standing by the front door.

He was prepared. He was wearing his noise-canceling headphones securely around his neck, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice. Underneath his unzipped, soft grey hoodie, he wore a subtle, vintage-wash Spider-Man t-shirt you had found for him online. It didn't have any scratchy tags, and the seams were flat.

"The math is solid," you agreed, jingling your car keys. "We have a clear window. Are you feeling good? Battery at 100%?" He closed his eyes for a brief second, running an internal diagnostic. "Battery is at 94%. I slept well. The eggs were uniform. I am ready to initiate the mission."

"Let's go get that set, Spidey."The drive was peaceful. You kept the radio volume low, playing a soft instrumental track that Jake liked because the time signature was mathematically consistent. He spent the drive looking out the window, his fingers tapping a complex, rhythmic pattern against his thigh. He was excited. It was a subtle excitement to anyone else, but to you, it was loud and vibrant.

When you pulled into the strip mall where the hobby shop was located, the parking lot was blissfully empty."Twelve percent capacity might have been an overestimation," you smiled, turning off the engine. "Looks like we have the place to ourselves."

Jake unbuckled his seatbelt, a small, proud smile on his face. "My calculations included a margin of error. Empty is an optimal variable."

You walked into the store together. The bell above the door chimed—a soft, pleasant ding that made Jake blink, but he didn't flinch. The shop owner, an older man reading a magazine behind the counter, offered a quiet nod and went back to his reading. It was perfect.

Jake immediately navigated toward the back corner of the store, where shelves were stacked high with pristine, sealed boxes.

You hung back a few feet, giving him space to explore his element. This was his territory. He moved down the aisle with absolute reverence, his eyes scanning the boxes, reading the piece counts and set numbers like they were lines of poetry.

"They have it," he whispered suddenly.You stepped closer. "The Architecture set?"

"Yes." He pointed to a high shelf. "Set number 21010. The Robie House. 2,276 pieces. It was discontinued years ago. The dark red brick count is unprecedented."

His hands started to move. It was a happy stim—his fingers fluttering rapidly in front of his chest, a physical manifestation of the joy bubbling over in his brain. He bounced slightly on his heels, a soft, high-pitched hum of pure excitement vibrating in his throat."I have the exact funds required," he said, turning to look at you, his brown eyes shining with absolute delight. "This is... this is a highly significant acquisition."

"I'm so happy for you, Jake," you beamed, your heart swelling at the sight of his unbridled joy. "Let me help you get it down."

You reached up and carefully pulled the box from the top shelf, handing it to him. He took it as if it were made of glass, tracing the edges of the cardboard, his happy humming growing a little louder.

And then, the bell above the door chimed again.

You didn't think much of it at first. But then the voices carried down the aisle. Loud, booming, aggressively casual.

"Bro, I swear they sell Warhammer stuff here, just look."

Three guys turned the corner into the aisle. They were roughly Jake's age, maybe a year or two younger. College kids. They were wearing baseball caps backward, reeking of sharp, chemical body spray that immediately made your nose wrinkle. They were talking over each other, their voices echoing harshly in the quiet shop.

You saw Jake stiffen instantly. The happy humming cut off. His fingers stopped fluttering and clenched into tight fists around the edges of the LEGO box. He instinctively took a step back, pressing his shoulders against the shelving unit, trying to make himself smaller. He lowered his head, his hair falling forward to shield his eyes.

You casually moved, placing yourself slightly in front of him, creating a physical buffer between him and the newcomers.

The guys walked down the aisle, completely oblivious to the sudden tension. One of them, a guy in a bright red polo shirt, stopped to look at the shelf right next to where Jake was standing.

"Man, who drops three hundred bucks on plastic bricks?" the guy scoffed, laughing loudly. Jake flinched at the volume. His hands were shaking. He pulled the box tighter to his chest. He was trying to be invisible, but the movement caught the guy's attention.The guy in the red polo looked at Jake. He looked at the way Jake was hunched over, avoiding eye contact. He looked at the vintage Spider-Man t-shirt peeking out from the hoodie.Then, the guy smirked. He nudged his friend.

"Hey, check it out," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "We got a real-life man-child over here. Hey buddy, aren't you a little old for the kids' aisle?"

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

Jake froze entirely. His breathing hitched, catching in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut."Excuse me," you said immediately, your voice cold and sharp as a razor. You stepped fully in front of Jake, locking eyes with the guy in the red polo. "Back off."The guy raised his hands in mock surrender, letting out an obnoxious laugh. "Whoa, chill out. I was just making a joke. Didn't realize his mommy was here to defend him."

"I said, back off," you repeated, taking a step toward him, the protective fury blazing in your chest. You didn't care about professionalism. You didn't care about causing a scene. You only cared about the man trembling behind you. "Keep your mouth shut and walk away."The second friend sneered, looking Jake up and down. "Jeez, what's wrong with him? He's shaking like a weirdo. Does he need a diaper change or something?"

Snap.

You moved forward, jabbing your index finger hard into the second guy's chest. "If you say one more word to him, I am going to have the owner throw you out by your hair. You are pathetic, miserable little bullies. Walk. Away. Now."

Your voice wasn't yelling, but it was deadly. The guys looked at your face, realizing you were genuinely a second away from a physical altercation. The bravado faltered.

"Whatever, crazy bitch," the red polo guy muttered, rolling his eyes. "Place is a freak show anyway. Let's go."They turned and swaggered out of the aisle, laughing loudly to save face ,mimicking disabilities, their heavy footsteps echoing as the front door chimed and they left the store.The silence that followed was suffocating.You turned around instantly, your heart hammering. "Jake," you breathed, reaching out. "Jake, I'm so sorry, are you okay?"

He wasn't okay.He was staring blankly at the floor. His face was entirely devoid of color. The box he had been holding so carefully slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the linoleum with a loud, hollow thud.

"Jake?" you asked softly, not touching him, knowing better than to initiate contact when he was in shock.He didn't look at the box. He didn't look at you. He reached up with shaking, jerky movements and pulled his noise-canceling headphones over his ears. He turned around, completely ignoring the set he had saved up for, and began speed-walking toward the exit."Jake, wait!" you called, abandoning the box on the floor and jogging after him.You caught up to him just as he pushed through the front door. The bright April sun hit him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his hands coming up to grip the edges of his headphones so hard his knuckles turned stark white.

"Car," he choked out, his voice thick, rough, and entirely monotone. "Take me to the bubble."

"Okay," you said instantly, unlocking the car with your fob. "We're going. We're going right now."

He practically dove into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut. He didn't put his seatbelt on. He pulled his knees up to his chest, curled into a tight, defensive ball, and pulled his hood over his head and his headphones. He was burying himself alive.

You got in, started the car, and drove.The twenty-minute drive back to his house was the longest of your life. The silence in the car wasn't the comfortable, companionable quiet you were used to. It was a heavy, toxic, suffocating silence. It was the sound of a mind tearing itself apart.You wanted to reach over. You wanted to pull over to the side of the road, wrap your arms around him, and squeeze the pain out of him. But his body language was a massive, neon DO NOT TOUCH sign. He was completely closed off. The static in his head had turned into a roar.

When you pulled into his driveway, you noticed Sarah's car was gone. She was at her yoga class. It was just the two of you.

Jake opened his door before you even put the car in park. He scrambled out, almost tripping over his own feet, and half-ran to the front door. You hurried after him, unlocking it quickly.He didn't take his shoes off. He walked straight down the hallway, into his bedroom, and slammed the door.

You stood in the empty, quiet living room, your heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces.You gave him ten minutes. You knew he needed time to process the massive spike of negative data. You went to the kitchen, poured a glass of ice water, and tried to steady your own breathing. Your hands were shaking with residual anger at those boys. You wanted to drive back and key their car.

But anger wouldn't help Jake.

After fifteen minutes, you walked down the hall and stood outside his bedroom door. You listened.You didn't hear crying. You heard a rhythmic, dull thump. Thump. Thump.Your stomach dropped.It was a sound you had only heard once, during his worst meltdown months ago. He was hitting his head. Not hard enough to cause a concussion, but hard enough to try and physically jar the overwhelming thoughts out of his brain. It was a frustration stim.

You didn't knock. You opened the door.

The blackout curtains were drawn, plunging the room into darkness. Jake was sitting on the floor in the corner, wedged between his bed frame and the wall. He had his knees pulled up, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He was rocking violently forward and backward.

Every time he rocked back, the back of his head hit the drywall. Thump.

"Jake, stop," you said, your voice firm but laced with panic. You crossed the room in three strides.

You dropped to your knees in front of him and slid your hand between the back of his head and the wall. When he rocked back again, his head hit your soft palm instead of the drywall.He gasped, the unexpected texture breaking his rhythm. He opened his eyes, glaring at you through the darkness. His cheeks were wet, but he wasn't sobbing. He was hyperventilating, trapped in a spiral of pure, toxic shame.

"Get out," he rasped, his voice raw.

It was the first time he had ever told you to leave. It felt like a physical blow to the chest, but you held your ground. You kept your hand behind his head.

"I'm not leaving you, Jake."

"Get out!" he yelled, a sudden, desperate burst of volume. He grabbed your wrist, trying to pry your hand away from the wall. His grip was frantic. "You are off the clock! Go away! Go back to your adult life!"

"I don't care about the clock," you said fiercely, refusing to let him push you away. You slid closer, ignoring his attempts to push you back, and grabbed both of his wrists, holding them firmly against his chest. Deep pressure. "Look at me. Look at my face."

"No!" He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away, trying to hide his face in his knees. "Don't look at me. I am... I am a freak show. I am a man-child."

He was echoing their words. The toxic data had infiltrated his system, overwriting all the confidence you had built together over the last six months.

"They were wrong, Jake," you pleaded, leaning in until your forehead was almost touching his. "They were stupid, miserable bullies who don't know anything about you."

"They were right!" he cried out, a ragged sob finally breaking through his throat. He stopped fighting your grip, his whole body slumping in defeat. "I am twenty-four years old! I wear a superhero shirt! I play with children's toys! I can't even go to a store without my mom or my... my paid caretaker to defend me!"

He pulled his hands out of your grip and buried his face in his palms, weeping openly. The sound of his heartbreak was agonizing.

"I thought I was doing good," he sobbed, his chest heaving. "I thought... I thought I was finding where I fit. But I don't fit anywhere. I am broken. The world looks at me and they see a joke. And you... you just pity me."

"Jake, no," you gasped, the tears finally spilling over your own eyelashes.

"You do," he insisted, his voice muffled by his hands. "You are beautiful. You are smart. You fix leaky pipes and drive cars and yell at scary men. You are a real adult. I am just your charity case. I am a job. You just pretend I am a man so I don't feel bad."

The absolute devastation in his voice, the deep-seated insecurity that had been completely laid bare by three cruel strangers, ripped through you. He didn't just feel humiliated; he felt unlovable. He felt like an imposter in his own life.

You didn't try to reason with him. You couldn't fight this level of emotional static with words alone.You moved. You uncrossed your legs and slid directly into his space. You didn't ask for permission. You wrapped your arms tightly around his trembling shoulders and pulled him forward, practically dragging him out of the corner until his chest hit yours.You wrapped your legs around his hips, trapping him in a tight, full-body embrace. You buried one hand in his dark, fluffy hair, pressing his head firmly against your shoulder, and wrapped your other arm tightly around his back. You applied as much deep pressure as your body could physically muster, crushing the space between you.

He stiffened violently, a gasp tearing from his throat at the sudden, overwhelming input. But he didn't fight it. He never fought your pressure.

"Listen to me," you whispered fiercely into his ear, your voice trembling with unshed tears and absolute conviction. "Listen to my voice. You are going to delete that data right now. Do you hear me?"

He let out a broken, hiccuping sob against your neck, his arms hovering uselessly at his sides.

"You are not a charity case," you continued, holding him tighter. "You have never been just a job to me. Those boys in the store? They are cowards. They tear people down because they have nothing interesting or beautiful inside their own heads. But you? Your brain is a masterpiece, Jake."

He shook his head weakly against your shoulder. "I'm a child."

"You are a man," you stated firmly, pulling back just enough to force him to look at you. You grabbed his face in both of your hands, your thumbs wiping away the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

His brown eyes were wide, bloodshot, and utterly shattered, staring at you in the dark room. "A real man isn't someone who wears a scratchy suit and drinks at a bar," you told him, staring directly into his eyes, refusing to let him look away. "A real man is someone who is kind. Someone who is honest. A real man notices when I'm sad and gives up his favorite weighted blanket to comfort me. A real man eats a burnt, awful cookie just so I don't feel like a failure. A real man picks resilient yellow weeds for me because he knows I love them."He let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

"You are the strongest, bravest, most incredible man I have ever met, Jake Sim," you whispered, your voice cracking. "And I don't pity you. I am in awe of you."

You didn't plan the next part. You didn't calculate the professional boundaries or the risk of sensory overload. You just acted on the overwhelming, desperate need to prove to him that he was loved exactly as he was.You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his.It wasn't a hesitant, chaste peck. It was firm, grounding, and full of every ounce of love and fierce protectiveness you harbored for him. You kept your hands cradling his face, anchoring him to the sensation.For one agonizing second, Jake froze. He went completely rigid beneath you. The new sensory input—the softness of your lips, the heat, the overwhelming intimacy—was massive.

But then, he melted.

A soft, desperate whimper vibrated in his throat. His hands, which had been hovering uselessly, came up and gripped your waist with a frantic strength. He didn't know what he was doing, but his instincts took over. He pressed back into the kiss, his lips moving clumsily but eagerly against yours. He clung to you like you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly turned to quicksand.

You kissed him until the shaking in his body finally, slowly began to subside. You kissed him until the frantic rhythm of his heart slowed to a manageable beat against your chest. When you finally pulled back, you kept your foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping softly for air in the quiet, dark room. Jake's eyes were closed. His eyelashes were wet with tears, but his face had lost that pale, terrified pallor. His hands were gripping your hips so tightly it almost hurt, grounding himself in your physical presence. "Did you mean it?" he whispered, his voice incredibly small, incredibly fragile. "I meant every single word," you promised, stroking your thumbs over his cheekbones. "You are my favorite person in the entire world, Jake. I don't want a 'normal' guy. I want you. With your Spider-Man shirts and your LEGOs and your beautiful, brilliant brain." He opened his eyes. The shattered glass look was gone. The insecurity hadn't vanished completely—it never did, not instantly—but the toxic shame had been washed away by the absolute certainty in your voice and the lingering heat on his lips.

He swallowed hard. "I dropped the Robie House set."

You let out a wet, tearful laugh, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "We can go back tomorrow. Or we can order it online. Whatever you want."

"Online," he decided immediately, his voice gaining a fraction of its usual factual cadence. "The crowd density in that store is heavily polluted with negative variables."

"Online it is." He took a deep breath, processing the massive emotional shift that had just occurred. He loosened his death-grip on your waist, moving his hands up to carefully, hesitantly wrap his arms around your back, returning the full-body hug. He rested his chin on your shoulder, burying his nose in your hair.

"You smell like vanilla and anger," he murmured into your neck.

You laughed again, burying your face in his soft hoodie. "I was very angry. I wanted to hit them."

"I am glad you didn't," he said seriously. "Assault is a felony. That would disrupt our routine."

"You're right. No felonies."

You sat there on the floor for a long time, tangled together in the dark. The sting of the outside world, the cruelty of strangers, was still there, but it was locked outside. Inside this room, inside the circle of your arms, he wasn't a man-child. He wasn't a broken algorithm.

"Y/N?" he whispered after a long silence.

"Yeah, Jakey?"

"When you kissed me... the static stopped completely."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. It was... highly effective. Superior to the noise-canceling headphones."

You smiled against his shoulder, your heart finally settling into a steady, peaceful rhythm. "Well, then I guess I'll just have to keep doing it. For medicinal purposes, of course."

"Agreed," he hummed, the vibration rumbling happily against your chest. "Frequent application is recommended." And as you held him in the dark, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, you knew that no matter how loud or cruel the world got, you would always be his quiet place. And he, in all his honest, beautiful complexity, would always be yours.

The aftermath of that afternoon on his bedroom floor shifted the entire axis of your relationship. The kiss had been an impulsive, desperate act of protection on your part, meant to shock him out of a spiral of toxic shame. But for Jake, it had fundamentally rewritten his internal algorithm.

You had become his baseline. In the weeks that followed as April blossomed into a warm, gentle May, Jake became undeniably, profoundly clingy. It wasn't a demanding, suffocating kind of clinginess. It was a quiet, constant gravitational pull. He simply needed to be in your orbit.

Before, he had valued his solitary space. He would spend hours in the living room building LEGOs while you read in the armchair, comfortable but separate. Now, if you sat on the sofa, he sat on the sofa, his hip pressed firmly against yours. If you stood at the kitchen island cutting his grilled cheese or pouring his milk, he would stand right behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

He initiated touch constantly. It was never light or brushing—he still hated the "spiderweb" feeling of gentle contact. Instead, it was firm and deliberate. He would reach out and wrap his long fingers securely around your wrist while you were talking to Sarah. He would drop his heavy head onto your shoulder while waiting for the microwave to beep. He would randomly press his palm flat against the center of your back as you walked down the hallway.He was seeking deep pressure, but more than that, he was seeking you. You were the variable that made the static stop, and he wanted that quiet safety as much as possible.

You didn't mind it. In fact, your heart swelled every single time he reached for you. You returned his affection in equal measure, leaning into his weight, squeezing his hand back, and resting your cheek against his fluffy, dark hair whenever he ducked his head into your neck.

Nothing was labeled. You hadn't sat down and had a formal discussion about being "boyfriend and girlfriend." You were just existing in this warm, safe bubble of mutual adoration, letting Jake process the new physical and emotional data at his own pace.

Sarah, of course, noticed the shift immediately.

It was impossible to miss. One Tuesday morning, you were standing at the stove, carefully stirring a pot of oatmeal (no lumps, perfectly smooth). Jake had padded into the kitchen wearing his tagless Spider-Man pajama pants and a soft grey t-shirt. Instead of sitting at his usual spot at the round table, he walked straight up behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the space between your neck and shoulder, and let out a long, contented sigh that vibrated against your back.You had simply smiled, leaning back against his solid chest, and kept stirring. "Morning, Jakey. Did you sleep well?"

"Eight hours and twelve minutes," he mumbled into your skin, his arms tightening in a firm squeeze. "The humidity dropped. The sheets felt correct."

Sarah had walked in right at that moment, pausing in the doorway. She froze, a mug of coffee half-raised to her lips. She stared at the way her son, who had spent his entire life flinching away from unexpected contact, was willingly, eagerly anchoring himself to another human being.She caught your eye over Jake’s shoulder. You offered her a soft, reassuring smile.Sarah’s eyes immediately filled with tears. She didn't say anything to disrupt his peace; she just pressed her lips together, gave you a shaky, incredibly grateful nod, and quietly backed out of the kitchen to give you both privacy.Later that afternoon, while Jake was in the backyard inspecting the growth of his beloved dandelions, Sarah sat next to you on the porch."I have never seen him like this," she whispered, watching him carefully step over a line of worker ants on the patio. "He’s always been so guarded. Even with me, sometimes. His sensory threshold is just so delicate. But with you... it’s like he doesn't have a threshold at all. You’re just part of him.""He makes it easy, Sarah," you said honestly, pulling your cardigan tighter against the spring breeze. "He’s so honest. There’s no guessing games with him. I know exactly where I stand."

"You know he likes you, right?" she asked gently, turning to look at you. "More than just as a support worker. I know the agency has rules, but Y/N... I am his mother. And I have never, ever seen him look at someone the way he looks at you."

"I like him too," you admitted, the truth feeling warm and bright in the cool air. "I really, really do. We’re just... taking it slow. I want him to figure out the feelings on his own timetable."

"Take all the time you need," Sarah smiled, her shoulders dropping in profound relief. "Just... thank you. For seeing him. For really seeing him."

The culmination of all those quiet, clingy weeks happened on a rainy Friday evening.

It was Movie Night. The blackout curtains were drawn, creating a cozy, insulated cave in the living room. The TV was glowing brightly with the saturated colors of Spider-Man: Far From Home.

Jake was sitting on the sofa. You were tucked seamlessly into his side. His arm was wrapped heavy and secure around your shoulders, and your legs were tangled together beneath his favorite fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket. The pressure of the blanket combined with the solid weight of his body pressing against yours was incredibly grounding.

On the screen, Peter Parker was awkwardly fumbling through a conversation with MJ in Venice, clearly overwhelmed by his circumstances and his desperate, clumsy desire to just tell her how he felt.

Jake was usually hyper-focused during Marvel movies, cataloging the physics of the web-shooters or the structural damage to the buildings. But tonight, he was distracted.

His fingers were tracing a repetitive, rhythmic circle on your upper arm. One, two, three. One, two, three. It was a self-soothing stim. He had been doing it for twenty minutes."Is the volume okay?" you whispered, tilting your head up to look at his profile. The blue and red light from the television painted sharp angles across his jawline."The volume is at level 14. It is optimal," he replied softly.

He didn't look down at you. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, but his brow was furrowed in deep concentration. He stopped tracing circles on your arm.

"Y/N?" he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest against your side.

"Yeah, Jake?"

"Peter's heart rate is elevated," he observed, watching the animated panic on Tom Holland's face. "He is experiencing a stress response. But there is no immediate physical threat. The elemental monsters are not present in this scene."

"No," you agreed softly. "There are no monsters. He's just stressed because he's trying to talk to MJ."

"Because he wants to give her the black dahlia necklace," Jake stated factually. "Because he likes her."

"Exactly. He likes her, and he's terrified of messing it up. Feelings can cause a stress response too, Jake. Adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A fast heart rate."

Jake went completely still. The slight, rhythmic bouncing of his foot beneath the weighted blanket stopped. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I have been experiencing a stress response," he said. The admission was quiet, almost a whisper, as if he were confessing a systemic error.

Your heart did a tiny, nervous flip. You shifted slightly under the heavy blanket, turning your body more toward him. "Are you experiencing one right now? Is the environment too loud?"

"No," he said quickly, his grip on your shoulder tightening in a firm, reassuring squeeze. "The environment is safe. The blackout curtains are closed. The blanket is heavy. You are here. The variables are all controlled."

"Then what's causing the stress response, Jakey?"

He finally pulled his eyes away from the television screen. He looked down at you. His dark brown eyes were wide, intensely focused, and swimming with an emotion so raw and heavy it practically took your breath away.

"You," he said simply.

You froze. "Me?"

"Yes," he nodded, his expression deadpan but his eyes betraying a frantic, searching vulnerability. "I have been analyzing the data for weeks. Ever since... ever since the incident at the hobby store. When you kissed me. My baseline changed."

He pulled his hand away from your shoulder, bringing it up to rest flat against the center of his own chest, right over his heart.

"It feels heavy in here," he explained, his voice trembling slightly as he tried to articulate the abstract chaos inside his mind. "But it's not the bad heavy. It’s not a meltdown. It’s like... like when I put the weighted blanket on, but it’s on the inside of my ribs."He reached out and carefully took your hand, lacing his long, elegant fingers through yours. He squeezed firmly.

"When you are not here, the static comes back. When you leave to go to your apartment, I count the hours until 8:50 AM when your car pulls into the driveway. I check the window. And when I see you wearing your quiet white shoes... my heart beats very fast. Like Peter Parker." Tears immediately pricked the back of your eyes. The absolute, unvarnished honesty of his words was staggering. There were no games. There was no posturing. He was laying his entire internal processor bare for you to see. "Jake," you breathed, your voice thick.

"I didn't know how to categorize the data," he continued, his thumb rubbing firmly over your knuckles. "I read the diagnostic criteria for anxiety, but the symptoms didn't match perfectly. Because anxiety makes me want to hide. This feeling... makes me want to be exactly where I am. Sitting right next to you. With no gap between the cushions."

He looked back at the TV for a split second, pointing at Peter and MJ, who were now sharing a quiet, charged moment on the screen.

"Peter feels it," Jake said, looking back down at you. "He feels the heavy, fast thing in his chest. And he calls it love." A single tear spilled over your eyelashes, tracking hotly down your cheek. Jake saw it. He immediately let go of your hand, his face falling into a mask of panic. "You are leaking. I said the wrong thing. I processed the variable incorrectly—"

"No, no, Jake, look at me," you interrupted quickly, reaching up with both hands to cup his face. You held his cheeks firmly, applying the deep pressure he needed to stay grounded in the moment. "I'm not crying because I'm sad. I'm crying because I'm happy. Because it's a good heavy feeling."

He stopped pulling away. He leaned into your palms, his wide eyes searching yours for confirmation. "It is a good variable?"

"It’s the best variable," you sobbed out a watery laugh, swiping your thumbs under his eyes. "You're saying you love me, Jake?"

"Yes," he said. He didn't hesitate. He didn't stutter. He looked at you with an innocence and a certainty that shattered every doubt you had ever harbored. "I love you. I love your quiet shoes. I love that you know I need the cheese cut into squares. I love that you fought those loud men for me. You are my safe place, Y/N. I love you."

Your heart took a massive, soaring leap against your ribs. You pulled his face down and pressed your lips firmly against his.

It was better than the first kiss. The first kiss had been born of panic and desperation. This kiss was born of absolute, undeniable clarity. Jake responded instantly, his hands coming down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He kissed you with that same meticulous, focused attention he applied to everything he cared about, learning the exact pressure and rhythm that made you sigh into his mouth.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. Jake’s glasses were slightly askew, and his cheeks were flushed a beautiful, vibrant pink.

"I love you too, Jake," you whispered, resting your forehead against his. "So much. My chest gets heavy when I look at you, too."

He let out a long, shuddering exhale, a massive weight lifting off his broad shoulders. He bumped his nose affectionately against yours. "Optimal," he whispered, a huge, gummy smile breaking across his face. You laughed, tangling your fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. "Since we both have the same data... does this mean you want to be my boyfriend?"

Jake paused. He blinked, processing the terminology. He tilted his head slightly.

"Boyfriend," he repeated slowly. "And you would be my girlfriend."

"If you want to be."

He thought about it. "Labels are useful. They categorize relationships so the boundaries are clear. A girlfriend is a primary, permanent variable."

"I would very much like to be a permanent variable, Jake."

His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. "Yes. I will be your boyfriend. That is... a very pleasing symmetry."

"It's perfect symmetry." He pulled you back against his side, wrapping his arm securely around your shoulders, tighter than before. He dragged the weighted blanket higher up over your chests, cocooning the two of you in the dim, flashing light of the television.

"Y/N?" he asked softly, resting his cheek on the top of your head.

"Yeah, boyfriend?" you teased gently. He hummed, a deep, happy vibration that rattled pleasantly against your ribs. "I do not need to buy you a black dahlia necklace like Peter Parker, do I? Because you do not like jewelry that clicks against the table. And glass is fragile."

You couldn't help the joyous laugh that bubbled out of you. "No, Jake. No glass necklaces required."

"Good," he said practically. "I will buy you more smooth salsa instead. It is a superior investment."

"I'd love nothing more." As Spider-Man swung across the screen, saving the city from chaos, you sat safely in the dark, anchored by the weight of the blanket and the boy who held you. There was no more static. There was no more confusion about where you fit into his life. You were dating Jake Sim, and as he pressed a firm, deliberate kiss to your hairline, you knew absolutely that you had found exactly where you belonged.

The transition from support worker to girlfriend wasn't just an emotional shift; it required a logistical one, too.

Two days after that rainy movie night on the couch, you walked into the drab, fluorescent-lit office of New Horizons Support Services and placed your ID badge on your supervisor's desk. You explained that you could no longer remain objective. You didn't give them the deeply personal details, but you told them enough: the professional boundary had dissolved, and it was no longer ethical for you to clock in and bill the state for the time you spent at the Sim household.

Your supervisor had sighed, citing "high turnover" again, but you didn't care. You walked out of that office feeling lighter than air.

You drove straight to Jake’s house. When you walked through the front door, you weren't wearing your agency polo. You were just wearing a comfortable sweater and your quiet white Converse. Jake was sitting at the kitchen island, meticulously peeling an apple in one continuous ribbon. Sarah was at the stove, boiling water for pasta. "I quit my job today," you announced softly, standing in the archway.

Sarah froze, the wooden spoon pausing in the pot. She turned to look at you, panic momentarily flashing in her dark eyes. "You... you quit? Y/N, what happened? Did the agency—"

"No, Mom," Jake interrupted. He didn't look up from his apple, but his voice was remarkably steady, imbued with a quiet, undeniable pride. The apple peel fell to the cutting board in a perfect spiral. "She did not quit me. She quit the agency. It is a conflict of interest for her to be on the payroll." Sarah blinked, looking back and forth between the two of you. "Conflict of interest?"

Jake finally looked up. He set the paring knife down carefully. He walked over to where you were standing in the archway. He didn't hesitate, didn't check the room for variables. He simply reached out, took your hand in his, and intertwined his long fingers with yours. He gave your hand a firm, grounding squeeze.

"Y/N is my girlfriend now," Jake stated, looking at his mother with absolute clarity. "She is my permanent variable. We are dating."

For a full ten seconds, the kitchen was dead silent. The only sound was the rolling boil of the pasta water.

Then, Sarah dropped the wooden spoon. It clattered against the stove. She covered her mouth with both hands, a loud, wet sob escaping her throat.

"Oh, my God," she wept, the tears spilling over her cheeks in a flood of sheer, unadulterated joy. "Oh, Jakey." She crossed the kitchen in three quick strides and wrapped her arms around both of you, pulling you into a crushing, messy hug. Jake stiffened slightly at the suddenness of the contact, but he didn't pull away. He just patted his mother’s back awkwardly with his free hand, while keeping his other hand locked tightly in yours.

"I am so happy," Sarah cried into your shoulder, squeezing you tight. "I am so, so happy for both of you. Y/N, you... you are family. You were already family, but this... thank you. Thank you for loving him."

"I couldn't stop if I tried, Sarah," you whispered, wiping your own eyes.

From that day on, it wasn't a job anymore. You were just taking care of your love, and he, in his own brilliant, meticulous way, was taking care of you.

As the damp chill of spring gave way to the heavy, golden warmth of summer, Jake bloomed.The boy who used to flinch away from unexpected contact became entirely, wonderfully unabashed about seeking it from you. He didn't care who was watching. If he needed grounding, he took it.

You started going to the local metro parks together. It was a massive sensory step for him—parks were unpredictable. There were off-leash dogs, shouting children, and the sudden, sharp crack of baseball bats from the nearby diamonds. But he wanted to go, because he knew you liked the walking trails.

To manage the input, he wore his noise-canceling headphones, a pair of dark polarized sunglasses to cut the glare of the sun, and, most importantly, he held your hand.

Jake’s hand-holding wasn't a casual, loose grip. It was a firm, deliberate anchor. He would press the palm of his hand flush against yours, locking your fingers together so tightly you could feel his pulse beating against your skin.

"Deep pressure," he would murmur, adjusting his grip as you walked down the shaded, tree-lined paths. "It keeps the static away. You are my tether."

"I've got you, Spidey," you would smile, swinging your joined arms gently.

One particularly warm afternoon in late June, a golden retriever slipped its leash and came bounding toward you on the trail, barking excitedly. Before you could even react, Jake stepped directly in front of you, placing his body between you and the dog. He was terrified of loud, unpredictable animals, his shoulders hitching up to his ears, but his first instinct was to shield you.

When the owner ran up apologizing and leashed the dog, Jake let out a long, shaky breath."You stepped in front of me," you said softly, rubbing his tense back as he watched the dog walk away.

"I am the boyfriend," he stated, his voice trembling slightly from the adrenaline, but laced with a fierce, protective logic. "The boyfriend protects the girlfriend from biological anomalies. It is in the protocol."

You had pulled him down by the strings of his hoodie and kissed him right there on the trail, surrounded by the buzzing cicadas and the summer heat. He had melted into the kiss instantly, his hands finding your waist, the fear of the dog entirely overridden by the overwhelming, consuming input of your lips against his.

Summer evenings in Jake's backyard became your sanctuary.

When the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple, pink, and deep, saturated orange, the temperature would drop to a comfortable coolness. The neighborhood would quiet down, and the sensory input of the world would finally dial back to a manageable hum.

One evening in July, you had brought a cheap, plastic bottle of bubbles from the grocery store.Jake had been sitting on the patio chair, watching the fireflies begin to blink in the grass. You sat on the grass in front of him, unscrewed the cap, and blew a stream of bubbles into the warm evening air.Jake’s eyes went wide. He watched the translucent spheres float upward, catching the dying light of the sunset.

"They are perfectly spherical," he breathed, leaning forward, utterly captivated. "Surface tension forces the liquid into the shape with the least surface area. It is... mathematically flawless."

"They're pretty, aren't they?" you smiled, blowing another stream toward him.

He reached out and caught one on the tip of his finger. It didn't pop immediately. He brought it closer to his face, his dark eyes reflecting the shimmering, rainbow-colored surface of the soap film."Thin-film interference," he whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The light waves are bouncing off the inner and outer boundaries of the soap film. They are interfering with each other to create the colors. Magenta. Cyan. Yellow. It is chemistry and physics working together."

Pop. The bubble vanished, leaving a tiny drop of soapy water on his skin. He laughed. It was a rare, full-bellied sound that bubbled up from his chest, pure and bright.

"Do it again," he requested, his eyes shining.

You spent an hour blowing bubbles for him. He didn't just watch them; he analyzed them. He tried to catch them without popping them. He tracked their flight paths, calculating the wind currents. And every time he laughed, your heart swelled until you thought it might burst.He looked so beautiful in the fading light. He was stripped of all his anxieties, all his fears about fitting into the "normal" world. He was just a brilliant, joyful man marveling at the physics of a soap bubble.

When the bottle was empty, he slid off the patio chair and sat on the grass beside you. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head on your shoulder.

"That was a superior activity," he murmured, his breath warm against your neck. "The visual input was highly stimulating, but not overwhelming. It was... soft."

"We can get more tomorrow," you promised, resting your cheek against the top of his fluffy hair.

"Yes. But only the brand with the pink wand. The fluid viscosity was excellent."

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his chest and pulling him backward until you were both lying flat on the cool grass, looking up at the first stars pricking through the twilight. He rolled onto his side, throwing a heavy leg over yours and burying his face in your chest.

"I love you, Y/N," he whispered into the fabric of your shirt, his voice drowsy and content.

"I love you too, Jakey."

As the summer wore on, your integration into his daily life became seamless. You didn't just watch him build LEGOs anymore; you built them with him.

It was a profound level of trust. Jake was highly territorial over his LEGO sets. They were his system of order in a chaotic world. But one rainy August afternoon, he pushed the massive instruction booklet for the LEGO Rivendell set toward the middle of the coffee table.

"You may assemble the roof tiles," he announced, handing you a plastic sorting tray filled with hundreds of tiny, earth-toned pieces.

You took the tray, deeply honored. "Are you sure? I don't want to mess up the symmetry."

"I have observed your fine motor skills," he stated pragmatically, clicking a wall piece into place. "You are careful. You do not force the bricks if they resist. And... I like seeing your hands next to mine."

You spent four hours sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor. You learned the specific, satisfying snap of a perfectly placed tile. You learned not to talk when he was counting studs. It was an intimate, quiet language you developed together.

When you finished the Elven council ring, Jake stopped. He looked at the structure, then looked at you."We built this," he said, the realization settling heavily on him. "Together as a unit."

"We make a good team."He reached out and traced the edge of the plastic roof you had assembled. "My life used to be a solo build. I did not want anyone to touch my pieces because they always knocked them over. But you... you reinforce the structure. You make the build stronger."By the time the leaves began to turn the vibrant reds and oranges of October, months had passed since the kiss.And with the passage of time came the deepest intimacy of all: spending the night.

The first time it happened, it hadn't been planned. You had been watching a marathon of animated movies, and the heavy rain outside had lulled you to sleep on the sofa, your head pillowed on his chest.

When you woke up, it was 2:00 AM. Jake was still awake. He was sitting perfectly still, not moving a muscle, his arm wrapped tightly around you.

"Jake?" you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Why didn't you wake me up? Your arm has to be numb."

"My arm is numb," he confirmed softly. "But you were in the REM cycle of sleep. Your breathing was deep. Interrupting the REM cycle causes cognitive fatigue. And... I liked the weight of you. It is better than the blanket."

You had smiled sleepily, stretching your stiff back. "I should probably drive home."

Jake’s grip on your waist tightened instantly. His heart rate spiked against your cheek.

"The roads are slick," he said, his voice rising in that familiar, anxious pitch. "The visibility is reduced by 60%. The statistical probability of an accident is elevated."

He looked down at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading in the dim light of the living room. "Please do not drive. The variables are unsafe. My bed is... it is a king size. There is room. You can sleep there."

You hadn't hesitated. "Okay. I'll stay."

Sleeping in Jake’s bed was a sensory experience in itself. His mattress was firm. His sheets were 100% Egyptian cotton, washed in unscented detergent because artificial lavender made his nose itch.

When you climbed into the bed, wearing a spare oversized Spider-Man t-shirt he had given you, he immediately pulled his heavy, fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket over both of you."Is the weight acceptable?" he asked anxiously, hovering over you. "It can be crushing to neurotypical nervous systems."

"It feels like a hug," you assured him, settling into the pillows.

Jake climbed in beside you. He didn't leave a gap. He closed the distance immediately, turning on his side and wrapping himself around you like an octopus. He pulled your back flush against his chest, throwing his heavy arm over your waist and tangling his long legs entirely with yours.

He buried his face in the back of your neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo.

"Optimal," he whispered into your skin.

You reached down and laced your fingers through his where they rested on your stomach. "Goodnight, Jake."

"Goodnight, Y/N."

You learned that Jake didn't move in his sleep. Once he found his anchoring position against you, he was dead weight. He slept deeply and heavily, his breathing a steady, soothing rhythm against your spine.

Waking up to him was even better.The first time you opened your eyes in his bed, the morning sun was filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. Jake was already awake.He was propped up on one elbow, his chin resting on his hand, just staring at you. His hair was an absolute bird's nest of fluffy, chaotic curls sticking up in every direction. His face was soft, relaxed, completely devoid of the tension he carried during the day.

"You have a freckle on your left eyelid," he whispered, his voice deep and raspy from sleep. "I never noticed it before. It is very small. Exactly 1.5 millimeters."

You smiled lazily, reaching up to push a stray curl out of his eyes. "Good morning to you too, Spidey."

"You look different when you sleep," he observed, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Your facial muscles lose their tension. You look very peaceful. It made my chest feel heavy again. The good heavy."

"I was peaceful because I was sleeping next to you," you murmured, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt until his chest rested against yours.

He hummed happily, nuzzling his nose against your jaw. Waking up together became a staple of your weekends. You learned that he needed exactly ten minutes of quiet transition time before speaking about complex topics. You learned that he liked it when you traced light patterns on his bare back to help him wake up his sensory receptors.You learned that you had never, ever felt a love like this before.

It was a love completely stripped of games, manipulation, and societal expectations. It was a love built on raw honesty, calculated variables, and an intense, unwavering loyalty.

Now, exactly six months since that rainy New Year's Eve, you were sitting in the living room on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

The Thanksgiving break was approaching, and the air outside was biting and crisp. Inside, the fireplace was crackling.

Jake was sitting on the floor, leaning back between your legs as you sat on the couch. This was his favorite position. He called it "the grounding chair." You were running your fingers slowly and rhythmically through his dark hair, scratching gently at his scalp.He had his eyes closed, practically purring.

"The tactile input is superior," he murmured, his head tilting back against your knee to give you better access. You smiled, looking down at him. He was beautiful. He was so incredibly bright. You thought about the file you had read a year ago. Difficulty establishing rapport. Rigid. High support needs. They had missed everything that mattered. They missed the way his mind was a kaleidoscope of logic and empathy. They missed the way he noticed the iridescent colors in a soap bubble. They missed the fierce, protective way he would step in front of a strange dog for the person he loved.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking up at you upside down."I'm thinking about you," you said softly, cupping his face in your hands.

"Is the data positive?" he asked, a small, teasing lilt in his voice. He was learning how to joke with you, understanding the cadence of playful banter.

"The data is overwhelmingly positive," you assured him, leaning down to kiss him upside down, like Spider-Man.

He smiled against your lips. He reached up, his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrists."I am operating at 100% battery," Jake whispered, looking at you with those deep, liquid brown eyes that held his entire, beautiful soul. "And you are the power source. I love you, Y/N."

"I love you too, Jake. Forever."

"Forever is a mathematical concept denoting infinite time," he stated, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I accept those parameters."

He closed his eyes and leaned back against you, completely at peace, and you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that your parameters were perfectly, infinitely aligned.

The seven-month mark of your relationship with Jake, the world outside the house had grown cold, brittle, and gray. But inside the house, the atmosphere was a saturated, brilliant gold.

You knew the exact rhythm of his breathing when he was relaxed; you knew the precise weight of the fifteen-pound blanket; you knew that when the world got too loud, you were the quiet room he retreated into.

It was a Friday night. The wind was howling outside, rattling the windowpanes with a chaotic, unpredictable rhythm that would have usually sent Jake into a spiral of sensory defense. But tonight, the blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the unpredictable elements away. The living room was bathed in the warm, colorful glow of the television screen.

You were having a movie night. It was a comedic, wildly colorful animation film about a chaotic family trying to save the world from a robot apocalypse. Jake had initially been skeptical of the plot's disregard for basic physics, but he had quickly become captivated by the vibrant, symmetrical animation style and the logical, deadpan humor of the family’s pug.For the last hour, you had been spooning on the sofa.

It was a position that had required careful calibration over the last few months. Jake’s sensory processing meant that light, feathery touches felt like crawling insects on his skin. But deep, firm pressure was his anchor. So, he lay behind you, his broad chest pressed flush and firm against your back. His heavy arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach, grounding you both. His long legs were tangled with yours beneath the plush velvet blanket.

He was incredibly warm, a human furnace radiating a steady, comforting heat through his vintage, tagless t-shirt.On the screen, the animated pug did something ridiculous, and a bright, bubbly laugh escaped your lips. Behind you, Jake laughed —a bright, resonant vibration in his chest that you could feel all the way down your spine. It was his version of a laugh, a happy, contented sound that meant his battery was operating at optimal capacity."The canine’s center of gravity is entirely disproportionate to its mass," Jake murmured into the shell of your ear, his breath sending a pleasant shiver down your neck. "It is impossible for it to run that fast."

"It's a cartoon, Jakey," you smiled, tilting your head back slightly to rest against his shoulder. "Physics take a holiday in cartoons."

"Physics never take a holiday," he corrected softly, his nose brushing against your hair. "But I will suspend my disbelief because the color palette is soothing."

You relaxed further into his hold, feeling utterly, completely safe. But after another ten minutes of lying in the exact same position, biology demanded a shift. Your left arm, which was tucked beneath your body and wedged against the cushions, was beginning to tingle uncomfortably.

"Jake," you whispered, squirming just a fraction. "My arm is falling asleep. The nerve is pinched."

"Paresthesia," he noted immediately, his grip on your waist loosening just enough to allow you to move. "You need to restore the blood flow."

"Yeah. Just give me a second."

You pushed backward against him to free your trapped arm, using your hips to gain leverage against the cushions. You shifted your weight, pressing your backside firmly against his lap to brace yourself as you pulled your arm free and rolled your shoulders. As you pushed your hips back into him, Jake made a sound you had never heard before. It wasn't his happy, vibrating hum. It wasn't the sharp, panicked gasp of a sensory overload. It was a low, breathy whimper that hitched in the back of his throat—a sound that was raw, involuntary, and entirely instinctual.

You froze. Before you could ask if you had accidentally hurt him, you felt it. Pressed flush against the soft curve of your backside, right through the fabric of your sweatpants and his soft flannel pajamas, was a distinct, solid ridge of heat.

He was hard.For a microsecond, the living room was dead silent, save for the cartoon explosions on the TV screen. You stopped breathing, your mind racing to process the new variable. Jake’s body, however, didn't wait for his logical brain to catch up.

Driven by a sudden, overwhelming biological imperative, Jake’s hips twitched. He pushed forward, pressing that hard, aching heat deliberately into your backside, seeking the friction.Another soft, ragged moan escaped his parted lips, hot against your neck. His heavy arm, which was still wrapped around your waist, suddenly tightened, his large hand gripping your hip with a frantic, desperate pressure.

"Jake?" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, erratic flutter against your ribs.

He jerked slightly, as if your voice had snapped him out of a trance. The physical pressure against your back remained, but his breathing had turned shallow and erratic.

"I... I apologize," he stammered, his voice thick and wavering. He tried to pull his hips back, a sudden wave of panic radiating from his tense muscles. "I did not calculate that reaction. The friction... when you moved... the sensory input was massive. It bypassed my primary processor." You didn't let him pull away. You reached down and placed your hand firmly over his where it gripped your hip, anchoring him to you.

"Jake, it's okay," you said softly, keeping your voice low and steady. "You don't have to apologize. It's just biology. It's a natural variable."

"My heart rate is elevated to 110 beats per minute," he whispered, his chest heaving against your back. "The blood flow has heavily redirected. The physical sensation is... it is loud, Y/N. It is very loud."

"Is it a bad loud?" you asked carefully. "Is it overwhelming like a meltdown, or... is it something else?" He went still, analyzing the internal data. He pressed his forehead against the back of your shoulder, taking a shaky breath.

"It is not a meltdown," he confessed, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register. "It does not feel like the static. It feels like... gravity. Like I am being pulled toward the center of the earth. It is a very heavy, concentrated need. I want..." He swallowed hard. "I want to press against you again. The pressure felt... optimal."

Your pulse skyrocketed. You had navigated countless sensory challenges together, but this was uncharted territory. Over the last seven months, your physical intimacy had been limited to deep kisses, fierce hugs, and the quiet comfort of sleeping tangled together. You had let him set the pace, knowing that the intense vulnerability of sex could easily turn into a sensory nightmare if not handled with absolute care and trust.

But right now, his body was telling him what he needed, and he was trusting you enough to vocalize it.

You slowly turned over in his arms, shifting until you were facing him on the sofa.

His dark eyes were wide, blown out, and swimming with a chaotic mix of desire, confusion, and vulnerable trust. His chest was rising and falling rapidly under his t-shirt. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, making him look devastatingly beautiful in the flickering light of the television.

"You can press against me, Jake," you whispered, reaching up to cup his face in both hands, applying the firm, grounding pressure he loved. "If you want to. We can explore this data together. But only if you feel safe."

He leaned into your palms, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. "I always feel safe with you. You are my permanent variable."

"Do you want to turn the TV off?" you asked. "To reduce the audio-visual input?"

He opened his eyes and nodded once, a jerky, decisive motion. "Yes. The flashing lights are distracting. I only want to focus on one input. I want to focus on you."

You reached for the remote on the coffee table and clicked the power button. The room was instantly plunged into a soft, velvety darkness, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. The silence in the room was profound, amplifying the sound of your mingled breathing.

"Is the dark okay?" you murmured, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones.

"The dark is good," he rasped, his hands sliding from your waist to grip your thighs. "It limits the variables. I can only feel."

"Okay," you breathed. "We're going to go very slow, Jake. If anything feels like too much—if the texture is wrong, or the pressure changes, or the static gets too loud—you just squeeze my hand three times. The emergency exit. And we stop immediately. Deal?"

"Deal," he agreed, his voice trembling slightly with anticipation. "Three squeezes."

You moved closer, swinging one leg over his hips so you were straddling him on the wide cushions of the sofa. You settled your weight down carefully.

The moment your center pressed directly against the hard ridge behind the zipper of his flannel pants, Jake let out a sharp, fractured gasp. His head fell back against the armrest, his eyes squeezing shut as his hands clamped down hard on your hips.

"Deep pressure," he groaned, his hips bucking upward instinctively to meet your weight. "Y/N... the pressure is... oh."

"I know, baby," you whispered, leaning down to press your lips to the erratic pulse beating wildly at the base of his throat. "I'm right here. Just feel it."

You began to move, establishing a slow, rhythmic rock against him. You knew better than to be unpredictable. He needed a pattern. Forward, back. Press, release. You created a physical metronome with your body, allowing his sensory processor to latch onto the predictability of the friction. Jake’s response was breathtaking. Stripped of his anxieties and grounded by the heavy weight of your body, he surrendered completely to the sensation. His hands roamed over your back, mapping the curve of your spine with firm, deliberate strokes. He was learning the topography of your body in a whole new way. "I need..." he panted, opening his eyes to look up at you. "The barrier. The fabric is creating a secondary friction that is confusing my receptors. I want... skin."

"Okay," you said, your own voice thick with desire. "Let's remove the barriers."

You sat up, reaching for the hem of your sweater. You pulled it over your head and tossed it onto the floor, leaving you in just your bra. Jake’s dark eyes widened, tracing the exposed skin of your chest and stomach. He didn't reach out with a light, tentative touch; he placed his large, warm palms flat against your ribcage, anchoring himself to your warmth.

"Symmetrical," he whispered, a breathless awe in his voice. "You are structurally perfect."

You smiled, a rush of pure affection warming your blood. You reached down and grabbed the hem of his vintage t-shirt, pulling it up and over his fluffy hair. His chest was broad and pale, his muscles tense and defined under the amber light.

You leaned down, pressing your bare chest flush against his.

The skin-to-skin contact was electric. Jake let out a long, shuddering sigh, wrapping his arms around you in a crushing, desperate hug.

"The thermal transfer is optimal," he murmured into your hair, his heart hammering against your breasts. "You feel like... you feel like the sun, Y/N."

"You feel amazing, Jake."

You reached down, your fingers fumbling with the waistband of your sweatpants. You shimmied them down your legs, kicking them off the edge of the sofa. Jake followed suit, his hands shaking slightly as he shoved his flannel pajama pants and boxers down, kicking them away with a clumsy urgency.

When you settled back over him, entirely bare against him, the reality of the moment hit him. It was his first time. Twenty-four years of guarding his body against a world that was too loud, too bright, and too sharp, and he was opening all the doors for you.

"Y/N," he whispered, his hands gripping your waist tightly. Panic flickered in the depths of his brown eyes, a sudden spike in his data processing. "I do not have the manual for this. I have read the biological mechanics online, but... the practical application... what if I malfunction? What if my rhythm is inefficient?"

You stopped moving. You cupped his face again, bringing your forehead down to rest against his."There is no manual, Jake," you promised him, repeating the words you had told him months ago when he felt broken. "There is no malfunction. This isn't a test with a pass or fail grade. This is just you and me, talking to each other in a different way. You just have to tell me what feels good, and I’ll tell you what feels good. We write our own code."

He blinked, processing the logic. "We write our own code," he echoed.

"Exactly. And I promise you, everything you do is perfect to me."

He let out a shaky breath, the panic subsiding. "Okay. Initiate the sequence."

You reached down, guiding his thick, incredibly hot length to your entrance. He was trembling beneath you, a fine, high-frequency vibration of pure anticipation.

"I'm going to go very slow," you whispered, locking your eyes with his. "Deep pressure. Ready?"

"Ready."

You sank down.The entry was a slow, deliberate stretch. You took him inch by inch, allowing his body to process the immense, overwhelming sensation of being enveloped.When you were seated fully at the base, you stopped.

Jake’s reaction was instantaneous and profound. His eyes rolled back slightly, his jaw dropping open in a silent shout. His hands flew up, not to your hips, but to your back, pulling you down into a crushing, desperate embrace. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body going rigid as he absorbed the data.

"Jake?" you whispered, your hands stroking his hair. "Are you okay? Is it too much?"

He shook his head frantically against your collarbone.

"No," he gasped, a wet, fractured sound tearing from his throat. "It is not too much. It is... everything. It is all the data in the universe at once, but it is organized. It is quiet. Y/N, you are so quiet."

He meant it as the highest compliment his brain could formulate. You were the only thing in his life that silenced the chaotic noise of the world.

He didn't wait for you to establish the rhythm. His instincts, buried under layers of logic and sensory defense, roared to life. He surged upward, his hips snapping off the cushions, driving himself deep inside you. You cried out, a loud, breathless sound of pleasure that echoed in the dark room. The sound was a positive variable for him. It fueled him.He began to thrust. It wasn't clumsy, and it wasn't hesitant. It was a firm, relentless, driving rhythm. He found the mathematical perfection of the friction and locked onto it. Up, down. Press, release. He held your hips in a vice grip, ensuring the angle never deviated, maximizing the sensory input for both of you.

"Jake... oh my god, Jake," you moaned, your hands bracing on his broad shoulders as you rode the incredible wave of his momentum.

"Is the depth acceptable?" he panted, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, sweat glistening on his forehead. "Is the velocity optimal?"

"It's perfect," you gasped, leaning down to capture his lips in a fierce, messy kiss. "Don't stop. You feel so good."

He growled into your mouth—a primal, masculine sound that sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. The logical, quiet young man who meticulously sorted LEGO bricks was completely subsumed by the overwhelming, consuming fire of his love for you. The pleasure began to build, a tightening coil of heat that radiated outward. The sensory input in the room narrowed down to just him—the smell of his clean sweat, the sound of his ragged breathing, the solid, heavy impact of his hips against yours. "I'm going to fall," he whimpered suddenly, breaking the kiss. His rhythm became erratic, frantic. His eyes squeezed shut, his head tossing back against the armrest. "Y/N, my system is overloading. The pressure is too high. It's too high!" He wasn't panicking; he was climaxing.

"Let it overload, Jakey," you cried out, feeling your own climax rushing forward to meet his. "I've got you! Just let go!"

With a final, desperate, upward surge, Jake broke.

A high, fractured whimper tore from his throat—a sound of absolute, overwhelming release. He froze, his body bowing upward off the couch, every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring. He buried himself as deeply inside you as physically possible, his hands digging into your lower back to anchor you to him as he flooded you with his warmth.

The intensity of his release pushed you right over the edge. You shattered around him, your internal muscles spasming and milking him dry, crying out his name into the quiet, dark room.For a long, endless minute, neither of you moved. You lay collapsed against his chest, your breathing ragged and out of sync.

Slowly, the tension drained out of Jake's body. He slumped back against the cushions, his arms wrapping limply but securely around your waist.

You lifted your head, your hair falling in a messy curtain around your face, and looked down at him.His eyes were closed. His chest was heaving. And tracing down the sides of his flushed, sweat-dampened cheeks were two steady streams of tears.

Your heart constricted in a sudden panic. You reached down, wiping your thumb across his cheek. "Jake? Baby, what's wrong? Why are you crying? Did it hurt? Was the static too loud?"He opened his eyes. They were bloodshot, wet, and incredibly bright.He looked up at you, reaching a trembling hand up to cover yours where it rested on his cheek. He turned his face into your palm, pressing a kiss to your skin.

"It didn't hurt," he whispered, a watery, brilliant smile breaking across his face. "The static is completely gone. There is no noise left in my head at all."

"Then why are you leaking?" you asked softly, using his terminology.

"Because my capacity is full," he explained, his voice thick with a profound, overwhelming happiness. "I processed the data of the physical connection, and I combined it with the data of my emotional attachment to you. The resulting sum was larger than my internal storage. It had to spill over."

He let out a shaky, joyful laugh, pulling you back down until your ear was resting right over his racing heart."I am crying because I am exactly where I belong," he murmured into your hair, wrapping his arms around you like a shield. "You are my favorite variable, Y/N. You are the only math that makes sense."You closed your eyes, a few happy tears of your own slipping onto his chest, and held your permanent variable as tightly as you could.

Epilogue 

The two years following that rainy autumn night unfolded with a rhythm that was entirely your own. Your relationship with Jake wasn't built on grand, unpredictable gestures or spontaneous cross-country road trips. It was built on the quiet, steady accretion of reliable data. It was built on Tuesday grilled cheese, the specific hum of the dryer on Thursdays, and the absolute certainty that when the world outside grew too sharp, you were each other's soft landing.

The seasons cycled —the oppressive, humid summers fading into the stark, brilliant colors of autumn, giving way to the biting cold of winter, and melting back into the muddy hope of spring. Through it all, Jake continued to bloom.

He still wore his Spider-Man pajama pants. He still organized his LEGOs by size, function, and color. He still required a predictable morning routine to conserve his daily battery. He was still undeniably, beautifully Jake. But the fear that had once defined his interactions with the world had largely dissipated. He was anchored. He had found where he fit.

It was a Saturday morning in late May. The air was warm, and the morning sun was filtering through the kitchen windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air.

You were sitting at the kitchen island, wearing one of Jake's oversized grey hoodies, nursing a mug of coffee. You were twenty-five now, working full-time at a local community center. Your imposter syndrome hadn't vanished completely, but you no longer felt like a fraud playing at being an adult. You had a handle on your life, mostly.

Jake was standing at the counter, completely absorbed in the meticulous preparation of his breakfast. Two scrambled eggs (uniform yellow), three strips of bacon (cut into one-inch squares). "The humidity is rising," Jake noted, spearing a piece of bacon with his fork. He didn't look away from his plate. "It is currently at 68%. By mid-afternoon, it will likely exceed my comfortable threshold. My hair will experience frizz."

"We can stay inside," you offered, taking a sip of your coffee. "We have the new Star Wars puzzle. The 3,000-piece one."

Jake paused mid-chew. He swallowed and took a deliberate sip of his water.

"No," he said, finally looking up at you. His dark brown eyes were serious, but there was a subtle, nervous energy thrumming beneath the surface. He was tapping his left foot against the linoleum—a sign of processing complex variables. "I have calculated a different trajectory for today. I require a change in routine."

You lowered your mug, intrigued. A voluntary change in routine was rare. "Oh? What's the new variable?"

"I would like to visit the city Park," he announced, his posture straightening slightly. "The one with the botanical gardens. The rhododendrons are currently in peak bloom. They are highly saturated in color."

"The Park on a Saturday?" you asked, verifying the data. "It might be crowded, Jakey. High density."

"I am aware," he said, reaching up to adjust the collar of his t-shirt. "I have packed my noise-canceling headphones. I have assessed my battery level. I am operating at 98% capacity. I believe I can manage the input. It is... important."

There was a weight to the word important that made your heart skip a tiny beat. You had learned to trust his self-assessments. If he said he could handle it, he meant it.

"Okay," you smiled warmly. "Let's go see the rhododendrons."

The drive to the Park was filled with the familiar, comforting silence of Jake's lo-fi hip hop playlist. He sat in the passenger seat, his fingers tapping a complex rhythm against his thigh. He was wearing his favorite soft, navy blue hoodie and a pair of clean, comfortable jeans.When you arrived at the park, it was, as predicted, relatively busy. Families were walking dogs, joggers were navigating the paved trails, and children were shouting near the playground.Jake immediately deployed his headphones, pulling them over his ears to muffle the auditory chaos. He reached out with his right hand, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, and waited.You slipped your hand into his, intertwining your fingers tightly. Deep pressure. The anchor.

He squeezed your hand three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I love you.

You squeezed back three times.

I love you too.

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, and together, you began to walk down the main path toward the botanical gardens. The gardens were a stark contrast to the rest of the park. They were quieter, designed for contemplation rather than recreation. The air smelled of damp earth and blooming flowers.Jake led the way, navigating the winding stone paths with purpose. He stopped occasionally to examine a specific leaf structure or to identify a flower species under his breath."The Fibonacci sequence is evident in the petal arrangement of the Echinacea purpurpea," he murmured, pointing to a purple coneflower. "Nature relies heavily on mathematical efficiency."

"It's beautiful," you agreed, leaning against his side.He guided you deeper into the gardens, away from the main thoroughfare, until you reached a small, secluded clearing. In the center of the clearing was a large, ornate wooden gazebo, surrounded on all sides by massive, blooming rhododendron bushes. The flowers were a blinding, saturated magenta.The clearing was entirely empty.

Jake stopped walking. He pulled his headphones down so they rested around his neck. 

The sudden exposure to the ambient noise of the park made him blink rapidly for a second, but he didn't put them back on.

He turned to face you.

His breathing had grown shallow. You could feel the slight tremor in his hand, which was still gripping yours tightly.

"Jake?" you asked softly, recognizing the physical signs of a stress response. "Is it too loud? Do you need your headphones?"

"No," he said, his voice hitching slightly. "The noise is acceptable. The variables are within manageable parameters."

He let go of your hand. You frowned, a sudden spike of anxiety hitting your chest. Jake never let go of your hand in a public place. It was his primary grounding mechanism.

He took a step back, putting a careful two feet of space between you. He reached his hands into the front pocket of his navy hoodie. He was searching for something.

"Y/N," he began, his voice taking on the formal, factual cadence he used when he was nervous. "I have spent the last two years analyzing the data of our cohabitation. I have observed the statistical probability of a successful, long-term human partnership."Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird."The data indicates," Jake continued, his dark eyes locked intensely on yours, refusing to look away, "that relationships are prone to entropy. They break down due to poor communication, mismatched variables, and a lack of systemic maintenance."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He pulled his hands out of his hoodie pocket. He was holding a small, square object made of dark, polished wood. It wasn't a standard velvet jewelry box. It looked distinctly handmade.

"However," he said, his voice softening, the clinical distance dropping away to reveal the raw, beating heart beneath. "My internal processor has run the simulation a thousand times. And in every single simulation, the variable that prevents the entropy... is you."

He took a step forward, closing the gap between you. He didn't drop to one knee—he knew that societal conventions didn't dictate the validity of an action, and the ground was damp—but he held the wooden box out between you."You do not try to rewrite my code," Jake whispered, his eyes shining with an overwhelming, profound sincerity. "You learned my language. You understand that the static is loud, and you are the only thing that makes it quiet. You eat burnt cookies, and you do not make fun of my Spider-Man pajamas, and you provide optimal thermal transfer when I am cold."A tear slipped free from your eyelashes, tracking hotly down your cheek. You couldn't speak. You could barely breathe."I do not possess the vocabulary to adequately express the magnitude of my attachment to you," he admitted, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the small wooden box. "But I have learned that human tradition utilizes symbolic gestures to denote permanent, primary variables."

He opened the wooden box. Inside, resting on a bed of dark blue velvet, was a ring. It wasn't a massive, flashy diamond. It was a simple, elegant band of polished titanium, inlaid with a thin, continuous stripe of dark, starry lapis lazuli.

"I selected titanium," Jake explained, his voice gaining confidence as he presented the data. "It has the highest strength-to-weight ratio of any metallic element. It is incredibly resilient. It will not warp or degrade. And the lapis lazuli is blue. You are my protective blue aura." He looked up from the ring, his gaze finding yours. The puppy-dog innocence was still there, but it was anchored by the unwavering conviction of a man who knew exactly what he wanted."Y/N," he said, his voice clear and resonant. "Will you agree to be my permanent, legally recognized variable? Will you marry me?" A sob tore from your throat—a loud, messy, uncalculated sound of pure joy. You didn't answer with words initially. You couldn't. You closed the remaining distance between you, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling his face down to yours. You kissed him with every ounce of love, gratitude, and fierce devotion you possessed.

Jake gasped against your lips, his hands instantly finding your waist, the wooden box clutched safely in one fist. He kissed you back eagerly, grounding himself in the familiar, perfect pressure of your touch.When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless. You rested your forehead against his, your tears mixing with the warmth of his skin."Yes," you whispered, your voice thick and wobbly. "Yes, Jake. A million times, yes. I will be your permanent variable."His face broke into a blinding, full-teeth smile—the kind of smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of absolute relief."Optimal," he breathed. "The simulation was accurate." He carefully extracted the ring from the wooden box. He took your left hand, his fingers steady now, and slid the titanium band onto your ring finger. It fit perfectly. He had likely measured your finger while you were sleeping, calculating the exact circumference."It's perfect, Jakey," you sobbed, looking at the band. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"It is mathematically precise," he agreed, admiring his handiwork.

He pulled you back against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You buried your face in his navy hoodie, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of unscented detergent and the crisp spring air.

You stood there in the quiet clearing, surrounded by the blinding magenta rhododendrons, holding your fiancé. The static of the world was entirely absent.

The wedding, like your relationship, was exactly what you both needed it to be: small, controlled, and deeply personal.There was no massive reception hall filled with hundreds of strangers. There was no loud DJ blasting bass-heavy music. There were no flashing strobe lights.Instead, six months later, you stood in the backyard of the beige two-story house. The late October air was crisp and smelled of fallen leaves. The trees surrounding the yard were ablaze in oranges and reds.

Sarah had spent weeks transforming the backyard into a quiet, intimate sanctuary. Fairy lights—warm white, non-flickering—were strung through the branches of the old oak tree. The grass was meticulously trimmed.

There were only twelve guests. Your parents, your brother, Sarah, and a few close friends who understood the rules of the environment.

You wore a simple, elegant white dress with no scratchy lace or heavy, restrictive corsetry. You wore your new white Converse sneakers beneath the hem.

Jake stood at the end of the short aisle. He wasn't wearing a suit. He had tried one on during the planning phase, but the stiff collar and the tight constraints of the jacket had sent him into a near-meltdown.Instead, he wore a dark navy blue cashmere sweater over a collared shirt, and dark, comfortable trousers. He looked incredibly handsome, comfortable in his own skin, and entirely at peace.He was wearing his noise-canceling headphones around his neck, a comforting weight, but he didn't need to turn them on. The environment was safe.When you walked down the aisle, your eyes locked onto his. He wasn't looking at the ground. He wasn't looking at your shoes. He was looking directly at your face, his brown eyes shining with unshed tears.

He held his hand out to you as you approached.

You took it, feeling the immediate, deep pressure of his grip.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I love you.

The ceremony was short. The officiant, a close family friend, spoke softly and clearly.

When it came time for the vows, you hadn't written traditional promises. You had written your own code."Jake," you said, your voice steady, holding both of his hands in yours. "I promise to always be your quiet place. I promise to never mix the eggs with the bacon. I promise to always check the weather for humidity spikes, and to always have your noise-canceling headphones charged."

Jake smiled, a single tear slipping down his cheek."I promise to fiercely protect your routines," you continued, your own vision blurring. "Because your routines are what allow your brilliant, beautiful mind to thrive. I promise to love you, exactly as you are, in every variable, in every simulation, for the rest of our lives."

Jake took a deep, shaky breath. He didn't have notes. He had memorized his data.

"Y/N," he began, his voice carrying the deep, resonant timbre that always grounded you. "Before I met you, the world was a chaotic, unmanageable input. I survived by building walls and closing doors. You did not try to break the walls down. You simply sat outside them, in your quiet shoes, until I realized I wanted to open the door."

He squeezed your hands, his thumb brushing over the titanium ring on your finger.

"You are the most statistically improbable, incredibly fortunate anomaly of my life," he said, his eyes conveying a depth of emotion that defied any clinical diagnosis. "I promise to provide optimal thermal transfer when you are cold. I promise to eat the burnt cookies so you do not feel inadequate. I promise to step in front of the unpredictable variables to shield you. I promise to be your permanent, primary partner, until the entropy of the universe consumes us both."

There wasn't a dry eye in the small gathering. Sarah was openly weeping into a tissue, clutching your mother’s hand.

When the officiant pronounced you husband and wife, Jake didn't hesitate. He pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around your waist, and kissed you with the firm, deliberate passion of a man who had finally found his permanent place in the world.The small crowd cheered softly, clapping their hands—a muted, respectful applause that didn't startle him.The reception was a dinner held in the living room and kitchen. The food was carefully curated. There was a macaroni and cheese bar (no mixing required), a tray of perfectly uniform, sharp cheddar cheese cubes, and a massive bowl of smooth, roasted tomato bisque, a roast Sarah made, a salad.For dessert, there wasn't a traditional, multi-tiered wedding cake.Instead, there was a large platter of sugar cookies and other desserts. The cookies were cut into precise geometric shapes—stars and Stegosauruses. They were baked to a perfect, light golden brown.Jake stood by the dessert table, holding a star cookie. He looked across the room at you. You were talking to your brother, laughing at something he had said.Jake walked over to you. He didn't care that you were mid-conversation. He stepped up behind you, wrapping his arm securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.

"Deep pressure," he murmured into your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Always," you smiled, leaning back into his solid warmth.

Your brother smiled warmly at the two of you and excused himself to get more macaroni and cheese.Jake held the star cookie out in front of you.

"The bake on these is optimal," he noted, his voice a low, happy rumble against your back. "The structural integrity is sound. The Maillard reaction was controlled."

"I set three timers," you laughed, turning your head to kiss his cheek. "I wasn't taking any chances today."He took a bite of the cookie. It crunched satisfyingly.

"They are very good," he decided, chewing thoughtfully. "But..."

"But?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"But I think I prefer the fossilized dinosaurs," he said, his eyes crinkling with a subtle, teasing humor. "They possessed a superior... smoky complexity. And they proved that you are fallible. Which makes you mathematically perfect for me."

You let out a loud, joyous laugh, turning fully in his arms to wrap your hands around his neck."You are ridiculous, Jake Sim," you beamed, looking up at your husband.

"I am entirely logical," he corrected softly, his gaze dropping to your lips. "The data supports my conclusion." He leaned down and kissed you again, right there in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the soft murmur of your families and the warm, golden light of the fairy lights.Outside, the world continued its chaotic, unpredictable spin. The traffic roared, the sirens wailed, and the variables shifted without warning.

But inside, wrapped in the arms of the man who organized his life with plastic bricks and unyielding honesty, everything was perfectly, mathematically still. The static was gone. You were home. And you knew, with the absolute certainty of a scientifically proven fact, that you would never need to run from the noise again.

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[wonnfavee]

i FINALLY got to read this and oh my.. it was so good i’m crying so much right now

i’ve never read anything with this concept but you’ve just made me realise how beautiful it truly is 🥹

[82sim]

PARTY MONSTER ꕀ P.SH THREE!

( 박성훈 x fem!reader ) ─── genre ⸝⸝ smau + written ♫ playlist . ⋆.˚ library!

𓋰 park sunghoon was the name muttered on campus oh so frequently, and never for the right reasons. his ideal of a perfect night was drugs, alcohol, and girls, the exact opposite of everything you stood for. everyone tells you to stay away, that he's the devil in disguise, but you weren't the one to listen, and falling for sunghoon is a game you already lost.

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asks ℘ reblogs ℘ comments always appreciated and welcomed !!

taglist (21/50) . . @bamjjwi @julsforjulieni @sunnysidesins @astrohypen @wonnfavee @heelovesmeknot @jvngw0nlvr @illus1nists @shuichi-sama @tinyhrry @et3rn4lmo0nl1ght @hitaayas @yeeunlvr @jellykitti @iiunique @cupidzbunny @je-tsime @kikidoul @hoonsocks @loverofmusic0027 @jungwon67

with love © 82sim

[wonnfavee]

QUEEN IS BACKK 🥹

LMAO anton i cant 😭😭😭

[wonnfavee]

nvm im too lazy im just gonna use my new tags now and leave my old tags

[wonnfavee]

hi guys username change and now im gonna go through the extremely tedious process of changing all my tags...

[hoondrop]

SHOE DESIGNER! JAY x CHAEBOL! READER HEAD CANONS

a/n: this is a little idea I dived into a bit more all for my girl @jaylaxies special day. happy birthday aria, my love. I know this can never encapsulate how much you mean to me, but still, let this be a small token of how much I adore you and hold you dear to my heart 🫶🏻

1. He doesn’t kneel for you.

Not even when you’re seated like royalty on his design chaise. When you jokingly say, “Shouldn’t you be on your knees?” he scoffs and steps in between your legs, tilting your chin up instead:

“If anyone’s getting on their knees tonight, it’s you, sweetheart.”

2. The measurements are a tease of their own.

You come for a shoe fitting and end up with your heel propped on his workbench, skirt bunched around your thighs. He’s on his knees then — but only because he’s got a pencil between his teeth and his fingers up your silk panties.

“Stay still. I’m working.”

“Are you… measuring or marking me up?”

“Same thing.”

3. He has a hand kink

He loves how delicate and pristine your hands look against his rough ones. In the bedroom, he’ll pin both of yours above your head with one large palm and say, “Look at that. You can boss around boardrooms but fold so easily under me.”

4. Choking. Hair-pulling. Light bondage

Jay’s not afraid to leave marks. A dark hickey at the curve of your jaw that contrasts with your diamond studs. A handprint on your ass before a gala under a backless dress. He likes reminding you who really owns you when the lights go out.

5. Control play

He makes you beg even though you’re used to getting whatever you want. He drags his fingers down your thighs, stopping just short:

“You want me to touch you? Say please.”

“I don’t beg.”

“Then I don’t fuck.”

6. Mirror sex in the atelier

He bends you over the side of the mirrored wardrobe in his studio, one stiletto still strapped to your foot. He drags his fingers down your back slowly, admiring how vulnerable you look under his touch.

“Look at you. Daddy’s spoiled little princess, ruined in five minutes.”

7. Aftercare is possessive

He presses kisses to your shoulders and murmurs against your skin:

“You’re mine. Even when you’re in silk and dripping in money. You still come crawling back to me.”

8. Fucking in heels

He has a thing for seeing you in the shoes he made; fucking you while you wear them, gripping your thighs and pushing you against the wall.

“Don’t take them off. I made them for moments like this.”

9. The heel punishment

If you ignore his rules or act too high and mighty during the day, he punishes you at night by tying your wrists with the ankle straps of his latest design, teasing you until you’re trembling.

“Next time you talk back, I’ll make sure you walk into your father’s meeting with your legs still shaking from my cock.”

10. When You Wear Another Designer

You show up to a charity event in Louboutins. He doesn’t say anything when you send a selfie before stepping out but he doesn’t react like usual. You know what that silence means.

11. When you show up to his studio later that night, tipsy from champagne, heels clicking arrogantly on the wood floor, he doesn’t greet you. Just eyes your feet and says coldly:

“You really walked around all night in another man’s work?”

12. He doesn’t kiss you when he yanks you onto his lap, doesn’t even let you take off the shoes. He fucks you with them on, angrily, one heel digging into the leather arm of his chair.

“Don’t ever wear anyone else’s name again. You think they can design for you? You think they know your arch, your pressure points? No, baby. That’s all me.”

13. You Try to Dom Him and He Flips It Instantly

You tease him one night — blindfold in hand, pushing him back onto the couch, silk robe hanging off your body.

“My turn tonight. Be good, Jay.”

He chuckles darkly. “You sure about that, princess?”

14. You almost have him cuffed when he flips you; lightning-fast — one hand gripping your wrists behind your back as his knee presses into the couch.

“You want to play games?” he breathes against your neck. “Sweetheart, I make the rules in this bedroom. Try again when you can keep eye contact without trembling.”

You try to talk back. He shuts you up by sliding two fingers between your thighs.

“Didn’t think so.”

15. Power-Shift (But Not Really)

The only time you ever have a sliver of control is when he’s halfway through a deadline, hands covered in glue and dye, sleep-deprived, growling at sketches. You straddle him in his work chair and say, “Don’t you need a break?”

16. You ride him while his hands are still stained, apron still on, and he groans into your neck. For a minute, you think you’ve got the upper hand, until he thrusts up so hard, your breath knocks out of your lungs and your body collapses into him.

“Thought you could fuck me into submission?” he pants. “Cute. Now stay on my cock while I finish this sketch. Don’t move — unless you want to be punished.”

17. Obsessive Dirty Talk Moments

“No one gets to see this side of you. You come here all polished and cruel — and leave dripping and crying for me.”

“You’re not a client. You’re my girl. You wear what I make, and you scream for no one but me.”

“Keep your legs open. Let me remind you who the fuck you belong to.”

© hoondrop | tumblr

[wonnfavee]

oh my goodness hell yes

[hoonieyun]

for once in my life

𑣲┆ sim jaeyun x reader ˚.⋆ֹ

──────── synopsis: jake's never been needed by anyone in his life, ever. so when he's paired with yn for a project, the most independent girl he's ever met he becomes conflicted on wanting to look out for her when she claims she doesn't need him, or anyone for that matter.

genre: strangers to lovers, college au, angst, this was supposed to be a romcom... forgive me, hurt/comfort, slowburn, boy who has never been needed x girl who has never needed anyone, miscommunication, he fell first she fell harder warnings: profanity, mentions of drinking/smoking, college stereotypes, kissing, mentions of sexual harassment/assault but not in detail, reference to drug addiction, a lot of this will be in jake's pov, mentions of child abuse but not in detail, mentions of character death, corrupt society/rich people, classism, yn and jake both have rough upbringings, switch!jake, possessive!jake, mutual oral, heavy kissing, fingering, cum swallowing, dirty talk/praise, bigdick!jake, tummy bulge, pinv, spanking, breeding, handjob, mating press/missionary, tit play, choking, squirting, overstimulation, biting, finger sucking, dumbification, jungwon is yn's bf and he's an asshole </3 , yn slaps won, slutshaming but not said directly, kind of cheating? like emotional cheating? idk, 18+ sorta proofread but i doubt there will be no typos lol (ty @xylatox for being my spelling/grammar checker)

⋮ ⌗ ┆ib. "for once in my life" stevie wonder

⤷ wc: 32335

for as long as sim jaeyun could remember, no one has ever asked anything of him. he always remembered life to just go by quite easily for him, no demands, no restraints, and no limits. he spent everyday the same way: he woke up, looked out his window to see the small sparrow's nest perched on the tree just outside, cooed at the small bird to get it's attention every morning only for it to fly away, and then he'd get his day started.

he'd get out of bed and do his usual routine of brushing his teeth, washing his face, messing with his hair until it looked good enough, and then he'd have breakfast.

breakfast was the same everyday too. a waffle, an egg or two, some kind of protein— usually a sausage of some kind, chicken mostly because he didn't like pork. then he'd wash it all down with a glass of apple juice, not orange because it was too tart and always had too much pulp in it.

then, when breakfast was done, he'd go on with whatever he had planned for the day.

everyday was the same for sim jaeyun— and he hated it.

every mundane and boring task practically drove him insane to the point that he tried to stay up for a total of 72 hours one week just to see if anything would change about the world— his world— that he would usually miss while sleeping, he did end up falling asleep after staying awake for 36 hours but in those 36 hours nothing changed.

he was tired of the same old shit, he was tired of having no purpose, and he was tired of not being needed. to him, not being needed was the equivalent of not being important enough, and not being important enough made him not only feel small and useless but also… well that's it. he didn't want to be useless and even when he thought he found his purpose or found where he's needed, he's proven wrong.

for example, when he was 16 he got his very first job at a bakery— nothing fancy or special. he was just the cashier and after a month of working there he realized that most customers would go to a different coworker for help rather than him even if he was just standing there, apron tied across his chest, hand drumming on the counter from boredom, and nothing to do.

sim jaeyun was fired shortly after he finally noticed because he accidentally yelled at a customer who blatantly ignored his attempts at helping them— ever since then he hasn't stepped inside of a bakery. the smell of freshly baked bread and butter practically brings him back to that memory— although he did love to just eat bread every now and then because, well bread is bread. it was yummy and easy to eat— convenient, he'd say.

another time where being needed proved to be a hindrance to sim jaeyun was his first day of university. he got to his lecture early so he could get a great seat, somewhere in the middle so he wasn't too close to the front so he wasn't easily called on nor too far in the back to the point where he couldn't hear anything. he found a spot just in the middle of the endless rows of seats and when more and more students filed into the lecture hall, he watched as students all seemed to take seats just around him but not next to him.

until a kid who was late showed up and the only seats left were the ones next to him. the kid seemed to be around his age so sim jaeyun thought that they could be friends. he could hear the kids stomach grumble so like the kind person he was, he offered him the granola bar he packed and threw into his backpack— the kid smiled and said thanks before peeling it open and eating it, only for him to start becoming itchy a few seconds later and eventually his windpipes were starting to swell.

come to find out, the kid had a severe nut allergy.

how was he supposed to know that? maybe the kid should've read the wrapper before tearing it into it— regardless of that, sim jaeyun stopped buying granola bars altogether. the kid's fine— thankfully he had his epi-pen and in the heat of panic all he could do was watch while another classmate next to him pushed him out of the way and rummaged through the other kid's bag for his epi-pen; saving his life.

the savior of that situation later turned out to be his best friend, he just didn't know it at the time.

lee heeseung.

heeseung was the guy everyone wanted to be or wanted to be with. sim jaeyun would be lying if he said he wasn't in the slightest bit jealous of heeseung, everyone gravitated towards him like he was a magnet and he wished he had the smallest percentage of charisma heeseung did. sim jaeyun even went as far as changing his name to seem cooler, he thought that if he had a more interesting name or a name that sounded 'cool' that people would see him more. notice him more. pay more attention to him.

well, it's now his final year of university and things are still the same, except now he goes by jake.

that and he was also known as 'heeseung's best friend', he didn't mind it— usually. some days he'd just roll his eyes when a group of people walked up to heeseung and didn't pay him any mind, other days he'd try to join in on the conversation only to just be ignored altogether.

it was like jake was invisible and the more he wanted to be noticed, want to be needed, and wanted for someone to just see him— the more it seemed like that dream was farfetched.

he tried not to be sad over it but it didn't help that most of his favorite songs were sad R&B love songs. on top of that his home life hasn't changed much either. his mom worked a job that paid enough where she was able to buy jake a place of his own at 21 and ever since he barely hears from his family unless it was a birthday or holiday.

it was easy for him to feel the sorrow of being useless— he tried not to let it get to him, but some days he couldn't help but feel like his dream of being needed by someone was never going to come true, that the only thing that could fill his empty heart was that purpose that seemed to only be fulfilled by someone else— yet he's always felt alone.

now, he's got just a few months until graduating from university and with the major he's chosen— surely, he'll finally be needed. he just hoped that life after graduation would finally turn things around for him. jake was tired of wanting to be needed, he was going to find the path that led him in that direction one way or another, he just wishes it would come sooner than later.

it all started when he was little. he was the store with his dad browsing through different aisles of snacks he wanted to ask for when he saw a girl his age who looked like she was on the verge of tears. he asked why she was crying and she told him to go away at first but when he didn't she finally said that she doesn't have enough money for milk— he smiled before running off and the girl continued to cry.

he came back just a few minutes later though and he smiled when she was still there— still crying.

he handed her a few dollars and when she looked up at him and saw his smile, she cried even more. he doesn't know why it made her cry harder but he urged her to take the money and she did. he watched as she got up and walked to where he knew the milk was, watched as she struggled to grab the giant carton of milk to which his dad appeared and helped the girl. he told his dad he needed some money and when his dad asked why, he just said it's for a friend.

his dad didn't know what that meant but he gave it to his son anyway— watched as he ran off with his tiny feet towards something; someone. he watched as his son handed the dollars to the girl and watched as she struggled to grab the milk that was too big for her to carry on her own— stepping in to help and allowing the small child to pay for it herself because she looked like she didn't want the help despite looking like she needed it.

he never saw her again after that day but it felt nice to help.

── 𖹭

"for your final project in this course, you'll be pairing up and putting together a presentation about a successful case from a list i'll be providing— your job is to identify why this case in your opinion is unsuccessful with viable reasoning and what you would do differently. this project will run throughout the whole semester and is 60% of your final grade, so don't think you can wait until the last second to get it done and that i won't notice.

pair up— go." professor kang says before taking a seat at his desk.

the class instantly erupts with conversation as people try to find who they want to work with, everybody walking by jake like he wasn't there— a classmate even ran into him and didn't apologize, jake did even though he was just sitting there and wasn't even his fault. after a few minutes, everyone's back in their seats with their partners in mind while jake remains on his lonesome.

jake got up from his and walked the down the steps to professor kang's desk, there he sat typing away on his computer for almost 3 minutes before he even noticed jake standing there awkwardly, unsure of when to make his presence known. "oh— jake. do you need something?"

"uh, everyone's got a partner. i don't think there's anyone left." he muttered, fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie like a small child.

professor kang looked over to the crowd of students, all of them doing their own thing, "hmph. it does seem like that, doesn't it?" he says, pursing his lips before going back to typing on his computer.

"so.. uh i don't have a partner. what should i do?" jake asks, even more awkwardly than before.

"well— it looks like you're going to have to work on this project on your own." he says, not even bothering to look over to him. jake had no energy for this conversation, he just wanted to go back to his apartment and sleep, maybe play videos games or watch a movie he's seen 10 times already.

but then just before he was about to walk back to his seat, the doors to the lecture hall opened and in came in someone he's never met before. granted— it's the first day of the semester and he didn't expect to know everyone, when he saw you for the first time it not only felt like time stopped but something shifted in the universe because when you walked in it was like for the first time in jake's life, the first step of his path to achieving his dreams finally appeared.

"sorry, i'm late mr. kang. something came up with my tuition and i had to get it sorted out— did i miss a lot?" you asked and professor kang looked over at you almost instantly, a smile on his face like he just saw his daughter or favorite baseball player walk into his lecture hall.

"miss yn— perfect timing." he begins.

"jake, this is yn. you're in luck, here's your partner." is all he says before turning back to his computer and continuing, "yn, if jake was paying attention he'll know what to do. jake, please catch up yn on the final project and get to working on it."

he doesn't say anything else and when yn looks over at jake with soft eyes, he feels like he's known you his whole life.

"jake? hello?" she says, waving her hand in front of his face after noticing he's just standing there with nothing behind his eyes and mouth slightly ajar. "do you wanna get to work on this or do you like need to go to the nurse?" your voice was just as soft as your eyes. it was like a calm ocean breeze on a hot summer day, jake thought he could listen to you talk all day, even if it was about something boring.

"so– sorry. uh, yeah. i'm seated over here, i'll go over everything with you."

"can we keep it short? i'm not going to lie i was going to leave after mr. kang went over the gist of everything, i don't really need a full explanation. something brief is preferred."

jake stops in his tracks after what you said, "oh— uh yeah. totally, i can just email it to you if you need?"

"not necessary—" you say, grabbing his phone and tapping your number into his texts. "just text it all to me, i need to go. thanks jake!" was all you say before you slip out the very door you just entered through a few moments ago, glancing over to mr. kang who hasn't noticed and probably won't.

when jake looks down at his phone, all he sees is a text message to your phone that said: jake political science 301— and that's it. you sent yourself his name and the class you were in together and nothing else. it was like that was all you needed and nothing else.

it got him thinking: this is it.

you were the one that was going to give jake his purpose. sure, it was just information you needed for a final project but that was the first step. you needed to work together with jake which meant someone needed something out of him and that was enough for him to smile and for his chest to swell with satisfaction. it didn't feel like any other group project he's been in before, it's never been just him and one other person.

all of the previous ones were at least four other people and to which they would always say, "it's alright, jake. we've got it covered, we don't need anything." and before he knew it, the project was done and he wasn't even sure what his contributions were besides his name that wasn't even added by him.

── 𖹭

it's a week after that day that jake finally sees you again.

you hadn't been showing up to class and missing out on several lectures, but today you showed up; if he wasn't so irritated over the fact that you've been skipping class which meant not working on the final project, he'd probably be swooning over how pretty you looked. how your hair laid on your head so perfectly, how your eyes twinkled underneath the lecture hall lights, and how your lips always looked so soft.

jake was about to call out to you to tell you that there was an open seat next to him so you two could work on the project since today wasn't a lecture day, but you didn't even notice him and went straight to the back of the hall and sat in the corner, throwing your bag onto the floor before you cross your arms across the small desk and rest your head on them.

he furrows his brows with pout, tilting his head to the side when your body just remains still among the organized chaos of students in political science 301. the class was not quiet whatsoever, it was filled with overachieving students who thought they were all going to change the world or watched too much criminal minds or how to get away with murder for their own good.

jake turns around in his seat with huff, fiddling with his pen, twirling it between his long and slender fingers before he turns back around again to see that you are in fact still napping in the class you haven't been to for the past week.

so, even though he doesn't think it's a good idea, he gets up from his seat and makes his way to the back of the room where you're peacefully napping, but not without accidentally running into someone— or more like them running into him because they didn't notice he was there.

"oh shit! my bad bro." the guy says, tapping jake on the shoulder.

"uh, it's all good." jake mutters in response.

"yo, i didn't know you were in this class?" the guy says and jake recognizes him from one of his other lectures earlier in the week.

"i sit right in front of you?" he responds.

"no way? really? cool!" and with the that guy goes back to doing whatever he was doing before he had that conversation with jake, like nothing even happened and how this conversation didn't really need to happen in the first place.

jake just rolls his eyes before making his way to the back, eventually standing just a foot away from you as he stares at your sleeping figure. he's mentally running through what he's going to say to you.

'where have you been?' maybe not that. it makes him sound like a stalker.

'are you sleeping?' well no shit sherlock.

'do you wanna work on the project?' okay, not bad. let's go with that.

jake opens his mouth to speak but your voice comes out before his does, "are you just gonna stand there? i'm trying to sleep and i can hear you breathing really loudly." your voice is a bit muffled because of how your face is stuffed into your arms but he hears it loud and clear that it makes his eyes widen in shock, causing him to step back a bit.

when you finally raise your head, jake can see how tired you look from this close, your usually sparkling eyes are more dull up close and your skin looks— dull? was that rude? he probably should keep that to himself.

"well? do you need something?" you ask again, resting your cheek on your arms so you were looking at jake but still laying your head.

"uh— you noticed i was standing here?" he stutters.

"you aren't very quiet. your shoes squeak, your keys on your belt loop are kinda loud, and to be honest you're breathing way too loud. these stairs aren't even that steep for you to be out of breath." your voice came out bored, like you were bored of this conversation and bored with jake.

"uh.."

"do you start every sentence with 'uh'?"

okay. what is your problem? jake was starting to get frustrated with how cold you were coming off and it was starting to make you less cute.

who was he kidding— not it wasn't. you're even cuter up close, but that's not the point.

"look i'm really tired and i wanna get some sleep so if you're gonna stare at me can you do it from a far so that i can sleep in peace? thanks." you say before turning your head towards your arms again, faced down so that you can block out the bright lights of the lecture hall.

"where have you been? we have a project to work on." jake finally says and his voice comes off more annoyed than he intended but maybe it didn't matter since he was quite frustrated anyway. he didn't care if you were pretty and had pretty eyes, and pretty hair, and pretty lips and how the small keychain of the small golden maltese on your bag was the same one he had back in his apartment.

okay, maybe he does care.

just a bit.

"do i even know you?" you say while turning your head to him, eyes squinted.

if it was possible jake's face would turn into a giant question mark as a reaction to what you just said. "yes? we're partners for the final project in this class! you haven't been here all week and that's precious time we could be working on that project. professor himself said not to wait til the last minute to do it and i won't fail because you skip class and when you do show up, you nap!"

"ohmygod— can we go back to when you barely spoke and said uhhhh at the start of every sentence?" you scoff.

"if you cared so much about this project then why didn't you text me? you have my number don't you?"

you've got him there.

"you don't even show up to class! we could be working on the project on days where we don't have a lecture since professor kang blocks out lectures just for the project." jake huffs, crossing his arms like a child who wasn't getting his away.

this is probably the longest conversation jake has had with someone that isn't his friend in months.

it felt kind of nice even though they were arguing. he enjoyed talking to someone— as sad as that sounds.

"since you want to work on this project so bad, then just text me to schedule something. i just want to take a nap, k?" you say before turning your head back so you could continue your nap but jake wasn't having that.

"we're in class! you should be paying attention, not napping! it's not even that early in the day for you to be this tired, especially since you skipped all week—"

jake was rambling now and you were growing tired of it so you raised your head with a huff and grabbed your bag to prepare to leave, jake barely noticing until you're walking past him with the quietest "excuse me", watching as you walk down the stairs and away from him.

"hello? i'm talking to you?" he says, throwing his arms in the air.

you stop in your tracks, rolling your eyes at jake while turned around so that he doesn't see.

"yes. you are— too much! i told you, you have my number just text me and we can plan something to work on the project." you say before turning back around and towards the exit of the lecture hall.

"where are you going?" he asks, a bit louder but no one seems to notice.

"somewhere i can nap— and don't follow me!" your voice getting further away as you push through the doors and they close shut behind you, leaving jake standing there, confusion written all over his face at the interaction the two of you had.

he couldn't even count it as productive because he didn't understand most of it anyway.

he was more confused now than he was when the conversation first started.

── 𖹭

it's been a few days since jake's unfortunate run in with you and every day that has passed since, you've been on his mind. as much as he'd like to say it was because you left him seething with anger at your dismissive and overall don't give a shit attitude, it was probably because of how pretty you looked that day that he found himself replaying that argument with you in his head so he never forgets how you looked, especially since he had no idea when the next time he'll see you again considering you have a tendency to skip class.

i mean, how could he, you were gorgeous. he didn't wanna say he was obsessed but he definitely tried searching for you on instagram. he doesn't want to admit it but in order to find your profile he looked through the roster for the class you have together to find your last name and unluckily for him, he couldn't find you at all.

'she must be one of those girls who has a complicated username that has nothing to do with her real name.' jake thought to himself as he swiped out of instagram and dropped his phone next to him.

his instagram username was just 'jakesim1115' his birthday. simple and easy.

maybe he could use one that's a bit funnier but he didn't have the capacity to think of any cooler ones that would make people want to follow him. he had 7 followers in total on instagram, one of them being heeseung and the others being bots that he didn't care enough to remove. he didn't post much on there in the first place.

speaking of, just as he was about to give up on his day and just take a nap at 6pm, jake's phone started to ring. at first he didn't want to answer it but then his anxiety started talking and somehow he became convinced if he didn't pick up the phone then something bad would happen.

spoiler: nothing bad was going to happen.

"heeseung? why are you calling?" jake groans as he pulls himself up from lying down.

"jake! you free tonight? i got a date with this girl and she's got a friend, you should come! double date, you feel me?" heeseung says on the other line.

"ehhh i don't know dude. i got assignments to work on plus i'm real stressed about this final project thing with that girl i told you about."

"yn? she's really living in your head isn't she. why not come on this double date to forget about it! it's only a month into the semester, you still got time to work on that project." heeseung reasons and the first thing jake can think of is: how dare you think i'd want to forget yn… that's the last thing he wants! matter of fact, he wants the opposite of it.

jake is completely fine with you taking up real estate in his head. in fact, he'd prefer it over the anxiety of constantly being ignored by everyone around. at least with you, you acknowledged him— albeit by yelling at him, but still! a win is a win.

"alright— fine. fine. i'll go. send my the details." jake huffs.

"sick! it's in 15 minutes at the diner we had that mixer at one time." heeseung says.

"dude? that's like 30 minutes away, what the fuck?" jake says, shuffling out of his bed to get ready.

"better get going! see ya, man!" and with that heeseung hangs up the call with a small giggle that makes jake roll his eyes. "this fuckin' idiot." he says, throwing his phone on his bed and picking out a pair of pants that he hasn't worn that week yet.

── 𖹭

that's how jake found himself sitting next to heeseung at a diner with two girls. they were pretty but god damn can he only think about you right now. the fact that his supposed 'date' wasn't even paying attention to him didn't really bother jake because all he wanted to do was go home, maybe work on some assignments, and definitely ponder on what you were doing right now.

"so—" jake starts, picking at his food that's long become cold from the way he's chosen to ignore it the way the girl has chosen to ignore him. "what kind of music do you like?" jake continues and he knows he didn't mumble it like usual because the jukebox at the diner was unusually loud so he had to speak up, even then— the girl didn't acknowledge him.

"yeah.. me too. love— that … artist.." he says, voice getting smaller and smaller. jake continues picking at his food. he barely even touched his food because he had lost interest in this whole thing as soon as he was ignored. jake tries start conversations. ignored. he tried joining in on conversations. ignored.

it was always like this and it's gotten to a point he doesn't even bother him anymore— sorta. he only agreed because heeseung begged him and now he was regretting it because not once has he really been spoken to since he got there. the waitress even almost forgot to take his order, heeseung had to speak up for him like he was a child who wasn't capable of doing anything on his own.

"you know, my friend jake here is studying to be a private investigator. he's gonna be like a detective or some shit." heeseung says, patting jake on the shoulder and if he hadn't said his name jake probably wouldn't have even noticed the conversation was about him. "that's not what i'm studying— i'm studying criminal justice.."

"same thing? like cia, csi, fbi type shit?" heeseung asks, tilting his head at jake silently tell him: 'bro i am trying to get you involved in this conversation. LOCK IN.'

"ohmygosh— like criminal minds?" the girl across from him says, eyes wide and glossy lips parted.

"ye– yeah.." jake lies.

"heeseung— do you watch criminal minds? it's like my favorite show!" the girl completely moving on from jake, maybe she didn't even direct that question to him in the first place because now heeseung's got both of their attention again.

jake just sighs, completely over this whole thing. he silently gets up, sliding out of the booth and heeseung's the only one to notice as his friend walks towards the register. he's watching jake from a distance while the two girls continue their conversation that heeseung's tuned out.

heeseung watches as jake comes back but he doesn't slide back into his seat. "uh— i'm gonna head out. it's late and i still got some assignments to work on. i paid for our meal by the way.." he mutters the last part towards the girl who was supposed to be his date but she doesn't respond as she was too busy in conversation with heeseung's date.

"see ya." jake says, waving at heeseung and his friend just watches as jake walks out of the diner. a clear disappointment and melancholic aura following jake. heeseung felt a bit responsible for how jake was feeling even if he wasn't actively contributing to whatever was making jake feel that way but if it was enough for jake to feel sad then he knew that it was enough for him to avert his attention to jake.

his best friend.

jake's walking with his head down, kicking at the pebbles at his feet as he dragged himself towards the bus stop. it was almost 8pm when he left the diner and he was mentally planning what he was going to do the rest of the night when he heard heavy footsteps running towards him from behind. jake flinches just as heeseung's arm wraps itself around his shoulder.

"come on— i'll drive you back. can't let my homeboy take the bus home late at night." heeseung pouts like jake was some damsel in distress.

"dude, what happened to your date? sorry i just left." he says as heeseung turns the two of them around to walk towards his car. "nah, it's cool. wasn't really feeling her anyway. you mind if i crash at yours tonight? your dorm's closer to my class tomorrow."

jake nods and heeseung thanks him while they walk in silence. heeseung knew better than to bring up what happened back at the diner. jake chose to be silent about it so heeseung chose to silently be there for him.

── 𖹭

jake wasn't expecting it but it was 6 bottles of soju and an empty 8 pack of terra beer later when he realized that heeseung doesn't have class the next day and neither does he because it's a friday.

the two were drunkenly talking about whatever came into their heads at 3am. heeseung was definitely more drunk than jake was but they were both incoherent to an extent. conversations ranged from the first time they met, heeseung's ex girlfriend who he definitely wasn't over, and now it was about jake's inability to talk to you.

sure— it was mostly because you were never around to actually talk to but when he told heeseung about your conversation the other day in class, suddenly the alcohol was gone from heeseung's system and he was speaking clearer than ever.

"let me get this straight… you have her number and you're complaining about her never being around? i don't know have you ever considered maybeeeeee… texting her?" he says while shaking his head at jake who is sat across from him, limbs sprawled out on the floor while he leaned on his dresser.

"it's not that simple!" jake groans, taking another swig of his drink only to remember he's out.

heeseung rolls a can of beer towards him and he opens the tab with one hand before speaking again. "she's just never around— i don't want to just randomly text her, it's weird. i'd rather she show up to class so we can plan out the project in person— then maybe, i'll text her so we can plan meeting up outside of class.

BUT SHE NEVER SHOWS UP." he says the last part too loud considering the time.

"did she tell you why she isn't showing up?" heeseung asks, opening a beer for himself.

jake just shakes his head and heeseung rolls his eyes at him. "dude, if she's not showing up then she's probably got something going. i understand skipping class a FEW times but if you're saying you've only seen her twice since the semester started then maybe she's got something going on. classes are expensive as shit so i don't think she'll skip just because."

heeseung strikes again. damn that intuitive motherfucker.

"i guess so…" jake says with a pout, fiddling with the tab of his beer can.

"it's just like— uuuggh." he groans, unable to say anything else because he genuinely has nothing else to say. heeseung was right. jake didn't even consider if you had anything going on in your personal that would cause you to skip class. maybe you're chronically ill. maybe you have shit transportation resources like his does. maybe you have insomnia and you're awake at super later hours of the night to the point that when you finally fall asleep the sun has already started to rise… it would explain why you were so hellbent on taking a nap during class a few days ago.

jake didn't even realized he was being inconsiderate of you. it could've been because he was so focused on project— and how pretty you were— that he didn't think of anything else. he found whatever reason to talk to you but after heeseung has knocked some sense into him, he was surely going to right his wrong with you. even if he didn't need to.

"look— i'm drunk as shit so i'm going to pass out any second but remember this: just talk to her. it's that simple." heeseung says, yawning right after.

"but i just can't. i mean i tried talking to her that one day and it started out fine but then she got mad at me because i woke her up! we're in the middle of class? at least try to make it look like you're paying attention. we have this huge project due and she hasn't contributed once— okay, i've barely done anything either but that's only because she's never there and i don't want to make decisions without her just in case she hates my idea and—

and you're asleep… cool."

jake's voice trailing off when heeseung's snores start to fill his dorm. his best friend was now slumped over in his gaming chair, beer still in his hand as a trail of drool falls from his mouth. "nasty.." jake mutters as he tries to grab the can from his friend to avoid him spilled it if he moved all of a sudden in his sleep.

in the past, when heeseung's slept over it was always in his gaming chair. he'd say "i'm a true gamer, this stuff is meant to be ergonomic." whenever jake said he didn't mind sharing the bed. he'd just laugh it off and throw a blanket over his friend.

when jake slips into his bed, grabbing one of his pillows and hugging it close to his body, alcohol still in his system as his mind wanders over to you like it has the past month— he begins to think about all the ways he's dismissed the endless possibilities of why you never show up to class. jake started to feel guilty the way he's chosen to ignore that part of the situation and it doesn't help that he knows that feeling all too well.

so— the next time jake sees you he's going to do his best to make sure he's there. he doesn't know how yet but he's somehow convinced himself that you just needed someone to be there for you and maybe then you'll warm up to him enough so you could work on the project together.

jake just hopes its sooner than later since the semester would end in just a little over two months from now.

he was grateful that it was the weekend coming up or else he'd have to fight off the impending hangover that was going to rudely greet him in the morning. hopefully he can guilt trip heeseung into paying for breakfast since it was definitely not jake's idea to drink when heeseung did a quick detour to the liquor store before they eventually stopped at jake's dorm.

that and the fact that jake was going to be awake much later to think about nothing

── 𖹭

over the course of that weekend, jake drafted up several text messages that he was going to send you asking when the two of you could work on the final project. it's about halfway through the semester now and they've got roughly a month and a half to complete; jake tried his best not to panic over this but he'd be lying if he said it didn't worry him just a bit. especially since he knows that his peers have made a lot more progress than the two of you.

after some thinking and 10 other drafts, he finally sends his text.

to: yn from poli-sci 301 hey. are you free any time this week to go over our project? let me know if you aren't coming to class so we can set up a time to meet. thanks!

fuck. was that too forward? what if you think he's being an asshole because of this and you choose to just ghost him and causing him to potentially fail the class.

to: yn from poli-sci 301 i really need to pass this class. please show up. or like let me know when you can work on it. Please.

the one text message has now turned into five and he had to force himself to throw his phone aside before he panic texted you anymore. surprisingly though, his phone dings just a few moments later.

from: yn from poli-sci 301 who is this?

really… you didn't even save his number? jake sighs.

to: yn from poli-sci 301 it's jake. from poli-sci 301?

from: yn from poli-sci 301 oh right.

to: yn from poli-sci 301 okay so when are you free?

from: yn from poli-sci 301 free for what?

to: yn from poli-sci 301 for our PROJECT??????

are you serious right…

from: yn from poli-sci 301 i don't like your tone.

…

are. you. serious. right. now.

you've got to be fucking with him at the point. jake was staring at his phone with wide eyes and his mouth parted. he's gripping his phone so tightly in one hand that his veins are appearing and he's got his other hand grabbing onto his hair out of frustration. were you this clueless or are you simply trying to piss him off? —because either way, jake was annoyed.

he got to typing a response, planning to tell you off and absolutely forgetting heeseung's advice from the night before when another text from you appears.

from: yn from poli-sci 301 not going to class on monday but i can meet you on wednesday at like 3?

oh.

he's definitely free wednesday at 3pm, it's a perfect time actually.

jake blinks several times at his phone, mouth dry from how long it's been left hanging open, swallowing the dryness away. he has to shake his head to get rid of the lingering feelings of being annoyed— it wasn't very hard to get rid of anyway because as soon as that text came in he instantly relaxed and all he had in his head was 'thank god i can finally see her again'.

he types out a quick response agreeing to the time and suggesting a place to which you end up saying that you'll just go over to his dorm if that was fine with him. jake looked around at the empty beer cans, the overflowing trash can in the corner, and his several hoodies that are laying on his floor— fuck.

to: yn from poli-sci 301 sure. my place at 3pm, i live at the southern dorms on campus.

from: yn from poli-sci 301 ugh thats far. k. see you wed bye

and that was it.

jake sighed like the whole interaction with you had taken so much energy out of him and honestly— it did. but now he's got the hard part done, right? he reached out to plan when to work on the project and now you guys have a date to work on it. wait— no! not date like he's going to take you on a date to a fancy restaurant, bring you your favorite flowers, drive you wherever you wanted and open the door for you— mostly because he doesn't really have the money for a fancy restaurant, he's allergic to flowers, and he doesn't have a car.

what he means is— you have a date… on the calendar… for when he is going to see you… for the project, of course.

now all he has to do is make it to wednesday.

and clean his dorm. definitely going to need to clean his dorm.

── 𖹭

come wednesday, jake was more nervous than when he bought alcohol for the first time when he turned legal age. he was pacing back and forth in his dorm, moving things around because they just looked a little too far on the right then it was too far to the left— he sprayed air freshener about 10 times and even lit a candle he bought from homegoods before deciding to blow it out because he didn't want to make a weird impression with a candle… that and it smelled bad; he didn't even bother smelling it at the store.

it's 10 minutes past 3pm when jake starts to get worried. he's sitting at his desk, leg bouncing like 100 times per minute as he waited. he checked his phone several times, nothing. he looked out his window to maybe see if he could spot you, nothing. he checked his phone again, nothing. he was started to think you weren't going to show up and given your track record of showing up to class, he was definitely sure you weren't going to show up at all.

jake pulls his phone out again to send you a text to ask where you are when a knock on his door grabs his attention.

he drags himself towards the door thinking it's you; he cracks his neck, does a deep breath and silently hypes himself up but is just met with heeseung. he groans and his shoulders slump when he sees his best friend, walking away from the door. "wow— nice to see you too, man." heeseung says as he enters, shutting the door behind him.

"what do you want, heeseung? my partner's about to come over for our project." jake says as he plops down on his bed, arms spread out like a starfish as he stares at the ceiling.

"relax— i'm just here to grab my beanie. i left it here the other night… what's that smell? did you… did you buy a candle?" heeseung asks, voice getting louder as he walks over to jake's nightstand where a barely burnt candle sits. "sandalwood...? what the fuck is sandalwood?" heeseung scoffs, furrowing his brows at jake.

"i don't know either— i just grabbed the first one i found." jake says, not bothering to look over at his friend.

"wait… did you get this because yn is coming over? holy shit you have a crush on her!" heeseung's laughing, eyes crinkled as he bobs his head back with a laugh. jake rushes out of his bed and snatches the candle out of his hands and puts it into a random compartment of his desk. "can you get out— you have you beanie, now go!" jake says, shoving heeseung towards the door where heeseung does everything he can to make his body feel heavier so his friend struggles as he teases him.

when jake reaches for the doorknob and pulls it open, the two boys are frozen in their spot when they say you're standing there. bag slung over your shoulder, jeans baggy and t-shirt loose around your body— your hand is in the air like you're about to knock but was interrupted when the door swung open before you could.

"oh—" you say, surprised to see jake and some other guy you weren't familiar with.

"yn! hey— sorry he was just leaving." jake says, chuckling awkwardly as he pushes heeseung past you, still trying to stop him. your eyes move from the two boys and inside of jake's dorm— a solo.

you blink at them a few times, "you guys share a bed?" you ask and jake's eyes widen in shock.

"what? no? what makes you say that?"

"well there's two of you and one bed in there." you say, pointing towards jake's bed tucked into the corner of his dorm.

"yeah— he prefers to be little spoon." heeseung adds which earns him a slap on the back of the head. jake shooing him away but not before he says, "see you later honey." in a mocking voice, laughing down the hall.

"sorry about him.. uhh— no, i don't share a bed with him. i have a single dorm it's just me here, he just came by to pick up something he forgot…" jake explains and you just nod, no verbal response. you're both standing awkwardly outside of his dorm, jake's hands folded together like he was waiting for you to do something.

"so— are you going to invite me in?" you ask.

"fuck right sorry, you're not a vampire right?" he chuckles.

"you know cause they can't enter places without being invited and… right okay yeah please come in. welcome to casa jake." he says, gesturing for you to enter first and when you're no longer looking at him as you walk inside he rolls his eyes at how embarrassing he's acting right now, mentally slapping his forehead in shame. he closes the door behind him and let's you know you can sit at his desk and he'll be on his bed.

"or you can be on my bed and i'll take the desk— you know my bed's really comfy and i got these pillows that mold to the shape of your body so it's even more comfortable but i'm not sure if it actually works but the lady at the store was really convincing however she did leave mid-conversation so i didn't get to try out any other pillows and i was just left with this one so i ended up buying it and ohmygosh don't even get me started on how expensive it was— i'll sit at the desk."

you cut him off and jake doesn't realize he was rambling until you speak up to interrupt him.

"yes— right desk.. it is." he says while turning around, grimacing at how he's acting right now.

'get it together sim jake!' he says to himself.

"alright, so i came up with some ideas we can do for our project. i looked over the list of cases professor kang gave us and i highlighted some of the ones that were more interesting. let me know what you think." you say, handing him a few sheets of paper with some notes, pink highlighter across some of the key points, and yellow sticky notes of extra information you thought were important to take note of. "wait—" jake starts, pausing for a second to sift through the papers as he sits down on his bed.

he looks up at you, "you started working on it?" he asks.

"sorta, it's just some ideas. what? you thought i was stupid or something?" you ask, pulling out his chair and sitting down.

"n— no! i just meant like… you're never in class. i didn't expect you to have gotten started on… anything." he says the last part a bit quieter, afraid to offend you but jake will soon learn that nothing really affects you. especially not words that come from some guy she doesn't even know.

"just because i don't show up for class? you do realize that lecture isn't mandatory and he uploads them onto the course portal, right? i only show up when i have another class that day that's mandatory. i've been doing most of the coursework from home it's just easier that way." you explain, rummaging through your bag to pull out your laptop, a pink pencil case that's covered in stickers, and a notebook.

"you look over those ideas and tell me what you think— i'm going to get started on putting together our document." you say as you begin to start typing things into your laptop.

jake's still staring at you, partly because he can't really believe you're in his dorm right now but also because he wasn't expecting that out of you. heeseung was right.

damnit.

there is so much more to you that jake doesn't know and now he feels bad, but he's got until the end of the semester to make it up to you even if you didn't voice to him that you were offended. jake has become determined to not only get to know you but also get closer to you.

crush or not; you were intriguing and jake wanted to know more.

he just had to make sure he doesn't fuck it up.

── 𖹭

it's an hour into working on the project with jake when you yawned for what seemed like the 5th time in the last 20 minutes.

"we should take a break." jake says, clapping his hands together and seemingly startling you awake. "oh shit— my bad." he says with a chuckle. you tell him it's fine as you try to rub the sleep away from your eyes— and failing as another yawn escapes your lips.

"you're pretty sleepy." jake doesn't know why made the comment and he hopes it doesn't offend you— and it doesn't because he's right. you rarely get a normal amount of sleep and it's been like this for the past year. you average about 4 hours of sleep at most these days and that's only if you could even sleep fully without interruptions. "yeah— i am." you say with a sigh as you force yourself to stay awake.

"do you want some coffee? i've got these really good canned ones in my mini fridge?" jake says as he gets up from his bed and heads over to the small fridge tucked away in the corner of his dorm. "yeah— that sounds nice actually, thanks." you take the small can of coffee in his hands and your fingers brush against his and for a moment jake freezes at the feeling of your skin against his even if it was for less than one second.

he grabs one for himself and the two of you crack open the cans at the same time, cold and slightly bittersweet coffee going down your throats at the same time, the two of you even wince at the bitterness of the coffee at the same time; but it all goes unnoticed as the two of you are both in your own worlds for a few moments. "wow— that's pretty good. i feel less tired already." you take another sip before you look over with a smile at jake who is already smiling at you and trying to hide that he was admiring you for a second.

"glad it's helping— why are you so tired by the way? you were napping in class that one day; sorry for that argument by the way, i guess i was just stressed about the project and i didn't mean to upset you or anything." jake takes another sip of his coffee before setting it down on his nightstand where there's a crochet coaster of the inside of an orange.

"oh— yeah about that; you don't have to be sorry. honestly it was my fault i was so tired and barely slept the last few days so i was really irritable. you just happened to be the first person i spoke to that day and i kinda blew up on you… sorry." you say with an awkward chuckle, trying to avoid eye contact but when you hear jake's laugh you can't help but look over at him.

"don't be sorry. i was being kind of annoying that day" he chuckles himself.

"yeah— you kinda were." you try adding onto the joke but jake's face drops when he hears you confirm him being annoying.

"no! sorry i'm just joking you weren't being annoying ohmygod i'm so sorry— yn it's fine i'm just messing with you." you start but he cuts you off when he realizes you couldn't tell he was also joking. you breathe a sigh of relief as the two of you share another laugh. "but seriously. what's got you so tired? it can't be good if you're saying that you barely sleep these days."

you sigh as you fiddle with the tab of the can before answering, "i just work a lot." you kept your answer simple because you didn't want to over explain to your project partner who you barely know. it was better to just give him the short answer opposed to the why behind you work so much because at the end of the day it wouldn't matter anyway. he was just another person you were going to meet for a brief moment in time and then eventually part ways with.

there was no use giving him the logistics of your life, especially when it usually sounds like a cry for help and the last thing you need is help from someone. you were perfectly find taking care of yourself.

"work? do you work at like santa's little workshop or something why do they have you so busy?"

you open your mouth to answer but the ringing of your interrupts. "you should get that, your phones been buzzing since you got here." it was true. your phone has nonstop been vibrating against jake's wooden desk for the better part of the hour and you knew it was your mom sending you a plethora of text messages that all consisted of her asking you for money for your little sister when in reality you knew it was going to be for something else that you refused to fund.

for the last 8 months you had stopped giving your mom money for your sister and directly gave it to her instead. you arranged to meet her at the library near her school and gave it to her in an envelope with a bag of her favorite snacks and some clothes you saw that you thought she'd like. you told her to make sure to hide it so that your mom doesn't see it and get upset. she'd nod and tell you updates about her week. you don't see your little sister that often these days but you tried your best to visit her when you can.

you would help your sister pack the things you gave her into her duffel bag. your mom thinks she's at soccer practice and she usually is but every now and then you'd meet her after soccer practice and you would walk together to get something to eat close by since you didn't have a car. she'd tell you about the boy she has a crush on to which you'd tell her to focus on school and then proceed to ask her for more details, she tells you about how she could potentially be soccer captain that year but she has some doubts and as a big sister it's your job to tell her to never downplay her capabilities.

she'd smile and mutter a small thank you and it would remind you of how you were as a kid. ambitious and had so much drive yet could not accept a compliment for the life of you because you felt like you weren't doing enough to receive them. you made a silent vow to make sure that your sister didn't grow up insecure like you did, that she believed in herself, and to make sure that she had everything you didn't have.

you rolled your eyes at your phone when you finally decide to pick it up and see who has been texting you and just as you thought, it was your mom. she was asking for a few hundred dollars for your sister and then shortly after she started demanding the money followed by various colorful messages about how your a terrible and selfish daughter and that she regrets ever having you.

nothing new.

you were about to respond to her to say that you're busy with university and don't have any money when you receive a phone call.

"shit— sorry i need to get this." you say to jake before swiping to accept and stepping out of jake's dorm. you don't give jake enough time to respond but he watches you leave his dorm as you're answering the phone in a hushed tone.

jake patiently waits on his bed for you to come back, he takes sips of his coffee to the point that he eventually just finished it. he flips through a few pages of notes that you two have worked on in the last hour or so, and when he was just about tired of waiting for you to come back with no other reason besides the fact that he wanted to talk to you again and maybe get back to work— you finally come back inside.

there's a furrow in your brow and a slightly annoyed glare in your eyes.

"hey? everything cool?" he asks, straightening up in his bed when you come back inside.

"um— yeah." you breathe out while packing up your things.

"you're leaving? we've barely even got any work done?" jake's trying not to sound annoyed but he kept help it. it took so long to even set up a day to work on this project and it's barely been two hours and you're already leaving.

"yeah, i'm really sorry my boyfriend just called and he needs me for something." you don't bother looking up at jake as you put your things into your bag. you're in such a hurry that you accidentally knock over the can of coffee and spill it over jake's desk. "shit!" you hiss before quickly picking up the can so it wouldn't spill anymore. the coffee is spreading across jake's desk and you're mumbling about some tissues.

"in the drawer right there." jake points out as he jumps out of his bed. you reach for the drawer and pull it open, eyes landing momentarily at the candle, "sandalwood?" you ask him and jake looks at you like you're insane as you grab tissues to wipe up the mess. "the candle— you don't strike me as a sandalwood type of guy." you mutter and jake doesn't even know what you mean by that even in reference to the candle.

what do you mean he doesn't seem like a sandalwood type of guy? is that a bad thing? what if he wanted to be a sandalwood type of guy? does he want to be a sandalwood type of guy?

"sorry about that—" you say once you've finally cleaned up all of the coffee.

"it's all good." he says with a shrug, a bit disappointed that you were leaving so soon.

"we'll set up another day to work on the project— just text me." you say as you swing your bag over your shoulder and head for the door, texting someone on your phone— probably your boyfriend— and jake can't help but grimace at the thought of this mystery man that's getting in between the two of you.

'wow— i sound insane.' jake says to himself.

"oh, by the way. we should probably meet somewhere else the next time. see you around, jake." and with that you were gone. didn't let him say bye or even ask why you suddenly said to meet somewhere else and then it clicked for jake. you probably told your boyfriend where you were— at the dorm of another guy— and he most likely got upset.

"pfft— loser." jake scoffs as he locks his dorm.

he plops down at his desk and fidgets with a pencil you left behind before his eyes wander over to his drawer. he slides it open and pulls out the candle and lights it so he can give it a good smell— he makes a face at the scent and blows it out quickly. huffing to get the smell out of his senses. "yeah— definitely not a sandalwood guy."

── 𖹭

a week passes since that day in jake's dorm.

the two of you haven't met since and you haven't showed up to class at all that past week but he's learned to work around it. he no longer faults you for not showing up especially since you told him that you were always working— he felt bad that you were balancing so many things between school and work; he just wishes you're taking care of yourself and getting enough sleep.

you've kept in contact with him through text and have worked on the project remotely. you've even done a lot of the work when it comes to putting together the information jake would gather and send over to you. you put together a document of everything, sorted research into proper categories, starting compiling all of the details that would go well in defending your case, others in categories to be revisited later when you might need more information.

it was surprisingly going well and jake no longer felt worried or anxious at the lack of in person setting when it came to working on the project together. that was until he walked inside of a cafe that he had never been to before and saw you behind the counter taking orders and calling out names to let customer's know their order was ready.

he hadn't seen you since you left his dorm abruptly that day because of your boyfriend who he learned through heeseung is jungwon. jake didn't like the guy. not only was jungwon somewhat known as the campus asshole but some months ago before jake even met you he was sitting in the library and catching up on some work when jungwon came in, smug as ever, and knocked into jake's table that ended up making his drink spill all over the table and soaking one of the textbooks in iced americano.

now, jake wouldn't have gotten so upset if jungwon just apologized but he didn't. all jungwon said was, "damn— who put that there?" and walked off. didn't pay any mind to jake, didn't apologize, and certainly didn't care that he just ruined a textbook that jake ended up having to pay for as the librarian watched a few feet away shaking her head at him like it was his fault.

he asked heeseung if he knew anything about your boyfriend and because he was mr. popular, he figured it out quite quickly. you and jungwon started dating your first year at university and have been together since. there were rumors that he cheated on you several times but considering that you and jungwon were still together, maybe they weren't true?

jake eventually found your instagram when he found jungwon's and his assumption about your instagram was true. it was minimal, only a few pictures, and your username was a combination of numbers and letters that didn't necessarily make sense but it somehow suited your personality.

the first photo was you at your high school graduation with who jake assumed was your little sister.

the second photo was a photo of a full moon— pretty and poetic.

and the third was a photo of you and jungwon with the caption 'year 3' to which he audibly gagged at.

jake almost had a heart attack when he thought he accidentally clicked the heart button but it was just a false alarm. he stared at the photos you had on your profile and weirdly wanted for there to be more. he looked at your tagged photos and nothing, not even any from jungwon; did you have no friends like he did?

your following was set to zero and he didn't know if it was because you didn't follow anyone or because you chose to keep that setting private. either way it just made him want to know more about you— hell, he just wanted to see you again. he doesn't know why he felt the way he did with you, maybe it was just an innocent crush or maybe there was a sense of comfortable familiarity he had with you that he couldn't quite explain how or why.

so after days of thinking about you and wanting to see you again— to study, of course— he was surprised to see you at the cafe. a brown apron wrapped around you and a warm smile on your face. a smile he saw on your face in the photo with your little sister but not the one with your so called boyfriend.

he shyly ordered from you and when he saw you, you were just as shocked.

"hi jake." you said as you tapped random things on the register. "what can i get you?"

he orders an iced americano and a croissant. the interaction goes by fast with no extra filling of awkwardness or tension. he doesn't even bring up the fact that you work there— which you're grateful for— and he doesn't bring up the project either. you assumed he was just there to grab a coffee and a bite before class but then you watch as he walks off to the far side of the cafe and sets up his things on a table. a laptop with random stickers on it, a notebook and writing utensils, a textbook or two— and then he just gets to work.

the only other time he gets up or looks up from his study material is when you call his name to grab his order and even then he doesn't strike up conversation— just a small thanks and then he went back to his spot in the bustling cafe.

'weird' you thought to yourself but you only pondered on it for a few seconds before you went back to work. jake not crossing your mind ever again until much later in the day when everyone's mostly left the cafe as the moon began to rise— except for jake who was still tirelessly studying. his cup of coffee now filled with melted ice and small crumbs of his croissant scattered across the table.

no one's noticed the way he's been here all day and your boss certainly didn't notice that he was there when he began to yell and scold you.

"are you kidding me, yn? that is not how we treat customers now we're going to receive negative reviews and lost money having to accommodate that gentleman." he says in a sharp tone. jake can't see you or your boss but he can hear it clearly. you're being scolded over an altercation with a customer— one that jake remembered because he watched all of it go down.

the asshole lied about his order being wrong despite having eaten everything and because you were unfortunately working at the time, he chose you as his target to belittle and manipulate. gaslighting you into believing that you forced him to eat his incorrect order and escalating it to the point of raising his voice and gaining the attention of other customer's who were now paying attention when they weren't before. you apologized even when you didn't need to and compensated the individual with a free meal then he left with a smile on his face like he had just won something he didn't deserve to.

obviously, you had to tell your boss about it and instead of being met with a understanding comprehension of the customer taking advantage of you, you were met with anger and frustration. claims of being useless and terms he didn't dare repeat were thrown at you and when he slowly walked over to where he could see all of it, you just stood there and took it like it was nothing.

but the way your hands were clutched behind you into a fist— he could tell you were holding it all in.

"ex– excuse me?" jake interrupts and your boss' face instantly shifts into shock at the sight of another customer. he tries to tell jake that they were now closed and to return tomorrow but jake cuts him off. you turn around just as jake begins explaining himself and he can see the way your eyes have begun to get glassy.

"i actually saw all of it happen— she didn't do anything wrong, sir. the customer took advantage of her kindness and practically forced her to give him a free meal. it's not her fault…"

jake was defending you.

why?

you were looking at him with a crease in your brows trying to silently tell him to drop it— but he doesn't take the hint.

he continues to explain to your boss about what happened and how he saw everything. how the customer raised his voice at you to pressure you into folding and how jake watched as the customer ate everything on his plate and only complained once he was finished with his meal. your boss was silent for a second before he nodded his head and thanked jake— and then that was it. he walked to the back of the store without another word, leaving you and jake behind like he wasn't just yelling at you moments before that.

"what was that?" you whispered to jake, stepping closer to him.

"i– i was trying to help you. you were getting accused of something you didn't do. that guy was an asshole so i wanted to help." jake explained and you scoffed at him, rubbing your forehead with frustration.

"i don't need your help— i don't care what my boss has to say about me because it doesn't change the fact that the customer and my boss are both assholes. you should've just minded your own business and let me take care of it." you were trying not to yell but the frustration was getting the best of you.

jake was taken aback at your reaction. he thought you would've been glad he stepped in, grateful that he saw all of it happen and defended you— "it sounded like you needed help— i'm sorry are you mad that i helped?" he squinted his eyes at you like he couldn't grasp the concept of your reaction. you frantically nodded your head at him and before you could explain why you were upset, your boss called for you from the back.

"just— we're closed now so please head home jake. thanks." you say sternly and turn on your heel, leaving jake dumbfounded and confused.

did he not do the right thing?

he just wanted to help?

did you cross some line with you?

'fuck— am i stupid?' he thought to himself as he packed his things, still utterly confused at what just went down. he pushed the door open to leave the cafe, turning around one last time to glance around to see if you had appeared again but it was just empty tables and a fluorescent light overhead that was getting more irritating the longer he looked at it. he left with a heavy sigh as he pushed past the door, checking his watch to see what the time was— he'll have to wait for the next bus that would be coming in the next 30 minutes.

so jake sat on the bench and waited.

meanwhile, you were back at the cafe and still getting scolded by your boss— only now jake wasn't there to interrupt him.

you still took everything he said, didn't talk back or try to explain yourself because you knew it was better to just hold your tongue, you refused to look at him and glued your eyes to the brown tile floor of the kitchen as he spat his frustrations and inaccurate claims of who you are as a person at you.

you couldn't give any less of a shit about what people thought about you— all because you didn't need any of that. you didn't need nor care for what someone thought of you, you didn't anything from anyone— especially help from a guy you barely even knew. you didn't care if it looked back from his end and that you 'looked' like you needed help. you didn't need anything besides for the conversation to end.

and end it did.

what jake didn't know was that this wasn't your only job— in fact it was your third job. it's why you spent so many hours awake and even less hours asleep. hence why you never show up to class because you're either picking up a shift or trying your best to catch up on sleep. why you needed three jobs? none of anyone's business but your own.

so when you walked out of the cafe wiping your eyes as you made your way towards the bench at the bus stop, jake couldn't help but straighten up when he saw you. "he— hey.." he mutters, swallowing the lump in his throat because he was definitely not expecting to see you again tonight.

you looked up and huffed an exhausted sigh— still slightly irritated about what happened and the last thing you wanted was to have to talk to jake right now. you stood instead of taking the seat next to him on the bench, opting to lean on the side of the small cover that hung above the bench instead.

"there's some room— you can sit here." he says, sliding over.

"no, thanks."

"okay."

silence.

"are you mad at me? i was just trying to help— it sounded like you needed some help so i spoke up. i don't get why you're upset?"

"because i don't need your help— i don't need any help." you turned to look at him and for the first time the softness in your eyes was gone. it didn't sparkle like how they usually do and instead they looked tired. they were red like you had been awake for hours and didn't both to blink. it made him step back for a second to really look at the bigger picture of it all.

or at least he tries to— but fails.

"i don't get it? why is it so but that you needed help?" jake asks, clearly frustrated.

"i don't need help! that's the thing! when did i ever say i wanted or needed help? never— because i didn't." he's never heard your voice this loud before and whenever a car drove by their headlights shined into your eyes and made the growing tears become more visible.

"it's not like i did something bad? i'm sure your boss appreciated what i said—"

you cut him off, "i got fired, jake. i got fired." was all you said before turning back to staring into the darkness of the streets, fighting the urge to cry because you definitely didn't want to cry in front of some guy.

"wh— what? why? that's not fair— you didn't do anything wrong? let's go back in there and talk to him!" jake grabs your wrist before thinking and tries to walk back to the cafe but you're quick to snatch your arm back.

"there's no fucking point— i lost the job and i'm not going to beg for it back."

"you won't need to beg! i'll do it— i'm the reason you got fired anyway." jake tries to reason but he can tell it's not working when you shake your head at him, hand gripping your temples.

"just drop it! okay? i don't give it a shit i have two other jobs that i can just work more hours at— it's fine." you weren't very convincing and in all honesty, you weren't even convincing yourself. each job paid you just enough for the amount of money that you needed every month and now that you were down one job, your monthly income was going to take a serious dip.

and picking up shifts at your other jobs wasn't an option because you were already working the amount of hours allowed, any more wouldn't be allowed and someone could get in trouble— and you didn't need that either.

"okay— my friend he works at the local radio station. i can get you a job there, i just— fuck." jake felt so guilty to the point that he was beginning to hyperventilate. like he was a little kid again getting in trouble for something he did when all he wanted to do was help. when all he wanted was to be there for someone in need where it ended up backfiring at him in the end.

"i– i'm sorry. fuck— i'm so sorry. i'll get you that job at the radio station, i'll spot whatever money you'll miss from this job, anything. i'm so sorry." you weren't sure why jake was reacting so heavily to this. you barely knew each other but jake was acting like you had known each other your whole lives. you slowly turned towards him and when you saw that his face was starting to get red and the way his eyes were reflecting light like glass— you paused.

you didn't need jake's help— never asked for it— so why is he so adamant on helping you.

"jake. it's fine. i can take care of myself and i don't need help. you don't have to be sorry." your voice was no longer loud and shaky. it was like all negative emotion had left your body and you were just—

"please let me make this up to you. i can get you the job at the radio station if you need it really bad." he tries again but it's just making the frustration return to your body.

there it was again. the word 'need'.

you didn't need help. never did and won't.

"please stop trying to help." was all you said when the bus finally arrived. you stepped onto the bus without another word, scanned your pass and gave the driver a small smile before walking to the back and sliding headphones over your head and staring out the window, hoping that jake will take the hint and leave you alone.

and he does.

sort of.

he does the same, scans his pass and smiles at the driver before walking all the way to the back— behind you, where he silently watches you the whole bus ride. he takes note of the way your shoulders don't relax and despite the silence that was on the bus due to it only being the two of you plus the driver, he couldn't hear anything coming from your headphones— assuming there wasn't anything playing at all.

and he was right.

you weren't playing anything when you put them. you were wearing them simply to let jake know that you didn't want to talk to him nor did you need to continue this conversation.

it still didn't help the growing pit of guilt inside of jake.

he doesn't really know it yet but whenever he sees you— now and moving forward— he'll have the urge to want to help you.

the biggest decision being: should he help the girl who doesn't need anyone or not?

── 𖹭

a few days has passed since the night after the cafe at the bus stop and you'd be lying if you said you weren't already facing the consequences of getting fired. your tips at the cafe were good enough that it allowed you to buy some meals throughout the week without worrying of dipping into your funds for things like your dorm or sending money to your little sister. it was frustrating that it came to this and even more frustrating when you open your chat message with jake and send him a text to meet at the campus' cafeteria.

he responds rather quickly and it's because he was already hovering your texts in his phone— but you didn't need to know that.

you met with jake half an hour later and he's sitting in the far corner, hoodie over his head and hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie.

"you look like you're doing a really bad job at hiding from the authorities." you say before even saying hello or hi.

"i'm not hiding…" he says, sliding his hood off.

"soooo… why'd you want to meet?" he asks, sliding the chair out for you so you could take a seat. you weren't going to at first but you ended up sitting down next to him anyway.

"i'm really sorry for how i spoke to you that. it was rude and i was emotional and i'm sorry. i was just really frustrated that you weren't hearing me out and you kept trying to insist that i needed help when i didn't need it." you played with the loose hem of your sweater, trying your best to avoid eye contact.

"it– it's fine. you don't have to apologize. i've been thinking about it every day and i feel so bad— i'm not trying to insist that you're helpless or anything. i really just wanted to help and i'm sorry i made things worse. it just doesn't make sense to me that he would fire you over that?" you could tell jake was being sincere, which hurt a bit considering how rude you were to him that night.

"because people like him don't care about anything besides being right. they don't care if they're right by being wrong— just being right is enough to them. they don't care how they got to being right as long as they just are— you interfering with this idea in his head only frustrated him and i just happened to be the one he took it out on.

that fuckin' asshole." you rolled your eyes.

"i'm sorry." jake says again and you finally raise your head to meet his gaze. you've never really taken the time to observe jake before, not this close. you noticed how his eyes were round and soft like the way the sun looks when it's hugged by clouds, his lips seem to naturally form into a pout and they were always a shade of pink you could never achieve despite all the makeup you owned. he was really hands— "the offer is still up, by the way." he pulls you out of your train of thought.

you hum in response, wondering what he meant.

"the offer for the radio station— i promise i'm not trying to overstep a boundary again and trying to help where you don't need it but i just feel really bad and who knows; maybe you'll like it there more than the cafe." he says with a shrug, a small hopeful smile on his lips when he sees you're actually considering it.

and after a moment, you accept.

"no way! really?" he almost jumps out of his chair and his voice is louder than either of you expected but it didn't seem to bother anyone around the two of you. you nodded in response and told him that you were honestly considering begging your job back despite saying you weren't going to but maybe working at he radio station would be a lot better. it's a lot closer to campus and it seemed like something that was more lighthearted.

hell— anything is more lighthearted than working for your ass of an ex-boss.

"cool! oh— please don't be mad… i kind of already told my friend at the radio station you were taking the job so it's kind of… already yours…" he says with a slightly guilty grin, squinting his eyes and raising his shoulders in defense like you were going to yell at him again but it doesn't come.

"thanks jake. text me the details— i really appreciate it." you say before sliding out of your chair. "oh and i'm free the rest of the week to work on our project by the way. just let me know when you are." you smile at him and give him a wave before walking off. a huge weight off the both of your shoulders as you both breathe a sigh of relief once the other is gone.

"great." jake says to himself when you're no longer insight. he texts heeseung that you accepted the job and heeseung just responds with several questions marks followed by 'i thought she already accepted?' to which jake just responds with, 'yeah. i just said that.' he slides his phone back into his pocket with a prideful smile on his face.

it was the first time something like this worked out for him— sure it was because of something like getting you fired but he made up for it in the end. it felt nice. jake felt accomplished and he felt… happy.

── 𖹭

some weeks past by and everything's going great for jake— and you.

you started working at the radio station with jake's friend, heeseung, and it was great. the pay was definitely a lot better, no tips, but the pay was enough to make up for that. your boss was a lot nicer and she accommodated a lot of your restraints when it came to your two other jobs. heeseung was cool, he makes dad jokes a lot and you choose to laugh at them even when they aren't funny because the one time you didn't laugh he looked at you like a pitiful hamster and it kinda broke your heart.

you've laughed at all of them ever since.

it was great.

jake seemed to also being doing well. he didn't really mind when he went unnoticed by a lot of people because these days you were noticing him more and more. you texted him regularly— about the project— but a win is a win. you two would often meet at a different cafe in town to work on the project as per the request of your boyfriend who claimed that if you were going to meet with another man that it should be in public so that 'if you cheat there are witnesses'. jake wanted to insult him but chose not to out of respect for you— definitely not because he hated your boyfriend's guts.

one night, after your first shift alone at the radio station where you were left in charge of the late night segment, jake just so happened to also be waiting at the bus stop like he was the night you got fired.

"this feels like deja vu." you say with a smile as you take the seat next to him on the bench— something you didn't do last time.

"promise i won't get you fired this time— other times? not so sure."

"oh? you've got jokes, sim. too bad i think my new boss likes me too much to ever fire me. she said i don't talk half as much as heeseung does and she prefers it sometimes over heeseung's constant yapping." you retort and it makes jake chuckle.

"she's right, though. heeseung can talk like enough for everyone in a 10 mile radius." he jokes and you laugh. for real this time. not the fake laughs you've been giving heeseung or the small laugh you give to your boyfriend when he says a slightly rude remark but you choose to laugh instead of addressing it.

jake loves your laugh.

the bus finally arrives after some time and he lets you on first and when you reach for your wallet that should be in the pocket of your puffer coat— it's not there.

slight panic washes over you when you realize you must've misplaced it— left it behind at the radio station somehow. "fuck.." you mutter under your breath, now unsure of how you were going to get home. it's too late to run back to the radio station as this is the last bus ride for the night and a ride share service would cost an arm and a leg at this hour.

"here— i got you." jake doesn't say anything else as he reaches past you and slides a few bills and some coins into the machine, a tiny sliver of paper rolls out soon after— your bus pass— and the driver urges you to take it and to have a seat. "thanks." your stutter out and head to the back, same spot you were in last time. you turn around to see jake scanning his pass— same one you had left behind at work— before you take a seat. he walks towards the back and gives you a smile, for a second you thought he was going to sit next to you but he eventually continues walking and takes a seat behind you.

you don't know why but it made you a bit sad when he chose to sit somewhere else.

the bus slightly jolts forward when it starts to move and the drive back to dorms begins.

it's not long after that you carefully get up and walk to the back where jake is, plopping down next to him. he's looking at you with wide eyes when you sit next to him, "just didn't feel like sitting alone." you say with a shrug and he just nods, trying his best to hide the way he's getting excited over the fact that a pretty girl like you is sitting next to him right.

correction— chose.

a pretty girl like you chose to sit next to him amongst all of the empty seats on the bus.

a win is a win.

jake turns to look out the window as you both sit in silence when he suddenly feels something on his shoulder.

you.

you've somehow fallen asleep and are now resting your head on his shoulder. he looks down at you as a corner of his lips tug towards his eyes. you looked so peaceful. you didn't have that usual exhaustion written all over your face these days, you probably still aren't getting enough sleep but the fact that you not only are catching up on a bit of sleep on his shoulder right now but also felt safe enough to do that.

well, that's all he cared about. it was like he was slowly becoming someone you could rely on— and jake liked that.

── 𖹭

jake wasn't planning on doing anything this fateful saturday night.

he was going to work on his parts of the project, work on some other assignments to get ahead of them, maybe play a game or two of league of legends— most likely sleep the whole day, but when heeseung showed up at his dorm unannounced— like he usually does— with a lime margarita cutwater in both hands, all he could was shake his head and grab the can of alcohol from his friend.

what was supposed to be jake's chill night in now turned into jake attending a frat party where he knew exactly one person, heeseung.

scratch that— two: you.

he saw you in the far corner of the frat house, sticking to yourself as you nursed a red solo cup in your hand. you'd glance around every now and then like you were waiting for someone but judging by how you're constantly checking your phone— it doesn't look like whoever you're waiting for will be showing up any time soon.

"yo– jake! let's do some beer pong. you're on my team." heeseung suddenly appears at jake's side, tapping him on the chest as he drags jake towards the beer pong table and when he turns to glance back to your direction, you're gone. there's a slight disappoint in his face but it's quickly replaced by a rush of alcoholic adrenaline when heeseung shoves another can— this time it's beer— into his hand and has jake drink it all before the game even starts.

"alright! house rules: get one ball in a cup, the other side drinks and you keep shooting 'til you miss. side who finishes all their drinks first loses— no bouncing and if the ball goes in then out, it's considered out." some guy who jake assumes is in the frat says. he wasn't sure who any of these people were but because he was dragged here by heeseung he kind of had no choice but to participate or look like a complete loser standing by himself.

"this side we've got sigma chi's very own park sunghoon and park jongseong" the two guys who jake assumes are sunghoon and jongseong do a chest bump— hooting and hollering as they pump their fists, slap their chests, and flex. very typical frat-boy behavior and jake can say that this is truly the first time he's been around this type of male archetype. "and on this side! we've got the campus favorite, lee heeseung and! .." then there's a pause.

the guy announcing the game looks at jake with a head tilt, "sorry, bro— what's your name again?" he asks and jake can feel everyone staring at him.

he whispers his name to the guy and he clears his throat to go back to his over the top announcing, "lee heeseung and sim jake!" everyone cheers and claps and although it made jake feel fuzzy on the inside— maybe it's from the alcohol— it was kind of nice. they could've just been cheering for heeseung and not him, but he'll take it. that's just the thing when it comes to being lee heeseung's friend.

"alright— let's play fair. loser does a keg stand… go!"

the game starts before jake can even fully process everything, he's drank more than he has ever drank in one night than he has in his whole life and there wasn't even any specific reason as to why this party was happening. it just was.

ping pong balls are being thrown across a table and before jake knows it, he and heeseung are in the lead. they've taken down seven out of ten cups on the opposing side and he's still got eight on his side. maybe he wasn't so bad at beer pong after all— maybe he's found his new talent— and maybe– just maybe, he's really loving all of the attention. people cheered for him like he's never heard before, they even chanted his name when he got the ball into a cup that was isolated in the far corner of the table. it was nice to be appreciated and noticed like this but he couldn't help but let his drunken thoughts wander back to the last time he saw you that night.

alone and seemingly anxious for something… someone..?

by now there's only one ball left to get rid of before jake and heeseung win the game— it was intense, the crowd has gotten even bigger and by the looks of his opponents 'the park bros' who he has learned is the nickname they've given themselves, their drunken state was enough to see that they want this game to be over just as much as jake does. of course he wants to win and have people cheer him on even more but he can't help but just want to explore the frat house and look for you.

jake's about to throw the ball into the last cup when he hears your voice cut through the music that's pounding throughout that house. it's not loud and you certainly aren't yelling— but it was loud enough that it got his attention. his head whips to the direction of your voice and his eyes dart around until he can find where you are and his face drops when he sees the situation that you're in.

you're backed into a corner of the kitchen with some guy towering over you, your first screams disgust and by the way you're crossing your arms it looks like you just want to be left alone. so, instead of throwing the ball properly, he just drops it onto the table and walks off— leaving heeseung dumbfounded and the park bros cheering as this gives them more of an opportunity to turn the game around and win.

heeseung tries calling for jake but he's too focused on the scene playing out in front of him, feet moving on their own until he finds himself in the kitchen just an arm's reach away from you and the strange man who won't leave you alone.

"you good, yn?" he says, gaining both your attention.

your eyes perk up at the sight of a familiar face and when the guy gives you enough space, you manage to sneak past him and wrap your hands around jake's arm for security. "you know this guy?" jake asks just loud enough and you shake your head. jake looks over at the asshole who won't leave you alone and stares him down— he doesn't care if the dude is taller than him. jake's got enough alcohol running through his body that he could probably run a marathon on hot coal or lift a tractor over his head.

that paired with the fact that you were clearly uncomfortable and needed help— he could do anything if it was for you.

the guy scoffs, "yeah— cuz you'll have a lot more fun with this prick. didn't wanna fuck you anyway." he says before walking off into the distance, most likely going to find another girl to bother. jake flinches at the guy, hand already balled into a fist but you're quick to pull him back, "not worth it— you'll just hurt your hand on his hard ass face." you mutter as you let go of jake's arm, making him slightly upset at the loss of contact.

"you alright? he didn't do anything did he?" jake's voice is dripping in concern, like it usually does when it comes to you. he's looking you up down and he can't help but slow down when he realizes you're wearing a tight black dress that hugged your body in all of the right places, making you look equally soft and sharp at the edges.

you shake your head, "no— he just wouldn't leave me alone. kept asking if i wanted to fuck even when i told him i had a boyfriend." you rolled your eyes in annoyance, jumping up on the counter in front of jake and he has to force himself to look away from your exposed thighs that are now on full display for him.

"should've kicked him in the nuts when he touched my ass though— fucking dick." you spit, glaring off in the direction the guy walked off in. "whatever— what are you doing here by the way? didn't take you for the frat party type." jake laughs for a second as the alcohol catches up to him again— heat washing over his face.

"yeah, i guess you could say that— heeseung dragged me here." he says with a nod.

"what about you? what are you doing here alone?" he asks and your lips form into a pout at the reminder. "right.. uh— my boyfriend was here earlier then he saw how i was dressed and got upset so he left. didn't even wanna show up tonight but he insisted that his girlfriend needed to be there because it's his frat— whatever." you shake your head, clearly annoyed and that's when jake realizes that your boyfriend must be in the frat.

loser.

"well, i, for one think you look beautiful." jake says, alcohol talking for him.

you quirk your brow at him with a smile, "i never said i didn't look beautiful jake— just said he didn't like my dress." you tease and you can see the panic spread across his face.

"no! i meant like your dress is beautiful and i don't agree with jungwon— you AND your dress are beautiful… you look.. yeah. fuck." he mutters the last part, shutting his eyes and dropping his head backwards in awkward shame.

you giggle at how cute his reaction is. cute? should you be using that word with someone that isn't your boyfriend?

"i'm just messing with you jake— you're kinda fun to mess with to be honest." jake loves the way you laugh, even if it's because you think it's cute how he's embarrassing himself in front of you. there's a beat of silence between you two when you finally decide to speak up. you jump off the counter and landing right in front of jake, your chest lightly pressed up against his. "think im gonna head home— don't drink anymore, okay?" you say, tilting your head at him and fluttering your lashes.

"um ye– yeah. do you need a ride home?" he asks

"from you? i didn't know you drive— plus you're really drunk that's not safe."

"no! i would never drink my drive— i mean drunk and drive– shit! i mean—" he keeps stuttering over himself and once again you're laughing at the way he's just so naturally clumsy in that way. it's endearing and you liked that about jake.

"can i call you an uber?" jake asks, fishing for his phone in his pocket but your hand reaches to grab his wrist, stopping him.

"i've got it taken care of, big boy. you have a good night and no more drinking, promise me."

god— your voice was so fucking hot. it was smooth like honey and addictive like seeing you for the first time. he could listen to you talk about anything for hours and he'd never grow tired of it. jake realizes he probably looks a fool just staring at you with his lips parted so he shakes himself back to reality just in time. "good night, jake." you say once again with a side hug, jake's arm wrapping around your waist and he takes in the moment like it's going to be his last.

"goodnight.." he mutters but you probably couldn't even hear it over the music— or perhaps the way his heart is pounding so loudly inside of his chest. fuck— did you hear it when you hugged him?

"she smelled so nice…" jake says, a drunk smile spreading across his face as he tries to savor the last of your scent before the smell of spilled alcohol and sweat takes over again.

"who smelled nice?" heeseung says out of nowhere, sipping on a red solo cup.

"fuck— dude! scared the shit out of me." jake says, grabbing his chest like he was having a heart attack.

"bro, why did you leave the game? we fuckin' lost because of you— had to drink all that warm beer." heeseung pouts, gesturing to the cup in his hand as he finishes off the rest of the drink, discarding the cup on the kitchen counter with a burp. "you're gross—" jake says, shoving heeseung away who is pretending to blow a kiss at jake.

"come on— we lost so you gotta do the keg stand." heeseung says as he wraps his arm around jake's shoulder, pulling him back towards the room where they had beer pong. "you know we were doing so good and then you just left—" heeseung was going on a drunken ramble, burping in between sentences but jake eventually tunes him out when he thinks about the way you smelled so heavenly despite being in a place that's filled with things furthest from something holy.

besides you, of course.

"ready?" heeseung asks, slapping jake on the chest.

"fine— but if i throw up you're helping me." jake says, glaring at his friend.

"yes, sweetheart. whatever you want, sweetheart." heeseung says with a kissy face.

before jake goes upside down with the help of heeseung and the park bros, his last and final thought is to make sure he texts you after he's up right again to make sure you got home safe.

── 𖹭

over the course of the next few weeks, you and jake have gotten quite close. having spent a lot of time together working on the project will do that, especially if it's just you and one other person, but you didn't mind— jake certainly didn't. he tried his best not to let his little crush on you get the best of him but he's still fumbling over his words when you look into his eyes or sometimes he completely just stops mid sentence when you get a bit too close— he prefers the latter.

"i am so tired—" you huff, dropping your head onto the table.

you and jake are working on the group project at the university library quite late in the night. the project isn't due for another week or so but because of your busy schedule, you and jake agreed that getting it done before the deadline would be a good idea. the two of you really only spend time with each other when it's for the project and it just so happens to be the only time jake ever really leaves his dorm.

even when heeseung tries to drag him out to go grab something to eat, jake will refuse.

but if you were to message him and say you're free to work on the project, no matter how last minute, he was suddenly ready and his schedule was miraculously open— not that he had much plans in the first place.

"you're always tired.." jake mutters, flipping through some of his notes he wrote a few days ago and typing it into the shared document you two were working on. you shoot him a glare as your head rests on your forearms and he just laughs, seeing your expression from the corner of his eye.

"want me to grab us coffee?" he offers but you shake your head, stuffing your face back into your arms.

you suddenly raise your head and sit up straight with a gasp— a dramatic and unnecessary one that makes jake turn his head towards you in a startle. "no coffee— let's just take a break and talk. i think if i write one more sentence for this case study i'm going to throw my laptop out the window." you say, slouching into your chair and pushing your laptop a few inches away from you.

"well, you can't do that because we aren't done with this project and you can't just go out and buy a new one— so, no. no throwing laptops out the window." he says while also sliding his laptop to the side. you fake sigh in annoyance like you're upset you can't throw you device out of the window but you know he's right. you can't really afford to break the most valuable item you own— you just loved complaining.

"what do you wanna talk about?" jake says, leaning back into his chair and folding his arms behind his head. the sleeves of his shirt slightly inch back on his arms, exposing his biceps.

you swallow the lump in your throat, hoping jake doesn't notice that you were staring for a moment— "umm… you!" you respond.

"me?" … no one's ever asked about me before, jake thinks to himself.

"what do you wanna know?" he asks, blinking rapidly at you. jake doesn't know what to expect from you sometimes. there were days where you were like his best friend and other days he can tell you've had a lot on your shoulders that you barely spoke more than 10 words at a time. you lean forward and rest your chin on your propped up elbows, observing jake for a second like you were studying him.

"anything."

that simple word was enough to make his heart skip a beat— several actually.

you? wanted to learn more about him? jake? sim jaeyun? the guy who everyone seems to forget. the guy who usually goes unnoticed by practically every single person he comes across— and yet, here you are; the prettiest girl he's ever seen asking to learn more about him.

and not some surface level 'what's your favorite color?' type of deal, but a 'i want to learn anything about you.'

did you care about jake as much as he cared about you? was this the point where his life of being unnoticed, not looked at, not cared for, and never needed— someone people did not consider at any point. someone who has yearned for the day he'd be someone that played an important role in someone's life. someone with a dream that most would find useless or silly— to be that someone that experiences love to it's fullest, with the good and the bad, the moments where love bleeds into the seams of every cracked and fills itself with something he can call his.

"um—" jake stutters, unsure of where to start.

"relax, jake. it's not that serious— figured since we spend so much time together i'd get to know you. you're practically one of the few people i've kept in contact with regularly this whole semester." you explain, lightening the mood when you noticed that jake was way too deep in thought for a simple question— was it simple though? to ask someone to tell you about themselves? it's not like jake has a prepared script since he rarely ever gets asked to talk about himself— let alone gets asked anything in general.

"what's your major and why— let's start there." you chose a question to make it easier.

okay. major and why. 'i can do that— easy.' jake thinks to himself.

'shit— what am i studying again?' he starts to get confused. it's not his fault you're so pretty and your eyes look so soft against the warm lighting inside of the library, like he could just melt inside of them.

"seriously? even that has got you stumped?" you laugh at him, bringing your hand up to your face to cover it while you laughed.

you do that a lot, jake's definitely noticed.

"okay. okay— uh, i'm studying criminal justice. it's something i'm pretty passionate about." jake ends it there.

"that's it? just because you're 'passionate'— why are you passionate? where does that passion stem from? come on, give me something jake!" you tease, pouting your lips at him and jake thought your eyes were his weakness but seeing the way your lips form into a pout— that's definitely got him feeling weak.

jake hesitates for a second, unsure if he should explain the real 'why' behind his passion.

the story isn't exactly… lighthearted.

"fine— i chose to study criminal justice because of my dad." he responds, pausing for a beat.

"did he also study criminal justice?" you ask and he shakes his head.

"no… definitely not." jake looks down and begins fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

when jake was 8 years old, before he even started thinking about what major he was going to be studying in university, his father was arrested— wrongfully arrested. jake's dad worked day and night as a welder. it was long days of working and even longer nights when his company was hired to work on projects by rich folk. one morning after jake's dad worked until 3am— they received an unexpected knock on their front door at 7 in the morning.

it was the cops.

"hey there, bud. your mom or dad home?" the officer said when jake opened the door, he peeked through the small crack and kept the top lock on because his dad taught him to never let strangers into the house. jake shyly nodded and the officer asked him to grab a parent because they 'just wanted to talk'. it's never just a talk.

one thing led to another.

jake softly walked to his father's room and carefully pushed the door open to see his dad still sleeping. he poked his dad and when that didn't work he tapped him on the shoulder until he finally woke. "dad… there's police outside." was all he said. his dad got up immediately, not even bothering to put on his glasses as he walked to the front door and pulled it open— and just like jake said. there were cops outside.

one second they were 'talking' and the next they were turning jake's father around and cuffing his hands behind him, telling him that he was under arrest. all jake's dad said was to call his mom— the cops didn't even care that they just took a child's father away without a second thought. jake had to watch the way his dad was pushed into the cop car from the window in his living room. when he turned around to see the front door still unlocked, he couldn't do anything about it because the lock at the top was far too high for him to reach.

he sat there for a few moments until he remembered his dad's words.

"call mom." so he did that.

jake's parents were divorced and he rarely called his mom, so when she received a phone call from her baby boy, she knew something was wrong.

what was supposed to be his dad just being held at the station for a few hours for questioning turned into a sentence that landed him behind bars for a number of years jake couldn't even fathom at the time. they claimed that he was responsible for a machine back at the factory being wrongfully put away— that it wasn't properly switched off and when someone came into work the next day to use that machine it went wrong. an injury that eventually led to a casualty that jake's dad was sent to jail for.

but jake knew he didn't do it.

even at such a young age, jake knew that his dad wasn't at fault— and in honesty, he wasn't

the lawyer that jake's mom hired was able to gather evidence that proved his dad innocent. that the machine was carefully put away— video evidence proving so— but because the investors that paid thousands of dollars for their service and the company not wanting the press to get wind of the 'freak accident' that happened, they thought it was best to just sweep everything under the rug; jake's dad included.

he became their scapegoat.

no matter the evidence that the lawyer gathered to prove his dad's innocence, it wasn't enough.

the rich used their money and power to put away jake's dad— basically paid him for his silence except there was nothing in return.

until jake's 18th birthday when his dad passed away— behind bars— not able to say goodbye to his one and only son. jake hated his 18th birthday and any birthday that followed. after his dad died, an attorney showed up at his house, by now he's moved in with his mom and even though his parents were divorced, the situation with his dad was enough to make his own mother dissociate from everything.

she barely acknowledged her own son because he looked so much like his dad.

the attorney smiled warmly at jake and explained everything he needed to know.

jake thought that his dad lost the case because of how rich the people were— and he wasn't wrong— but there was more to it that he didn't know until his 18th birthday when he received a letter from the attorney, instructed by his dad to give it to him when he passed away— or when he turns 18.

both just happened to fall on the same day.

the letter explained everything— that money was at play just not how jake thought it would be. before the court hearing, some very rich and very scary people met with his dad in jail. they explained that with some thousand dollars jake's future would be set— he could go to university without the worry of money being a problem. all jake's dad had to do was plead guilty no matter what and jake was set.

and he did just that.

jake's dad spoke to the attorney and said that no matter what happened out there in that courtroom— he was going to jail. he didn't know what he meant by that— he learned about everything the same time jake did.

as jake read the words on the letter his fingers began to tighten around the paper until it completed was crumpled between his hand. tears brimmed along the outlines of his eyes as his jaw tightened. he didn't know what to think, he was angry, sad, hurt, confused— everything.

he dad may've just died that day but he lost his father years ago when he was sent to jail for something he didn't do— but for jake.

how was jake supposed to live with that guilt?

that the one person who's ever cared for him threw everything away— including his own life— for jake.

he wanted to cry. he wanted to scream. he wanted to break things— he just couldn't, because that's not how his dad raised him.

jake's never told anyone about this before, not even heeseung, he's also never repeated it even to himself. sometimes his mom would try to bring it up and he'd just brush it off— eventually jake became someone he didn't recognize, someone his father wouldn't recognize. he became even more invisible to everyone and he honestly preferred it that way— even if it hurt.

it didn't bother him until he started to realize how pathetic it was— then he started thinking about his dad and it made him feel sad. his dad wouldn't like for him to live his life like that; the life his dad worked so hard to work on to make sure his son had everything he needed. so after all of the years of being invisible and never being seen or noticed, he finally wanted to break out of that.

but years of being invisible was hard to break out of— until you came along.

"jake— i'm so sorry.." you whispered, afraid that if you spoke too loud it would shatter something fragile.

you looked up at jake and he had tears in his eyes threatening to fall as he stared at the wooden table. his hands were gripping the bottom of his shirt like he was holding on for dear life and you could feel the weight of his words. like he was letting go of something he didn't know he was clutching onto— something he's avoided like a dam with cracks that's being held together but thread.

"you have nothing to be sorry— shit, didn't mean to cry that's embarrassing." he says, wiping the tears away with one of his hands but he freezes when he feels your hand on top of the other.

"it's not embarrassing… i don't know how long you've been holding that in and i'm so sorry you've felt like you needed to. that's not fair to you, at all. i wish someone would've told you that it's okay a lot sooner…" jake finally looked at you and just as he thought, there was that glint that's always in your eye.

you were crying just like he was— you cared.

you care.

you pull him into a hug, rubbing his back and he finds himself laying his head onto your shoulder. a sense of comfort he hasn't felt in ages— a hug from someone that cared about him. that does care about him. even when he gets a hug from his mom when he sees her— which is rare— it doesn't feel like this. it felt more like distance despite being so close.

jake sniffles when you pull away, silently wishing you could've stayed there for just a moment longer.

"are you okay?" you ask even if you knew there was probably a lot going through his head.

he nods, wiping another tear away.

"definitely wasn't planning on crying in the library with my partner at— 2 in the morning." jake says with a half chuckle as he checks the time on his phone.

you laugh along with him to lighten the mood— "friend." you say and jake looks over at you.

"crying in the library with your friend." you correct him and he can't stop the smile that spreads across his face. the corners of his lips twitch upwards towards his ears, his eyes crinkle, and the apple of his cheeks become full.

"we're friends?" he asks like he didn't properly the first time but he just wanted to hear you say it again.

"yes, jake. we're friends— i mean unless you don't want me as your friend then i guess we aren't." you tease, playfully rolling your eyes at him and he's quick to deny.

"no no! friends! yes… friends." he says, nodding with a smile.

he wished you were more than friends though.

"enough about me— tell me about you? what are you studying?" jake says, clearing his throat from the overflow of emotion that poured out of him unexpectedly. he wasn't expecting to ever share that part of his life with someone, let alone that someone being you. "social work." you said simply before shifting in your seat to find a more comfortable position.

"shit— think it's gonna be my turn to cry now." you said, already sniffling.

jake became even more of an eager listener when you said that, if all of his attention wasn't on you before then it definitely was now.

you began to tell jake about the reason behind your major like he did— and like jake, it started when you were little.

responsibility came to you at a very young age.

5 years old to be exact.

your little sister was born when you were 5 years old and ever since that day, you had silently found your purpose. to take care of her— you didn't need anyone's help to do it either, not your parents, not from a trust adult— or any adult for that matter. you saw the home that your little sister was born into, you lived in that home, and god forbid would you let your little sister become a product of the very house that you learned to hate at just 5 years old.

emotion doesn't come easy at that age but you knew better than anyone else that it wasn't going to be easy navigating your life and now your little sister's as well. no one dropped her onto you as a responsibility but because of the way you were raised at just 5 years old— you knew that you needed to be the one to step in and that you didn't need anyone to help you with that. it was your duty as an older sister and you owed it to her to make sure the world didn't taint her innocence.

your parents— if you could consider them as parents— weren't the best people to rely on.

you learned to feed yourself before you could speak complete sentences. counting to 10 wasn't something that came from a teacher but because you had to make sure you counted long enough to pretend to be asleep to avoid having to interact with your father while he got ready for work in the morning. your mother didn't see a daughter but saw a burden.

their first born— a mistake.

at 10 years old, your father disappeared— took a bag of his things, left his ring on the nightstand, and by morning he was just a memory. your mom hated talking about him and you hated remembering him. your little sister barely had memories about him because by the time she was forming memories he was already practically a ghost. 10 was also the time you had to get your first job. nothing crazy but definitely not something a child should have to worry about. you ran errands for the aunties at the market in your town, helped them with small things like cleaning, picking up orders from other people in the market and delivering them, taking orders from customers, things like that.

you'd get paid, of course, but that money went to your mom— not you.

you never gave up on your studies thought and you made sure your little sister didn't give up on hers either. everyday after school you would go to work for a few hours, grab something small to eat to bring to your sister that she could eat quickly so your mother doesn't see, then you'd spend hours helping her with her homework until it was time for her to go to bed.

once her eyes shut and she was asleep, you'd spend the next few hours working on your own studies— essays, math worksheets, endless chapters of reading and before you knew it there would be about 3 hours left where you could sleep before having to restart all over again. this routine of yours last years; you'd eventually start working better jobs— sort of— that paid you better but not enough that you could rely on one source of income. at 16 you're working two jobs, juggling high school and preparing yourself for university, taking care of your sister, and still fighting off the resentment your mother had for her two daughters.

it was hard but you knew you could do it— it didn't matter how tough it got or how many nights you went without food or sleep; you knew that it was all on you and you didn't need anyone's help to get through any of it.

even when your little sister offered to start working, you gave her a stern talking to— told her that her focus needs to be on studies and not working and that it's not her responsibility to make money, it was yours.

eventually your little sister got into sports and for the first time in a while, you had a smile on your face as you watched your little sister score a goal at her very first soccer game. she looked over at you in the crowd as soon as it happened and the smile on your face mirrored hers. you were flushed with pride and it was at that moment that you made a silent promise to her, that for as long as you are alive, your little sister will always be happy.

when you turned 18 and officially became an adult you did something that would forever change the course of your relationship with your mother. you tried to file for custody over your little sister and with the amount of money you secretly hid and saved, you used that to work with an attorney to help you with the case. your mother screamed, her eyes widened in a type of anger you've never witnessed in someone before, she pointed her finger at you like you weren't her daughter and by the end of it— you weren't.

it came at a loss.

you not only lost the case and the court deemed the evidence you brought as insufficient to become your sister's legal guardian but you also lost your mother that day but you knew deep down that the day your were born was the real day you lost your mom. you moved out almost immediately, rented a room in a nice old couples house while you prepared for university, continued working three jobs to make ends meet and despite your mother's mistreatment towards you, you still gave her money because she promised it would be for your little sister.

lies.

it wasn't a year into university that your sister finally told you that the money you were giving your mom barely went to her. it was meant to cover your little sister's food expenses, sports fees and equipment, help give her some pocket money when she needed it, but instead you found out that your mother had found herself coping with the decline of her life through drugs. you don't know where she got them from and you didn't care to find out— ever since then you started giving the money directly to your little sister and if your mother tried to ask you for some you'd simply tell her you had nothing left over.

you were afraid that she'd force your sister into working and ruin her studies to make money for her addiction but thankfully she didn't. your sister was fine— despite having to live with your mother— and she was happy even though she was far from the one person who has ever cared about her.

"i'm not the only person who cares about you— so many people do and don't forget that." you'd tell her whenever she would get sad about not being able to live with you. you'd remind her of all of her friends, that boy she has a crush on, the teachers who did their best in making sure she was prepared for university— resources and people that rallied around her for her success. something you didn't have— something you didn't need.

"that's why i'm studying social work— i want to get into child welfare and help kids who can't help themselves; so that they don't need to make the same sacrifices i did." your voice was just above a whisper, eyes getting blurry as tears begin to coat them— you laugh it off. "fuck, this is the most depressing study session i've ever done." you say to cut through the tension and thankfully jake laughs along with you.

"tell me about." he says, shaking his head with a laugh.

he doesn't know how to respond to what you've just told him and he kind of felt bad because he didn't know what to do. you gave him such kind words— you even hugged him but right now all he could do was look at you— look at the girl he's silently watched for the last few months and tried to understand and tried to be the person you could rely on, and it all finally made sense.

your lack of sleep being a direct result of your countless hours working so you could care for your little sister.

and your independence.

your natural instinct to refuse help and to nod need anyone because it was ingrained in your by the very people who were supposed to help and care for you. you didn't need anyone because everyone has failed you to the point that you've had to create solutions on your own— no one else has ever been reliable enough for you— for your sister; and it broke jake's heart to know that you've had to endure all of this on your own.

burdening the troubles so that your sister could live a life you also deserved.

jake wanted to let you know how much he admired you, how strong you are, how smart you are, how beautiful you are, and how capable you are despite having endured so much but he didn't and he doesn't know why couldn't bring himself to do it.

but when you finally looked up at jake after taking a moment to yourself and you saw the way he was looking at you— that was enough.

── 𖹭

"aaaaand— submit! we're done!" jake says as he clicks his mouse and the word 'complete' appears on his screen after he hit submit on the final project. originally you were planning to be the one to submit for the two of you but you were having some computer problems but thankfully jake— as usual— came to the rescue and ended up saving the day. he told you not to worry about it and that he'd submit everything after you spent the last hour trying to fix your laptop, you thanked him endlessly and he just laughed and told you it wasn't a big deal.

"thank god! it's finally over— i need a drink." you say over the phone, slumping into the pillow you were leaning on.

"speaking of drinks, there's that end of the semester party tonight— you coming?" jake asks and you furrow your brows at him through your phone.

"jake are you suddenly a party animal? beer pong has changed you…" you said jokingly and you can hear him laugh through the phone. you found his laugh quite cute— infectious even.

"you comin' or not?" he says through a laugh.

"yeah, i am. i'll be there with my boyfriend— oh! i'll introduce you guys, you'd get along." you say it like he didn't leave you alone at a party just some time ago because he didn't like how short your dress was. jake has to stop himself from scoffing audibly but he definitely rolls his eyes since you can't see him anyway.

"jake?" you ask since he's gone silent.

"sorry— yeah! sure, totally. i'll see you there!" and then he just hangs up, not giving you any time to say goodbye.

'weird' you thought to yourself but you believed it was just jake being jake.

your silly friend.

── 𖹭

jake is 2 beers and 4 shots into the night when he finally sees you at the party.

it was at a different frat house this time, heeseung's somewhere having 3 conversations at once, and you're looking beautiful as ever as the annoying cheap strobe lights flicker across the room. your hair is done up extra special with small clips, your dress is perfect— like always— and he's smiling at you from across the room, trying to get your attention.

he's about to walk over to you when someone comes into his line of vision.

your boyfriend— jungwon.

and he's not look happy and neither are you.

jake walks over a bit closer to hear your conversation better over the loud music, he's hiding behind a corner and it's close enough to hear everything and not be seen. jungwon's yelling at you about how you're dressed— that it's annoying see how many guys are staring at 'his girl' like you were some object to be own. he's telling you to go back to your dorm— by yourself— to change. he says something about always having to care about what other people think because you can't think for yourself and that you don't care about what other people think of you because you don't know better.

jake was starting to get angry hearing all of the ridiculous things your boyfriend was spewing, trying his best to hold back and not reveal that he's been eavesdropping but just as he's about to round the corner and defend you— like one should— a loud slap rings through whole house that it has everyone's head turning towards you and jungwon.

he finally peers from the corner and he sees you standing there staring at jungwon who has got his face turned to one side, hand clutching his face in shock, confirming what jake just heard cut through the loud music.

"fuck you, we're done." is all you say before walking off, pushing past the stares and leaving the party.

jungwon's still holding his face, stretching his jaw with a wince when he sees everyone staring. he glares at everyone before walking off towards the opposite direction— towards jake. jungwon sees the way jake is staring and he stares back, looking him and down, "fuck you lookin' at?" he says before shoving past jake.

jake ran after you that night, afraid that you had gotten far as he pushed out of the house but he could see the way you were starting to get smaller and smaller as you walked down the side walk. you could hear footsteps getting louder behind you thinking it was your ex but when you whipped around all of a sudden, you come crashing into jake.

"shit!" the two of you say at the same time, clearly in shock.

"ohmygod— jake? what are you doing?" you say with a sniffle, trying to wipe your tears away like he hasn't seen you cry several times before.

"um…" he tries to think of a way to respond without making you feel like you're being put on the spot for what just happened.

"you saw that didn't you.."

jake nods like he's just admitted to do something he shouldn't have done— "look, i'm fine. you don't have to worry about me— honestly it was bound to happen, he was an asshole anyway." you confessed it like you had to justify yourself but with jake you never have to explain anything— he just knew.

"let me walk you back to your place— it's late i don't want you out here walking alone."

jake doesn't let you protest as he's already turning the two of you around and walking down the sidewalk with his arm around your shoulder like it's always been there— like it's meant to be there.

you don't say anything though because it felt nice. you thought that maybe it shouldn't feel nice, that maybe you shouldn't be this close to another man less than 10 minutes after breaking up with you boyfriend— that maybe you felt something for jake before you even broke it off with jungwon.

maybe it's fine.

maybe you deserve to feel the way you do when you're around jake.

it's nice.

"actually—" you pause, stopping mid step.

"do you think we can go back to your place instead? my roommate's home and i don't really wanna explain all of this to her— can i stay at yours tonight?" you're looking up at him with those same eyes that jake's found himself drowning in every time. the way your eyes reflected the moonlight and the way your lips formed into a silent plea of "please, i don't want to be alone." and it's enough to have him nodding and walking off with you into the direction of his dorm instead of yours.

it doesn't take long before the two of you are entering jake's dorm and silently tugging your shoes off. it's quiet between the two of you even if jake wants to say what's on his mind. that you can rely on him for anything— lean on him when you need, use him to take out your frustrations on, cry on his shoulder and use his sleeve to wipe your tears, but he's afraid of scaring you away. that if he treats this moment between the two of you too seriously and say something, then it would become all too real between the girl who has never needed anyone and the boy who has never been needed.

the two of you clearly need one another— so why can't either of you face that?

"you can sleep on my bed— i'll take the floor and–" you cut jake off by pulling him in by the collar and slamming your lips together. it catches jake by surprise and he almost falls over but he's quick to catch himself on the wall behind him, wrapping his arms around your waist soon after. he deepens the kiss, not caring about why you're kissing him right now as all he can think about is the way your cherry lip gloss feels on his lips and how sweet you taste.

"fuck—" you say, out of breath when you pull away. you take some steps back, sitting down on the edge of jake's bed with shock on your face after what you just did. you wipe your face with your hand, lips still parted. "ohmygod, i shouldn't have done that— fuck i'm so sorry jake i don't know why i did that." your bottom lip quivered as you bit down onto it.

"hey hey– it's cool. i liked it, why are you sorry?" he asks, rushing over to you and sitting onto his knees on the floor beside your feet.

"i don't know— i don't want to use you, i just broke up with my boyfriend if we do this then you're like a rebound. i respect you more than that to treat you like a rebound, jake." you stutter through your words but jake just reaches forward, gently cupping your face like a frame does a picture and he pulls you into another kiss. your hands find themselves resting on his biceps to ground yourself as he pushes you down onto his bed, back flat against the mattress.

the kiss feels like a tug of war— both of you fighting for more as your lips lock into place, tongue roaming your mouths to find a treasure inside of the other.

"do you want this?" jake says into the kiss.

you pull away to look into his eager eyes, "i don't want you to be a rebound.." you whisper and he shakes his head. "i don't give a shit— i want you and if you want this too then i'll be more than happy to be a rebound." his voice is desperate and his eyes are pleading for you to look past him as a rebound and just as jake— the guy to make you feel better.

"okay.." you're barely able to answer before jake is kissing you again, sloppier than before like he's been waiting for so long to get to taste you; and he has.

jake trails kisses along your jaw and neck, breath hot and wet against your skin. a breathy moan slips past your lips and the sound shoots through jake as his cock hardens in his pants. his hands travel across your body, briefly grazing your breasts until they're settling at your hips with a light squeeze. jake stands up to get a good look at you laid out on his bed, eyes hooded with growing lust.

he begins to take his pants off, leaving him in his boxes with an obvious tent that mirrors the growing wet spot on your soft white panties that's covered by the fabric of your dress. jake gently hooks your legs with his arms and moves you towards the center of the bad into a more comfortable position, helping you nuzzle a pillow behind your back so you have some support. "ca– can i see your tits?" he asks and it makes you laugh.

"you don't have to ask.." you respond as you grab his hands and place them over your breasts, massaging your tits with his hands under yours. "fuck—" you moan out when jake gropes them a harder, your own hands sliding off of his as your head falls back. jake pulls the low collar of your dress over and your tits spill out the fabric, bouncing slightly. his mouth waters the sight of your breast— soft and supple, he just wants to latch his mouth onto your nipple that hardens at the slightest touch.

"so sensitive.." he says while giving your nipple a pinch that makes you whimper as your hips buck up into him.

your hand reaches for the waistband of his boxers and without another word you pull it down to reveal his hard on, cock bouncing with a trail of precum flying across your stomach from how much this interaction has got him horny. you're surprised at the size of his cock— it's throbbing, veiny, leans slightly to the right, and his tip is staring back at you as more precum slowly drips from it. one hand isn't enough to grab the whole thing— neither is two but when you give the base of his cock a squeeze the pressure of your grasp was enough to make jake hiss.

you begin to pump his cock with both your hands at a steady pace and you can see the way jake's eyes have shut close— teeth gritted and jaw set as he holds himself back. he doesn't want to embarrass himself by cumming too early but your hands just feel way too good wrapped around his cock, he can't even begin to imagine how your mouth or pussy would feel.

jake leans forward, bringing his cock closer to you face as he leans onto the wall behind you, both hands out in front of him.

his hips grind into your hands in the same rhythm as your pace. you spit into one of your hands to coat his cock when you feel like the friction was getting dry between your hand and his cock— "i know what can help" jake says before grabbing the back of your head and pushing you closer to his cock, tip pushing your lips apart as he fucks into your mouth.

"shit— that's it, right there." he moans, eyes falling onto your face below him.

you're looking up at him with wet eyes and for the first time in a while it's not tears because of something that hurt you.

"just like that, pretty girl." jake says as he continues grinding into your face. his cock touches the back of your throat for a moment when he pushes all the way in with a stifled groan— trying his absolute best not to cum too soon but the way your throat bobs and vibrates against his cock is too much; too good.

he suddenly pulls out and you gasp for air. jake's hand moves to pump his cock, fucking his fist with speed, "i'm gonna cum— gonna paint these pretty fuckin' tits. you want that?" he asks and you nod, biting down on your lip as a mixture of your spit and jake's precum dribbles down your chin in a sloppy wet mess.

"please, jake— cum for me, please." you whimper just as his cum shoots out in long white ropes across your chest. it lands in hot strips from the base of your breasts, across your sensitive nipples, ending just at the peak of your collar bone. jake's a moaning mess, whimpering your name and profanities as his cum shoots out of his cock and covers your tits like icing on a cake.

"shit shit shit—" he breathes out in disbelief at the amount of cum coming out of his cock that your nipples are practically drowning in it. jake stares down at you with a gaze you've never seen in his eyes, usually they're cute soft and welcoming but right now they were sharp and determined. his chest rose and fell with each breath and the hand he's got cupping your face slowly makes it's way across your tits, gathering some of his cum on his two fingers and smearing it against your lips until you part them so he can push it inside.

the taste of his salty and warm cum spread across your tongue as jake pushes it further inside of your mouth, "good girl." he says before pulling them out when you've cleaned them all the way.

"you're turn, pretty girl." he says before moving off of you and settling in between your thighs. "open up for me, baby." he says as he gently grabs onto your thighs, encouraging you to spread them. by now your skirt has bunched up around your waist and your soft white panties are exposed, showing jake the growing wet spot at the center of the fabric. "this for me?" he says, raising his brows at you teasingly.

jake doesn't even move your panties aside before he starts eating at your cunt. his mouth moves desperately against the fabric, not bothered by how it's in the way because he can taste you through it. he sucks on the fabric, licks, bites at it like it's the real thing. he's got his eyes closed in pleasure and he's moaning every time he feels your body slightly jolt against him.

he grabs your panties by his teeth and tugs them off of you, finally revealing your dripping pussy that's craving the feeling of his mouth without the fabric in the way— "please, jake. please do something.." you moan, arching your back and moving your hips closer to his face to feel something. anything.

jake doesn't waste anymore time, he can't keep his pretty girl waiting any longer so he attacks your pussy like a starved man. hands are gripping your hips in place so that he can fully bury his face into your cut. his tongue licks long stripes against your folds so he can gather your juices on his tongue— he's pushing it deeper inside of you so he can taste what the deepest parts of your pussy tastes like. "so fucking wet and so fucking sweet." he groans against your pussy.

you're moaning more than you ever have before, hands gripping at jake's hair as your legs threaten to squeeze shut. he's slurping up every part of your pussy— you jump and try to pull away when he latches his mouth until your clit; jake bites ever so gently and tugs onto it before sucking on your sweet bud like a piece of candy. "uh-uh, don't try running from me baby. you can take it." he says with your clit still between his teeth.

you can feel the way heat washes over your body like tidal wave.

"jake— fuck! i'm gonna–" you can't even finish your words when your ears start to ring as jake pumps his tongue faster into your cunt and sloppily makes out with your pussy like he's pushing you over the edge that you're too afraid to jump over. to both of your surprise— you squirt.

everywhere.

for the first time.

it comes out like waterfall— jake is only caught off guard for a few seconds before he opens his mouth up and brings himself closer to your twitching cunt so that he can catch everything— not wanting any of it to go to waste. he doesn't even realize you've stopped cumming with the way he's completely lost in the way he's eating you. jake's got his nose nuzzles against your clit as he continues to bury his face into your pussy like he never wants it to end.

the feeling of your orgasm builds up and tears through you but you can't even process your orgasm because of the way jake is still eating you out like it's his job.

"ja– jake— fuck! s'too much– jake!" you moan as your back arches, one of your hands grips tighter on his hair that it makes him moan while the other is frantically tapping at him, body overwhelmed with the sensation.

"shit– i'm sorry, are you ok? i'm sorry." he says when he finally breaks out of his trance and pulls away.

he crawls over you and cups your face in an attempt to calm you down.

you nod in response, "yes… sorry it was just a lot— it was so good but a lot.." you say in between breathes.

"don't apologize— i'm sorry i was doing too much." but you tell him that he doesn't need to apologize either.

"you did so good, pretty girl. so good." he says while wiping the sweat off of your forehead with the back of his hand, placing a few kisses on your forehead and cheek before connecting your lips again. the kiss is sweeter now— less chaotic and more tame like you both have resided in a mutual oasis.

jake falls onto his back next to you, grabbing a blanket to pull over both of your bodies.

he grabs hold of your waist and pulls you against his body, your back facing his chest. he gives your shoulder and neck a kiss as the two of you lay in silence.

after sometime of just laying there with nothing being said, jake assumes you've fallen asleep. "i won't do any wrong by you— i'll prove to you that i'm all you need. i'll be the one you can fall onto when you're tired of being strong.." he whispers, slightly tightening his grip around your waist in a secured possessive manner.

"goodnight, angel."

jake drifts off to sleep soon after without realizing that you were awake to hear what he said.

his words repeat themselves in your head for the rest of the night— stopping you from falling asleep as you continue to think about how all of this is getting a little too real and going too fast. your head beginning to spin against everything you thought you knew about yourself— how you don't need anyone and yet it feels like maybe you do need jake.

but you weren't sure if you were okay with that.

── 𖹭

when morning bled through the blinds of jake's window, you found yourself in waking up with a cold chill. the blanket around you has slipped off of your body, exposing your shoulders and somewhat bare chest, there's a slight headache waiting to turn into a migraine, and an arm around your waist that's knocking you back into the events of the night before.

jake hovering about you with his cock down your throat.

jake burying his face into your cunt.

and jake whispering a sweet confession that you weren't ready to here— and maybe not ever.

you slowly craned your neck around to see if jake was still asleep and thankfully he was. you weren't sure how you were going to face him now— like a morning walk of shame except it was guilt. the desperation in jake's voice last night replayed in your head, begging you to use him and that he doesn't care about being a rebound, it was fine up until then but when the heat settled and your breathes synced up as you laid in his arms, it all felt a little too real when he told you his feelings in hushed tone, assuming you had long fallen asleep.

carefully, you reached to pull jake's arm off of your waist, trying your best not to wake him up. the blanket slides completely off of your body and the stale air in jake's dorm brushes against your unclothed core, sending a shiver down your spine. you cringe at the idea of being panty-less as you begin to look around for your underwear— finding it tossed aside underneath jake's dresser. you quickly slip it on and do your best to put yourself together, tugging your dress down to an 'acceptable' length, and looking at yourself in jake's mirror to see the way your mascara has smeared and your lipstick has stained your chained.

"damn— bitch." you whispered about yourself before turning around to slip your shoes, afraid that if you take any longer that jake would wake up and you'd have to face the awkward encounter of jake seeing you leave without saying goodbye after a night of exploring each other's bodies and acting like what happened last night wasn't a result of desperation and a lack of emotional stability.

you reached for the door, slowly turning the knob and gave jake one last glance.

he looked so peacefully. his long lashes, soft skin, and plump lips parted slightly— you felt a pressure in your chest the longer you looked at him and just before you decide to leave and hide from jake and your feelings, you go back over to his sleeping figure and pull the blanket more securely over his body. "sor— bye, jake." you whispered then crept through the door, hoping that since your project was completed and submitted, you wouldn't have to see jake for a while and hopefully by then the feelings of last night would've disappeared.

you're long gone by the time jake finally wakes up— last night taking more out of him than he thought. he imagined himself waking up with a smile on his face by how happy he was about how last night went but when he felt the emptiness of his bed and the lack of your body next to his, his smile dropped.

he looked around for you like you could be hiding somewhere— and you were hiding, just not in his dorm.

he scrambled out of bed, tried to look for any signs of you but there was nothing. you didn't leave a letter, there was no text, your shoes were gone, your panties that he threw across the room were gone— you were gone. and the emptiness in his chest was a clear representation of the way you've managed to slip past jake without a trace.

jake put some pants on and slumped back into his bed with his phone in hand. he scrolled through all of his notifications— although not many— he was still disappointed to see nothing from you even now. he didn't even know when you left but aside from you leaving, all he could think about was why.

did he scare you off from how desperate he was?

do girls not like yearners anymore?

did he overthink and misread everything?

fuck— 'i shouldn't have listened to heeseung's sex tips…' he thought to himself, slapping his forehead in shame.

jake stared at his ceiling in deep thought, wondering if he should reach out or let you have your space even if that was the last thing he wanted to do. sure, he did say he was fine being a rebound but he didn't expect you to treat him like a one night stand— hell, you guys didn't even fuck! he just ate you out and you sucked him off but god damn was it so good that jake couldn't even complain there was no penetration.

wait— was it as good for you as it was for jake?

did he have more fun than you?

holy shit, this is embarrassing. now he definitely can't see your face again, he was too caught up in the moment of his own pleasure that he didn't realize that you may've not been enjoying it as much as he was. was he that bad in bed? no… no? maybe? fuck, he really needs to get laid more often.

several thoughts began to spiral in jake's head except for one thing, the reason you left without another word— his confession.

── 𖹭

day 1 of no contact

jake tried to act like it didn't bother him. the day after it all happened we forced himself to keep busy, he bothered heeseung to hang out despite the guy being very hungover, he ran errands with heeseung forcing his friend to drive him around town to complete his to do list, he cleaned his dorm, he even got a haircut.

but no matter how many things he did— hearing heeseung complain about his hangover, buying snacks at the grocery store, sweeping his dorm, trying and failing to make small talk with his barber, all jake could think about was you.

nothing's really changed except now paired with the thought of you was the lingering taste of your body on his tongue.

day 2 of no contact

he showed up to class trying his best to act like he wasn't constantly glancing over at the door to see if you'd walk in.

you didn't.

day 3 of no contact

"so she just left? no text or nothing?" heeseung asks as he spins a pen in between his fingers.

he and jake are laying parallel to each other on jake's bed, staring at the ceiling.

jake hums in response, shaking his head.

"damn— tough shit bro." heeseung says, earning him a punch on the shoulder.

day 4 of no contact

by now jake was staring at your message thread. he thought that if he stared at it long enough then he could will a text message from you. that you and jake had a mental connection so good that you would just pick up on his telepathic message and you would send him a text.

why hasn't he sent you a text instead of waiting for one from you?

don't ask him that. he doesn't know either.

day 5 of no contact

you didn't show up to class the whole week which didn't surprise him but it still was disappointing. jake thought that if he saw you at some point during the week then it would just be easier to come up to you and talk rather than desperately be waiting by his phone only to get disappointed when it finally dings with a notification only for it to be heeseung asking if he could borrow notes from a class he skipped.

jake's walking out of his last lecture of the week and heading back to his dorm when he sees you.

you're some ways ahead of him, facing the opposite direction— walking away.

he could feel his heart immediately begin to beat faster when he sees you. he runs his hand through his hair, checks his breath, straightens out his hoodie and jobs over to you; tapping you on the shoulder to get your attention.

"hey— haven't seen you all week, i missed you." he confessed just as you were turning around.

only… it wasn't you.

it was some random girl who just so happened to look exactly like you from behind— maybe she didn't even look like you in the first place but he's just so desperate to see you that he's beginning to hallucinate things.

"do i know you?" the girl asks.

"oh shit— sorry, thought you were someone else." jake responds, awkwardly scratching the back of his head before walking off.

great. now he's embarrassed himself in front of another girl.

day 6 of no contact

you've been working tirelessly all week. you picked up extra shifts at your other jobs at the pet store and student accommodation services building.

jake didn't know you had an on campus job— if he did he probably would've been there the first day of no contact; maybe even the same day he noticed you were gone in the morning.

you could barely keep your eyes open and it was times like this where you wished that sleep came easy to you. spending so many hours awake to work, you'd think that your mind would just be focused on completing whatever task you had at work but all you could think about was jake.

jake, that night, and his confession that you didn't see coming.

his words replayed in your head constantly— you hated that you could remember it word for word. the tone in his voice, the intonation of each word, and how coming from him it meant so much more than it should've.

"yn— you can head out early today." your boss at the pet store said, explaining that she was planning to close the store early because there's meant to be a rain storm to come and everyone would probably stay home to avoid the rain. "go ahead and finish whatever you're working on and head home, ok? don't want you to get caught in the rain." she says. you nod in response and do just that.

you swept the floor, tidied up around the entrance, made sure tomorrow's shift had whatever they needed ready, and then you said your goodbyes and left.

the sky was beginning to darken— a clear sign that rain would be coming.

if only you knew to bring an umbrella.

the walk to the bus stop wasn't long, maybe ten minutes, but in those same ten minutes the rain came out of nowhere. it started as small widespread droplets, not enough to panic but enough to make you pick up your pace. by the time you're halfway to the bus stop, the rain has become a barrage. it was heavy, fast, and felt like everything you were trying to avoid. you didn't have anything to cover yourself besides the knit cardigan that provided little to no protection at all.

you could see the bus stop just a few blocks ahead— such little distance but with the rain it felt like it would be an uphill battle just to get to the small bus shelter. you took in a deep breath to prepare yourself to run, avoid puddles, and to watch your step so that you don't slip and fall— then suddenly, the rain stops.

not really.

it's still going on around you but it's stopped right above you.

you looked up and saw an umbrella overhead with jake on the end of the handle, looking over at you like he's glad to have found you when he did. your heart skips a beat when you look up at him, he's got the umbrella hovering over you as rain begins to beat down on him, hair dampening, skin becoming wet, and clothes soaking. he was choosing to cover you from the rain and letting himself get pelted by the rain— sacrificing his well being and potentially getting sick just to make sure that you didn't have to suffer through the rain any longer.

"ja– jake?" you asked like you weren't sure if he was actually in front of you or just the rain playing tricks on you.

"long time no see, yn. catching the bus?" he asks so calmly as if the two of you aren't caught in the worst rainstorm you've ever experienced. you looked at him with eyes that searched his for answers— why was he here? why is he choosing to help you? why is he acting like everything is sunshine and rainbows?

"how'd you know i was here?" you say, pulling him closer so that he was now also underneath the umbrella. you hadn't been this close to him since that night— your chest was flush against his, you could see the streaks of the rain across his forehead, and the longing in his gaze was evident. you could tell he's been waiting to see you again and you can't fight the guilt building up inside of you.

"just happened to be here—"

jake wasn't lying.

but maybe it was because he remembered you saying you worked at pet store on the other side of town and this just happened to be the first one that he found when he looked it up— nonetheless, he was here and he was here with an umbrella. you didn't know whether to believe him or not but right now the cold was starting to settle deeper than your cardigan and jeans, it's soaked further and now coating your skin like a second layer and it was getting hard to figure out if you were shivering from the cold or shaking from the nerves of seeing the boy you've been avoiding for the past week.

jake notices the way your shoulders carry tension and the tremble in your lips as you avert your gaze, trying to avoid his eyes.

he uses his free hand to rub your arm up and down, attempting to cool you down but your instinct was to flinch, move away from him like you were scared what would happen if he touched you a little too long. "sorry.." he mumbles, clearly noticing the way you basically jumped back and away from him.

"no– no! it's fine…" you pause for a second, swallowing the dryness in your throat. it was hard to avoid his gaze especially when you could feel the way he's staring at you, not daring to break away for a second even if you won't look at him. the silence between the two of you is filled with the sound of rain against his umbrella, against the pavement, against your bodies as strong gusts of wind tilt the direction of rain from vertical to horizontal.

it was getting unbearable.

waiting to see you all week was getting unbearable.

from behind jake's shoulder you can see the bus getting closer and when you try to step past him— he steps in the same direction, blocking you from leaving. he's a lot bigger than you so it wasn't hard, "jake— my bus is here i have to go." you explain, still avoiding his gaze.

"i'm going to take that bus back to campus too— so either we have this conversation here or have it on the bus… why have you been avoiding me all week? after that night? did i do something? i'm sorry if i did, just tell me so i can it right; i'm sorry if i—" you could barely him through the rain and the sound of cars speeding past the two of you.

when you finally raise your head to look at jake— your vision is blurry.

tears have begun to well at your eyelashes.

"you have nothing to be sorry. please don't say sorry, i just—" you don't know how to explain it with coming off selfish or insecure.

you didn't want to tell him 'it's not you it's me' because it sounded like a cliche cop out and even if that was the truth. that you knew deep down that you're the reason why you ran off that morning because you couldn't process the emotions that jake brought out of you— you knew that jake didn't deserve that. he didn't deserve a half-assed explanation where you resort to blaming yourself with a clear reason and then expect him to just be fine with that— because you knew he wouldn't.

"please talk to me—" he pleads, voice trembling.

"yn, i like you. i don't know if i didn't make it obvious enough last night but i do. i don't care if you just broke up with your boyfriend and i'll look like some pathetic rebound because everyone already sees my as pathetic anyway and that's if they see me in the first place.

i've liked you since the first day i met you, i liked you when you didn't show up to class, i liked you when we argued the day you finally showed up, i liked you when you yelled at me for what happened at your job, i liked you all those times we spent working on the project together, i liked you even more when you let me open up to you about my life and when you told me about yours. i liked you when i saw you break up with your ex, i liked you when you asked to stay the night and i still liked you after you avoided me all week.

yn ln.

i like you.

please let me."

his lips are parted when he finishes talking, chest heavy with emotion every breath he took, and not once did his eyes ever leave yours. he didn't blink, he didn't stutter, he didn't flinch— he didn't quit.

and he never would.

"why? you don't know me— everything you know about me is something you just made up in your head! you don't like me for me you like that you can help me, that i just so happen to always need something from you and that it makes you feel like you have purpose— you don't like me! you like that i need you!

and i don't!" you scream at him like he offended you.

like his confession, the way he professed his love, and laid his heart on the line was offensive. like he shouldn't have said that not because it was a lie but because it was the most true thing you had ever and it scared you. you didn't like that his words didn't feel like lies— they held weight, they were meaningful in every sense of the word, they were from the heart and they cut through the very walls you put around yours.

so, because jake told the truth— you lied.

you told him that you didn't like him. that his feelings were invalid and that they were coming from a place of pity and not love. that you didn't like him and never would, that he's just some guy you know from your class— that there was nothing between you guys besides unspoken tension and neglected emotions from your end.

you didn't know what else to do but lie.

jake looked at you like you just broke his heart— and you might as well have.

like you tore it straight from his chest and crushed it with your hands and dropped it at your feet without a second thought and when he opened his mouth to respond, you didn't let him. you pushed past him and began to walk towards the bus that was arriving, thankfully acting like savior so that you didn't have to continue this confrontation. you jogged to the bus stop, hopped on the bus and walk to the back— not noticing that jake was right there behind you.

he did the same.

paid for his fair and walked to the back of the bus like you guys have done several times, except he pauses for a second when he walks by your seat— he looks at you with eyes that are begging for you to take everything you said back. to tell him that they were lies– and they are– but he didn't know that. his lips formed into a pout when you forced yourself to avoid his gaze despite looking at him through his reflection on the glass.

when you didn't both to turn around, he took one deep breath and kept walking.

he took a seat at the very back, gave you one last glance, and came to terms that was probably the last time he'll ever see you again.

── 𖹭

when you got home later that day, your shoulders had a slump in them like you carried everything on your back. like the burden of everything you knew increased in size and you were barely holding yourself together. regret was starting to creep past your other emotions and it was swimming in your mind like jake has the past week— you felt terrible.

you looked at yourself in the mirror, wet hair, mascara smudged, and face flush with shame.

"what the fuck did i do.." you muttered to yourself before tearing away from the mirror, no longer able to look at the girl looking back at you. you stood there for a moment, hand on your temple in frustration like you weren't feeling this way because of your own actions.

your foot tapped rapidly.

you chewed on the dried skin on your lips.

you closed your eyes with a deep breath before making your next decision.

back at jake's dorm, he was dripping onto his floor and he didn't care. when he walked inside he tugged his shoes off and stood in the middle of his dorm in a daze; devoid of emotions like a zombie who's heart got ripped out of him. he couldn't even blink without his eyes burning because of the tears he was fighting off.

his body swayed without him trying, like he was being swept away by every wave of negative emotion, like an ocean pulling him under.

jake sniffled, unsure of what to do next.

the rain battered down on his window in large drops, millions of reminders of what happened just a few minutes ago, his umbrella tossed aside by his shoes, still dripping wet.

jake peels himself free from his rain soaked clothes that's begun to stick to his skin, tearing away at the drenched fabric when a knock sounds from his dorm. he doesn't even bother looking up, just completely ignores it— but it doesn't stop. its incessant, rapid, and desperate. like whoever was on the other side was pleading to get his attention and wasn't going to leave until he opens the door.

and you weren't going to.

when jake finally opens the door with an annoyed huff he's got no shirt on and is just in his wet jeans when he sees who is behind his door. you're still soaking wet like you were when he found you in the rain— you were dripping and breathing heavily like you ran over to his dorm which wasn't the closest to yours.

"yn?" he asks, blinking at you in disbelief.

"jake—" you began, pausing for a second to catch your breath.

"look if you're here to tell me off again, i get it. i don't know what made you hate me but i got the hint— i'll leave you alone from now on." he said, voice dry and dull.

"no! that's not why i'm here— i didn't mean any of that. i said all of those things because i was scared— scared of my emotions and letting someone in because i don't know what i need. i've gone through my whole life never needing anyone and then you came in. you helped me when i didn't ask for it, helped when i didn't even need, and it's not because you were trying to find your own purpose but because you're a good person and you don't deserve how i treated you.

you're right— i do need help. i need you jake and i'm tired of being strong. i'm tired of holding it together being the one to hold myself together— i'm tired of acting like i don't need help because i'm afraid of looking weak and i'd rather suffer in silence…

please, jake. i need you— i'm sorry, please don't leave me.."

tears are streaming down your face like it was the rain outside, coating your flushed skin as your eyes turned red.

you had never made yourself this vulnerable in your whole life— never let yourself feel like you could need someone let alone a guy you met for a group project, yet here you are, standing outside of his dorm with tears covering your face as you bear your heart to him like he did before, only now you're praying that he doesn't respond in the way you did to him.

jake doesn't use any words to respond— his hand reaches forward and grabs onto the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss that burns through your bodies. your lips instantly match his rhythm like it was a choreographed routine, moving in unison and complete harmony as your body molded against him. you two stumbled back into his dorm, closing his door with your foot as he tore off your clothes and discarded them to the side without another care.

as you inch closer to his bed, he flips the two of you around so that you fall onto your back on his bed.

jake breaks the kiss to hover and look at you, hand cupping your face.

"do you mean it? do you mean everything you said?" he asks.

"everything i said here, yes. back at the bus stop? not one bit." you respond and he crashes his lips back onto yours, barely giving you time to react or take a breath. his mouth is pressed against yours with vigor— his lips ever so plump against yours as he pushes his tongue into your mouth with a whimper, like he's been seeking for the pleasure inside of you his whole life and in a lot of ways he has.

jake's hands travel across your body just as his kisses do.

down your jaw and neck, where his hands give you a light squeeze— hard enough to send a shock through your body, settling at your core. he sucks on the side of your neck until he's satisfied with the way he gathers at your pulse, licking at your skin before moving lower.

jake's mouth waters as he sucks on your collar bone, licking across your chest as he stops at your breasts, looking up at you with dark and lustful eyes, silently telling you to say goodbye to your bra as his hand snakes around your back to unhook it and like your other clothes— it's tossed aside. his mouth finds your nipple, teeth carefully but intently biting down on your sensitive nipples.

his lips wrap on one nipple as his hand roughly massages the other— you moan and wriggle underneath him but he's got one arm around your waist, holding you in place. "don't run, let me enjoy you." jake says, teeth not letting go of your nipple as he looks over at you through the curve of your breast.

he switches back and forth from both tits, sucking and licking and biting at your breasts like a starved man and you were his meal.

your hips are grinding against jake's jeans, the rough and wet fabric barely providing any relief but the feeling of his body laid on top of yours and his mouth on your nipples was enough to make you want to grind into him like you were in heat. jake laughs when you whimper in pain as he gives your nipple one last bite, your body jolting against his but it doesn't stop you from humping him as you chase that feeling.

"jake— ple– please!" your voice breaks as you beg. pleading for him to do more as he teases your body with peppered kisses across your tummy, his face stopping right at your pussy that's grinding the air now, clothed pussy centimeters away from bumping against his face.

you can feel his breath against your damp panties— the only thing that was dry from the rain now drenched in your slick as jake teased your body with his tongue.

"patience, angel— you made me wait now you gotta learn to." he whispers, every word heavy on your cunt as he brings his lips closer to you.

he eats you out through your panties again, lips, tongue, and teeth flat against the fabric of your underwear. his eyes fall shut as he moans in euphoria, mouth moving in ways to pleasure the both of you despite the thin lacy fabric that's in the way. your back is arching as you crave more— and so does jake. his hand finds the waistband of your underwear and in one quick movement he's tearing it apart like it was nothing; and it basically was.

your pussy's shining with your slick— jake spits onto your cunt before pushing in two fingers without a heads up.

a moan rips through your chest as you grip jake's sheets, him smiling pridefully from in between your legs. "so fuckin' wet— all for me, huh angel? you get so wet for me and you wanted to deny that." he tsks, shaking his head in a feigned type of disappoint. "no— no jake.." you moan.

"i want it— i want you, please please– don't stop— fuck!"

his fingers continue pumping inside your dripping pussy as his eyes lock onto your clit. his body moves before his brain thinks and he's already sucking on your sensitive little bud before he even fully forms the thought to. a high pitched moan fills the room at the overwhelming sensation of jake's fingers working you open as he sucks on your clit like it's a lollipop he's trying to break in between his teeth.

"ja— jake! fuck fuck fuck i'm gonna cu—" you can't even finish your sentence before the heat flushes through your whole body and your orgasm tears through your core like thinnest veil shredded by the pressure of jake's lust. "yeah, baby. cum all over me— give it to me." he says as he licks stripes against your gummy folds, lips lathered in your cum as he scoops it into his mouth with his tongue.

"so fuckin' sweet—" he says.

"my sweet sweet fucking angel." he gives your clit kisses in between each word.

"you ready f'me pretty girl?" jake asks as he stands up from his kneel position, sliding off his pants and boxers to reveal his hard on that you swear has gotten bigger since the last time you've seen it. his fingers have done their job to stretch you open but by the size of jake's cock and the way his head pokes at your sopping wet entrance, you were going to be stretched out even more.

he aligns to your hole— spitting onto his head and smearing it across your folds as if it needed to be even more wet.

jake pushes into your cunt and there's an evident stretch as his dick goes further and further inside of you.

"fuckin' tight—" he hisses, hands grabbing your waist for leverage until his hips are flush against yours, cock buried deep inside of your pussy; so far that you can almost feel the pressure in your chest. he stops for a second so the two of you can catch your breath, he's looking at you with hooded eyes as yours are struggling to stay open— "you with me, angel?" he asks, giving your hips a slight tap.

you nodded— barely but it's there.

"please, jake. move." you beg and he doesn't need to be told twice.

your pussy's gripping onto his cock with each thrust, body in motion like a machine as sweats drips from jake's neck and down his bare chest. your bottom lip is caught in between your teeth as you bite back your moans but jake shakes his head in response— "let me hear you, pretty girl. wanna hear those pretty moans while i ruin you, hmm?" he says, thrusting into you with more pressure that he can see the way his cock bulges at your tummy.

your body is soft and moldable underneath him, his hands are squeezing at your flesh to ground himself but he's in too much ecstasy to hold himself together. he's moaning and spitting a mixture of 'shit' and 'fuck' with each thrust— growling when he feels you clench around him like you don't want his cock to slip out.

"so fucking perfect— my perfect angel." jake says as he leans forward, pressing kisses on your cheek while he caresses your face.

"feel s'good jake so so so good." your voice is breathy, hard to speak when your breath is knocked out of you every time you feel the tip of jake's cock punch your cervix. "fuck— right there jake! fuck fuck fuck–" your back arches when he quickens his pace. the stretch is unbearable in the same type of way the heat inside of a sauna becomes suffocating but you can't bring yourself to leave because it's just too good.

jake suddenly grabs your your legs, hands wrapped around your calves as he pushes them up and across your chest— folding you in half. the pressure continues to build at your core when jake's got you in the meanest mating press like he doesn't want you moving or going anywhere— he's got you just where he wants and you don't plan on leaving any time soon.

he presses a kiss to your ankle before he continues pounding into your cunt again.

pornographic moans leave both of yours lips, the sound of skin slapping against skin is loud, and the wetness of your pussy rivals the sound of the rain sloshing about in the streets. jake's eyes bore into yours and when yours begin to close as your eyes roll back, he gives your cheek a few light slaps to wake you up— "stay with me now, pretty. can't have you passing out before i'm done ruining you, now can we?" he says teasingly, a smug grin across his face and he can feel the way his words have an affect on you the way the pulsating inside of your cunt intensifies.

"yeah— there it is; pretty girl loves being used, doesn't she. wanted to act like you hated me and here you are now folding in half with my cock ruining this cunt." jake chuckles with pride.

you have no response but to whine and whimper as he continues fucking his cock into you like there's no tomorrow.

"ja– jake— please don't stop baby, keep going!" you moan with each word like it's tearing at your body to speak.

"yeah? pretty girl wants me to breed her, huh? tell me who's pussy this is—" he says, already knowing the answer.

"yo— yours.." you stutter as jake purposefully thrusts into you with long and heavy strokes.

"what was that, pretty? couldn't quite hear ya— tell me, who's pussy this is and i'll reward you." he says as he tongue darts out to swipe across his bottom lip, nodding at you as encouragement to answer him.

"you! you, jake! it's your pussy, baby! all yours— i'm all yours!" you sounded pathetic but to jake it was everything he wanted to hear from you— the only thing better would be hearing your wedding vows for him. "good job, pretty baby— now lay still so i can fuck this pussy and fill you up, hmm? you want that, don't you?" he taunts, wiping sweat and stray hairs from your face as you lazily nod in response.

"so fucked out can barely even talk anymore— s'okay, let me jakey do all the work." he says before placing a kiss on your lips and quickening his pace.

your moans get stuck in your throat as each thrust makes it harder to breathe— to think.

"i'm getting close, baby. gonna fuckin' cum— shit! look at me while i breed this pussy— fuck" he groans as he grabs your face, forcing you to look at him, eyes connecting as you feel the way his hot cum pools deep inside of your pussy in large globs. he pushes his cock even deeper in your cunt to make sure his cum reaches as far as it can— you're so filled with jake that a mixture of your cum and his– white, milky, and sticky– is overflowing from the sides of your pussy as his cock softens inside of you.

jake's got his forehead pressed against yours as he pumps a few last thrusts into you, small moans slipping past your lips with each one. his sweating is dripping onto your chest when he raises his head, eyes still filled with lust but not laced with satisfaction at how fucked and ruined you are because of him.

"did so good, angel— very very good." he says, pressing a kiss onto your forehead.

── 𖹭

aftercare is easy with jake because care comes easy with him.

he treats you the way you deserve to be treated— he's gentle like he didn't just ruin you. he holds you against his body like he isn't the reason you're going to wake up more sore than you already are. he's your salvation and you've come to accept that. the boy you tried so hard to convince yourself that you didn't need— that you would never need anyone and yet here he was. he came to you like light in a dark tunnel, like shelter in a storm, and like love in a place where love is forgotten.

jake's never been needed in his life the way you've never needed anyone.

now, for once in jake's life he's needed by the one person he'll be spending the rest of his life with, making sure that whatever you need, no matter the cost, when, where, or why— that the how will always be him.

he's got the two of you wrapped under his covers in a calm warmth. night has fallen across the sky and you're both talking about anything just so that you didn't have to sleep— not wanting this to end even if you will have tomorrow and the day after and the day after that.

and forever.

"you know— the first time someone's ever helped me without me asking or wanting for it was when i was little. it's kind of weird because it was also the last. i was at a market trying to buy milk for my little sister but because i was a kid and i didn't know better— i didn't have enough money.

this little boy that reminds me of you came out of no where, asked me why i was crying then left. i just kept crying in the store until he came back, handed me a few dollars so i could buy milk.

i was too small to carry it though so his— dad helped you."

jake finished your sentence like he knew the story all too well.

and he did.

because he lived it.

you both looked at each other as you both reveled in the silent realization that the first time you needed someone to help you and the first time jake has ever been needed by someone was also the first time you both had crossed paths.

૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ❤︎ @pagemiah @jiiyen @jnysaln @xh01bri @rairaiblog @laurradoesloveu @firstclassjaylee @kristynaaah @17ericas @heeseung64 @s1rawb3rry @ddeonuswife @orxngebloods @xylatox @saccharinezennie @yooonjnng @lookingforsnacks @smollbean42905 @intromortal @taesnumber1 @noirxraa @ikeu05 @delma-x @ardlolic @softblaqn @seungsoftly @vatterie @ilovhoonie

© hoonieyun all writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned.

[wonnfavee]

that was not funny i was literally sobbing..

jake is the standard !!

[cherry-lala]

Needle & Groove

Pairings: Guitarist! Jay x fem! reader ( ft.Jake ) Wordcount: 34k+

Summary: Drowning in the neon noise of 1977, you use the party to escape yourself until a chance encounter with a stoic musician challenges your chaotic rhythm. As he pulls you toward the light, you find yourself spiraling between a love that could save you and an addiction that threatens to silence the music forever.

Warnings: 70s Era Setting, HEAVY ANGST YAY, Drug Addiction & Recovery, Heavy Substance Abuse , On-Screen Drug Use, Relapse, Overdose (Near-Death Experience), Medical Trauma , Severe Withdrawal Symptoms (Vomiting/Shaking), Hospitalization, Dubious Consent (Under the Influence with Jake), Hypersexuality as Coping Mechanism, Public Sex (Club/Bathroom), Power Imbalance (Jake vs. You), Smut (M/F), Oral Sex (Giving & Receiving), Praise Kink ("Good girl"), Protective Jay, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Angst (Self-Hatred/Guilt). have them napkins ready.

A/N:Another Jay fic that was supposed to be a Drabble (idk why I keep doing this😭😭) but I always wanted to write a Jay guitarist fic and idk he fits the 70’s vibe but I also enjoy the 70’s era but don’t beat me up if I got something wrong I didn’t live in this era!!! Anyways Like always Please Like, Reblog and Comment! They are very appreciated. ALSO THANK YOU FOR 700 followers, LOVE U GUYS 🥹🥰

[Masterlist]

Chicago, July 1977.

The heat in Chicago was heavy enough to wear like a coat. It was the kind of mid-summer humidity that made the air shimmer off the asphalt even at night, turning the city into a pressure cooker. But inside The Warehouse, the pressure was different. It was electric.

You were the center of the storm.

You were wearing low-rise flare pants that hugged your hips and swept the floor, paired with a silver chainmail halter top that left your back entirely bare. Every time the strobe lights hit you, you sparked. You were dancing on a platform near the speakers, your body moving loose and fast, fueled by the lines you’d done in the bathroom twenty minutes ago. The club was packed tighter than you’d ever seen it. The word was out. Nightfall was playing.You knew the name—everyone knew the name. Their single, "Midnight Friction," had been blasting out of every car window on Lake Shore Drive for weeks. But you’d never seen them. To you, they were just a sound, a beat you liked to party to. You didn't care about the faces behind the vinyl.

Then the lights cut out. The crowd screamed, a deafening roar that vibrated in your teeth.

A spotlight snapped on, hitting center stage.The music started—that famous, dirty bassline that made your stomach drop. But you weren't looking at the singer, who was already preening for the front row.Your eyes snagged on the guitarist on the right, and they stayed there.You stopped dancing.You had never seen him before in your life. If you had, you wouldn’t have forgotten. He was dressed in a sharp black suit that seemed immune to the heat, his white shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the skin beneath. He didn't look like the other musicians you hung around—the messy, loud, desperate types.He stood with his legs planted wide, his head tipped back slightly as his fingers tore into the strings. He looked arrogant. He looked bored. He looked like he was the only person in the room who knew exactly what he was doing.Who is that? you thought, the chemical high in your brain sharpening the image into something hyper-real.

He wasn't smiling. He was focused, his jaw tight, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he shredded through a solo that sounded like a cry for help.You felt a pull in your gut that had nothing to do with the drugs. It was visceral. You wanted to know if he was as composed in bed as he was on that stage. You wanted to know if you could make that stoic face crack. You wanted to get inside him, to rattle him, to make him look at you the way he was looking at his guitar.For forty-five minutes, you watched him. You didn't dance for the crowd anymore; you danced for him, even though he never once looked your way.Then, the set ended. The lights came up. The feedback faded. They left the stage.

And the crash hit you.It hit you all at once—the heat, the noise, the sudden drop in serotonin. The euphoria that had been holding you up evaporated, leaving you shaky and hollow. The walls of the club felt like they were closing in. You needed air. You needed to breathe before you passed out.

You shoved your way through the crushing mass of bodies, ignoring the people calling your name. You kicked open the heavy fire exit door at the back of the club and stumbled out into the alley.The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise instantly.

Silence. Or, as close to silence as Chicago got.You leaned against the rough brick wall, gasping for breath. The humidity outside was suffocating, sticky and thick. You slid down the wall until you were crouching, your knees hitting your chest. Your hands were trembling violently. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold the pieces together, waiting for the spinning to stop. Just breathe, you told yourself. Don't let them see you crack.

"You're going to ruin those pants sitting in that grease."

The voice was low, smooth, and startlingly close.

Your head snapped up.

He was there.

The guitarist. Jay.

He was standing about ten feet away, leaning against the loading dock railing. He had shed his suit jacket, holding it hooked over one finger over his shoulder. His white shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to his chest, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.He was smoking a cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the shadows. He was watching you with an expression you couldn't read. It wasn't concern. It wasn't lust. It was just… observation.You scrambled to stand up, your platform boots scuffing on the pavement. You brushed off your pants, trying to regain your composure. You were the "Blizzard," the unshakeable party girl. You weren't supposed to be found huddled in an alleyway by the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. "I wasn't sitting," you lied, your voice shaking slightly. You tossed your hair, the silver top chiming softly. "I was... catching my breath. Your show was intense."

Jay took a slow drag of his cigarette, his dark eyes tracking the tremor in your hands. 

"The show was fine. You’re coming down."

He didn't ask. He stated it. You stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"I can see it," he said calmly, exhaling a stream of smoke. "The shaking. The dilated pupils. You were flying high inside, and now you’ve hit the pavement."

He walked closer, moving with a lazy, predatory grace. Up close, he was devastating. The streetlamp caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the sweat on his neck.

"You don't know me," you snapped, trying to summon your usual bravado. You stepped into his space, tilting your head back to look him in the eye. "I'm having a great night. I just came out for a smoke."

"You don't have a cigarette," Jay pointed out.He reached into his pocket, pulled out his pack, and shook one out. He offered it to you.You stared at it, then at him. You took it, your fingers brushing against his. His skin was hot. Yours was freezing.

He struck a match, cupping his hand around the flame to light it for you. In the flare of the light, you saw his eyes clearly. They were dark, intelligent, and totally unimpressed by your act. "Thanks," you muttered, inhaling deep. The nicotine helped settle the tremors slightly. "I saw you inside," Jay said, leaning back against the wall, watching you smoke. "Front row. You looked like you wanted to eat someone alive."

You smirked, letting the smoke curl out of your lips. "Maybe I did. I was watching you."

"I know," he said. "You were staring."

"I was appreciating the talent," you corrected, stepping closer again. You wanted to unsettle him. You reached out, running a manicured fingernail down the button placket of his shirt. "You’re better than the rest of them. You play like you’re angry."

Jay looked down at your hand on his chest. He didn't move away, but he didn't lean in either. He was a statue."And you dance like you're trying to outrun something," he countered quietly.The words hit a little too close to home. You pulled your hand back, stung."I don't run," you said defensively. "I chase."

"Is that right?" Jay dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it out. He looked at you, really looked at you, stripping away the sparkly top and the attitude. "Well, tonight, you look like you're about to collapse. You need water, not another party."

"I don't need a babysitter," you spat, feeling the humiliation burn. "I need a drink."

"Then go back inside," Jay said, gesturing to the door. "Go find the singer. He loves girls like you. Loud, shiny, messy."

He picked up his jacket and his guitar case.

"I'm not messy," you called after him, your voice rising. "I'm fun!"

Jay paused. He turned back, just for a second.

"You're shaking," he said simply. "Get home safe, Chicago."

He turned the corner and disappeared toward the tour bus, leaving you standing alone in the humid, trash-filled alley.

You stood there, the half-finished cigarette burning between your fingers. You were furious. You were insulted. He had dismissed you like you were nothing more than a child who had stayed up past her bedtime.

But as the anger faded, it was replaced by that pull again. That deep, magnetic ache.

He was the first person in years who hadn't tried to take something from you. He had seen the mess, called it by its name, and walked away.You dropped the cigarette and ground it into the pavement. "Jay," you whispered.

You weren't going to let him walk away. Not for good. If he thought you were messy now, he had no idea what was coming.

Three days.

It had been three days since the alleyway, since the heatwave broke into a thunderstorm, and since the guitarist with the eyes like midnight had walked away from you. Three days of silence. You hated silence. Silence was where the thoughts lived. Silence was where you had to listen to the ringing in your ears and the nagging, hollow ache in your chest that usually only vanished when the bass kicked in.

You were currently leaning over the counter of Spin City Records, the independent vinyl shop in Wicker Park where you worked when you weren't ruling the underground scene. It was a cool, dimly lit space that smelled of dust, cardboard, and patchouli incense. It was the only place in the world where you were forced to be still.

"You're doing it again," a voice chirped from the ladder near the jazz section.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze. You had been staring at the spinning label of a Stevie Wonder record on the store's turntable, watching the spiral blur until it made you dizzy.

"Doing what, Misty?" you asked, your voice scratching with boredom.

Misty, your shift buddy, hopped down from the ladder. She was everything you weren't: sunny, wholesome, and exhausting. She wore a peasant blouse and had flowers braided into her hair. She thought disco was "fun" and drank herbal tea. You tolerated her because she covered your shifts when you were too hungover to stand.

" staring into the void," Misty said, dusting off her hands on her bell-bottom jeans. "You’ve been weird all week. Did you finally burn out your fuse? I told you that stuff Leo gives you is going to rot your brain."

"My brain is fine," you snapped, flipping through a stack of invoices just to have something to do with your hands. "I'm just bored. This city is dead this week."

"Dead?" Misty laughed. "Y/n Chicago is never dead in July."

You ignored her, lighting a cigarette right there behind the counter. The owner, old man Miller, hated it, but he wasn't here. You took a drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs, hoping it would chase away the memory of him.

Jay.

The name had been rattling around in your skull like a loose coin. You couldn't shake the image of him leaning against that brick wall, his white shirt clinging to his sweat-dampened skin, looking at you with that maddening, clinical detachment.

You're shaking.The words echoed in your head. You looked down at your hands resting on the counter. They were steady now. You’d made sure of that with a little pick-me-up in the bathroom before your shift started. Just a bump. Just enough to level the floor.You hated him for seeing it. You hated him for not wanting you. Usually, men were so easy. A look, a touch, a whisper, and they were yours. But Jay had looked at you like you were a car crash—tragic, messy, and something to be avoided.

"I need to go out tonight," you muttered to yourself, tapping ash into a ceramic tray. "I need to erase this week."

"Well, you're in luck," Misty said, popping up beside you. She pulled a folded, neon-pink flyer out of her back pocket and smoothed it out on the counter. "Because Sugaryloop is hosting a huge night." You scoffed, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. "Sugaryloop? Please, Misty. That place is for tourists and suburban kids trying to be cool. The drinks are watered down and the DJ plays the Top 40 on repeat. I wouldn't be caught dead there." You’d been there twice. Once on a dare, and once because you’d been kicked out of everywhere else. It was a candy-colored nightmare of a club—too bright, too pink, and lacking the gritty soul of places like The Warehouse.

"Suit yourself," Misty shrugged, tracing the bold lettering on the flyer. "But it's going to be packed. apparently, they booked that new band everyone is talking about. The one with the song about... friction?"

Your heart slammed against your ribs. The cigarette almost fell from your lips.

You snatched the flyer from the counter, your eyes scanning the text frantically.

TONIGHT ONLY AT SUGARYLOOP

LIVE PERFORMANCE BY NIGHTFALL

FEATURING THEIR HIT SINGLE "MIDNIGHT FRICTION"

The letters seemed to vibrate on the page.

"Nightfall," you whispered. "Yeah, that's them!" Misty beamed. "My cousin saw them at The Warehouse the other night and said the lead singer is dreamy. I was thinking of going to see what the fuss is about."

You stared at the flyer. They were still in town. He was still in town.Reason kicked in—the part of your brain that wasn't addicted to chaos. He told you to go home. He thinks you're a mess.But then the other part of your brain—the part that had earned you the nickname "The Blizzard"—woke up. It smiled.

He thought you were a mess? Fine. You would show him. You would walk into that bubblegum disco and you would be the sharpest, deadliest thing in the room. You would make him look at you again, and this time, you wouldn't be shaking in an alley. You would be perfect.

"I'm going," you announced, crushing the cigarette out.

Misty blinked. "I thought you said it was for tourists."

"It is," you said, a wicked glint entering your eye. "But sometimes, tourists need a tour guide."

You looked at the clock on the wall. 5:00 PM. The shop closed at 6:00.

"I'm leaving early," you said, grabbing your purse from under the counter.

"What? You can't leave! We have an hour left!" Misty protested.

"Cover for me," you said, already heading for the door. You turned back, blowing her a kiss. "I'll owe you one. Tell Miller I got... food poisoning. Or a fever. Tell him I'm burning up."

You pushed out into the hot Chicago afternoon, the flyer crumbled in your fist. You were burning up, alright. 8:30 PM. Your Apartment.Your apartment in Gold Coast was a reflection of your mind: expensive, cluttered, and chaotic. Clothes were piled on velvet armchairs, empty wine bottles sat on the marble mantelpiece, and the vanity was a war zone of spilled powder and lipstick tubes.You stood in front of the full-length mirror, critical eyes scanning your reflection.Tonight had to be different. The alley was a mistake. You had been coming down, sloppy, vulnerable. Tonight, you needed armor.You bypassed the wild, bohemian looks. You bypassed the shredded denim. You went for lethal elegance.

You pulled out a jumpsuit from the back of your closet. It was a Halston original, silk-jersey in a deep, blood-red crimson. It had a plunging neckline that went down to your navel, held together by gravity and hope, and a halter back that left your shoulders entirely bare. The legs were wide, moving like liquid when you walked.

You slid into it, the cool silk settling against your skin. It was sophisticated, sexy, and bold. It was a statement.You sat at your vanity. You slicked your hair back into a tight, high ponytail, pulling your features taut. You painted your eyelids with gold shimmer and lined them with thick black kohl, making your eyes look like a cat’s. You finished with a dark, berry-colored lipstick.You looked dangerous. You looked controlled.

You opened the small drawer of your vanity. A small vial of white powder sat there, beckoning. You hesitated. Jay’s voice drifted through your mind. You're shaking. You're coming down.

"Screw you," you whispered to the memory of him.

You took a small bump off your fingernail. Just enough to sharpen the edges. Just enough to make the mirror shine a little brighter. You weren't going to get messy tonight. You were going to maintain the high, ride the wave perfectly without crashing. You had to. You grabbed your gold clutch, slipped on your highest gold stilettos, and walked out the door.

10:45 PM. Sugarloop.The club lived up to its name. Even from the street, it looked like a confection. The neon sign was a swirling loop of pink and purple, and the bouncers were wearing pastel suits. It was the antithesis of the dark, sweaty holes you usually frequented.The line wrapped around the block. Nightfall had drawn a crowd. You didn't wait in lines. You walked straight to the front, the red silk of your jumpsuit parting the crowd like the Red Sea.

"List?" the bouncer asked. He looked bored.

"I'm with the band," you lied, your voice smooth as velvet. You didn't even blink. You projected absolute authority.The bouncer looked you up and down. The expensive clothes, the confident stance, the terrifyingly perfect makeup. He didn't want to argue with someone who looked like they could buy the building.

He unhooked the velvet rope. "Go ahead."

You stepped inside.The interior was an assault on the senses. Everything was mirrored or covered in shag carpet. A massive disco ball spun in the center, casting dizzying spots of light over a dance floor that lit up in checkerboard patterns. The crowd was younger, cleaner, more "pop" than the underground heads. They were here to be seen, not to get lost.You navigated the room, heading straight for the bar. You ordered a vodka martini, dry, and turned to scan the room.

The stage was set up at the far end. They weren't on yet.

You sipped your drink, feeling the eyes on you. You stood out here. You looked like a shark in a tank of goldfish.

Then, the lights dimmed. A hush fell over the sugary crowd.

The announcer’s voice boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen... please welcome... NIGHTFALL!" The curtain rose.There he was.

Jay.

He was wearing a different suit tonight—a dark navy velvet that looked black under the stage lights, with a crisp white shirt unbuttoned to the sternum. He had a silver chain around his neck that caught the light. He looked just as bored, just as detached as he had at The Warehouse.He plugged his Stratocaster in, adjusted the strap, and didn't even look at the screaming girls in the front row.The drummer counted off, and they launched into a track you hadn't heard before. It was faster, funkier, with a driving rhythm that forced your hips to move.You moved closer, cutting through the dance floor. You didn't go to the front row this time. That was for the desperate fans. You found a spot near a pillar, halfway back, where you had a clear line of sight but were shrouded in shadow.You watched him play. God, he was good. His fingers flew over the fretboard with a casual arrogance that made your breath catch. He controlled the tempo, the mood, the entire room, and he barely moved his feet.

He was the anchor. And you were the ship looking for a harbor, whether you admitted it or not.

Midway through the set, they started playing "Midnight Friction." The crowd went insane.Jay stepped forward for his solo. The spotlight hit him, blindingly bright. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, losing himself in the music. It was the only time he looked vulnerable—when he was playing.You took a step forward, out of the shadow of the pillar. The light from the disco ball swept over you, illuminating the blood-red silk, the gold eyes, the sheer determination on your face.

And then, Jay opened his eyes.He looked out into the crowd. Usually, musicians looked over the crowd, seeing only a blur of faces. But Jay was a sharpshooter.

His gaze swept right, then stopped.He saw you.Even from this distance, you felt the impact. His fingers didn't stumble, the music didn't falter, but his eyes locked onto yours. He recognized you instantly. The girl from the alley. The mess. The "Blizzard."

You didn't look away. You held his gaze, lifting your chin. You took a slow sip of your martini, staring right back at him, challenging him. Look at me now, your eyes said. I'm not shaking. I'm standing. He stared at you for a long, heavy second, his expression unreadable. Then, the corner of his mouth quirked up. Just a fraction. A microscopic smirk. He turned back to the mic, stepping up to do backing vocals for the chorus, breaking the connection.

But you knew. You had him.

The set ended, but you didn't leave. You knew where the band would go. Sugaryloop had a notorious VIP lounge upstairs—a glass-walled loft that overlooked the dance floor. You charmed your way past the second bouncer ("I'm the guitarist's muse, darling, don't be tedious") and ascended the spiral staircase. The VIP room was cooler, quieter. The band was there, sprawled on white leather couches. The singer was doing shots with three girls. The bassist was rolling a joint. Jay was standing by the glass wall, looking down at the dance floor below. He had a drink in his hand—whiskey, neat. He was alone.You took a breath, checked your reflection in a mirror one last time—perfect—and walked over to him.

You stopped right beside him, looking down at the swirling lights below.

"You played this place better than it deserved," you said, your voice cutting through the ambient noise.Jay didn't jump. He didn't turn immediately. He took a sip of his drink, then slowly rotated to face you.

He looked you up and down. The red jumpsuit. The slicked hair. The steady hands.

"Chicago," he greeted, his voice low and raspy. "You cleaned up."

"I was never dirty," you countered, turning to face him, leaning your hip against the glass railing. "I just had a rough night."

"And tonight?" Jay asked, his eyes searching yours for the dilation, for the tell-tale signs of the high. "Is tonight a smooth night?"

"Tonight is whatever I want it to be," you said. You stepped closer, invading his personal space again, but this time with more control. You smelled of expensive perfume and dangerous intentions. "I heard you were in town. thought I’d come see if the first time was a fluke."

"And?"

"You're consistent," you admitted. "Boringly consistent."

Jay chuckled softly—a sound you hadn't heard before. It was deep and warm. "I'm boring? You're the one stalking me across the city."

"I'm not stalking," you smiled, a slow, predatory curve of your lips. "I'm investigating."

"What are you looking for?"

"A flaw," you whispered. You reached out, and he didn't stop you. You placed your hand on his arm, feeling the velvet of his suit jacket. "Everyone has a crack, Jay. I want to know where yours is."

Jay looked down at your hand, then back up to your eyes. The air between you crackled with tension, thick enough to choke on.

"Be careful," he warned softly, leaning in so his breath brushed your ear. "You go looking for cracks, you might fall in."

"I'm not afraid of falling," you replied, your heart hammering against your ribs—partly the drugs, partly him.

"You should be," Jay murmured.He stepped back, breaking the proximity. He set his drink down on a passing waiter’s tray."I'm getting out of here," he said. "This place smells like bubblegum and desperation."

He looked at you, waiting. It was an invitation, though he hadn't phrased it as one.

"Are you coming?" he asked. "Or are you going to stay here and pretend you like the music?"

You pushed off the glass wall, your smile triumphant.

"Lead the way, guitar man."

The chase had moved to the next level. And this time, you were getting in the car.

The bus was a different world.Outside, the Chicago night was still humid and buzzing, but inside the Nightfall tour bus, the air was stale, recycled, and smelled of diesel, old leather, and ash. It was narrow, dimly lit by amber runner lights along the floor, and vibrated with the low idle of the engine.You were sitting on the banquette seat in the back lounge area, the crimson Halston jumpsuit looking absurdly expensive against the brown plaid upholstery.You held a cigarette in one hand and a glass of warm whiskey in the other. You were talking—fast. Too fast."The acoustics in that place are trash," you said, your voice tight, the words tumbling out over each other. "You compensated well, obviously, but the sound guy? He should be fired. And the lighting? Amateur hour. I would have—"

"You're talking a hundred miles an hour," Jay said.

He was sitting opposite you, leaning back with one arm draped over the back of the seat, his legs stretched out into the narrow aisle. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his velvet jacket. He was watching you with that same heavy, unblinking stare. "I'm passionate," you shot back, taking a drag of the cigarette. You tried to cross your legs elegantly, but your heel caught on the carpet. "I have opinions."

"You have adrenaline," he corrected.

"I have charisma, Jay. Learn the difference." You flashed him a smile, but it felt brittle. Your face felt tight. Then, without warning, the floor dropped out from under you.

It wasn't a gradual fade. It was a cliff. The chemical prop that had been holding up your confidence, your posture, and your entire personality for the last four hours simply… vanished.The crash hit you with the force of a physical blow.One second, you were the queen of the room. The next, your heart stuttered, missed a beat, and then slammed against your ribs like a trapped bird. A wave of nausea rolled through your stomach, so violent you had to swallow hard to keep the whiskey down. The temperature in the bus seemed to plummet twenty degrees. A cold, clammy sweat broke out on the back of your neck. No, you thought, panic flaring. Not now. Not in front of him.

You tried to push through it. You were the Blizzard. You could handle this.

"Anyway," you said, trying to keep the conversation going, but your voice cracked. It sounded thin and reedy. "The... the crowd was..." You lifted the cigarette to your lips, but your hand jerked. A spasm. It wasn't just a tremble; it was a violent twitch. Ash fell onto the pristine red silk of your thigh. "Damn it," you hissed, brushing it off frantically.

But your hands wouldn't stop. The shaking started in your fingers and shot up your arms. Your teeth wanted to chatter. You clamped your jaw shut so hard your molars ached, the muscles in your neck straining to hold your head still. You felt small. You felt terrified. The paranoia set in—the feeling that the walls of the bus were closing in, that the air was running out.You looked up at Jay, forcing a grin that looked more like a grimace. "It's freezing in here. Tell the driver to fix the heat."

Jay didn't move to check the thermostat. He sat up slowly, the lazy posture vanishing. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, invading your space. He looked at your hands, which were now gripping the whiskey glass so hard your knuckles were white, trying to stop the liquid from sloshing over the rim.

"Put the glass down," Jay said. His voice was hard.

"I'm fine," you lied, but the words came out through gritted teeth. "I'm just cold."

"Put. It. Down."

You tried to glare at him, to tell him to go to hell, but your body betrayed you. A violent shiver racked your entire frame, causing the whiskey to splash onto your wrist.

Jay reached out, pried the glass from your rigid fingers, and set it on the table. He took the burning cigarette from your other hand and crushed it out in the ashtray.

"Look at you," he said. It wasn't a question. "Don't look at me," you whispered. The confidence was gone. The "bad bitch" armor had dissolved, leaving you exposed, raw, and trembling in a designer jumpsuit. "You were soaring back at the club," Jay said, his eyes scanning your face—the dilated pupils, the sheen of sweat on your forehead, the pale skin. "King of the world. And now the bill is due."

"I just need... a minute," you gasped, clutching your stomach as another wave of nausea hit. You leaned forward, burying your face in your hands, trying to block out the light. "I just need a minute."

"You don't have a minute," Jay said. "You're crashing. Hard."

He stood up and moved to the small kitchenette area of the bus. You heard water running.You wanted to leave. You wanted to run off the bus, hail a cab, and hide in your apartment until the world stopped spinning. But your legs felt like lead. If you stood up, you knew you would collapse. Jay came back. He didn't offer comfort. He didn't pat your back. He held out a glass of water and a wet washcloth.

"Drink," he ordered.

"I can't," you moaned, rocking slightly back and forth. "I'll be sick."

"Drink it anyway." He sat next to you this time, close enough that you could feel his body heat. He forced the glass into your hand, wrapping his own large, steady hand around yours to keep it from shaking. "Small sips. Dilute the poison."

You took a sip, choking it down. The cold water shocked your system.

Jay took the wet cloth and wiped your forehead, roughly wiping away the sweat and the expensive gold eyeshadow. He wasn't being gentle; he was cleaning up a mess.

"You think you're impressive," he muttered, wiping your neck. "Walking in there like you own the place. But this is the reality. This is what you bought."

"Shut up," you whispered, tears of frustration stinging your eyes. You hated him seeing this. You hated that he was right. "You don't know anything."

"I know you're terrified," Jay said, his voice dropping low, right next to your ear. "I know you fill your nose with powder because you can't stand to be in your own head for five minutes. And now that the noise is gone, you're falling apart."

He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. Your face was pale, streaked with makeup, eyes wide and hollow. You looked like a ghost of the girl from the club.

"Is it worth it?" he asked, his dark eyes boring into yours. "The high? Is it worth feeling like you're dying right now?"

"Yes," you tried to say, but it came out as a sob. "I don't know."

The crash peaked then. Your chest tightened, your heart hammering a frantic, irregular rhythm that made you gasp for air. You gripped Jay’s forearm, your nails digging into his suit jacket, anchoring yourself to the only solid thing in the spinning world."I think I'm dying," you wheezed, the panic taking over.

"You're not dying," Jay said, his voice suddenly calm, grounding. He didn't pull away. He didn't flinch at your nails digging into him. "You're just landing. I've got you."

He shifted, pulling you against his side. It wasn't romantic. It was a containment hold. He held you there, heavy and firm, letting you shake against him, letting you ride out the worst of the tremors while the bus engine hummed beneath you.

You buried your face in his velvet shoulder, smelling the tobacco and cedar, and for the first time that night, you stopped trying to perform. You just let yourself break.The silence returned, but this time, it wasn't empty. It was heavy.

Slowly, deliberately, the pressure around your shoulders vanished. Jay let go.

He didn't shove you away, and he didn't linger. He simply withdrew his arm, the physical anchor he had provided disappearing the moment he decided you were solid enough to hold your own weight. The loss of his body heat was instant, leaving you shivering in the air-conditioned chill of the bus.You sat there for a moment, slumped against the plaid upholstery, breathing raggedly. Your silk jumpsuit was rumpled, the neckline twisted, and you knew your makeup—the gold paint, the berry lip—was likely smeared into a tragic mask.Jay stood up. He moved with that infuriating, effortless grace, his velvet suit seemingly immune to wrinkles. He picked up the empty water glass from the table, walked over to the kitchenette, and set it in the small metal sink. The clink of glass on steel echoed like a gunshot in the quiet cabin.

He didn't turn around immediately. He stood with his back to you, bracing his hands on the edge of the counter, looking down at the drain.

"Why do you do it?" he asked.

His voice was flat. No pity. No anger. Just a dull curiosity, like he was asking why it rained.You blinked, trying to clear the fog in your brain. "Do what?"

"Ingest things you can't handle." He turned his head slightly, giving you a profile view of that sharp, unyielding jawline. "You play the game, but you don't know the rules. Why swallow the poison if you don't have the stomach for it?"

The shame that had been simmering under your panic suddenly boiled over into rage. It was easier to be angry than to be embarrassed. You straightened your spine, wincing at the ache in your muscles, and clawed back a shred of your usual haughtiness."It’s none of your business," you scoffed, though the sound was weak, lacking its usual bite. You tried to smooth your hair, your hand brushing against a tangled knot. "I handle myself fine. Tonight was just... a fluke. A bad batch."

"A bad batch," Jay repeated, testing the words. He turned fully to face you then, leaning his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked so composed. So clean. So above it all.

"You're a tourist," he said. The word hung in the air. "Excuse me?" you snapped.

"You treat this life—the drugs, the noise, the chaos—like it's a costume you put on to impress people," Jay said, his eyes drilling into yours. "You think being a 'party girl' makes you special. You think if you burn bright enough, no one will notice there’s nothing inside the fire."

You froze. The air left your lungs.

"You think you're wild, Chicago?" he continued, his voice lowering, soft and lethal. "You're not wild. You're predictable. And honestly? It's boring."

The slap would have hurt less.

Boring.

He could have called you a mess. He could have called you a junkie. He could have called you crazy. You had heard all of those before; you wore them like badges of honor. But boring? Predictable?

He was stripping away the one thing you prided yourself on—your uniqueness. Your ability to be the most interesting person in the room.

"You don't know me," you hissed, standing up. Your legs were shaky, wobbling in the high gold heels, but you forced them to lock. You grabbed your gold clutch from the seat, your knuckles white. "You're just a guitar player with a god complex. You think because you stand still, you're deep? You're just as empty as the rest of us."

Jay didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just watched you struggle to stand, his expression one of mild, detached disappointment.

"Maybe," he said quietly. "But at least I know how to walk in a straight line."

That was it. You couldn't stay here. You couldn't breathe in the same room as him for another second. He was suffocating you with his calm, judging you with his silence.

You turned on your heel, swaying dangerously but catching yourself on the edge of the table. You marched toward the door of the bus, your head held high, ignoring the fact that you looked like a disaster.

"Thanks for the water," you spat over your shoulder, venom dripping from every syllable.

"Get home safe," he replied. The same line as the alley. The same dismissal.

You shoved the door open and stumbled out into the night. The humidity of Chicago hit you like a physical wall, thick and sticky. The street noise—honking cars, distant sirens, the muffled bass from the club—rushed back in, drowning out the ringing in your ears. You didn't look back. You knew he was watching. You could feel his eyes on your back through the tinted window of the bus, watching the "Blizzard" stumble down the sidewalk. You raised a shaking arm, hailing a yellow cab that was cruising down the street. It screeched to a halt. You yanked the door open and threw yourself into the backseat, the vinyl sticking to your legs. "Gold Coast," you muttered to the driver, staring straight ahead. The cab pulled away, merging into the traffic.

You sat rigid in the back, watching the city blur past the window. The streetlights streaked by like comets—red, amber, white. The adrenaline of the argument was fading, leaving you with the crushing weight of the comedown and the echoing sting of his words.

Boring. Predictable.

You stared at your reflection in the darkened glass. The girl staring back was terrifying. Her mascara was smudged under one eye. Her lipstick was bled out at the corners. Her skin was pale and waxy. She looked like a ghost.A warm sensation tracked down your cheek. You ignored it, assuming it was sweat. The AC in the cab was broken, and the air was stifling.Then another one fell. And another.A drop landed on the back of your hand, resting on your knee. You looked down at it. It was clear.

You reached up and touched your face. Your fingers came away wet.

Tears.You weren't crying. You didn't cry. You were the girl who laughed at funerals. You were the girl who broke hearts, not the one who had hers bruised by a five-minute conversation with a stranger.

"It's the drugs," you whispered to yourself, aggressively wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, smearing the makeup further. "Just the chemical imbalance. Just the crash." You sniffed hard, fixing your gaze on the passing skyline. But as the Sears Tower loomed in the distance, a black needle against the purple sky, the lie tasted like ash in your mouth. It wasn't the drugs. It was him.He hadn't just seen the mess; he had seen the performance. He had looked at the sequins, the attitude, the "Blizzard," and he had yawned. He had found the hairline fracture in the glass that you had spent years polishing and hiding.

And the terrifying part wasn't that he found it. The terrifying part was that, for a split second on that bus, when he was holding you while you shook, you had wanted to let the whole thing shatter. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the tears fall freely now that no one was watching.

"I hate him," you murmured, curling your fingers into the leather of the seat.

But the hate felt thin. What you felt, sitting in the back of a dirty cab in the middle of the night, was something much worse.

You felt seen. And you had never felt more alone.

August in Chicago was a fever that wouldn't break. The humidity had turned the air into a physical weight, pressing down on the L-train tracks and making the pavement shimmer with oily heat. But for you, the world had turned grey.

It had been three weeks. Twenty-one days since the tour bus. Twenty-one days since the humiliation. You hadn't seen him.You had made sure of that. For the first time in your life, you were avoiding the spotlight. You stopped going to The Warehouse. You avoided Sugaryloop. You didn't even walk down the streets where the clubs were clustered, terrified that you might see a black tour bus parked on the curb. You couldn't handle the idea of running into him again, of letting him look at you with those surgical, dissecting eyes and seeing the cracks you were trying so desperately to plaster over. But the city moved on without you. The posters for Nightfall—the ones that had been plastered on every telephone pole and brick wall in July—were gone. They had been pasted over by flyers for punk bands and disco competitions.

The radio stopped playing "Midnight Friction" every hour. It dropped to once a day, then once a week.He was gone. They had packed up their amps, their suits, and their judgment, and moved on to the next city. Cleveland, maybe. Or Detroit. Somewhere far away.

You told yourself you were relieved. You told yourself good riddance to the arrogant guitarist who thought he knew you better than you knew yourself.

But the relief felt hollow. It felt like the silence in your apartment at 4:00 AM.

Because the truth was, he had stuck. Like a splinter under your skin, Jay was there. You would catch yourself scanning the crowds on the subway for a velvet jacket. You would hear a certain chord on the radio and your stomach would drop. You hated him for it. You hated that a stranger—a man you spoke to for a total of twenty minutes—had managed to haunt you more than lovers you’d had for months.

And then there was the money. High-end living didn't come cheap, and your hiatus from the "scene" meant you weren't getting free drinks or free favors anymore. You were broke. The "Blizzard" was melting.You sat on a stool behind the counter of Spin City Records, chin resting in your hand, watching the dust motes dance in the afternoon sun. You looked different. The glitter was gone. You were wearing a faded vintage t-shirt and jeans, your hair tied back in a messy knot. You looked... normal.

"You're sighing again," Misty said, stacking a crate of new arrivals next to you. "It’s bringing down the vibe."

"The vibe is already dead, Misty," you muttered, tapping your pen against the ledger. "It’s a Tuesday afternoon. The only people buying records right now are jazz snobs and lost tourists."

"At least you're here," Misty pointed out, giving you a bright, confusingly genuine smile. "I mean, you’ve picked up, what, four extra shifts this week? Miller is thrilled. He thinks you've turned over a new leaf."

You scoffed, looking away. "Miller thinks I'm responsible. I'm just broke."

It was the truth, but not the whole truth. You were rationing. That was your new reality. The money you made from these extra shifts wasn't going into a savings account or toward rent. It was going to Leo.One hit a day. That was the new rule.

It was a pathetic compromise. It wasn't enough to get you flying—not the way you used to fly, soaring over the city with invincible wings. It was just enough to stop the shaking. It was a maintenance dose. It kept the sickness at bay, kept the shadows from getting too long, and allowed you to function.But God, you missed the excess. You missed the oblivion.

"I was thinking," you said, your voice low, checking the clock. 4:15 PM. 45 minutes until you could clock out. 45 minutes until you could meet Leo in the alley behind the deli. "I might sell that Halston jumpsuit. The red one."

Misty dropped a stack of records. "What? No! You love that thing. You said it was your 'power suit'."

"It's just fabric," you lied. "I need the cash."

"Don't do it," Misty said, shaking her head. "You'll regret it. Just work a few more weekends. You're actually... good at this, you know? When you're not, um..."

"Not what?" you challenged, raising an eyebrow.

"Not distracted," she finished diplomatically.

You looked down at your hands. They were steady. The single bump you’d done this morning in the employee bathroom was wearing off, the edges of your nerves starting to fray again, but you were holding it together.

"Yeah, well," you muttered. "Distraction is expensive."

You turned your attention to a customer who had just walked in—a teenager in a leather jacket flipping through the punk section. You watched him, bored.

You tried to convince yourself this was better. No screaming fans. No judging guitarists. Just the smell of vinyl and the slow tick of the clock. It was safe. It was boring.

Boring.

Jay’s voice echoed in your head again. You're not wild. You're predictable.

"Get out of my head," you whispered under your breath, aggressively organizing a stack of receipts.

The bell above the door chimed.

"Welcome to Spin City," you droned automatically, not looking up. You were focused on the math in front of you. If you worked Friday night, you could afford two hits on Saturday. That would be a treat. A chaotic, beautiful treat.

"Do you carry local imports?" a voice asked.

Your pen stopped moving.

The air in the shop seemed to vanish. The sounds of the street outside—the traffic, the chatter—faded into a dull roar.

You knew that voice. It was low, raspy, and possessed a calm authority that scraped against your nerve endings.

Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, you lifted your head.

He was standing on the other side of the counter.

Jay.

He wasn't in a suit today. He looked startlingly casual, which somehow made him look even more real. He was wearing dark denim jeans and a simple black t-shirt that hugged his chest, with a pair of sunglasses tucked into the neckline. He had a leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder.He hadn't noticed you yet. He was looking down at the display case of rare Beatles pressings, his profile sharp and serious.Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your system.He’s gone, your brain screamed. He left. The posters are gone.Why was he here? Why was he standing three feet away from you in Wicker Park on a Tuesday afternoon?

You wanted to duck. You wanted to slide under the counter and hide amongst the dust bunnies until he left. You were wearing a stained t-shirt. You had no makeup on. You looked nothing like the "Blizzard" and everything like the broke, struggling girl he had accused you of being.But before you could move, he looked up.His dark eyes swept the counter, looking for assistance, and landed on you. He froze. For a second, neither of you breathed. The dusty air between you charged with that familiar, uncomfortable electricity.

He looked at your messy hair. He looked at the vintage t-shirt. He looked at the ledger under your hand.Recognition dawned in his eyes, followed by a flicker of something else. Surprise? Amusement?

"You," he said.

"Me," you croaked. You cleared your throat, trying to summon some shred of dignity. You stood up straighter, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. "I work here."

"I see that," Jay said. He didn't look away. He leaned an elbow on the glass counter, his posture relaxing. "I thought you lived in the VIP section of Warehouse."

"I have a life outside the club, Jay," you snapped, the anger rising to cover your embarrassment. "Unlike some people, I don't live on a bus."

"Touché," he murmured.He didn't leave. He didn't make a snide comment about your appearance. He just stood there, looking at you."I thought you left," you blurted out. The words bypassed your filter. "The posters are gone. The radio stopped playing the song every ten minutes.""The tour finished," Jay said simply. "The band went back to LA." Your heart skipped a beat. "And you?"

"I stayed."

"Why?"

Jay shrugged, a minimal motion of his shoulder. He reached into the bin of records on the counter, idly flipping through a stack of jazz albums. "I like the architecture. And the blues scene is better here. I needed a break from the LA smog." He was staying. He was here. In Chicago. "So you're just... hanging around?" you asked, trying to sound unimpressed, but your mind was racing."I'm writing," he corrected. He pulled out a Miles Davis record, inspecting the cover. "And I'm looking for music." He looked back up at you. "You look different." You felt your face heat up. You hated blushing. "I look like a person who has a job."

"You look..." He tilted his head slightly, studying you. "Clearer."

He didn't say pretty. He didn't say bad. He said clearer.You didn't know how to take that. You weren't clear. You were just under-dosed. You were running on fumes and a single hit a day. "I'm working," you said curtly, gesturing to the shop. "So unless you're going to buy that Miles Davis record, you're blocking the customers."

There were no other customers at the counter. Jay smirked. It was that same small, infuriating smirk from the club. "I'll take it," he said. He pulled a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and slid it across the glass. You rang him up, your fingers fumbling slightly with the keys of the register. You could feel his eyes on your hands, watching for the shake.They were steady. Thank God. You slid the record into a paper bag and pushed it toward him. "Keep the change."

"I don't need charity," You said, he left the change on the counter anyway. He picked up the bag. He hesitated. He didn't walk away immediately. "I'm playing tonight," he said. You looked up, startled. "What? The band is gone."

"Just me," he said. "There's a jazz lounge on 4th. The Blue Note. I'm sitting in with the house band. No lights. No sequins. Just music." He adjusted the strap of his bag. "You should come," he said. It wasn't a demand. It wasn't a seduce-y pickup line. It was a challenge. "I don't do jazz," you lied. "Too slow."

"Maybe you need slow," Jay said. "Bring your friend." He nodded toward Misty, who was watching the interaction with wide eyes from the ladder. "You might learn something about rhythm." He turned and walked toward the door. "Jay," you called out before you could stop yourself. He stopped, hand on the doorframe, looking back. "Why are you telling me?" He looked at you for a long moment, the afternoon sun framing his silhouette. "Because," he said quietly. "I haven't seen a storm in three weeks. I missed the weather." Then he was gone, the bell chiming cheerfully in his wake. You stood there, staring at the empty door. Your heart was pounding—a different kind of pounding than the drugs gave you. It was heavier. deeper.

Misty practically fell off the ladder. "Oh my god! Was that him? Was that the Nightfall guy? He asked you out!"

"He didn't ask me out," you whispered, touching the counter where his hand had been. "He dared me." You looked at the clock. 4:55 PM.

Leo was waiting in the alley. You had the money in your pocket for your daily hit. You needed it. Your body was starting to ache for it. But for the first time in three weeks, the craving had competition. The Blue Note. Tonight. You grabbed your purse. You had a decision to make.

The Blue Note, 9:00 PM.

You didn't go home to change. You didn't layer on the war paint. For the first time in your adult life, you walked into a club wearing exactly what you had worn to work: a pair of dark, worn-in denim jeans, black boots, and a vintage band tee under a heavy leather jacket.You felt naked.Without the sequins, without the platform heels, without the shimmering armor of the "Blizzard," you felt like a civilian. Just another girl in Chicago on a Tuesday night.Misty was practically skipping beside you, her flowy skirt swishing against her legs. "This is going to be so cool! My dad loves this place. He says it’s where the real musicians go."

"Great," you muttered, shoving your hands deep into your jacket pockets. "Real musicians. Just what I need."Your right hand brushed against the small, folded paper packet in your pocket.You froze for a second, feeling the texture of the paper against your thumb. You hadn't taken it. You had met Leo in the alley, handed over your hard-earned tips, and taken the packet. Usually, you would have dipped into it immediately, desperate to smooth out the edges of the day.But today, you hesitated.

Save it, a voice in your head whispered. For later. For the apartment. When the silence gets too loud.It was a test. Or maybe it was just fear. You didn't want to be high in front of Jay again. You didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing you shake. So you kept the packet tucked away, a secret promise of relief waiting for you at the finish line of the night.You pushed open the heavy wooden door of The Blue Note.The atmosphere hit you instantly. It wasn't the manic, sweaty wall of heat you were used to at The Warehouse. It was cool, dark, and smelled of expensive bourbon, wood polish, and stale cigarette smoke.There was no disco ball. There were no strobe lights. The only illumination came from small, red-shaded lamps on the round tables and the amber spotlight on the small stage in the corner. "Whoa," Misty whispered, looking around. "It’s so... grown-up."

You felt wildly out of place. The people here weren't dancing. They were sitting. They were drinking scotch neat and whispering. They wore turtlenecks and blazers. You felt like an intruder in a library.

"Let's grab a table in the back," you said quickly, steering Misty toward the shadows. You didn't want to be seen. You wanted to observe.

You sat down, ordering a cheap beer because a martini felt wrong here. You sipped the foam, your leg bouncing under the table—a nervous tic you couldn't suppress.

Then, the band started up.

It wasn't Nightfall. There was no preening singer, no frantic drummer. It was a quartet: a drummer with brushes, an upright bass player, a pianist, and a guitarist.

Jay.

He was sitting on a stool on the far right. He looked entirely different from the rock god persona he wore at the disco clubs. He was relaxed, his shoulders hunched slightly over a hollow-body Gibson guitar. He wasn't playing for the crowd; he was playing for the other musicians.They started a slow, wandering blues number.You watched him. He closed his eyes as he played, his head tipping back. His fingers moved over the fretboard with a gentleness you didn't know he possessed. The sound wasn't loud; it was haunting. It was a weeping, soulful melody that cut through the smoky air and settled right in your chest.

It made you uncomfortable. Disco was about forgetting. This music... this music was about remembering.You gripped your beer bottle, your other hand instinctively finding the packet in your pocket again. You rubbed it between your fingers, grounding yourself. I have it. I'm safe."He's incredible," Misty whispered, her eyes wide. "Look at his hands."

"He's alright," you deflected, though you couldn't look away.

For forty minutes, he played. He didn't look at the audience once. He was lost in the sound, completely self-contained. It was infuriating. How could someone be so complete on their own? You needed a room full of people screaming your name to feel real. He just needed six strings.The set ended with a soft ripple of applause—polite, appreciative, respectful. Not the feral screaming of the disco crowds.Jay opened his eyes. He set his guitar on the stand and stood up, stretching his back. He said something to the bassist, who laughed, and then he stepped off the low stage.You shrank back into your chair, suddenly terrified he would see you. You looked drab. You looked sober. You looked boring.But Jay had the eyes of a hawk.

He scanned the room as he walked toward the bar, and his gaze stopped on your table.He didn't smile. He just changed direction.

He walked through the maze of tables, weaving effortlessly between the patrons. He stopped right in front of your table, looking down at you.

"You came," he said.

You looked up, trying to keep your face neutral. "Misty dragged me. She loves jazz."

"I do!" Misty chirped, beaming at him. "Hi! I'm Misty. Didn’t get to properly introduce myself. You were amazing up there! So moody." Jay’s lips quirked—that tiny, rare smile. He looked at Misty. "Thanks, Misty. Moody is what we aim for." Then his eyes slid back to you. He looked at the leather jacket. He looked at the messy hair. He looked at the beer in your hand. "You're dressed down," he noted. "I didn't feel like putting on the costume," you said, defensive. "Is that a problem? Is there a dress code?"

"No," Jay said softly. "It suits you. You look..." He searched for the word. "Real."

The compliment—if it was one—made your skin itch. You weren't used to being called "real." You were used to being called "stunning" or "wild." "Real" felt like code for "ordinary." "Don't get used to it," you muttered. "I'm just tired." Jay pulled out the empty chair at your table and sat down. He didn't ask. He just joined you. "Tired looks better on you than strung out," he said, his voice low enough that Misty couldn't hear over the background chatter. You stiffened. Your hand tightened around the packet in your pocket. He knew. Even when you were sober, he was referencing the drugs. It was like he could smell the addiction on you. "I'm not strung out," you whispered back, leaning in so only he could hear. "I'm perfectly sober. See? No shaking."

You held out your hand. It was steady, though the effort to keep it that way was costing you. Jay looked at your hand, then up at your eyes. "I see that. It's a good look."

"So, Jay," Misty interrupted, oblivious to the tension. "Are you staying in Chicago long? Or are you going to break hearts in another city?" Jay leaned back, draping his arm over the chair. He looked relaxed, smelling of cedar and the faint metallic scent of guitar strings. "I think I'm staying for a while," he said, looking at you. "I found something interesting here."

"The blues scene?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. "Among other things," he replied.

A waitress came by. "Can I get you anything, hon?"

"Whiskey, neat," Jay said. He looked at your half-empty beer. "And a water for her."

"I don't want water," you snapped. "I want another beer."

"She's driving," Jay lied to the waitress, not breaking eye contact with you. "Water."

The waitress nodded and walked away. "You don't control what I drink," you hissed at him. "I'm not on your tour bus anymore."

"I know," Jay said calmly. "But you're white-knuckling that beer bottle like it's a lifeline. And you keep touching your pocket."  Your heart stopped.

"What?"

"Your right pocket," Jay said, his eyes flicking down to your jacket. "You've patted it three times in the last five minutes. Just checking it's still there?"

Heat flooded your face. He didn't miss anything. He knew you had the stash. He knew you were "saving it."

"It's my keys," you lied, but your voice lacked conviction.

"Sure," Jay said. He didn't push it. He didn't demand you throw it away. He just let you know that he knew. The drinks arrived. He took a sip of his whiskey.

"Why jazz?" you asked, desperate to change the subject. "It's so... quiet. Don't you miss the noise? The adoration?"

"Noise is easy," Jay said. "Silence is hard. In jazz, it's about the notes you don't play. It's about the space between."

He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "You should try it sometime, Chicago. Leaving some space. You don't have to fill every second with noise just to prove you exist." You stared at him. The packet in your pocket felt heavy, like a stone dragging you down. He was challenging you again. He was asking you to sit in the quiet with him, without the armor, without the high. And the terrifying part was... you wanted to. "I don't know how," you admitted, a rare moment of honesty slipping out.

Jay’s expression softened. " Stick around," he said. "You might pick up the rhythm."

He raised his glass in a mock toast. You looked at the water he had ordered you. You looked at Misty, who was happily humming along to the music. You looked at Jay, the man who saw all the ugly parts and hadn't walked away this time. You let go of the packet in your pocket. You picked up the water. "Cheers," you whispered.

The night air outside The Blue Note was cooling down, but the humidity still clung to the pavement like a second skin.Misty was humming, twirling a lock of hair around her finger as she scanned the street for a cab. She was buzzing from the jazz, from the "vibe," from the novelty of it all. You, on the other hand, felt heavy. The adrenaline of the confrontation with Jay inside was fading, leaving you with the grim reality of your bank account.You had exactly enough cash in your pocket to buy a pack of gum, or get halfway home. Not both. And certainly not enough for a cab all the way to the Gold Coast.A yellow taxi screeched to the curb."Come on!" Misty said, reaching for the door handle. "We can share."

"You go ahead," you said quickly, taking a step back. You forced a smile, tucking your hands into your leather jacket pockets. "I’m... going to meet a friend. Nearby. They live just a few blocks over." Misty paused, frowning slightly. "Are you sure? It’s late."

"I'm fine, Misty. Go before the meter starts running." You shooed her. "I'll see you at the shop tomorrow." She hesitated, then shrugged. "Okay! Night!" She hopped in, the door slammed, and the cab sped off, its taillights dissolving into the stream of traffic.

You stood there for a moment, watching it go. The lie tasted sour in your mouth. There was no friend. There was just a three-mile walk in boots with worn-out soles and a pocket full of a drug you were desperately trying not to take. You sighed, turning up the collar of your jacket against the wind, and started walking. One foot in front of the other, you told yourself. Don't think about the ache in your legs. Don't think about the emptiness in your stomach. "You're terrible at lying." The voice came from behind you, accompanied by the jingle of keys. You stopped dead. You didn't turn around immediately. You closed your eyes for a brief second, cursing your luck.

"I wasn't lying," you said to the empty street, then turned around. Jay was standing under the awning of the club, his guitar case in one hand, car keys in the other. He looked cinematic in the amber streetlamp light—the dark t-shirt, the jeans, the casual leaning stance. He looked like he belonged to the night in a way you never would.

"You don't have a friend blocks away," Jay stated, walking toward you. "And you don't have money for a cab. You spent your last twenty on that packet in your pocket earlier today." The shame flared hot and bright. "Are you tracking my finances now?" you snapped, backing away as he approached. "I'm walking. I like walking. It clears my head."

"It's three miles to your apartment," Jay said, stopping in front of you. He pointed a set of keys toward a sleek, black Chevelle parked at the curb. "Get in."

"I'm not getting in your car," you argued, crossing your arms. "I don't need charity."

"It's not charity. It's efficiency," he countered. He opened the passenger door, the interior light flooding the sidewalk. "I'm going that way. You're walking that way. Don't be an idiot, Chicago. Get in the car."

You glared at him. You wanted to refuse. You wanted to stomp off into the darkness just to prove you didn't need him. But your feet hurt. And the darkness looked lonely.

"Fine," you huffed. "But I pick the radio station."

"Get in," he repeated, ignoring your condition.You slid into the passenger seat.

The car smelled amazing—like old leather, peppermint, and him. It was obsessively clean. No fast-food wrappers, no empty cigarette packs, no glitter. It was calm.

Jay tossed his guitar in the back, got in the driver's seat, and turned the key. The engine purred to life with a low, throaty rumble. He pulled out into traffic after you told him where you stayed at, driving with one hand on the wheel, relaxed and confident. You sat stiffly against the door, watching the city blur past. The radio was playing softly—Fleetwood Mac’s Dreams. It was moody and atmospheric, filling the silence without breaking it. For ten minutes, neither of you spoke. The tension in the car wasn't sharp like it had been in the alley; it was thicker, heavier. It felt intimate.

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye. He was focused on the road, his expression unreadable. He seemed so... solid. He didn't twitch. He didn't tap his fingers nervously. He just existed, taking up space without apologizing for it.

The question had been burning in your throat since the club. Since the moment he sat at your table."Why?" you asked suddenly. Jay didn't look at you. He signaled a left turn. "Why what?"

"Why do you hang around me?" You turned in your seat to face him, the frustration bubbling up. "You made it very clear what you think of me. I'm a mess. I'm a 'junkie.' I'm boring and predictable." You gestured to yourself, to the worn leather jacket and the desperate energy radiating off you. "You're Mr. Clean. You have your act together. You hate the noise. So why are you driving me home? Why did you sit at my table? Why are you bothering?" Jay checked his rearview mirror, merging lanes. He didn't answer immediately. He let the question hang there, mingling with the bass of the radio. You thought he wasn't going to answer. You thought he was going to give you another lecture about "cleaning up.” Then, he spoke. "Because the people in those clubs," he began, his voice low, vibrating through the quiet car, "the ones in the sequins and the suits? They're all hiding. They put on masks so no one sees they're empty." He stopped at a red light and finally turned his head to look at you. His eyes were dark, searching, and devastatingly honest. "You wear a mask too," he said. "But yours is slipping. And underneath it... you're the most honest thing I've found in this city." You stared at him, your mouth slightly open. The breath caught in your throat.

"I don't like the drugs," he continued, turning back to the road as the light turned green. "I hate them. But I don't hate you. You're a disaster, Chicago. But you're a real disaster. I prefer that to a fake success." He said it so simply. As if it were a fact of physics.He didn't want you because you were the "life of the party." He didn't want the Blizzard. He wanted the disaster. He wanted the girl shaking in the alleyway because she was the only one feeling something real. A strange sensation washed over you. It wasn't the chemical rush of a high. It was slower, warmer. It felt like gravity.

For years, you had been surrounding yourself with people who loved the facade. They loved the glitter. They loved the noise. But the moment the music stopped, they vanished. Jay was the only one who seemed to like the silence. "You're weird and my name is Y/n," you whispered, leaning your head back against the headrest.

"And you're broke, Chicago" Jay replied without missing a beat. "So sit back and enjoy the ride." You turned your head toward the window to hide the sudden stinging in your eyes. You watched your reflection in the glass—the messy hair, the tired eyes.

For the first time in a long time, you didn't want to fix the reflection. You didn't want to do a line to blur the edges. He felt real. And God help you, you wanted to be real too.

Late August 1977.

The bell above the door of Spin City Records had a specific chime—a tarnished, brassy ting-a-ling that usually signaled a lost tourist or a bored teenager. But for the last two weeks, that sound had become the only thing tethering you to the earth. He came in on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sometimes Saturdays. Never at the same time, always just unpredictable enough to keep your nerves pulled taut like piano wire.You found yourself checking your reflection in the back of a spoon in the breakroom. You found yourself actually reading the liner notes of the new arrivals so you’d have something smart to say. It was pathetic. It was terrifying. It was the best part of your day.The routine was a dance. He would walk in, usually wearing a t-shirt and that battered leather bag, looking effortlessly cool in a way that made the other customers fade into the background. He would browse for ten minutes, ignoring you, letting the tension build. Then he would approach the counter with a record.

"Coltrane," he’d say, sliding Blue Train across the glass. "Thoughts?"

"Too chaotic," you’d counter, leaning on your elbows, trying to stop your heart from hammering. "He plays like he’s trying to outrun the band."

"He plays like he’s chasing God," Jay would correct, offering that faint, maddening half-smile. "You just don't like it because you can't dance to it."

"I can dance to anything, Jay."

"I know." He would pay—always cash, always precise—and leave. That was it. Five minutes of interaction that left you buzzing with a natural high that lasted for hours.

Because of him, the white noise in your head had quieted down. You weren't visiting Leo every day. You stretched your stash, skipping days, then skipping two. You started going to The Blue Note on his nights off, sitting in the back with a soda, watching him play, letting the jazz wash over you like a cleansing rain. You were changing. The "Blizzard" was thawing into something softer, something more human. But ice doesn't melt without making a mess.

Wednesday Night. The demons didn't like the quiet. They didn't like the new you.

You were alone in your apartment. It was raining—a heavy, summer downpour that lashed against the windows, turning the city lights into running watercolors.

You had had a hard day. Miller had yelled at you for miscounting the till. A customer had been rude. The humidity was making your skin crawl. You sat on your velvet sofa, staring at the coffee table. In the center of the table, sitting innocently beside a stack of fashion magazines, was the packet. You had told yourself you were done. You had told yourself you were saving it for an "emergency." But the definition of emergency was slippery. Was boredom an emergency? Was loneliness? Was the sudden, crushing fear that Jay was going to realize you were just a shop girl and stop coming in? Just a little, the voice whispered. Just to take the edge off. Just to feel like yourself again. You’ve been so good. You picked it up. The plastic felt familiar. Comforting. "I won't do the whole thing," you said aloud to the empty room. "Just a taste." You were lying. You knew you were lying before you even opened it.

The ritual was muscle memory. The mirror, the razor, the roll. It was easier than breathing.When the hit took you, it was like greeting an old friend who hated you. The rush was instant—the explosion of white light behind your eyes, the surge of artificial power, the feeling that you were ten feet tall and made of gold.For an hour, you were the Queen of Chicago again. You danced around your living room to no music, spinning until the room blurred. You felt invincible. You felt like the girl Jay had met in the alley—electric and dangerous. Then came the crash. It hit harder this time because your tolerance had dropped. It slammed you into the floor. You ended up curled in a ball on the rug, shivering, your heart palpitating so hard you thought it might burst. The gold turned to grey. The power turned to paranoia.

You lay there until dawn, staring at the ceiling, feeling the chemical shame seep into your bones. You had failed. You had promised yourself, promised the ghost of him in your head, and you had failed. Thursday Morning You looked like hell.There was no hiding it. You had layered on concealer, but it sat heavily on your dehydrated skin. Your eyes were rimmed with red, the pupils pinpricks in the harsh fluorescent light of the shop. Your hands had a tremor that you couldn't still, no matter how tightly you gripped the counter.You felt raw. Exposed. Every sound was too loud; every movement was too fast. "You okay?" Misty asked, walking by with a feather duster. "You look... grayish."

"I didn't sleep," you muttered, keeping your head down, pretending to sort invoices. "Insomnia."

"Maybe you should go home," she suggested kindly. "No," you snapped, too quickly. "I need the money." And you needed to see him. But at the same time, you were praying he wouldn't come. Please not today, you begged the universe. Don't let him see me like this. The universe, as usual, wasn't listening. At 2:00 PM, the bell chimed. Ting-a-ling. You didn't need to look up. You felt the shift in the air pressure.

Jay walked in. He was wearing a dark grey button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, looking fresh and sharp and painfully sober. He nodded at Misty, then walked toward the jazz section. You froze, your heart dropping into your stomach. You busied yourself with a stack of papers, turning your body slightly away so he wouldn't see your face. Maybe he would just buy a record and leave. Maybe he wouldn't come over. He browsed for a few minutes. You could feel his presence like a heat source.

Then, footsteps. Slow, deliberate. He stopped at the counter. He didn't slide a record across the glass. "Chicago," he said. You took a breath, forced a smile, and turned around. "Hey, Jay. What are we buying today? More Miles? Or are we feeling adventurous?" Your voice was brittle. Too high. Jay didn't look at the records. He looked at you.His eyes swept over your face with that terrifying precision. He saw the concealer. He saw the red rims. He saw the slight tremor in your hand as you rested it on the ledger. He saw the dark, hollow exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix.

The small, polite smile he had walked in with vanished.

His expression went flat. It wasn't anger. It was worse. It was disappointment. It was a quiet, heavy thing that settled in the space between you, sucking out all the air.

"Rough night?" he asked. His voice was devoid of the warmth that had been creeping in over the last two weeks. It was cool again. Distant. "Just... trouble sleeping," you lied, looking past his shoulder at a poster on the wall. "Thunder kept me up."

"The thunder stopped at midnight," Jay said. He looked down at your hands. You instinctively pulled them off the counter and hid them in your lap.

"I thought you were doing better," he said softly. It wasn't an accusation; it was an observation, which made it sting more. "I am doing better," you insisted, a flash of defensive anger rising. "One bad night doesn't mean anything. I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Jay said. "You're vibrating." He leaned closer, lowering his voice so Misty wouldn't hear. "You look like you fell off a cliff. And you did it alone, didn't you?"

The accuracy of it made you want to scream. He knew. He knew you had sat in that apartment and chosen the drug over the progress. "It's none of your business," you hissed, the shame burning your cheeks. "You're a customer, Jay. Buy a record or leave. I don't need a life coach." Jay stared at you for a long moment. You saw something flicker in his eyes—frustration, maybe? Hurt? It was gone before you could catch it. He stood up straight, pulling away from the counter. He didn't reach for his wallet. "I'm not buying anything today," he said coldly. "Good," you spat, fighting back tears. "Save your money."

"It's not about the money," he said. "It's about the waste."

He looked at you one last time—a look that made you feel small, dirty, and incredibly foolish."Get some water, Chicago," he said. "You're dehydrated." He turned and walked out. He didn't look back. The bell chimed ting-a-ling as the door closed, sounding like a mockery.You stood there, gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles turned white. The shop was silent. Misty was humming in the back.

You felt a single, hot tear slide down your cheek, cutting through the heavy makeup.

You hated him. You hated him for noticing. You hated him for caring.

But mostly, you hated yourself. Because for two weeks, you had been building a version of yourself that he seemed to like—a version that was real, and steady, and clean. And in one night, you had smashed it to pieces. And the worst part was, as you watched his retreating figure through the glass window, you realized that his disappointment hurt more than the crash ever could. You wiped the tear away aggressively. "I don't care," you whispered to the empty shop. But as you reached for the water bottle under the counter, your hand shaking violently, you knew it was the biggest lie you had told all day.

The Blue Note, 11:45 PM.

You didn't want to be there. You didn't want to be anywhere. But the alternative was your apartment. The apartment was currently a haunted house. It was filled with the ghosts of the night before—the mirror on the table, the razor blade, the empty packet, and the crushing, suffocating silence that screamed at you to call Leo and get more. The air in your apartment tasted like failure. If you went back there, alone, with the rain battering the windows and your nerves still frayed from the crash, you knew exactly what would happen. You would break. Again. So you ran to the only other place where the noise made sense. And The Blue Note was dimly lit and half-empty on a Thursday night. You sat in the farthest corner, tucked away in a booth upholstered in cracked red leather, nursing a ginger ale. You wore the same clothes from the shop, your leather jacket pulled tight around you like a shield. You felt small. You felt translucent, as if the shame of the morning had scrubbed away all your color. On stage, Jay was playing.He looked different tonight. He wasn't the cool, detached observer. He was playing with a kind of bruised intensity. The notes coming from his guitar were sharp, jagged things that didn't resolve. He wasn't looking at the crowd. He was looking at his hands, his brow furrowed, his jaw set tight. He looked angry. Or maybe he just looked disappointed. Every time he hit a minor chord, you felt it in your chest. You knew you were the reason for that edge in his sound. You had taken the progress—the tentative, fragile thing growing between you—and smashed it on the counter of a record store. You kept your head down, staring into the bubbles of your soda. You shouldn't have come. He didn't want to see you. He had made that clear when he walked out of the shop. You were just a customer to him again. A "waste."

The set ended. The polite applause rippled through the room. You waited for him to go to the bar, or to the back room with the other musicians. You planned to slip out the side door while he was distracted, just satisfied enough to know he was real, just grounded enough to survive the night. But Jay didn't go to the bar. He set his guitar on the stand, unplugged his amp, and turned. His eyes cut through the smoke and the shadows, bypassing the tables of businessmen and couples, and landed directly on your corner booth. He knew. somehow, he always knew where you were. It was as if you emitted a frequency only he could hear—a distress signal on a private radio channel. He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just walked off the stage and came toward you. You wanted to shrink. You wanted to dissolve into the leather seat. You braced yourself for another lecture, for another look of cold disdain. He stopped at your table. He loomed over you, blocking out the light from the bar. You looked up, guarding your expression. "I'm not drinking," you said quickly, pointing to the ginger ale. "It's soda." Jay didn't look at the glass. He looked at your face. He studied the dark circles under your eyes, which were darker than they had been this morning. He saw the way your shoulders were hunched, the tension in your neck, the sheer, exhaustion radiating off you. You looked like a bird that had flown into a window—stunned and shaking. The anger you expected didn't come. Instead, his shoulders dropped. The tension left his frame, replaced by something heavier.

"You look like hell, Chicago," he said softly. "Thanks," you rasped, looking away. "I'm leaving. I just... I needed to hear music."

"You need to sleep," Jay corrected. "I can't," you admitted, the truth slipping out. "My apartment is... loud."

"Loud?"

"Not the noise," you whispered, touching your temple. "The thoughts. The walls. I can't go back there tonight, Jay. If I go back there..."

You didn't finish the sentence. You didn't have to. If you went back there, you would use. You would call Leo. You would spiral. Jay looked at you. He saw the fear in your eyes—the genuine, terrified realization that you were losing control. The disappointment that had been in his eyes earlier that day evaporated, replaced by a deep, furrowed concern.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked at his watch, then back at you.

"Come on," he said. You blinked. "What?"

"Come with me," Jay said. He reached down and grabbed your hand. His palm was warm, calloused, and solid. "You're not going back to your apartment tonight."

"Jay, I can't—"

"You can," he interrupted firmly. "You're not sleeping in that trap. Get up." It wasn't a request. It was a rescue. You looked at his hand holding yours. You looked at the resolve in his face. He wasn't offering you a party. He was offering you a life raft.

You stood up.

20 Minutes Later. Jay didn't live in a tour bus, and he didn't live in a chaotic crash pad.He drove you to a brownstone in Lincoln Park, a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood that felt a world away from the neon grit of the clubs. The streetlights here cast a soft, golden glow on the leaves. He parked the Chevelle and led you up the stone steps. You followed him silently, feeling like an intruder in a normal life.

His apartment was on the second floor. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping aside to let you in. You stepped over the threshold and stopped. It was... peaceful. That was the only word for it. The space was open, with high ceilings and hardwood floors. It wasn't cluttered. There were no piles of clothes, no empty bottles, no mirrors with residue. It was furnished simply, in mid-century style—low teak furniture, a cream-colored rug, a tan leather Eames chair. The walls were lined with shelves, but instead of knick-knacks, they held thousands of vinyl records, organized by genre and artist. In the corner, by the large bay window that looked out onto the street, stood a grand piano and three guitars on stands. A massive, high-end stereo system sat like an altar in the center of the room. The air smelled of cedar, old paper, and rain. It was a sanctuary. It was clean. It was everything you weren't. "Shoes off," Jay said quietly, closing the door and locking it—a heavy, final click that shut out the world. You kicked off your boots, your socks sliding on the polished floor. You hugged your arms around yourself, suddenly aware of how loud your internal chaos was in this silent, ordered space. "This is..." you started, your voice echoing slightly. "Nice. Really nice."

"It's quiet," Jay said. He walked past you, tossing his keys into a small ceramic bowl. "That's the point."

He didn't turn on the overhead lights. He walked around the room, switching on a few warm lamps, creating pools of amber light that made the room feel cozy rather than stark.He moved into the small, open kitchen separated from the living room by a breakfast bar. "Sit," he instructed, gesturing toward the sofa. You walked over to the cream rug. You were terrified to sit on the furniture. You felt like you were covered in the grime of your addiction, like you might stain his perfect life just by touching it.

You perched on the edge of the sofa, your hands tucked between your knees.

Jay opened the refrigerator. The sound of a glass bottle clinking. The sound of water pouring.He walked back over to you, holding a heavy crystal glass filled with ice water. "Here," he said, holding it out. You looked at the glass. It was so clear. So pure.You took it, your fingers brushing his. "Thank you." Jay didn't sit next to you. He grabbed a wooden chair from the dining table and pulled it around to face the sofa, sitting down opposite you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

He watched you take a sip. The cold water hit your dry throat, shocking you with how good it tasted. You realized you hadn't drunk water all day. Just coffee and soda.

"Better?" he asked. You nodded, clutching the glass with both hands. "Yeah."

Silence stretched between you. But here, in this room, the silence wasn't sharp. It was soft. It was cushioned by the books and the rugs. "I'm sorry," you whispered, staring into the water.

"For what?" Jay asked. "For the shop. For... disappointing you." You looked up at him, your eyes burning. "I tried, Jay. I really did. I went two weeks. But then the rain started, and I was alone, and..."

"And you fell," Jay finished for you. His voice wasn't angry. It was just factual.

"I fell," you admitted. "And I hate that you saw it. I wanted you to think I was..."

"What?"

"Strong," you said. "I wanted you to think I was worth your time." Jay looked at you, his dark eyes softening. He reached out and took the empty glass from your hands, setting it on a coaster on the coffee table. "You think being strong means never falling?" he asked. "That's not strength, Chicago. That's just luck." He leaned back in the chair, looking at the ceiling for a moment, then back at you. "I don't hang around you because you're perfect," he said. "I hang around you because you're fighting. Most people in this city? They gave up a long time ago. They just let the current take them. You... you're swimming upstream. Even if you drown sometimes."

"I feel like I'm drowning right now," you confessed, your voice trembling. "You're not," Jay said firmly. "You're here. You're drinking water. You're safe." He stood up then. He walked over to the stereo system. He flipped through a stack of records, his movements precise and reverent.He pulled one out—something instrumental, slow, piano-based. He placed it on the turntable and dropped the needle. Soft, melancholic jazz filled the room, wrapping around you like a blanket. "I used to live like you," Jay said, his back to you as he watched the record spin. Your head snapped up. "What?"

He turned around, leaning against the stereo cabinet. "Why do you think I hate the noise so much?" he asked quietly. "Three years ago, I was the loudest thing in the room. I did the powders. I did the pills. I chased the sunrise until I burned my retinas."

You stared at him. Mr. Clean. The anchor. The man who drank whiskey neat and ironed his shirts. "You?" you whispered. "But you're so... together."

"I am now," Jay said. "Because I crashed. Harder than you did. I woke up in a hospital in London and didn't know my own name for two days." He walked back over to you, his eyes intense.

"I know what the itch feels like," he said, tapping his chest. "I know how loud the silence gets. That's why I recognized it in you the first night. I didn't see a stranger. I saw a mirror." The revelation hit you harder than the drugs ever had. He wasn't judging you from a pedestal. He was watching you from the other side of the battlefield, waiting for you to cross. "How did you stop?" you asked, tears welling up in your eyes. "I found something louder than the noise," Jay said. He gestured to the room, to the instruments, to the peace. "I found this. And I stopped being alone."

He reached out his hand."You don't have to be alone tonight," he said. "The demons can't get in here. I changed the locks." You looked at his hand. Then you looked at his face. For the first time, you didn't see the judgmental guitarist. You saw a survivor. You reached out and took his hand. He pulled you up from the sofa. "Come on," he said. "I have a guest room. It has clean sheets and no mirrors. You're going to sleep. Real sleep." He led you down the hallway. He didn't try to kiss you. He didn't try to touch you other than guiding you. He opened a door to a small, simple bedroom with a window looking out at the rain. He pulled a fresh towel and a large, soft t-shirt from a dresser. "Bathroom is across the hall," he said, handing you the shirt. "Wash the day off. Sleep as long as you want. I'll be in the other room if the walls start talking."

He stood in the doorway, his hand on the knob. "Jay?" you whispered. He looked back. "Thank you," you said. He nodded, a small, genuine smile touching his lips.

"Goodnight, Chicago," he said. He closed the door. You stood in the quiet room, holding his t-shirt. You listened. The rain was tapping on the glass. The jazz music was drifting faintly from the living room.

But the screaming in your head? For the first time in years, it was silent.

Waking up was usually a violent event. In your old life, waking up meant gasping for air as the hangover hit, squinting against the harsh light slicing through cheap curtains, and immediately checking your purse to see what you had lost the night before. It meant dry mouth, pounding headaches, and a crushing sense of dread.

But this morning, waking up was... slow. You drifted into consciousness on a tide of soft cotton. The mattress beneath you was firm but yielding, the sheets cool against your legs. The air in the room didn't smell like stale smoke or spilled wine; it smelled of rain-washed pavement and fresh laundry. You blinked your eyes open, staring at a ceiling painted a calm, creamy white. Where am I? Panic flared for a split second—the instinct of a girl who woke up in too many strangers' beds. But then the memory of the night before settled over you like a blanket. The jazz club. The rain. The brownstone. Jay. You sat up, pushing the heavy duvet off your chest. You were wearing the oversized t-shirt he had given you—a soft, grey vintage band tee that hung off your shoulder and reached your mid-thigh. You felt... rested. Actually rested. The demons hadn't come in the night. The silence hadn't eaten you alive. Then, your body made its demands known. You needed to pee. Badly.You swung your legs out of bed, your toes curling into the plush rug. You stood up, and a sudden wave of awkwardness hit you. Last night, in the dark and the rain, it had felt like a rescue mission. But now, in the unforgiving light of morning (or afternoon, judging by the sun), it felt intimate. You were in his house. You were wearing his clothes. You were sober, stripped of your "Blizzard" armor, just a girl with messy hair and morning breath standing in a stranger’s guest room. You crept to the door and cracked it open.

The hallway was quiet. Sunlight streamed in from the living room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Just run to the bathroom and back, you told yourself. Don't make eye contact.

You slipped out, padding silently across the hardwood floor to the bathroom across the hall. You locked the door behind you—a habit you couldn't break. The bathroom was pristine. White tiles, folded towels, a single toothbrush in a ceramic cup. You caught your reflection in the mirror above the sink. You looked different. The makeup was gone, scrubbed off last night. Your skin was a bit ghastly but clean. Your hair was a tangled bird's nest on top of your head. You didn't look like the Queen of the Disco. You looked young. Vulnerable. You quickly did your business, washed your face with cold water, and tried to finger-comb your hair into something respectable. You took a deep breath, hand on the doorknob. Okay. You can do this. Just say thanks and leave. You unlocked the door and stepped back into the hallway.

Clang.

The sound of metal hitting metal echoed from the kitchen area. You froze. Sizzle. The distinct sound of something hitting a hot pan. He was cooking. You stood there, paralyzed by the domesticity of it. You were used to men who ordered takeout or smoked a cigarette for breakfast. The idea of Jay—cool, aloof, guitar-god Jay—standing over a stove was impossible to visualize. You were about to tiptoe back to the safety of the guest room when his voice floated down the hallway.

"I know you're up, Chicago."

His voice was calm, amused, and devoid of the "morning after" awkwardness you were feeling. "The pipes in this building are old," he continued, raising his voice slightly over the sizzle of the pan. "I can hear the water running. Stop hiding in the hallway and come eat."

Caught. You sighed, dropping your shoulders. There was no point in hiding. You tugged the hem of the grey t-shirt down as far as it would go and walked into the living room.

The main space was bathed in sunlight. The storm had passed, leaving the sky a brilliant, scrubbed blue. Jay was in the kitchen, standing behind the breakfast bar.

He wasn't wearing an apron—that would have been too much—but he looked frighteningly domestic. He wore grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, his feet bare. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, softer than the gelled style he wore on stage.

He was flipping eggs in a stainless steel pan with the same casual precision he used to play guitar solos. He looked up as you entered, scanning you from the messy hair to the bare feet. "Sleep well?" he asked. "Yeah," you murmured, hugging your arms around yourself, leaning against the doorframe. "I did. Surprisingly."

"It's the lack of mirrors," Jay said, turning back to the stove. "And the lack of noise. Coffee?" He gestured to a pot on the counter. "Please." You walked over, feeling the warmth of the kitchen. You poured a mug of black coffee, the steam curling up into your face. It smelled heavenly. "Sit," Jay ordered, nodding to the bar stool opposite him. You sat, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. "You cook?"

"I eat," Jay corrected. "And unlike you, I don't consider champagne a food group."

He slid a plate across the counter toward you. Scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. Simple. Perfect. Your stomach growled loudly, betraying you.

Jay smirked—a real smile this time, one that reached his eyes. "Eat."

You picked up the fork. You took a bite of the eggs. They were hot, salty, and grounded you in reality in a way nothing else could. You ate in silence for a few minutes, Jay leaning against the counter with his own coffee, watching you.

"So," you said, swallowing a piece of bacon. "What happens now? You drive me home? I go back to my life, you go back to yours?" Jay set his mug down on the granite counter. He drummed his fingers lightly against the ceramic.

"I'll drive you home so you can shower and change," he said. "But I'm picking you up again at seven." You looked up, eyebrows raised. "Oh? Are we doing this again?"

"Not here," Jay said. He turned to put the pan in the sink. "There’s a new arcade that opened up down on Clark Street. The Silver Ball or something. I want to check it out."

You nearly choked on your coffee. "An arcade?" you repeated, staring at his back. "You? The man who thinks jazz is a religious experience? You want to go play pinball with a bunch of teenagers?" Jay turned around, leaning back against the sink, drying his hands on a towel. "I don't frequent them," he admitted with a shrug. "But I figured a change of atmosphere would be good. It's loud, but it's a different kind of loud. Playful noise." He paused, looking down at his feet for a split second before meeting your eyes again. "Besides," he added, his voice a little quieter. "I want to do something fun before I leave for New York." The fork froze in your hand. The room, which had been warm and sunny a second ago, suddenly felt cold. The silence rushed back in, but this time it wasn't peaceful. It was sharp. "New York?" you repeated, your voice sounding small. "You're... leaving?"

"Yeah," Jay said, seemingly unaware that he had just dropped a bomb on your chest. "The band got an invite. Some big promoter saw us at Sugaryloop last month. He wants us to play a residency at a club in the Village." You stared at him. Of course. Of course he was leaving. He was talented, he was driven, and he was transient. You were just a stopover. A local project he had taken pity on.Your heart gave a painful, sickening lurch. You hadn't realized how much you had started to rely on him—on his visits to the shop, on his steady presence—until the prospect of him vanishing appeared. "Oh," you said, looking down at your eggs. They suddenly looked unappetizing. "That's... great. Big break and all that. When do you go?"

"Monday," he said. Two days. Jay was watching you closely. He saw the way your shoulders slumped. He saw the light go out of your eyes, replaced by that familiar, guarded look you wore when you were afraid. He moved around the counter, stepping into your personal space. "Hey," he said softly. He reached out, tilting your chin up with two fingers so you had to look at him. "It's just a month, Chicago," he said, his eyes searching yours. "We play the residency, we get the press, and we come back. I'm not moving there."

"A month," you echoed. It felt like a lifetime when you were trying to stay sober day by day. But the panic in your chest loosened, just a fraction. He wasn't abandoning you. He was working.You swallowed the lump in your throat. You weren't going to let him see you cry over this. You were the Blizzard. You didn't do clingy.

You forced a grin. It was a little crooked, but it was there."Well," you said, swatting his hand away playfully. "I hope you're ready to lose, then. Because I happen to be the pinball champion of the Midwest." Jay’s lips quirked up. He saw the effort you were making, and he appreciated it. "Is that a challenge?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"It's a promise, guitar man," you quipped, sliding off the stool. "Pick me up at seven. But bring plenty of quarters. You're going to need them to keep up with me."

"We'll see," Jay said.You turned to go get your things from the guest room, your back to him so he wouldn't see the worry still lingering in your eyes.

He was leaving. But for tonight, at least, he was yours.

7:00 PM arrived with the fading light of a dusky purple sky.You stood in front of your hallway mirror, smoothing down your outfit. You had fought the urge to wear the chainmail or the plunging silk. Instead, you wore high-waisted denim jeans that fit perfectly and a black off-the-shoulder bodysuit with billowy sleeves. It was elegant, but understated. It whispered instead of screamed.You grabbed your purse, ready to head down, but your eyes snagged on the coffee table.There it was. The small, translucent bag of white powder.It was sitting right next to your keys, mocking you. Your nerves were fraying at the edges—the anxiety of the "date" (was it a date?), the fear of him leaving for New York, the pressure to be "normal." Just one hit. Just a tiny bump to smooth the jitters. It would be so easy. Your hand hovered over it.No, you thought, clenching your jaw. Not tonight. Tonight is real. You snatched the bag up, but instead of putting it in your purse, you marched into the kitchenette. You opened the "junk drawer"—the one filled with old batteries, rubber bands, and takeout menus—and shoved the bag all the way to the back, behind a box of matches.

"Stay there," you muttered. A horn honked outside. Two short blasts. You took a deep breath, checked your lipstick one last time, and ran out the door.

The arcade was a chaotic symphony of electronic beeps, clatter, and teenage laughter. It smelled of popcorn and cola. Jay looked entirely out of place in his dark button-down shirt and slacks, standing amidst the flashing lights of Space Invaders and Pong. But he seemed amused, watching the chaos with a faint smile. You, however, were in your element. "Come on!" you shouted over the noise, grabbing his hand and dragging him toward a pinball machine called Fireball. "I told you, I'm the champion." For the next two hours, you weren't the "Blizzard" or the recovering addict. You were just a girl playing games. You ruthlessly beat his high score on pinball, cheering loudly when the machine lit up with a ding-ding-ding of a free game. You dragged him to Skee-Ball, laughing when he threw the wooden ball too hard and it bounced right back at him. Jay followed you, content to let you lead. He watched you with a softness in his eyes that made your knees weak. He wasn't looking at a tragedy anymore. He was watching you laugh—a genuine, head-thrown-back laugh that crinkled your nose—and for the first time, he looked like he was having fun too.

"You cheated," he accused playfully after you beat him at air hockey. "I have superior reflexes," you beamed, brushing hair out of your face. "It's a survival skill."

"Remind me never to bet against you," Jay chuckled, shaking his head.

After the arcade, the adrenaline began to fade into a comfortable hunger. You ended up at a diner down the street, sliding into a red vinyl booth near the window. You ordered burgers and milkshakes—classic, heavy, comforting food. When the check came, you reached for your purse immediately. You knew you were digging into your meager savings—money you technically needed for rent next week—but you wanted to prove something. You wanted to prove you could take care of yourself. "I got it," you said, pulling out your wallet. Jay’s hand landed on top of yours, stopping you. "Put it away." "No, Jay. seriously. You drove, you paid for the tokens. I'm paying for dinner."

"Chicago," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "I'm paying. Save your money."

"I have money," you argued, though your cheeks flushed. "I know you do. But I invited you." He gently pried your fingers off the check and slid his card onto the table. "Let me do this." You huffed, crossing your arms, but you let him pay. You talked for another hour. Real talk. You told him about growing up in the suburbs, about how you came to the city to be a dancer but got lost along the way. He told you about his childhood in Seattle, about the pressure of the music industry, about why he switched from rockstar excess to jazz discipline. It was easy. It was terrifyingly easy to be with him.

The drive back was quiet, but it was a warm silence. Jay walked you up the front steps of your building.This was the moment. The end of the night.He stood on the step below you, looking up. The streetlamp cast shadows across his face, making his cheekbones look sharper."So," he said, hands in his pockets. "I guess I'll see you when I get back from New York." Your heart did that painful lurch again. A month.

"Yeah," you said. You didn't want him to go yet. You didn't want to go back into your empty apartment alone. "Unless..." you started, biting your lip. "Do you want to come in? For a minute? I make terrible coffee, but I have a TV that gets at least three channels." Jay hesitated. He looked at the door, then back at you. He seemed to be weighing something. "Sure," he finally said. "One cup." You unlocked the door, your heart hammering. Your apartment was nothing like his. It was a sensory overload—velvet drapes, mismatched furniture, piles of books, art on the walls. It was cluttered and chaotic, but it was yours. "It's... busy," Jay noted, stepping inside and looking around. "It screams me, right?" you joked nervously, tossing your purse on a chair.

"It does," Jay said, walking over to inspect a framed poster. "It's colorful."

You turned on the TV—a heavy, wood-paneled box set that sat in the corner.

"My mom gave me this before she passed," you said softly, adjusting the antennae ears to get rid of the static. "It's the only thing I haven't sold." Jay looked at you, his expression softening. He didn't say anything, but he sat down on your crushed-velvet sofa, looking right at home amidst the chaos. You joined him. You watched a rerun of a late-night talk show, the black-and-white laughter filling the room. You started talking about the movie Star Wars, debating the plot, laughing at the cheesy effects. At some point, the laughter died down. The air in the room shifted. You were sitting close. Too close. You turned to look at him, and he was already looking at you. His eyes were dark, heavy with an intensity that pulled you in like a riptide. You didn't know who moved first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him. But suddenly, his lips were on yours.

This was hungry. It tasted of the milkshake and longing. You kissed him back with everything you had, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.Jay groaned low in his throat, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You climbed into his lap, straddling him, needing to be closer, needing to feel the weight of him to ground you. The room spun. The TV blared in the background, ignored. You were lost in the sensation—his hands on your hips, his mouth devouring yours. You wanted him. You wanted to make him stay. You wanted to prove that you could be everything he wanted. Your hands moved down to his waist. Your fingers fumbled with the button of his pants. Jay froze. He broke the kiss abruptly, pulling his head back. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving against yours.

His hand clamped over yours, stopping you. "No," he rasped. You froze, your heart plummeting. "What?"

"Stop," Jay said, firmer this time. He gently but decidedly removed your hand from his waist. He held you there for a second, his forehead resting against yours, both of you gasping for air. Then he pulled back completely. "I can't," he said, his voice rough. You scrambled off his lap, falling back onto the sofa cushions, feeling a wash of cold shame and confusion. "Did I do something wrong?" you whispered, your face burning. "I thought..." Jay ran a hand over his face, looking at the ceiling. He looked tortured. "You didn't do anything wrong," he said. He checked his watch, a nervous, jerky movement. "I just... I can't do this tonight. Not like this."

"Not like what?" you asked, feeling defensive tears prick your eyes. "Not with the junkie?" Jay looked at you sharply. "Don't say that. That's not what this is." He stood up, straightening his shirt. He looked agitated. "I have to go," he said. "I have an early flight on Monday. I need to pack."

"Jay," you said, standing up too. "I'll walk myself out," he said. You followed him to the door anyway, your arms wrapped around your stomach. The night had crashed so fast you had whiplash.

He opened the door. He turned to look at you. You waited, hoping for a kiss, a reassurance, something. He didn't lean in. "Goodnight, Chicago," he said softly.

Then he walked out and closed the door. You stared at the wood grain for a long minute. Then you turned and flopped face-first onto the velvet couch, burying your face in a pillow.You groaned, a long, frustrated sound that vibrated in your chest.

"Stupid," you muttered into the fabric. "Too fast. You moved too fast."

You lay there in the flickering light of your mother's TV, wondering if you had just ruined the only good thing you had left before it even really started.

Two weeks was a lifetime in the underground. In two weeks, a song could top the charts and fall off. In two weeks, a girl could clean up, fall in love, get her heart broken, and burn the whole thing down again. You were burning it down. Jay hadn't called. He hadn't come by the shop. He hadn't even left a note. He had just... vanished. The Monday he was supposed to leave came and went, and the silence from the brownstone in Lincoln Park was deafening. You had waited by the phone for three days. You had walked past his street twice, hoping to see the black Chevelle, but the spot was empty. The rejection sat in your gut like broken glass. He had pulled away. He had stopped you on that couch because he saw the mess, and he decided he didn't want to get his hands dirty after all. I can't do this, he had said.

So, you did what you always did when the silence got too loud. You turned up the volume. You were back at The Warehouse. The jazz clubs, the arcades, the quiet dinners—they felt like a fever dream now. This was reality. The bass rattling your teeth, the strobe lights blinding you, the chemical drip in the back of your throat.

You had relapsed hard. The stash in the kitchen drawer was gone in two days. You were buying from Leo again, and you weren't rationing. You were drowning the memory of Jay’s disappointed eyes in a sea of white powder. But you weren't alone.

Jake Sim.

You had met him three nights after Jay left. He was new to the scene—a physics student from the university with a bubbly laugh, floppy hair, and a smile that reminded you of a golden retriever. He was cute. He was easy. He didn't look at you with deep, soulful concern. He looked at you like you were the most fun thing he had ever seen.

He liked the party. He liked the drugs. He didn't ask you to stop; he asked for a line.

The air smelled of industrial pine cleaner, sweat, and stale urine. The bass from the main floor thumped through the tiled walls, vibrating against your knees.

You were on your knees in the handicap stall, the door locked behind you.

Jake was leaning against the metal partition, his head thrown back, his hands tangling in your hair. His jeans were unbuttoned, pushed down to his hips. You were working on him with a mechanical, frantic intensity. It wasn't about pleasure. Not for you. It was about erasure. Every movement of your mouth, every sound of pleasure that escaped Jake’s throat, was a way to block out the memory of the brownstone. You closed your eyes, letting the darkness take over. He left you, the voice in your head whispered. He didn't want this. He wanted the clean version. But this is who you are. Jake was the opposite of Jay. Jay had stopped your hand. Jay had pulled back to protect you. Jake pushed your head down further, his grip tightening. "F*ck, you're good," Jake groaned, his voice breathless and high. "You're so bad, Y/n. I love it."

The praise felt cheap, like sugar rotting your teeth, but you swallowed it anyway. You needed to be useful. You needed to be wanted. If you couldn't be the girlfriend, you would be the "Blizzard" again. You would be the girl who did the things other girls wouldn't. You gagged slightly as he thrust deeper, but you didn't pull away. The discomfort was grounding. It was a physical sensation that overrode the emotional ache in your chest. You focused on the rhythm. In, out. Breathe. Don't think. Don't think about the eggs in the stainless steel pan. don't think about the vintage t-shirt. Don't think about the way Jay had tucked your hair behind your ear and looked at you like you were precious. You weren't precious here. You were a mouth. You were a service.Jake’s hands tightened painfully in your hair, his hips snapping forward.

"I'm close," he warned, his voice straining. "Don't stop."

You didn't stop. You sped up, using your tongue the way you knew drove men crazy, chasing the finish line so this could be over.A few seconds later, he hissed through his teeth, his body going rigid against the stall wall. He shuddered, releasing a low moan that echoed in the tiled room.He slumped back against the metal, breathing heavy, his hand relaxing in your hair. You pulled back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You sat back on your heels on the cold, dirty floor, feeling hollowed out.Jake looked down at you, his eyes glazed with the high and the release. He grinned—that sunny, boyish smile that looked so innocent despite where you were. "Wow," he breathed, zipping his pants up. He reached down and patted your cheek. "You really are the queen of this place." He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small vial. "Here," he said, offering it to you. "For the road. You earned it."

You looked at the vial. Payment. You took it. You stood up, your knees aching from the hard tile. You felt dizzy, the blood rushing back to your head. You adjusted your dress, checking your reflection in the chrome of the flush handle.

You looked wrecked. Your lipstick was smeared. Your eyes were dead. "Come on," Jake said, unlocking the stall door. "Let's go dance. I feel like I can run a marathon." He bounced out of the stall, full of energy, back to the party. You stood in the stall for a second longer, gripping the vial in your hand so hard the edges dug into your palm. You had wanted to forget Jay. You had wanted to numb the hurt.

But as you stared at the graffiti on the stall door, all you could feel was the bitter, crushing weight of the difference. Jay had offered you water. Jake offered you drugs.

Jay had driven you home. Jake had taken you to a bathroom stall. And the worst part was, you had let him. Because you decided that if Jay thought you were a mess, you might as well be the biggest mess in the city. You unlocked the door and stepped out, the noise of the club swallowing you whole.

Late September 1977.

Time stopped moving in a straight line. It became a loop—a blurry, neon-lit carousel that spun faster and faster until the centrifugal force threatened to tear you apart. You stopped calling in sick to Spin City Records and started simply swapping shifts, then dropping them entirely. You told Misty you had the "flu." You told Miller you had family trouble. The truth was, you needed the days to sleep. You needed the blackout curtains drawn tight against the sun so you could recharge your battery just enough to drain it again at night. Misty had stopped texting. The last time you saw her, you were picking up your final paycheck, wearing sunglasses inside to hide the dilated pupils. She had looked at you with eyes full of tears and said nothing. Her silence hurt more than a lecture, so you ran from it. Leo, on the other hand, was thrilled. You were his golden goose. And then there was Jake. Jake Sim was the perfect accomplice. He was rich, bored, and hungry for chaos. He didn't ask you about your trauma. He didn't ask you to drink water. He just asked if you were ready to go.

Saturday Night You were already floating before you even stepped out of the cab. You had done two lines in your bathroom while applying your lipstick, the chemicals humming in your blood, turning the world sharp and bright. You met Jake at The Gun, a high-end club near the Loop. He was waiting for you in a booth, surrounded by a bucket of champagne and a group of hangers-on. When he saw you, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. "There she is!" he cheered, pulling you into the booth. "The snow queen!" He was fun. You had to admit that. He had a golden retriever energy—bouncy, affectionate, and completely devoid of darkness. But it was a manic energy. His laugh was a little too loud, his movements a little too jerky.He pulled you onto the dance floor. You danced for hours, sweating out the toxins only to replace them with more champagne. You laughed at his jokes, you let him spin you around, but every time the light hit his face, a cruel trick of your mind made you wish his eyes were darker. You wished he was sharper. You wished he was Jay. But Jay was gone. And Jake was here.

You went home with him. Jake’s apartment wasn't a home; it was a showroom. It was a sprawling penthouse in a high-rise overlooking the lake, paid for by "Daddy’s money." It was all glass, chrome, and white leather. It was impressive, expensive, and completely cold. It lacked the warmth of the brownstone. It lacked the smell of cedar and old books. It smelled of industrial cleaner and expensive cologne. "Let's keep the party going," Jake giggled, kicking off his shoes and sliding across the polished floor in his socks. He led you into the bedroom. It was massive, dominated by a king-sized bed with black silk sheets. He didn't waste time with romance. He didn't tuck your hair behind your ear. He pulled you onto the bed, his hands eager and clumsy. "Lie down," he instructed, his voice thick with lust and the high. "I want to try something." You lay back against the black pillows, watching him. He was fumbling with the vial in his pocket. He poured a line of white powder directly onto your chest, right along the curve of your breast. The coldness of the drug against your warm skin made you flinch, but you didn't stop him. "You're so beautiful," Jake murmured, his eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the iris. He wasn't looking at you; he was looking at the drug on your skin. He lowered his head and snorted the line off your body in one long inhale.He jerked his head back, sniffing hard, a euphoric grin spreading across his face. He dipped a finger into the residue left on your skin and put it in his mouth, then leaned down to kiss you. He transferred the bitter, chemical taste to your tongue as he mauled your mouth. It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a sharing of the poison. "Ride me," he groaned against your lips. "I want you to take control." You pushed him back onto the pillows. He sprawled out, limbs loose, looking up at you with that dazed, adoration-filled gaze. You climbed on top of him. You dominated him because it was the only way you could feel powerful. If you were on top, you were the one driving. You set the pace. You ground down on him, your hands pinning his wrists to the mattress.

Jake loved it. He was giggling, a high-pitched, breathless sound that grated on your nerves even as you used his body. "Yes, yes, f*ck," he moaned, his hips bucking up to meet yours. "You're crazy. You're amazing." He was out of his mind. You looked down at him—at his flushed face, his rolling eyes, his open mouth—and you felt a sickening wave of relief. He didn't see you. He didn't see the sadness. He didn't see the "boring" girl who liked arcade games. He just saw the Blizzard. He saw the ride.

You moved faster, harder, trying to outrun your own thoughts. You closed your eyes and pretended the hands gripping your hips were firmer. You pretended the moans were deeper. "I'm gonna—oh god, I'm gonna—" Jake stammered, his grip on your ass tightening until his nails dug in. He thrust up into you one last time, his body seizing, a long, high groan escaping his throat. You felt him finish, the warmth flooding you, but you felt nothing in your heart. It was just friction. It was just biology. He collapsed back onto the bed, panting, his chest heaving. You slowed down, then stopped. You climbed off him, your legs shaking slightly from the exertion.

You looked down. The evidence of his release was trickling down your thigh, messy and sticky. Jake opened his eyes. They were black holes, completely blown. He looked at the mess, then up at you, a sleepy, drugged grin on his face."That was..." he trailed off, letting out a breathy laugh. "We should do this every night."

You reached for a tissue from the bedside table to wipe yourself clean.

"Yeah," you said, your voice hollow in the large, cold room. "Every night."

You walked toward the bathroom, leaving him giggling at the ceiling fan. You caught your reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.You looked wild. You looked wasted. You looked exactly like the girl Jay had warned you about.And for the first time, you realized that maybe you weren't burning it down. Maybe you were just burning out.

The music was a physical force, a thumping heartbeat that masked the sound of your own jagged breathing. You were in the corner of the VIP booth, hidden by shadows and the apathy of a room full of addicts. You were straddling Jake’s lap, your skirt hiked up to your waist, bouncing on him with a rhythm that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with oblivion. Jake was whining, his head thrown back against the velvet seat, his hands gripping your hips so hard his knuckles were white.

"F*ck, yes," he groaned, his eyes rolled back, lost in the chemical bliss. You stared straight ahead, over his shoulder, at the flashing strobe lights. You were high—so high that your body felt like it belonged to someone else. You were just a passenger in a vessel that was being used to chase a feeling you couldn't catch anymore. He shifted, flipping you around with a frantic, drug-fueled strength. He took you from behind, thrusting into you with a desperation that shook the booth. You let out a gasp, not of pleasure, but of shock, as the sensation flooded your overstimulated nerves. He finished messy, pulling out at the last second and coating your wet skin, smacking his cock against you before fumbling to help you pull your clothes back together. It was sloppy. It was frantic.He ordered more drinks immediately, pulling you into his side as he watched the crowd below. He was vibrating with energy, kissing down your neck, whispering jokes that didn't make sense. "We rule this city," he slurred against your skin. You looked out at the writhing mass of people. This used to be your kingdom. This used to be where you felt most alive. But now, sitting here with your skin sticky and your mind racing, you felt like you were wearing a skin that didn't fit. You felt uncomfortable. You felt... wrong.

The night didn't end there. It never did with Jake. He took you back to the glass cage in the sky. He f*cked you until the sky turned grey, a marathon of friction and sweat that left you raw. When the sun finally broke over the lake, Jake passed out mid-sentence, his arm thrown over his face, snoring softly. You lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Your body ached. Your head pounded with the warning signs of a massive comedown. You felt heavy, weighed down by the fluids drying on your skin and the shame settling in your gut. You crawled out from under his arm. You found your clothes scattered on the floor. You pulled them on—the skirt that was wrinkled, the top that smelled of smoke and sex. You didn't leave a note. You just walked out.The morning air was crisp, a stark contrast to the humidity of the club. It slapped you in the face, waking up the nausea roiling in your stomach. It was a long walk from the Gold Coast to Wicker Park, but you needed it. You needed to punish yourself, maybe. Or maybe you just needed the space to breathe without inhaling cologne and cocaine. As you walked, the adrenaline faded, and the reality set in.

You were broke. You were homeless in spirit. You had burned every bridge you had except for one. Misty. You needed money. You needed a reason to wake up that wasn't a line of powder. You decided, right then, to go to Spin City Records. You would beg Miller. You would promise to scrub the floors. You would do anything to get back the one piece of stability you had thrown away. You reached the shop around 10:00 AM. You paused in front of the glass reflection. You looked like a disaster. Your hair was matted at the back. Your makeup was a smudge of black and red. Your clothes looked slept-in. You could feel the physical evidence of the night before—the dried cum between your thighs, the sweat on your back—making you want to crawl out of your skin. It doesn't matter, you told yourself, clutching your stomach. Just get the job back. You pushed the door open.

Ting-a-ling.

The bell sounded cheerful, innocent. It cut through the haze in your mind like a knife.

The shop was quiet. A few customers were flipping through the rock section. The smell of dust and incense hit you, triggering a wave of nausea. You looked toward the counter. Misty was there. She was leaning over the register, laughing at something the person in front of her was saying. She looked up when the bell rang. Her smile was ready, practiced for a customer. Then she saw you.

Her smile dropped. Her eyes went wide, filled with a sudden, visceral shock. She looked at your hair, your face, the sheer devastation of your presence. Her hand flew to her mouth. You frowned, your brow furrowing. Why did she look so horrified? You knew you looked bad, but Misty had seen you hungover before. Then, you realized it wasn't just you. It was who she was talking to. The man at the counter turned around to see what had silenced her.

Time stopped.

The world tilted on its axis.It was him.Jay.He was wearing a black turtleneck and a long grey coat, looking sharp, clean, and utterly composed. He had a stack of records under his arm. He looked like he had just stepped out of a magazine.He looked at you.His dark eyes swept over you, taking in every single detail in a millisecond.

He saw the matted hair. He saw the smeared lipstick. He saw the dark, hollow circles under your eyes that screamed of a month-long bender. He saw the way you were holding yourself—hunched, fragile, dirty.He saw the ghost of the girl he had made breakfast for, buried under layers of grime and regret. You froze, your hand still on the door handle.The blood drained from your face, leaving you cold. You felt sick—violently, physically sick. He was back. He was supposed to be in New York. He wasn't supposed to see this. He wasn't supposed to see the Blizzard reduced to a puddle of dirty slush. You stood there, the remnants of Jake’s touch still clinging to your skin, staring into the eyes of the man you had wanted to be better for.And in his eyes, you didn't see anger. You didn't even see disappointment this time.

You saw heartbreak."Jay," you whispered, the name scraping out of your dry throat.

He didn't move. He just stared at you, as if he were looking at a stranger he used to know.

The silence in the shop was heavy enough to crush a ribcage. You stood in the doorway, your hand frozen on the brass handle, staring at the one person you had spent thirty days trying to exorcise from your brain. Jay looked... expensive. New York had polished him. His hair was slightly longer, his coat was tailored, and he stood with the kind of posture that suggested he had spent the last month sleeping in clean sheets and drinking water. He looked like a man who had moved forward.And you? You were the car crash in the rearview mirror.You felt the physical weight of your shame settle onto your shoulders like a bag of wet cement. It dragged down your spine. You were conscious of every flaw: the matted knot in your hair, the stale smell of cigarette smoke and Jake’s cologne clinging to your leather jacket, the sticky, drying discomfort between your thighs. Jay looked at you, and for a split second, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. As if he were trying to reconcile the memory of the girl in his kitchen—the one in the grey t-shirt eating eggs—with the hollowed-out creature standing before him. He didn't recognize you. Not really. He was looking at a stranger. A junkie off the street. Don't cry, a voice in your head snapped. Do. Not. Cry. If you cried, you were the victim. If you begged for your job now, with him watching, you were pathetic. You would rather die than be pathetic in front of him. You would rather bleed out in the street than let him see just how deep the hole was.You inhaled a sharp breath, the scent of the incense stinging your nose, and you flipped the switch. It was a muscle memory you had honed over years of bad nights. You straightened your spine until it cracked. You lifted your chin. You pulled the "Blizzard" out of the deep freeze and plastered her over your face like a porcelain mask. You forced a smile. It was brittle, sharp, and entirely fake, but it was better than the truth.

"Well," you drawled, stepping fully into the shop and letting the door swing shut behind you. "Look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say, what the Big Apple spit out."

You walked toward the counter, forcing a swagger you didn't feel. Your legs were trembling, but you turned it into a strut. Misty looked like she was about to pass out. Her eyes darted between you and Jay, terrified. "Chicago," Jay said. His voice was lower than you remembered. It vibrated in the floorboards. He didn't return the smile. He turned his body fully toward you, his eyes locking onto yours. He wasn't buying the strut. He was looking at the tremors in your hands."You're back," you said, breezing past him to lean on the counter, putting your back to him so you didn't have to look at those knowing eyes. You looked at Misty. "Hey, Mist. Is Miller in? I need to... talk to him about my schedule. Too many shifts, you know? I need more time to spend my money." It was a lie so absurd it almost made you laugh. You had no money. You had no shifts.Misty stared at you, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. "Um... he's... in the back. But..."

"Great," you said, tapping your nails on the glass. The black polish was chipped. "I'll just catch him later. Busy day. Places to be." You turned back around, intending to walk right out the door. You had to get out. The air in here was suffocating. Jay stepped into your path. He didn't touch you. He just occupied the space, forcing you to stop or run into him. Up close, he smelled of rain and sandalwood. It made you want to vomit with longing."You look..." Jay started, searching for the word. "Great?" you supplied, batting your eyelashes, hoping the smudged mascara looked intentional. "I know. It’s been a wild month, Jay. You missed some legendary parties."

"Legendary," he repeated flatly. He looked down at your neck. You knew what he saw. A bruise. A hickey from Jake. "You look exhausted," Jay said. He wasn't playing the game. He was cutting right through it. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Sleep is for people who are boring," you scoffed, stepping to the side to go around him. "I thought we established that."

"We established that you were trying," Jay said quietly. The words hit you like a physical blow. Trying. "Yeah, well," you laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "I tried. It was boring. I prefer the noise." You looked him dead in the eye, daring him to challenge you. Daring him to save you again.Please save me, your heart screamed. Don't you dare pity me, your pride growled. Jay looked at you. He looked at the defiance in your jaw, but he also saw the dilation of your pupils and the grey cast of your skin. He shifted his weight. For a second, you thought he was going to reach out. You thought he was going to grab your arm and drag you to the brownstone and make you eggs. But he didn't. He saw the wall you had put up. He saw the "Blizzard" standing guard, armed with sarcasm and lies. And he realized he couldn't break through it. Not today. He adjusted the records under his arm. His expression closed off. The warmth vanished, replaced by a cool, distant sadness. "Right," Jay said. "The noise." He stepped aside, clearing your path to the door. "Enjoy the party, Chicago."nIt was a dismissal. It was a goodbye. It was him acknowledging that you had chosen your path, and he wasn't going to follow you down it. You felt your heart shatter. It didn't break; it disintegrated. "Always," you choked out. You walked to the door. You didn't run. You walked with your head high, your heels clicking on the floorboards. You pushed the door open and stepped out into the blinding morning sun. As soon as the door closed behind you—ting-a-ling—the mask crumbled.

You stumbled to the nearest alleyway, the same alleyway where you had met Leo a thousand times, and you dry-heaved into a trash can. Nothing came up but bile and misery. You slid down the brick wall, burying your face in your knees, your hands tangling in your matted hair. You had wanted him to fight for you. But you had fought him off so hard he believed you. "I'm fine," you whispered to the garbage and the rats. "I'm fine. I'm fine." But as the tears finally came, hot and dirty, mixing with the grease on your face, you knew the truth. You weren't fine. You were drowning. And you had just pushed away the only lifeboat you had left.

Mid-October 1977.

Hate was a useful fuel. It burned hotter than coal and lasted longer than the high.

You hated Jay. You told yourself that every time you looked in the mirror and saw a stranger staring back. You hated him for making you want a life you couldn't afford. You hated him for opening the curtains and showing you the sun, only to let you close them again.But mostly, you hated him because he had moved on, and you were stuck in the mud.You had seen him, two weeks ago. You were making a desperate run to the corner bodega at 11:00 PM for a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of Gatorade to settle your shaking hands.He was walking down the street. He wasn't alone.A girl was walking next to him. She was wearing a trench coat and a scarf, her hair shiny and clean. She wasn't loud. She wasn't covered in glitter. She was laughing at something he said, a soft, easy sound that drifted on the wind. Jay was smiling—a real, unburdened smile. He looked light.You had hidden behind a dumpster like a rat until they passed.That image—Jay with the "clean girl"—had been the final nail in the coffin. It broke something inside you that couldn't be fixed with glue or apologies.So you let go of the ledge.Miller had slammed the door in your face when you tried to beg again. The eviction notice was taped to your apartment door, pink and demanding. You used it to snort a line. You didn't care. You didn't want to be conscious enough to pack boxes.

Tonight was the culmination of that freefall. Jake had dragged you to a new club called The Gilded Lily. It was opulent, dripping in gold leaf and velvet, filled with the sons and daughters of Chicago’s elite who played at being rebels. "You're gonna love this band," Jake had shouted over the roar of the crowd, his arm draped heavily around your neck. "They're gonna be huge. I want to say I saw them before they sold out."You didn't care about the band. You only cared about the baggie in Jake’s pocket.You had done too much. You knew it. The lines were too thick, too frequent. In the VIP booth, you had performed for Jake like a circus animal, servicing him while he laughed and called you "crazy." You felt disgusting. You felt like meat. But when the shame tried to rise up, you buried it under another layer of white powder. Then, the lights dimmed. The curtain rose.The guitar riff cut through the air. It wasn't just any riff. It was that riff. Sharp, clean, played with a surgical precision that made the hair on your arms stand up. You froze, looking down from the balcony VIP section.

There they were. Nightfall. They were back from New York. They looked polished. They looked like stars. And there, on the right, bathed in a blue spotlight, was Jay.

He looked magnificent. He was wearing a black suit, his focus entirely on his instrument. He looked a million miles away from the girl shaking in the VIP booth.

Jake was cheering, oblivious. "That’s them! That guitarist is a machine!"

You felt the world tilt.Your heart gave a violent, stuttering thud against your ribs. Then another. It started racing—not the fun, adrenaline-fueled race of a good high, but a terrifying, erratic gallop. Heat flooded your body. One second you were freezing; the next, you were burning up from the inside out. Your vision swam, the gold lights of the club blurring into streaks of fire. "I need..." you gasped, standing up. Your legs felt like rubber. "Where you going?" Jake whined, grabbing your wrist. "They just started!"

"Bathroom," you choked out, pulling your arm free. "I'll be right back."

"Hurry up!" he shouted, turning back to the stage. You stumbled out of the VIP section. The stairs were a nightmare. You gripped the railing, your sweaty palms slipping, forcing yourself to put one foot in front of the other. The music was warping, slowing down and speeding up like a melting record. Breathe, you told yourself. Just breathe.But you couldn't. The air felt thick, like you were inhaling cotton. You found the bathrooms down a hallway near the backstage entrance. It wasn't the usual row of stalls; it was just two single-occupancy doors.

The hallway was spinning before you even reached the door. The floor felt like it was tilting at a forty-five-degree angle. You grabbed the handle of the first bathroom, shoving it open and stumbling inside. You didn't lock it. You didn't have the motor control. You lunged for the sink, gripping the cold porcelain to keep the world from capsizing. You looked into the mirror. The face staring back wasn't yours. It was a grey, hollowed-out mask. Your pupils were blown so wide they swallowed your irises, black holes absorbing the light. Your lips were trembling, drained of color. Hot. You were burning alive. Your heart was a trapped bird, thrashing against your ribs—thump-thump-flutter-stop. Then a massive, painful thud that knocked the wind out of you. "Jay," you gasped, but no sound came out. Your throat was closing.

Your legs gave out. You didn't slump; you collapsed. You hit the tiled floor with a heavy, dead weight, your head cracking against the cabinet. You rolled onto your back, staring up at the buzzing fluorescent light. It blurred into a halo. The darkness crept in from the corners of your vision, a cold, rising tide.

I'm dying.

The realization was quiet and terrifying. You were going to die on a bathroom floor, covered in Jake’s sweat and your own failure.You tried to fight it. You tried to think of the arcade. The eggs. The brownstone. But the darkness was heavier than memory.

Your chest hitched one last time. The light above you turned into a single, blinding star... and then blinked out. The silence took you. Your body lay still on the dirty white tiles. One arm was thrown out to the side, palm up, fingers curled loosely. Your chest had stopped its frantic heaving. You looked small. Broken. For a long minute, there was only the hum of the light and the muffled thump of the bass from the stage.

Jay came off the stage after the set, he needed a breather before the next two sets, so he walked to where the bathrooms were located. He knocked on the door but there was no answer. "Occupied?" Jay pushed the door open, swinging it wide. A wedge of yellow light from the hallway cut across the floor.

He stepped in, adrenaline still pumping from the show. His jacket was slung over his shoulder, his shirt unbuttoned, sweat glistening on his collarbone. He was high on the music, looking for a mirror to fix himself up.

"Just need to—"

He stopped.

The calm look didn't fade; it simply vanished, erased by a physical jolt of recognition.

He froze. He stood absolutely motionless in the doorway, his hand still gripping the handle. His brain simply refused to process the visual data. It couldn't be you. It couldn't be. You were the girl in the arcade. You were the girl in his kitchen. You weren't this grey, lifeless heap on a club floor. For three seconds, he was a statue. A man paralyzed by the sheer impossibility of his own nightmare. Then, he saw the boots. The silver boots you wore the night you met him.The paralysis broke.

"Chicago?" The name ripped out of him, ragged and terrified. He dropped his jacket. It landed in a puddle of water, ignored. He scrambled. He didn't kneel gracefully; he fell. He crashed to his knees, sliding on the slick tile, the impact loud and violent. He reached for you, his hands—usually so steady, so precise—shaking uncontrollably.

He hovered over you for a split second, terrified to touch, terrified to find you cold.

"No, no, no, hey. Hey!" He grabbed your face between his hands. Your skin was clammy. Burning hot but somehow freezing. He slapped your cheek, hard. The sound echoed in the small room. "Wake up!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Look at me! Open your eyes!" Your head lolled to the side, heavy and limp. A small trickle of foam escaped the corner of your mouth. Jay let out a sound that wasn't human. It was a choked, strangled sob of pure terror.

He pressed his ear to your chest, squeezing his eyes shut, his hand gripping your shoulder so hard his nails dug in.

Thump... ... ... Thump. Faint. Thread-like. Dying.

"Oh god," he gasped, pulling back. "Oh god, please." He looked at the door. He could scream for help. He could wait for an ambulance. No. It would take too long. The club was packed. The bouncers were slow. You didn't have time. You had seconds.

He made a decision. He didn't check for injuries. He didn't care about the foam or the grime. He slid his arms under you—one under your knees, one under your neck—and hoisted you up. You were dead weight. Your head fell back against his shoulder, your arm dangling limply. Jay stood up, gritting his teeth, his face a mask of desperate determination. He kicked the bathroom door open so hard it slammed against the wall. He ran. He didn't walk. He sprinted down the backstage hallway, ignoring the confused looks of the stagehands. "Move!" he roared at a roadie blocking the path. "GET OUT OF THE WAY!" He burst out the rear exit door, into the cool night air of the alley.His black Chevelle was parked right there, in the artist loading zone. He fumbled for his keys, his hands shaking so bad he almost dropped them. He swore viciously, finally hitting the unlock button. He yanked the passenger door open. He placed you inside with a jarring mix of urgency and gentleness, reclining the seat back so you wouldn't slump forward. "Stay with me," he pleaded, buckling the belt over your unconscious chest. "Do not quit on me now. Do you hear me? You don't get to quit." He slammed the door and vaulted over the hood of the car, sliding into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life. He didn't wait to check his mirrors. He slammed the car into gear and peeled out of the alley, tires screeching, smoke rising from the asphalt. He drove with one hand on the wheel, white-knuckled, weaving through traffic, running the first red light he saw. His other hand reached across the console, grabbing your limp hand, squeezing it until his own fingers hurt.

He kept glancing over at you. You were so still. The streetlights flickered over your grey face, making you look like a ghost fading in and out of existence.

"I'm sorry," Jay choked out, tears finally spilling over, tracking through the sweat on his face. "I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I wasn't there. Just breathe, Chicago. Please, just breathe." He floored the gas pedal, the engine screaming as he raced toward the nearest hospital sign, holding onto your hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

Hours Later. The first thing you noticed was the sound. It was a rhythmic, mechanical beep... beep... beep that seemed to be drilling directly into your skull. It was annoying. It was persistent. It was the only thing anchoring you to a reality that felt slippery and grey. You tried to open your eyes, but your eyelids felt like they were weighted down with lead coins. Your entire body felt heavy, as if gravity had turned up the dial while you were asleep, crushing you into the mattress.

Your mouth tasted like charcoal and metal. Your throat was raw, scratching with every shallow breath you took.Where am I? You forced your eyes open, fighting the gluey resistance. White. Everything was blindingly, aggressively white. The ceiling tiles. The sheets. The privacy curtain. The light stabbed at your retinas, making you wince and squeeze your eyes shut again. A groan escaped your lips—a dry, croaking sound that didn't sound like your voice. "Hey." The voice was rough. Scratchy. Familiar. "She's waking up. Nurse?" You forced your eyes open again, blinking rapidly to clear the blur. The room came into focus. A hospital room. A sterile, plastic box filled with machines and tubes. There was an IV line taped to the back of your hand, a clear tube snaking up to a bag of fluid. You turned your head to the side. The movement made the room spin sickeningly. There was a chair pulled right up to the bedside rail. Jay. He looked like a ruin. He was still wearing the black suit from the performance, but the jacket was thrown over the back of the chair. His white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, stained with sweat and... was that dirt? He was slumped forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together in front of his mouth.

His face was pale, and ravaged by exhaustion. His dark eyes were rimmed with red, bloodshot and wide, as if he hadn't blinked in hours. He looked at you as if you were a ghost that had suddenly materialized. "Jay?" you whispered. It hurt to speak.

He let out a breath—a shuddering, broken exhale that deflated his entire frame. He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the linoleum floor. He reached for a plastic cup with a straw on the tray table. "Don't talk," he rasped. "Here. Water."

He guided the straw to your lips. You drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing the fire in your throat. You coughed, choking slightly, and Jay immediately pulled the cup back, his hand hovering near your shoulder, terrified to touch you but terrified to let go.

"Slow down," he murmured. "Slow." You laid your head back against the pillow, the fog in your brain starting to lift. The heaviness remained, pinning you down, but the memories were crashing back. The club. The heat. The bathroom floor. The feeling of the light blinking out. You looked at Jay. You remembered his face hovering over you in the darkness. You remembered him screaming. "I..." you started, tears prickling your eyes. "I'm in the hospital."

"Yeah," Jay said. He sat back down heavily, running a hand through his messy hair. "You are."

"What happened?" you asked, though you knew. You just needed to hear him say it. You needed to know how bad it was.Jay looked at you. His expression hardened. It wasn't anger at you; it was anger at the situation, at the universe, at the closeness of death."Your heart nearly stopped," he said bluntly. The words hung in the air, cold and clinical. "For almost a minute," he continued, his voice trembling slightly. "I drove you here. I carried you into the ER. They had to... they had to bring you back."

He looked down at his hands—the hands that played intricate jazz chords, the hands that had cooked you eggs. They were trembling. "You almost died, Chicago," he whispered, looking up at you with haunted eyes. "You actually almost died in my car." The weight of it crushed you. You turned your face away, staring at the white wall, the shame burning hot in your chest. "I'm sorry," you choked out. "I didn't mean to... I just..."

"Don't," Jay cut in. "Don't apologize. Not right now." He reached through the bed rail and took your hand—the one without the IV. His grip was tight, desperate. His skin was warm against your cold fingers. "I saw you," you whispered, looking back at him. "Before. In the bathroom. I saw you."

"I found you," Jay corrected. "I walked into that bathroom looking for a mirror, and I found you ghastly on the floor." He squeezed your hand so hard it almost hurt.

"Who gave it to you?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Who gave you the stuff?"

You hesitated. Jake’s name was on the tip of your tongue. But telling Jay felt like setting a bomb off. Jay looked ready to kill someone. "It doesn't matter," you whispered. "I took it. It was me." Jay stared at you, his jaw working. He didn't push it. He looked too tired to fight. "I thought I lost you," he said softly, the anger draining out, leaving only raw vulnerability. "I was in New York, and all I could think about was getting back here. To see if you were okay. To see if you were still fighting." He brought your hand up to his forehead, pressing it against his skin. He closed his eyes. "And I came back to this."

"Why did you come back?" you asked, your voice barely audible. "You were with that girl. I saw you. Two weeks ago." Jay pulled back, frowning. "What girl?"

"The one in the coat," you said, the memory stinging. "You were laughing. You looked happy." Jay looked confused for a second, searching his memory. Then, realization dawned. "That was my sister," he said. "She came to visit from Seattle." The air left your lungs. His sister. You had spiraled, burned your life down, and nearly killed yourself over his sister."Oh," you whispered. The stupidity of it, the tragedy of it, was suffocating."You thought..." Jay trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief. "You thought I moved on?"

"I thought you hated me," you admitted, tears finally spilling over. "I thought I was just a mess you left behind." Jay stood up again. He leaned over the bed, bracing his hands on the mattress on either side of you, caging you in."I never hated you," he said fiercely, staring down into your eyes. "I was scared for you. I was angry that you wouldn't let me help. But I never hated you." He brushed a tear away from your cheek with his thumb."I tried to stay away," he confessed. "In New York. I tried to focus on the music. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw you in that arcade. I saw you in my kitchen."

He leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours."I came back early," he whispered. "I skipped the last two nights of the residency. I came back to find you."You sobbed, a weak, broken sound."I ruined everything," you cried. "Look at me, Jay. I'm a disaster."

"You're alive," Jay said firmly. "That's all that matters right now. We can fix the disaster. We can fix the mess. But I can't fix dead." He kissed your forehead—a long, lingering pressure that felt like a benediction. "You're staying here," he said, pulling back. "Rest. The doctors said you'll be okay physically. But we are done with the 'party,' Chicago. You hear me? We are done." It wasn't a question. It was a command. And for the first time in your life, you didn't want to fight it. You didn't want to run.You looked at the man who had driven through red lights to save your life.

"Okay," you whispered, closing your eyes as the exhaustion pulled you back down. "I'm done." Jay sat back down in the chair. He took your hand again, interlacing his fingers with yours."Sleep," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."And as the darkness of sleep took you again, it wasn't terrifying. It was safe. Because he was there, holding the line.

The Next Three Days time didn't flow in the hospital; it dripped. It measured itself in the slow, rhythmic drop of saline in the IV bag, the changing of shifts, and the sharp, antiseptic smell of floor wax that seemed to coat the back of your throat.The withdrawal set in twelve hours after you woke up.It wasn't the romanticized, tragic fading away of a movie star. It was ugly. It was violent. It was a physical exorcism of the poison you had been feeding your body for months. Your skin felt like it was two sizes too tight. Your bones ached with a deep, marrow-level throb. You went from shivering so hard your teeth rattled to sweating through your hospital gown in a matter of minutes. You dry-heaved until your ribs felt bruised, expelling nothing but bile and shame.And through every second of it, Jay was there. He didn't leave. He didn't go home to change. He didn't recoil when you were sick. He simply moved the chair closer.He became a fortress. When the nurses came in to change the sheets you had soaked with sweat, Jay stood guard, his back turned to give you dignity but his presence filling the room. When you woke up screaming from a fever dream, Jay was the first thing you saw—his hand gripping yours, his voice a low rumble cutting through the panic. "I'm here," he would say, over and over. "I've got you. Breathe."

He knew the rhythm of it. He knew when to offer ice chips and when to just hold the basin. He told you, in the quiet hours of the night when the hospital hummed with electricity, that he remembered the feeling. He remembered the ants crawling under the skin. He remembered the feeling that you would never be warm again. "It passes," he promised, wiping your forehead with a cool cloth. "The storm passes, Chicago. You just have to hold onto the mast." He was the mast. On the third day, the fog began to lift. The shaking subsided to a fine tremor. The fever broke. You were left feeling hollowed out, scraped clean, and terrifyingly fragile.

The doctor, a stern man with thick glasses, came in to sign the discharge papers. He looked at your chart, then at you, then at Jay. "You are a very lucky young woman," he said, his voice grave. "Your heart arrhythmia was severe. Another five minutes, and we wouldn't be having this conversation. If he hadn't brought you in when he did..." He let the sentence hang. You looked at Jay. He was standing by the window, looking out at the grey Chicago skyline. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek, but he didn't say anything.

"She needs rest," the doctor continued, looking at Jay now. "Stress-free environment. Good nutrition. No alcohol. And obviously..."

"I know," Jay cut in, turning around. His eyes were dark and serious. "She's not going back to that life."

"Good," the doctor said. He signed the bottom of the clipboard. "You're free to go." Walking out of the hospital felt surreal. The air outside was brisk, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and exhaust fumes. It felt too loud, too bright. You felt like a molted crab, shell-less and soft, exposed to the elements. You were wearing the clothes you had almost died in—the skirt and the top from the club. They felt contaminated. You wrapped your arms around yourself, shivering in the wind.

Jay opened the passenger door of the Chevelle. He had cleaned it. The passenger seat was reclined slightly, a blanket folded on the leather.

"Get in," he said softly. You sat down, the familiar smell of cedar and peppermint wrapping around you. It made your throat tight. Jay got in the driver's side. He didn't start the car immediately. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, staring straight ahead. "Where are we going?" you asked, your voice raspy. "I... I can't go to my apartment. Miller evicted me. The locks are probably changed by now."

"I know," Jay said. "I went by there yesterday while you were sleeping to get your things."

You froze. "You what?"

"I got your boxes," he said. "The landlord had put them on the curb. I put them in storage." He turned to look at you. "You're coming home with me." It wasn't an offer for a night. It wasn't a guest pass. The way he said home—heavy, final—meant something else. "Jay," you whispered, looking down at your lap. "I can't. You saw me. You saw what I am. I'm a mess. I'm a junkie. I almost died on a bathroom floor because I wanted to get high with a rich kid."

"I know what I saw," Jay said firmly. "And I know who you are."

"I'm not the girl you met in the arcade," you argued, tears springing to your eyes. "That was a lie. This... the overdose, the shaking... this is the truth."

"No," Jay said. He reached across the console and took your hand. His grip was gentle but unyielding. "This is the sickness. The girl in the arcade is the truth. The girl who likes pinball and eats eggs and argues about paying the bill... that's who I'm taking home." He squeezed your hand. "I'm not asking, Chicago. I'm not leaving you alone again. I tried that, and it almost killed us both. So you're coming with me. We're going to clean you up. We're going to get the poison out. And you're going to stay."

You looked at him. You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he was making a mistake, that you would only drag him down. But you were so tired. And looking into his eyes, you saw a resolve that was stronger than your addiction. "Okay," you whispered. Jay nodded once. He started the engine. The Chevelle rumbled to life, a deep, comforting growl, and pulled out into traffic.

Entering his apartment this time felt different. The first time, it had felt like a vacation. A sanctuary. Now, it felt like a rehabilitation center. It was still beautiful—the mid-century furniture, the piano, the wall of records. But the silence felt heavier. The stakes were higher. Jay locked the door behind you. Click. The sound was final. The world outside—Jake, the club, the drugs—was locked out. "Go sit," Jay ordered, pointing to the Eames chair. "I'm going to run a bath."

"I can shower," you mumbled, feeling awkward standing in his pristine living room in your dirty club clothes. "You're shaking," Jay pointed out. "And you look like you're about to fall over. Sit." You sat. The leather was cool against your skin. You closed your eyes, listening to the sound of water running in the bathroom. It was a domestic sound, jarringly normal after three days of hospital beeping. Jay came back out a few minutes later. He had rolled up his sleeves.

"It's ready," he said. "There are clean towels. And I put out a t-shirt for you. Leave those clothes in the hamper. I'm burning them."

You managed a weak smile. "Burning them?"

"Figuratively," he said, though his eyes looked like he might actually do it. "I don't want to see them again." You walked into the bathroom. Steam filled the air, smelling of eucalyptus and lavender. The tub was full of hot water and bubbles. You peeled off the clothes—the skirt stained with the floor of The Gilded Lily, the top that smelled of smoke. You looked at your body in the mirror. You were thin. Too thin. Your ribs were visible, your skin pale and translucent. Bruises from the IVs dotted your arms. A large purple bruise bloomed on your shoulder where you had hit the cabinet when you fell.

You looked like a survivor of a shipwreck.

You sank into the water. The heat stung your skin at first, then soothed the deep ache in your bones. You scrubbed. You scrubbed until your skin was pink, trying to wash away the feeling of Jake’s hands, the feeling of the cold tile, the feeling of death.

You stayed in there until the water turned tepid. When you finally climbed out and dried off, wrapping yourself in Jay’s oversized grey t-shirt, you felt... human again.

You walked out into the living room.Jay was in the kitchen. He was cooking again. Soup, this time. The smell of broth and vegetables filled the air.He looked up as you entered. His eyes softened when he saw you in his shirt, your hair wet and combed back. "Better?" he asked. "Cleaner," you said.You walked over to the breakfast bar, but instead of sitting on the stool, you hesitated.

Jay walked around the counter. He stopped in front of you. He reached out and touched your damp hair."You scared the hell out of me," he whispered. The anger and the command were gone, replaced by the sheer, exhausting relief. "I'm sorry," you said again, your voice cracking. Jay pulled you into his arms. He held you carefully, as if you were made of glass, his chin resting on top of your head. You buried your face in his chest, smelling the soap and the cotton of his shirt.

"Who was he?" Jay asked again into your hair. You stiffened. "The guy," Jay clarified, his voice vibrating against your ear. "The one you were with. The one who let you walk into that bathroom alone." You closed your eyes. You didn't want to say his name. Giving him a name made him real here, in this sanctuary.

"Jake," you whispered. "Jake Sim." Jay’s arms tightened around you. You could feel the tension radiating off him, a tightly coiled rage. "He gave it to you?"

"Yes."

"Does he know?" Jay asked. "Does he know you almost died?"

"I don't know," you admitted. "He... he was waiting for me to come back. He probably just thought I left."

Jay let out a breath, a sharp hiss of air. "If I ever see him," he said, his voice low and lethal, "I will take him apart."

"Jay, don't," you pulled back slightly to look at him. "He's... he's just a symptom. I was the one who took it. I was the one who wanted to forget."

"Forget what?" Jay asked, searching your face. "Me?"

"Yes," you confessed. "You. And me. And how much I hated myself for ruining it."

Jay looked at you for a long moment. Then he leaned down and kissed your forehead. "You didn't ruin it," he said. "You just took the long way around. But you're here now."

The soup was warm, but you could barely eat half a bowl. Your stomach had shrunk. Jay didn't push you. He sat with you, eating his own portion, filling the silence with soft jazz from the stereo. Bedtime was the hardest part. Jay led you to the bedroom—his bedroom."You're not sleeping in the guest room," he stated, pulling back the duvet on the king-sized bed. "Jay, I can't take your bed," you protested.

"I'm not sleeping on the couch," he said. "And I'm not letting you sleep alone. Not tonight. I need to hear you breathing." He climbed in on one side, wearing a t-shirt and boxers. You climbed in on the other, staying close to the edge. He turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. You lay there, staring at the ceiling. The silence of the apartment was vast. Without the hospital beeping, your mind started to race. You could feel the "itch"—the psychological craving clawing at the back of your skull. It whispered that one hit would make the trauma go away. One hit would make you sleep.You started to shake. Just a little. A vibration in your hands.

Jay shifted in the dark. He moved across the mattress until he was right behind you. He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you backward until your back was pressed against his chest."I know," he whispered in the dark. "I know it's loud right now."

"It won't stop," you whispered back, clutching his arm. "The noise won't stop."

"Listen to me," Jay said. He moved his hand so it was resting over your heart. "Listen to the rhythm. Feel that?"

Thump. Thump. Thump. "That's a good rhythm," he murmured. "Focus on that. Focus on my breathing." He took a deep, slow breath. You tried to match him. Inhale. Exhale.He started to hum. A low, vibrating melody against your back. It wasn't a song you recognized. It was just sound. Deep, resonant, grounding sound. "I've got you," he whispered between the humming. "The demons can't get in here. I changed the locks, remember?" You closed your eyes. You focused on the weight of his arm. The heat of his body. The sound of his voice. Slowly, the itch began to recede. The panic lowered its claws.

"Jay?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for coming back." He kissed the back of your neck. "Sleep, Chicago. I'll be here when you wake up."

Two Weeks Later recovery was boring.

That was the thing no one told you. It wasn't dramatic montages. It was sitting on the couch drinking herbal tea. It was eating toast. It was watching the rain hit the window.

You hadn't left the apartment in fourteen days. Jay had been your warden, your nurse, and your companion. He went out for groceries, but otherwise, he was there.He played guitar for you. He read books while you napped.You were getting stronger. The color was coming back to your cheeks. The shaking had stopped completely. But the shame... the shame was stubborn.You were sitting on the rug, sorting through the records, when Jay walked in. He had been out for an hour—a "errand," he had said. He looked agitated. His knuckles were red. He walked straight to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and drank it in one go. You stood up. "Jay? Are you okay?" He turned around. He looked at you, his chest heaving slightly. "I saw him," he said. Your blood ran cold. "Who?"

"Sim."

You froze. "Where?"

"He was outside a club on Rush Street. I was driving past."

"Jay..." you stepped forward, looking at his hands. "What did you do?"

Jay looked down at his knuckles. He flexed his hand, wincing slightly.

"I told you," he said, his voice flat. "I took him apart."

"You fought him?" you gasped. "Jay, you're a musician! Your hands!"

"My hands are fine," he said dismissively. "His face isn't." He walked over to you. He still had that dangerous energy coming off him, the adrenaline of violence. But when he reached you, he stopped. "He asked where you were," Jay said. "He laughed. He asked if you were still 'fun'." Jay’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind. "I told him you were dead," Jay said. You blinked. "What?"

"I told him the girl he knew is dead," Jay said fiercely. "I told him if he ever says your name again, if he ever comes near you, I will finish the job." He reached out and grabbed your shoulders. "He's gone, Chicago. That whole life... it's gone. He thinks you're a ghost. And in a way, you are. Because that girl died on that floor."

He pulled you close, staring into your eyes.

"You're someone else now. You're mine. You understand? You belong to the quiet now." The possessiveness of it—the sheer, raw claim—should have scared you. But it didn't. It felt like an anchor dropping into the seabed. You weren't the Blizzard anymore. You weren't the party girl. You were the girl standing in the sunlight of a brownstone, held by a man who had burned down the world to keep you safe. "I'm yours," you whispered. Jay let out a breath, resting his forehead against yours. The rage drained out of him, leaving only the fierce protectiveness.

"Good," he murmured. "Now... let me see your hand. I think I broke my watch on his jaw." You let out a wet, startled laugh. "You idiot."

"Yeah," Jay smiled, a crooked, boyish thing. "But I feel a hell of a lot better."

You took his hand, inspecting the bruised knuckles. You kissed them, one by one. "Let's get some ice," you said. "Let's get some music," he countered.

He walked over to the stereo and dropped the needle. Kind of Blue began to play.

You sat on the couch together, his injured hand in yours, the rain falling outside. The city was loud, and the clubs were screaming, but in here... in here, the rhythm was perfect. You were tame. And you had never felt so free.

Late December 1977.

The venue was called The Ember. It wasn't the cavernous, glittering expanse of The Gilded Lily, nor was it the sticky, subterranean dive of The Warehouse. It was something in between—a long, narrow room on the South Side with exposed brick walls that sweated condensation and a low tin ceiling that trapped the smoke and the sound, compressing them into a thick, hazy atmosphere. It was packed. Shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip. The air smelled of clove cigarettes, cheap beer, and the musk of bodies moving in unison. Tonight wasn't a Nightfall gig. It wasn't the funk-rock spectacle with pyrotechnics and screaming fans. This was Jay. Just Jay.

He stood on a small riser at the end of the room, illuminated by a single, dusty spotlight that cut through the blue haze. He wasn't wearing the velvet suits or the silk shirts tonight. He wore a simple black t-shirt that clung to his frame and dark jeans. His hair was pushed back, damp with sweat, a few strands falling loose over his forehead. He looked real. He looked tangible. You stood near the bar, clutching a glass of ginger ale like it was a holy relic. You were wearing the corduroy pants and the cream sweater, looking less like a disco queen and more like a girl who belonged in the daylight. But tonight, you were braving the dark. Because this was his first solo show. He had been nervous all week. You had seen it in the way he paced the brownstone, the way he obsessively re-tuned his Stratocaster, the way he barely touched his breakfast toast. He wanted this to be different. He wanted to strip away the production and just play the music that had saved him. And God, was he playing.

The song was new. You knew it because you had watched him birth it. You had sat on the kitchen counter at 3:00 AM, drinking herbal tea, watching him scribble notes on a napkin, frustration furrowing his brow until he finally found the chord that unlocked the melody. He called it "Needle & Groove."

It started slow—a melancholic, bluesy riff that silenced the rowdy crowd instantly. Then, it built. The drums kicked in (a session player he hired), and the bass thumped, but Jay’s guitar soared above it all. It wailing, screaming, crying. It was the sound of the overdose. It was the sound of the car ride to the hospital. It was the sound of him holding your hand while you shook in his bed.

It was raw, unfiltered pain, transmuted into something beautiful.

The crowd was mesmerized. You looked around, seeing faces bathed in the blue light, mouths slightly open, heads nodding. They felt it. They didn't know the story—they didn't know about the bathroom floor or the fear—but they felt the weight of it. "He's incredible," a woman next to you shouted over the music, clutching her boyfriend's arm. "Who is he?"

"That's Jay," you shouted back, a fierce, possessive pride swelling in your chest. "He's... he's mine." You took a sip of your ginger ale. It was warm and flat. You grimaced. Jay was moving into the bridge of the song, his eyes closed, lost in the trance. You knew this part lasted for four minutes. It was safe to move.

"I'll be right back," you whispered to no one, setting your empty glass on a passing tray. You needed a refill, and you needed the bathroom. The heat in the club was stifling, and the sheer number of bodies pressing against you was starting to trigger a mild claustrophobia. You just needed a moment of space. You wove through the crowd. It was a physical battle. Hands brushed your waist, elbows knocked your ribs. You kept your head down, muttering apologies, focused on the neon sign glowing red at the back of the hall: RESTROOMS. You reached the back corridor. It was cooler here, the noise of the show muffled slightly by the heavy curtains separating the bar from the stage area. You ducked into the ladies' room. It was a small, cramped space with flickering fluorescent lights and three stalls. You splashed cold water on your face, staring at yourself in the cracked mirror. You looked good. Your eyes were clear. Your skin had color. You weren't the grey ghost from a month ago. "You're doing great," you whispered to your reflection. "Just get a soda, go back to the front, and watch him finish the set." You dried your hands and pushed the door open to leave.

The hallway was crowded now. People were spilling out from the main room, seeking air or a smoke. You turned the corner sharp, intent on getting back to Jay, and slammed right into a wall of perfume and laughter. "Whoa! Watch it, honey!" You stumbled back, catching yourself against the wall. You had collided with a group of four girls. They were quintessential "club rats"—the kind you used to be. They wore halter tops that glittered under the hallway lights, platform boots, and heavy, smudged eyeliner. They smelled of expensive floral perfume, sweat, and something sharp and chemical. "Sorry," you muttered, trying to sidestep them. "My fault."

"No worries, sugar," one of them giggled. She was blonde, with a feather boa draped over her shoulders. Her eyes were bright, too bright, and her pupils were dilated saucers. She was vibrating with an energy that you recognized instantly. The energy of the high. You tried to move past them, but they were clustered in a tight circle around a small, wobbly cocktail table that had been pushed into the alcove of the hallway. "Wait, I love your sweater," another girl slurred, reaching out to touch the wool of your coat. "Is that vintage? It looks so cozy. I'm freezing. Are you freezing? I feel like I'm on fire."

"Thanks," you said, your voice tight. "I have to get back."

"Don't be a square," the blonde said, grabbing your arm. Her grip was loose, clammy. "We're having a little halftime show. You want in?" You looked down. Time slowed. The thumping bass from the other room faded into a dull, rhythmic thud, like a heartbeat underwater. On the small, scarred cocktail table, amidst the rings of condensation from abandoned drinks, sat a small mirror. And on the mirror were four neat, perfect lines of white powder.

Snow.

The world narrowed down to that table. Your brain, which had been so quiet, so disciplined for the last month, suddenly woke up. The "Demons"—the addiction you thought you had locked in a cage—didn't just knock; they kicked the door down. Just one, the voice whispered. It was seductive. It was familiar. It sounded like relief. Just to wake up. Just to match his energy. You’re tired, aren't you? It's been a long month. You deserve a reward.Your feet felt nailed to the floor. You stared at the lines. They looked pristine. Pure. "Go ahead," the blonde urged, seeing your hesitation and mistaking it for shyness. She nudged a small, rolled-up bill toward you. "First one's free, new girl. Consider it a welcome gift." The smell of it—even though you couldn't smell it yet—seemed to fill your nose. The memory of the drip, the burn, the electric rush that followed... it washed over you in a phantom wave. Your hand twitched at your side. This was the test. Jay had warned you. The doctor had warned you. Triggers are everywhere. But you hadn't expected it to be this physical. Your mouth watered. Your heart began to race, mimicking the high before you even touched it. "Come on," another girl urged, laughing. "Don't leave it sitting there. It's rude to waste the good stuff." Someone bumped into you from behind—a drunk man stumbling toward the men's room—and the impact shoved you forward, right into the circle. You caught yourself on the edge of the table, your face inches from the mirror.

You were surrounded. The giggling girls, the glittering powder, the pressure. It was a scene from your old life, playing out in high definition. You stared at the line nearest to you. It was right there. A two-second decision. You could lean down, inhale, and fly. You could erase the anxiety of being sober in a club.

But Jay, a quiet part of your brain screamed. Jay is on stage. Jay cooked you eggs. Jay held you while you threw up. "I..." you started, your voice trembling. You tried to pull back, to straighten up. "Just a bump," the blonde whispered, leaning in close, her breath smelling of peppermint schnapps. "Take the edge off."

You looked at the bill. You looked at the powder. The craving was a physical ache in your belly, a hunger that food couldn't fill. You didn't move. You stood there, frozen in the amber of your own addiction, caught between the girl you were and the girl you were trying to be.

"Chicago?"

The voice cut through the haze like a blade. It wasn't the internal voice. It was external. It was deep, rough, and familiar. You snapped your head up.Jay was standing at the end of the hallway.He must have finished the set. He had come off stage, guitar pick still in his hand, a towel draped over his shoulder, looking for you. He had probably scanned the bar, seen your empty glass, and come to find you near the restrooms.He was standing ten feet away.He was looking right at you.His eyes were wide. Confused at first. He saw you standing in a circle of girls. He saw the glitter. He saw the tight, secretive huddle.Then, his gaze drifted down.He looked past your shoulder. He looked at the table.He saw the mirror. He saw the lines. He saw the rolled-up bill sitting inches from your hand.You watched the transformation happen in real-time. It was terrifying.The confusion melted away instantly.Then came the hurt. A flash of raw, agonizing betrayal that crumpled his face. It was the look of a man who realized that all the soup, all the sleepless nights, all the promises, had been for nothing.She's doing it again, his eyes said. She's back in the hole.

You opened your mouth to scream, to say No, I didn't touch it! But before you could make a sound, the hurt vanished. Jay’s face went blank. The shutter came down. The emotionless mask—the one he used to wear on stage before he met you, the one he used to protect himself from the world—slammed into place. His eyes went dead. 

Cold. Hard.

He didn't yell. He didn't rush forward to save you.He just looked at you like you were a stranger. Like you were a lost cause.He turned on his heel.He didn't walk toward the dressing room. He walked toward the exit door at the end of the hall."Jay!" you screamed.The sound tore out of your throat, desperate and shrill.The girls around you jumped, startled. "Whoa, chill out," the blonde snapped.You shoved her. You didn't care. You shoved past the table, knocking the mirror. The white powder scattered into the air like dust, lost to the floor."Jay!" You ran. You sprinted down the hallway, your boots slipping on the beer-stained floor. You burst through the heavy metal exit door, slamming your shoulder into the crash bar. The cold air hit you like a slap. It was snowing again—light flurries that swirled in the amber light of the streetlamp. Jay was halfway down the alley, walking fast. He had his guitar case in one hand, gripping it so hard his knuckles were white. He wasn't wearing a coat. He was just in his t-shirt, steam rising from his overheated skin into the freezing night.

"Jay, stop!" You ran after him, grabbing the back of his shirt.

He spun around.He was fast. He ripped his arm away from your grip with a violence that made you stumble back. "Don't," he snarled.

You froze. You had never heard him use that tone with you. Not even when you were overdosing. This was pure, unadulterated rage. "Jay, please," you gasped, your breath clouding in the air. "It's not what you think. I didn't touch it."

"Didn't you?" Jay stepped toward you, looming over you in the narrow alley. His eyes were wild. "Because it looked a hell of a lot like you were about to. You were standing there, staring at it like it was the love of your life."

"I was frozen!" you cried, tears hot on your cheeks. "I bumped into them! They offered it, and I... I hesitated. But I didn't take it! I swear to you, Jay, I didn't take it!"

"But you wanted to," he shot back, his voice cracking. "I saw your face, Chicago. I saw the look in your eyes. You wanted that line more than you wanted to be in that room watching me."

"That's not true!"

"Isn't it?" Jay shouted. The sound echoed off the brick walls. "I poured everything into you! I stopped my life! I sat by your bed for three days watching you shake apart! I thought we were building something! And the second I turn my back, the second I step on stage to do my job, you're back in a corner with a mirror!"

"I am an addict, Jay!" you screamed back, pushing against his chest. "It doesn't just go away because you made me soup! It’s a disease! Yes, I wanted it! I wanted it so bad my teeth hurt! But I didn't take it! I didn't take it because of you!" Jay stared at you, his chest heaving. The snow was falling on his hair, melting instantly. "I can't do this," he whispered, shaking his head. The rage was crumbling into despair. "I can't watch you die again. I can't be the one who finds you on the floor. It broke me, Chicago. Finding you like that... it broke something inside me that hasn't healed." He turned away, running a hand over his face. "I can't love you if you're trying to kill yourself."

The words hung in the air.

I can't love you. He had said it. He had admitted it. You stood there, shivering, your heart hammering against your ribs. "You love me?" you whispered. Jay froze. He kept his back to you. His shoulders were shaking. "Jay," you said, stepping closer. You reached out, touching his arm. This time, he didn't pull away. "Look at me." He turned slowly. His eyes were wet. "Yes," he choked out. "God help me, I love you. I loved you the moment I saw you in that alleyway in July. I loved you when you were high, I loved you when you were sick, and I love you now Y/n." He grabbed your shoulders, pulling you in, his grip desperate. "And that is why I can't watch you do this. Because if I lose you... if you actually leave me... I won't survive it. I won't."

"You won't lose me," you promised, gripping the front of his shirt. "I am fighting, Jay. I am fighting every single second. I didn't take it. I chose you. I will always choose you." Jay looked at you. He searched your eyes, looking for the lie. He looked for the dilation, the glossiness of the high. He saw only clarity. He saw the tears. He saw the truth. "Prove it," he breathed.

"How?" He didn't answer with words. He crashed his mouth onto yours. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the sweet, domestic kiss of the last month. It was frantic. It was a collision. It was a kiss born of terror and relief and furious, consuming love. He backed you up against the brick wall of the alley, his body pressing hard against yours, shielding you from the cold. His hands tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, deepening the kiss until you were dizzy. You kissed him back with everything you had. You tasted the salt of his tears and the heat of his mouth. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, trying to merge your body with his so he would know, physically know, that you were here. You were alive. You were his.

He groaned into your mouth, a sound of surrender. His hands roamed over your back, down to your waist, gripping you tightly as if to make sure you were solid.

"I love you," he murmured against your lips, frantic. "I love you, I love you."

"I love you too," you gasped. "I'm here. I'm staying."

The snow swirled around you, burying the city in white, but in the alleyway, the fire between you was burning hot enough to melt it all.

20 Minutes Later the drive back from the alley was a blur of neon lights and silence, but it wasn't the empty silence of before. It was a charged, vibrating silence—the kind that happens right before a storm breaks. Jay drove with one hand on the wheel and the other gripping your thigh, his fingers digging into the corduroy as if he needed to constantly verify your physical existence. He parked the Chevelle haphazardly, not bothering to straighten the wheels. He was out of the car before the engine fully died, rounding the hood to pull you out.He didn't walk you to the door; he marched you there. The urgency radiating off him was palpable, a heat wave in the freezing Chicago night. He fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking slightly—the only betrayal of his composure. The moment the lock clicked, he kicked the door open and pulled you inside, slamming it shut against the wind and the world. The lock engaged with a final, heavy thud. You didn't make it to the living room. Jay spun you around, pressing you back against the solid wood of the door. He crashed his mouth onto yours again, picking up exactly where you had left off in the alley, but with even more desperation. The cold air clinging to his clothes clashed with the fever heat of his skin. He kissed you like he was trying to breathe for you. It was a devouring, consuming pressure, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting the remnants of the ginger ale and the salt of your tears. You gasped, wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your hands in his damp hair. "Jay," you breathed against his lips.

He didn't answer with words. He groaned, a low, guttural sound in his throat that vibrated against your chest. He gripped your waist, his large hands spanning your hips, and lifted you effortlessly.You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back, pulling yourself flush against him.

He carried you like that—your legs locked around him, your mouth fused to his—down the hallway. He moved blindly, navigating by memory, kicking the bedroom door open.The room was dark, illuminated only by the streetlamp outside casting amber slashes across the duvet. It smelled of him—cedar, sandalwood, and safety.

He walked to the side of the bed but didn't drop you. He stood there for a moment, holding you suspended, his forehead pressing against yours, his breathing ragged.

"You're here," he rasped, his voice rough with emotion. "You're really here."

"I'm here," you whispered back, peppering kisses over his jaw, his cheek, his eyelids. "I'm right here." He lowered you slowly onto the mattress. The moment your back hit the sheets, the dam broke. Whatever restraint Jay had been holding onto—the careful, gentle patience of a nurse tending to a patient—evaporated. He wasn't your nurse tonight. He was a man who had almost lost the other half of his soul, and he needed to reclaim it in the most primal way possible. He followed you down, his body heavy and solid covering yours. Clothes became obstacles. He sat up, straddling your hips, and pulled his t-shirt over his head in one fluid motion. His chest was heaving, the muscles defined in the half-light, slick with sweat from the show and the panic. He tossed the shirt aside; it landed somewhere in the corner, forgotten.

You reached for him, but he caught your hands. He pinned them to the mattress on either side of your head, leaning down until his face was inches from yours.

"I need to see you," he whispered, his eyes dark and dilated. "I need to see every inch of you."He released your hands to deal with your coat. He unbuttoned it with fumbling, impatient fingers, peeling the heavy wool away from your body. Then the sweater. You lifted your arms, helping him, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

When you were finally bare before him, stripped of the corduroy and the cotton, you felt a flicker of the old shame. You were thin. You were scarred. You were a map of bad decisions. But Jay didn't look away. He looked at you with a reverence that made your throat ache. He traced the curve of your hip, the line of your ribs, the dip of your waist.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "So f*cking beautiful." He moved down your body. He kissed the hollow of your throat, the pulse point fluttering wildly there. He kissed your collarbone. He kissed the swell of your breast, his mouth hot and wet, teasing the nipple until you arched your back with a gasp. He continued lower. He kissed your stomach, his hands kneading your thighs, pushing your legs apart. "Jay," you whimpered, the anticipation pooling low in your belly. He didn't stop. He moved between your legs, settling there like he belonged. He hooked your knees over his shoulders, opening you completely to him.He looked up at you one last time, his eyes burning with intensity. Then, he lowered his head. His tongue found you, hot and broad and devastatingly skilled. You cried out, your head throwing back against the pillow, your fingers tangling in the sheets. It wasn't just the physical sensation—though that was electric—it was the intimacy of it. He was tasting you. He was worshipping the parts of you that you had thought were ruined.

He ate you like a man starving. There was no hesitation, no revulsion at the "mess" of you. He licked and sucked with a rhythmic, relentless pressure, his hands gripping your hips to keep you anchored as you writhed. "Jay, please," you begged, the friction becoming too much, the pleasure bordering on pain. "I need you... I need you inside." He didn't stop immediately. He kept going until you were trembling, right on the edge, before he finally pulled back. He crawled up your body, hovering over you. He was magnificent in the darkness—a silhouette of raw power and need.

He reached down to undo his jeans. The sound of the zipper was loud in the quiet room. He shoved them down, kicking them off his ankles.

He stood by the side of the bed for a second, fully naked now. You looked at him. He was fully aroused, thick and heavy, a drop of pre-cum glistening at the tip of his cock.

He saw you looking. A low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest. He grabbed a handful of your hair—not painfully, but with a firm, possessive grip—and guided your face to him. You didn't hesitate. You took him into your mouth. He tasted of salt and skin and desire. You sucked him deep, swirling your tongue around the head, moaning around him. You felt him twitch, his hips bucking slightly."F*ck," he hissed through grit teeth, his hand tightening in your hair. "You're going to kill me, Chicago."

He let you taste him for a minute, his breathing getting shorter and sharper, before he gently but firmly pulled away. "Not like that," he rasped, his voice strained. "I want to be inside you. I want to feel you everywhere." He pushed you gently back onto the pillows. He moved over you, settling his weight between your thighs again. He interlaced his fingers with yours. He stretched your arms above your head, pinning your hands to the mattress. It was a gesture of total dominance, but also total connection. He was locking you in. He was grounding you.He looked down at you, his face open and raw. "Look at me," he commanded softly. You looked into his eyes—those dark, endless eyes that had seen you at your worst and stayed.

He pushed into you. It was a slow, heavy slide. He filled you completely, stretching you, claiming the empty spaces inside you that used to ache for something else.

You gasped, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. It felt... holy. It felt like coming home after a long, cold war. Jay let out a shuddering breath as he sheathed himself to the hilt. He held perfectly still for a moment, letting your body adjust to him, letting the connection settle."Mine," he whispered, leaning down to kiss the tear away from your cheek. "You're mine."

"Yours," you sobbed. "I'm yours, Jay." He began to move. It wasn't the frantic, drug-fueled friction of the past. It was a rhythm. It was a melody. It was slow and deep and deliberate. He thrust into you with a power that shook the bedframe, but his eyes never left yours. He was making love to you. He was rewriting every bad memory, every dirty bathroom floor, every moment of shame, and replacing it with this—heat, sweat, and love. "Jay," you cried out, lifting your hips to meet him. "Don't stop. Don't stop." "Never," he groaned, burying his face in your neck. "I'm never stopping."The pace picked up. The friction built. The heat in the room spiked.

You felt the tension coiling in your belly, tighter and tighter. You wrapped your legs around his waist again, pulling him deeper, needing him closer than physics allowed.

"Jay, I'm close," you gasped, clutching his shoulders. "Let go," he ordered, his voice rough against your ear. "Let go, Chicago. I've got you." And you did. You let go of the control you had been fighting for. You let go of the fear. You let go of the Blizzard.

The climax hit you like a rogue wave—shattering, blinding, all-consuming. You screamed his name, your body bowing off the mattress, spasms of pleasure wrecking you.Jay followed you seconds later. He gave a final, desperate thrust, burying himself deep inside you, and groaned your name into your mouth as he poured himself into you.He collapsed on top of you, his weight heavy and comforting. You lay there, tangled together in the sheets, hearts hammering against each other in a chaotic, beautiful syncopation.You were crying. Soft, happy tears that wet the pillow.

Jay lifted his head. He looked exhausted, wrecked, and completely at peace. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.

He rolled off you, pulling you immediately into his side, wrapping the duvet around both of you. "I love you," he whispered into the darkness. "I love you too," you whispered back, closing your eyes. The silence in the room wasn't empty anymore. It was full.

Epilogue

Chicago. April 1978.

The snow had finally melted. Chicago in the spring was a moody creature—rain one day, blinding sun the next—but today, the sun was winning. It streamed through the bay window of the brownstone, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the piano. You were sitting on the floor in the living room, surrounded by boxes.

Not moving boxes. Tour boxes. "Do we really need three crates of guitar strings?" you asked, holding up a packing slip. "Are you planning on breaking a string every night?"

Jay walked in from the kitchen, holding two mugs of coffee. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt that said The Roasted Bean on the back—a souvenir from the job you had finally quit two weeks ago to become his official "Tour Manager" (a title he invented so he could pay you without you arguing). "You haven't seen how hard I play when I'm showing off for you," Jay grinned, handing you a mug. "I need backups for my backups." You rolled your eyes, taking the coffee. "Arrogant."

"Prepared," he corrected, sitting down next to you on the rug. He leaned over and kissed your cheek. He smelled of coffee and the expensive cologne you had bought him for his birthday. He looked healthy. The shadows under his eyes were gone. The tension in his jaw had smoothed out. You looked healthy too. You had gained weight—the good kind. Your curves were back. Your skin glowed. You were wearing a floral sundress that Jay picked out, and your hair was long and loose. You hadn't touched a drug in five months. You hadn't even wanted to. "Are you nervous?" Jay asked, tracing the pattern of flowers on your knee. "About the tour?" You took a sip of coffee. "A little. Being on the road... the clubs... it's a lot of noise."

"We have rules," Jay reminded you. "We stay in hotels, not on the bus. We eat real food. And if the noise gets too loud..."

"We leave," you finished, smiling at him. "Mid-song."

"Exactly." He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small. "I have something for you," he said. "Before we go." Your heart skipped a beat. "Jay, you already bought me the coat. And the boots. And the..."

"It's not clothes," he said. He opened his hand.

Sitting in his palm was a small, silver pin. It was shaped like a lightning bolt. You picked it up, confused. "A lightning bolt?"

"For the storm," Jay said softly. "You used to call yourself the Blizzard. You thought you were a disaster."

He took the pin from you and carefully fastened it to the strap of your dress. "But storms are powerful," he said, looking into your eyes. "They change the landscape. They clear the air. You came into my life like a storm, Chicago. And you cleared everything away until all that was left was the truth." He touched the silver pin.

"This is just a reminder," he whispered. "That you survived the weather. And now you're the electricity." Tears pricked your eyes—happy ones, easy ones. "You're cheesy," you choked out, laughing through the emotion. "You know that, right? For a cool jazz musician, you are incredibly cheesy."

"I'm a romantic," Jay grinned, leaning in. "There's a difference." He kissed you—slow, sweet, and full of promise. "Ready to hit the road?" he asked, pulling back.

You looked around the apartment. The sanctuary. The place where you had died and been reborn. It would be waiting for you when you got back. You looked at the man who had pulled you off the bathroom floor and taught you how to breathe again.

You stood up, offering him your hand."Yeah," you said, pulling him to his feet. "Let's go make some noise."Jay grabbed his guitar case. You grabbed the manifest.

Hand in hand, you walked out of the brownstone and into the sunlight.The static was gone. The snow had melted.

And the music? The music was just beginning.

Hope you enjoyed this Drabble Please support me by Liking, Commenting and Re-blogging!

Taglist: @kristynaaah, @fancypeacepersona, @vanillakirstein,@kyunlov. @gabrielinhaa, @blindingvenomss , @graythecoffeebean , @firstdivisiongirl , @strxwbloody,@love4choso,@woninabillionn,@tunafishyfishylike, @vveebee,@heesbabygurl, @twocupsofsuga , @meandmyboringlife , @artezia4, @neabrownn , @heeevangelizesme (plz let me know if you want to be on my perm Taglist or just for the rust & gold series!)

[wonnfavee]

i shouldve listened when you said prepare the tissues… I LOVE YOUR BRAIN SM UGHH THIS WAS SO BEAUTIFUL AND YK HOW I LOVE CHARACTER DEVELOPMENTT

[frangipaniki]

⊹₊⟡⋆ sweetener — p.sh .ᐟ

→ part four “neon fly ride giraffe” ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

parings: sunghoon x fem!reader

synopsis: everyone thinks you’re a sweet, innocent cutie, but only your friends know that you’re hella geeked. when sunghoon bumps into you and falls inlove at first sight, he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.

genre/format: textfic, crack, suggestive, kinda fluff

warnings: you’re freaky af, sunghoon is downbad, explicit language

bella’s notes: this is lowk my fav part so far im reaching flow state rn

ᰔ part one / part two / part three / part four / part five (wip)

series taglist🥺: @cokewithcameron @velvetkisscs @et3rn4lmo0nl1ght @sunnysidesins @hi00000234567 @supahintohoon @slyyyyytor771 @isa942572 @nishimur4s @vveebee @ilovepsh @heeliciouss @bunyaya @prkhoonlvr @lovenha7 @whoisthis-xxo @emmalabo @seonghwassss @desirxriki @strawberrysworld26 @fics-lovebot @enhypenlvrsstuff @felxvrs @unseenleylinesecret @wichujunseo @pjselee @prodbymartin @hoszhe @parkjongfan01 @enhypen437 @wenomakiluvr @stoagene01 @angelhyuka @sosaphiee @osakinanadesu @ikeuatic @laikaonline @amb4rluvs @luvmiikx @saraabbas @strwberie

[wonnfavee]

AHSHS IM CRYING THIS IS SO CHAOTIC

[kissued]

ahhhhhhh i see reqs open and I stand uppppp.

hiiiiiii ok soo...this may or may not be the crazyass anon from before who didn't check if reqs are open👀👀 who also requested good boy jakey and bad boy riki with ynnie in the middle n shiiii- 🥺🥺 but yes, only if you're okay with writing that,, okloveyoubyeee 😚😚🫰🏻

THE SIN: GREED ✦ YUNKI

SYNOPSIS ⋮ a simple tutorial on how to get your lovely, obedient boyfriend to open your relationship up, and have his hot best friend fuck you in the process. yay!

PAIRING ⋮ boyfriend!jake x best friend!ki x fem!reader

CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ 18+ smut. mdni. morally grey characters (?) threesome (duh!). piv. unprotected sex. college!au. frat boys yunki emotional cheating (i guess) half-assed plot sorry! creampie oral (m!rec) mentions of god, heaven, etc. don’t like, don’t read.

AN ⋮ i kinda blacked out while writing this so like Forgive me ? 😂😂😂 u can probs tell exactly when i lost it LOL

PLAYING ♫ ⋮ needy — ariana grande.

WC ⋮ ~6k

@KISSUED have you ever thought that one boyfriend wasn’t enough? has your one, faithful yet painfully busy partner ever disappointed you—left you waiting, needy, aching?

have you ever wished for more? grabbed that desire by the throat, shove it deep inside of you because suggesting a third person might hurt your lover’s feelings?

here are three, easy-to-follow steps you can follow that might help them change their mind!─────────────────────────

01. GUILT.

jake has always been… kind.

you knew it from the moment you met him—heart of gold, expressive face that could tell you anything he’s feeling, practically incapable of keeping any secret from you. he goes out of his way for others; the kind of boy who’d give up his seat for a bratty kid on the train, and nod politely when their mothers would apologise.

this, naturally, extended to you. he’s done so much that you can’t help but feel a little guilty when you’re cooped up in your apartment, alone, for the 5th time tonight, thinking of how indescribably empty your insides feel while he’s juicing his brain dry on campus.

you could’ve been a little more selfless. you could have. but for some peculiar reason, your mind’s drifting to someone else entirely—that blonde kid in jakey’s frat, with more piercings than you could count and a stare that was equatable to daggers.

nishimura riki.

that’s when you knew that you and jake sim were different. while he’s racking his brains, you’re rubbing circles on your clit thinking of his dear friend, eyebrows pinched together in that look only jake manages to pull from you.

it’s disgusting. it feels sinful. and yet, you can’t help but imagine the curve of nishimura riki’s cock, the angle of his hips while he’s pounding into your dripping cunt, and the cocky smirk he’d wear on his face taunting you for doing this behind dear jakey’s back.

“o-oh, you’re fuckin’ filthy,” he’d spit, rough thumb circling your swollen bud, “greedy little slut. jake know about this? about how i fuck you like a whore?”

and in an attempt to make yourself feel a little better about this whole… fantasy, you decide to wait by the front door for jake; staring at the intricate wood designs, counting the chips in the material, keeping track of the ticks on the clock before the moment you hear keys jingling outside.

“jakey!” you smile, wide, which wasn’t an unusual sight for your lover. “i missed you sooo much, baby.”

jake lets a tired sigh slip through his lips, more content than anything, before dropping his bag by the entryway and kicking his shoes off. he doesn’t say a word—making his way to you, as he’s always done for the past year you’ve been together, slugging into your touch as you embrace him.

“missed you too, y/n.”

you’re not very sure where you’re going with this. this literally might be the end of your relationship as you know it—jake’ll pack his shit up, storm out, because he knows his worth and you clearly don’t.

“jake, i’ve been thinking… y’know,” you whisper into his ear, your gentle fingers coming up his back to run through his soft locks. “you’re always so busy.”

jake hums along like he knows, because it’s just so obvious with the way the sheets barely smell like him anymore—his mugs sitting upside down on the counter, unused for days, toothbrush missing because he’s learnt to just bring it along with him, in case he was studying at the frat. again.

you blame it all on that damn brotherhood. if not for them, jake would be studying at home, working at home, doing sleeping at home.

…and you wouldn’t have known of nishimura riki’s existence.

jake’s arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in tighter, cologne filling your nose. it’s worn down by the heaviness of the day, the hint of sweat making you breathe deeper.

“i know, princess,” he mutters, voice low and deep and truly laced with sorrow in the way it carries over to your ears. anyone with functioning hearing could tell he was absolutely heartbroken over this, over you: leaving his poor girl alone in this lonely apartment, where he should’ve made himself permanent. “you must’ve been so lonely without me, huh?”

and it clicks, then—how easily his guilt settles into place. how fast he reshapes the situation until it makes sense, until it’s something he can fix. jake has always been good at that: finding the flaw in himself before ever questioning you.

his gentle thumb rubs circles into your waist, grounding you to whatever this conversation is evolving into; two bodies pressed together, warm, almost as if it was an innocent ‘welcome home’.

there’s an apologetic look on his face. as if he’s sorry for what you’re going to say—as if any of it is his fault.

“i should’ve been around more,” he adds quietly, mostly to himself. “i hate that i leave you like this, baby. alone. and i’m always missing your calls.”

he is. your throat tightens anyway, watching the worried, pained expression on jake’s face take over his entire posture.

the way he’s leaning into you for reassurance—for that confirmation you’re not going to push him away. you never do, and you never will, but it somehow makes you want to storm out of the room regardless.

you pull back just enough to get a good look at him, hands still fisted in his shirt like you might lose him before you get the words out of your mouth. his eyes are exhausted, red at the edges, searching yours for something you don’t have.

“it’s not that, jakey,” you smile, as reassuringly as you can. the most you can manage. “i just. . . don’t want you feeling bad all the time, and i don’t want to feel like i’m waiting, either.”

jake’s eyebrows knit together. “waiting for me?”

“school’s important, baby, i know that.” you sigh, gentle hands moving to cup his jaw like it might soften the blow to his chest. “there might be a way that’s better for both of us, you know?”

and yes, jake knows that whatever you might suggest would obviously make you happier than this current situation—so what more does he need to think about? as long as his girl is smiling, happy as can be, he has no real reason to object, does he?

“tell me,” he says. “i wanna know.”

god. if heaven is real, please extend your grace to the greedy.

“what if. . . we tried opening up? y’know, just to keep me company while you’re gone.”

the words hang in the air, each second burning, causing you to hold onto him just a little tighter—in the case he were to bolt. rightfully. he’s stunned by the proposal, face frozen in time, eyes wide like he’d never expect something so… promiscuous from you.

he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stiffen. just blinks, once, twice, like he’s replaying your dialogue like it’s a quick-time event, and he’s trying not to pick the wrong answer. like this is a problem he needs to understand before he can even begin to solve it.

“opening up,” jake repeats softly.

there’s a pause—brief, almost imperceptible—where something tight passes through his expression. the quiet recalibration of a boy who’s spent a year learning how to bend without breaking, faltering, before coming back to you.

“when i’m not here,” he says, careful. like you’d be the one to storm out of this place if he so much as looked at you accusingly.

you nod, just once.

“only then. i don’t want to replace you, jake. i just—i don’t want to be alone,” and then, you’re looking away, as if it’ll erase the guilt.

you thought you’d at least have the guts to maintain eye contact with your boyfriend—especially after all this trouble of asking to fuck another man—but for some peculiar reason, it’s all gone when you’re actually here, in his grasp, in his loving embrace that he refuses to end because you’re you, and he’s jake.

jake, who loves you.

“okay.”

even if it means having to share you.

─────────────────────────

02. REFORM.

introducing jake sim to the man you’ve been fantasizing about was the hardest part of it all.

firstly, they were in the same brotherhood: shared drinks. ate from the same plates. probably—accidentally—swapped briefs at one point. you could definitely find nishimura’s instagram from just two clicks, skin glowing under the flash of some random’s kodak gold, sitting one person away from jake.

if not, right next to him.

he’s known riki since freshman year—back when they were still pledges under a completely different set of men, stumbling through hazes so stupid they don’t even happen anymore, not after heeseung almost got someone hospitalized.

riki survived all of it with them. steady, sharp, reliable, stubborn when it mattered. if jake had to choose someone, in which he does now, it would be nishimura.

though, if jake really stopped to think about it—he could say the same for the other five. they were all cut from the same history, the same long nights and shared damage, collective trauma and all that nonsense.

it’s just… circumstance. a lucky, or unlucky one that nishimura riki is the only one without strings attached. no jealous girlfriend of his own. no crazy stalker that’ll be waiting to jump you in a random alleyway for eyeing him. no complications waiting to surface at the worst possible time, which is now, when you’re voluntarily shoved between two of seven of the hottest guys on campus.

that’s besides the point. as far as jake sim knows, riki is free.

thank sunghoon for that information—or thank that random sunday night, consisting of casually rifling through nishimura riki’s bedside drawer and reporting back, half amused and half mortified about the lack of condoms tucked away inside. proof enough, apparently.

the difficult part was getting nishimura riki to be okay with this. okay with touching on his best friend’s girl. okay with the way jake would probably stare daggers into him for even agreeing with something you brought up.

to reform, one must adjust. jake sim tells himself that, anyway. it’s how he’s framing things so he doesn’t end up tearing his hair out at the expense of your happiness.

it happens late, when most of the frat’s cleared out of most of it’s inhabitants—everyone’s out drinking at bars, rambling on that the end of exam season means sunoo’s treat. the house is stripped down of it’s noise, it’s junk, it’s constant laughter and screams of jungwon chasing jay around with a blindfold on, just for fun.

the air is stale. music’s playing on the audio system, a justin bieber 2010 classic. jake can’t be bothered to hum the lyrics like he usually does. his mind’s plagued with something else, his eyes scanning riki’s as they sit on opposite ends of the worn leather couch.

he’s scrolling on twitter. thumb flicking up, lazily, not really watching anything in particular. likes and retweets some videos about the new jujutsu kaisen season, jake tells from the audio.

“bro,” riki mumbles to himself, “this naoya guy is soooo fucking annoying. holy shit, he’s a fraud.”

jake snickers, fumbling with his phone in his hand. his palms feel clammy, and it almost feels like he’s confessing his fucking feelings for nishimura riki with how his pulse sputters and skips.

when a response doesn’t come, riki finally looks up, turning his head towards jake. “you good, dude?”

of course not. his girlfriend wants to fuck another man. his best friend, out of all options.

“nope,” jake lets a soft sigh out, sinking further into the backrest. riki raises an eyebrow at his friend, finding the change in mood unusual, considering how he was all sunshine and rainbows when heeseung was showing him a reel. “girlfriend troubles. that kinda thing.”

riki hums, leaning back into the couch, stretching his arms along the top like he’s got all the time in the world. “figures. don’t know much about that, though.”

jake huffs a quiet laugh.

bend. before you snap.

“you might, actually,” jake states, tone a little too condescending for riki to miss. “i need your help.”

the song ends, and the next one comes on. it’s ariana grande, needy, if he remembers correctly—the first song on your playlist, tailored for your ‘one and only’, replayed more times than he could count on both hands, if only for the sake of never forgetting it.

jake turns to riki for the first time tonight. eyes blank, expressionless, lips twitching into a small smile that he tries his best not to let falter. riki’s staring back, that teasing look now washed away, concern creeping in as jake lets the silence stretch for a tad bit longer than normal.

“the fuck is up with you?” riki tries to laugh, expecting jake to break out into a fit. a sort of gotcha moment that’ll kill whatever tension that’s poisoning the oxygen in here.

“i’m serious,” jake says quietly, unclear if out of shame or something else—as if there was a secret third person in the room, watching him. “about you helping me. . . with her.”

riki freezes, eyes narrowing. his heart’s thumping so hard that he thinks it’s trying to claw it’s way out of his ribcage. “helping you. . . how?”

“keeping her happy,” jake says, simply, because that’s truly what it’s about. stripping the weight and implication of it all just so it’s easier to swallow. “i’m getting busy, man. she’s lonely.”

there’s a long pause. the kind where the walls of the house feel like they’re closing in, and there’s just too much quiet and not enough alcohol to numb his thoughts.

riki exhales slowly, jaw tight. “what the fuck?”

he leans into the couch, chest heaving at a rate that he can’t exactly call casual. riki’s eyes are sharp as they scan jake’s expression: anything that tells him that this is a joke, and the punchline has yet to come.

it doesn’t.

riki lets one arm drape over the back of the couch, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “so. . . you want me to. . . what? play house while you’re gone? the fuck’s gotten into you?”

jake swallows, pulse spiking, hands tightening on his phone like it’s an anchor to this very embarrassing conversation. “i just want her to be happy. that’s all. you’d know how to make sure of that.”

“she some project?”

“don’t.” jake sighs, “listen. it’s you, or sunghoon. and we both know that sooha would kill y/n if it came down to that.”

riki throws his head back, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly. he’s not hearing jake right—he can’t be.

now, you see, riki’s thought of this before.

that night when jake first brought you by, calling you his girl. you were wearing that gorgeous dress when you pulled up to the frat, the music booming behind him as he pulled the front door open—but all he heard and saw was you, asking if this was sigma alpha eta—and your flushed face when riki responded, “can’t you see the fucking flag hanging outside?”

it was only after he went upstairs to fuck his fist like a stupid, horny teenager that jake finally said your name out loud: “this is my girlfriend, y/n.”

“if it’s too weird for you,” jake mutters, gaze dropping to the floor, “i’ll just go to hoon. he’s gonna leave sooha, anyway—”

“nah.” riki cuts him off, sharp and immediate. “does she want this? like—really want it?”

the question lands like a blow. jake squeezes his eyes shut for half a second, a brief, vivid, terrible yet equally indulgent fantasy of slamming his head into a brick wall pops up behind his eyelids.

he exhales slowly, and lifts his head. “she wants to be happy.”

riki studies him in the silence that follows—the way jake says it like that’s the only thing that matters. like happiness is currency enough to buy absolution, enough to forget the weight that’ll follow him for the rest of his life if he goes through with this.

the music hums low in the background, the house breathing around them. it’s more calm than riki’s own mind, for sure.

“fuck,” riki says finally. “okay.”

─────────────────────────

03. FRICTION.

the first night that jake’s gone, he calls you to tell you that his physics professor held him back—something about his thesis. you don’t know. you couldn’t really hear him clearly, with the way nishimura riki’s groaning into your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your thighs as you squirm under his touch.

he’s so loud. not in the way jake is. never whining, never moaning outright. just low grunts that tell you that you taste exactly how he thought you would, as sweet as his mind’s made you out to be.

“so fucking pretty,” he smiles before getting up from his knees—hands slithering up your sides, running along your hips, hooking his fingers onto the hem of your tee. “most perfect slut i’ve ever seen.”

you sigh when riki peels your shirt off you. the cold air hits your skin, nipples perked, staring at him the way he stares at you. everything moves quickly: the tent in riki’s sweats rubs against your slick entrance, a wet patch blooming where his tip leaks for you, all while his touch explores every crevice of your body.

your hips, waist. your ribs, your heartbeat under his fingertips. your neck that smells like damp shampoo, your lips that’ve been bitten raw from riki not knowing how to hold himself back.

“rikiii. . .” you drag, watching him loop his thumb into the waistband of his sweatpants. he tugs it downward, cock springing free, weighed down by how heavy and thick he is. his tip is flushed, up to his shaft, angry and red and swollen, calling your name with every twitch.

his dick glistens under the light. shiny, slick with pre running down the shaft, and it makes your pulse race just knowing that you get him like this.

“not a virgin, are you?” he tilts his head. riki’s arms loop around your thighs, pulling you closer to him, your ass brushing against his thighs as he pries your legs open. “you and jake. . .”

“n-no, i’m not—“ you answer, blinking. you peek at him through wet lashes, pretty irises making riki’s head spin in combination with your visibly flushed cheeks. he kisses his teeth before sliding his own shirt off: sharp v line being the first thing that peeks through, contoured abs stealing the breath out of your lungs.

you could run your fingers against it and get cuts.

“can’t promise i’ll be gentle then, baby.”

those words are exactly what leads you to fucking your boyfriend’s best friend—your stomach flips, and so does your body, eventually—nishimura riki has you bent over, spine arched underneath his large hand that leaves red handprints all over the fat of your ass.

he’s so rough. mean. completely disregarding any and all tears that stain the sheets, your screams and cries that tell him to slow down—because wasn’t this what you wanted?

more than jake?

“h-hngh. . . fuck, riki—!”

and it’s odd how you start to miss your boyfriend’s gentle touch, his soft praises, every question of “are you alright?” and “does it hurt?”, while his friend fucks you into the next century.

“just a fuckin’ slut, damn—“ riki retracts his hand, only to land a harsh slap! to your right ass cheek. the skin blooms red immediately, the shape of his loving hand taking it’s place, jiggling while his hips piston into yours. “s-shit, now i know why jake’s always fuckin’ talking about you.”

you moan when the head of his cock kisses your cervix. your walls clamp down on him, refusing to let him drop the pace; his hands glued to your hips as he brings your body flush against his, driving himself deeper in, wanting to feel every part of you to the point where he could remodel your figure in his dreams. down to the curve of your hips, the magnetic pull of your lips, the way you blink like you’ve done nothing wrong in this life of yours.

you’re sin topped with a pretty bow.

“mm. . . s-so big, ki,” you drawl, drool seeping from the corner of your mouth. riki can’t help but let a snicker out, seeing this side of you: all he’s been used to is innocent, faithful y/n rubbing her chest against jake sim’s arm, asking when you’d finally be able to leave this ‘shitty party’ and be alone together. “feels so good.”

“yeeeah? o-oh fuck,” riki groans, head dropping to watch the way his cock slides in and out of you with ease. you’re sucking him back in every time he pulls out. the soft slaps of skin, the recoil of your ass, your shameless moans as his balls smack against your clit with every stroke; all of it’s getting to his head. “you arch like this for jake? pussy so tight, must’ve felt sooo lonely without him, huh?”

you can’t even speak with how ruthless he is. his hand is splayed over your upper back, keeping you bent all nice and pliant—zero chances of you squirming, crawling away as he makes you see constellations. your fists ball into the sheets, knuckles white, trying desperately to ground yourself before your soul takes it’s exit from your body.

for a moment, he forgets you’re not his.

until the door creaks open.

“you let yourself in?”

your heart sinks. riki’s body goes cold.

“jake—fuck,” riki mumbles, and you’re choking up before you can even call out for your boyfriend. riki doesn’t stop, too busy drowning in the wetness of your cunt, leaking like a broken faucet around his thick length as his strokes become sloppier. wet squelches makes jake’s ears ring, head spinning as he watches the sight before him: you, bent over for his best friend, face smushed into the sheets in the way only he had you, up until now. “shit. . . thought you’d be gone the whole night—”

“it’s fine,” jake sighs, like this was just another casual thursday night for him. he throws his bag onto the floor before unclasping his watch and ruffling his hair, disheveled from a day’s work. his eyebags peek through his dark brown locks, glassy eyes meeting yours temporarily in a soft, understanding smile. “you like it, baby?”

your skin crawls, feeling riki’s grip tighten, still pounding into you like jake wasn’t watching. “y-yes, jakey, i love it—”

“she’s cute, isn’t she, riki?” jake laughs, more a scoff than anything else. “such a good girl.”

and before riki can actually form a coherent sentence, jake’s making his way towards the shared bed—sighing when he finally makes himself comfortable next to you. your eyes screw shut, too embarrassed to meet your lover’s loving gaze when his best friend is pinning you down. riki’s smiling behind you, watching how you squirm underneath his touch, as if that’d make anything less humiliating.

“h-holy shit, fuck,” riki’s jaw goes slack when he sees jake’s hand caressing your hair, gentle strokes a stark contrast to the chaos riki’s pace delivers. something bubbles inside of him, slow, simmering underneath his skin as he watches his best friend’s hands trace your jaw, guiding you up, face no longer slobbering against the sheets.

riki’s not very sure why he’s letting it happen. he likes seeing you cry, whimper, drooling like a stupid slut all over the linen. it’s not like he’s familiar with it, but he knows it’ll be a favourite once he is—no, it’s the way jake brings your chin to the bulge in his pants. the way you nuzzle your nose against the fabric, settling for small, pathetic kitten licks where his tip would be.

it makes him ache.

“greedy girl,” jake titters, shoulders finally relaxing once your hands reach for the button on his jeans. undoing, unzipping, before your warm hands start to palm at his length, separated only by thin spandex. “look at her, riki. she wants to suck me off, too.”

the headboard thuds against the wall. jake doesn’t utter another word. riki groans as he throws his head back, blonde streaks of hair falling with the gravity, sweat rolling down his chest in thin lines as you milk him for everything he’s got.

“you’re dating a fucking slut,” riki smiles, wicked, head tilted to get a better view of your head. “shit, she just got tighter.”

the two men watch you carefully, burning your expression into their memories. one moment, you’re whining about how it’s all too much, and the next—you have jake’s flushed cock shoved down your throat, saliva trickling down his shaft like raw honey, taking him tip to tonsil. you gag, choke, tears running down your cheeks as jake’s hand guides your head up and down, all while nishimura riki continues to abuse your throbbing hole.

“doing so good, princess,” jake’s eyes flutter closed, his head tipped against the wall as you work your way up and down. you relax your throat as he pushes you further down: your nose grazes his pelvis, tongue running circles around and through the tip during the short breaths he gives you. “who’s cock is better, hm? mine? his?”

“cat got her tongue,” riki sneers, and all jake does is pout when you really don’t respond. “answer him, y/n.”

you gasp when jake loosens his grip, finally allowing you to pull away and take a deep breath in. his hand is still knotted in your hair when he brings your face closer to his, yanking at the roots.

“you heard him, sweet girl,” jake coos. “answer. say my name.”

shit, you can barely even say your own name.

jake’s looking into your eyes like you’re filthy: eyebrows knit, a slight frown plastered onto his pretty face, eyes devoid of the light that it’s always had whenever he had you folded in half for him.

“say my name,” he repeats, your head unstable as you try to hold yourself up—riki’s pressing into you, deeper now, more carefree. “come on.”

and just as the words ‘jake sim’ are about to roll off your tongue with tremendous effort, riki’s hand lands a blow to your ass, panting all hot and bothered when he catches jake’s jaw visibly twitch. “ooops,” he mumbles, half-assed, “say you’re sorry, y/n. say ‘i’m sorry, jakey’, like a good girl.”

and jake’s eyes sparkle, for a fleeting moment, when your fingers claw at his thighs—like you needed him to save you, to hold you, to pull you away from riki’s rough hands that don’t know a single thing about your body in the way his do.

yet, he doesn’t.

he leaves you there, in his lap, with his hand still tangled in your hair—whining and crying as his best friend fucks you stupid.

“i-i’m sorry, jake, i’m sorry!” you sniffle, vision blurry with tears, which only serves as a cue for jake to have you drooling all over his dick again; he brings your glossy lips to his swollen tip, and you part them like clockwork, tongue pressing flat against his pulsing veins.

jake’s moaning shamelessly now. your warm, loving mouth bobs up and down, choking when riki slams his hips a little too hard—he feels sick for it, for enjoying the way his cock twitches when riki’s treating you like a stupid fucktoy, and all he can think about is how pretty you look when another fat tear trickles down your cheek and drips onto his thigh.

but instead of comforting you, he just gives you a look that says ‘this is what you wanted’.

it’s simply too much. you feel them both too deep, too fast, too rough, and yet it feels too good for you to plead ‘stop’.

“i’m close, fuck—gonna cum,” riki chokes, eyes locked on the way your lips wrap around jake, so perfect and plump and soft-looking that he almost considers pulling out and demanding jake to swap positions. as hot as that’d be, he’s so achingly close to filling the perfect pussy swallowing him whole, so forgive him if he can’t be that greedy just yet. “shiiit, gonna milk me dry, baby.”

the petname makes your throat tighten around your boyfriend—and of course, that doesn’t go unnoticed. it’s almost comedic how jake feels himself immediately unravelling at it; cock starting to throb, blood rushing to his face watching you still struggle to take the two of them.

you’ll have to practice a little more often. a girl as greedy as you needs to learn to reap what she sows.

“god, jake, can’t believe you’ve kept this from me.” riki pants, jaw hung as he hammers deeper, harder. you can barely hear their conversation, your voice now a muffled mess from the way jake pushes your head down. you hear snippets, though the thoughts quickly dissolve as you feel your orgasm impending—hot and fast, tension stretching thin inside your belly as you feel both of their cocks dragging, mouth and pussy plugged and stretched out.

“didn’t know she was this much of a whore,” jake sighs dreamily, feeling his cock throb, hitting the back of your tight, slick throat. he’s frantic in the way he moves your head, chasing his own high, while riki’s angling his hips just right—brushing against that soft, spongy bundle of nerves that’s learnt a new name tonight. “gonna cum, baby? two’s too much for you?”

riki’s fingers rush to your clit, and the way your body immediately locks up, throat and cunt tightening in tandem… it makes them both groan, and the room soon fills with a cacophony of animalistic groans and muffled whimpers from the girl sandwiched between.

“fuck, yeaaah. take it,” riki gasps, feeling your walls clench around him, like a fucking vacuum. you’re pushing your hips back, meeting him halfway, and for a moment, riki wishes he’d fucked you earlier—even if you were with jake. even if you were with anyone else.

jake’s thighs tense up. his breath stutters, and he feels so fucking dizzy because he can just tell you’re cumming by the way your hands squeeze his.

“good girl,” jake mutters, though it’s barely audible to anyone but himself. “taking us s-so fucking good.”

you’re so cute. searching for him even when you’re full of someone else.

he holds your head down, nose now pressed against the base of his cock, pulsing hard against the back of your throat before his thick, sticky cum paints your mouth in spurts. he feels himself ascend, if only for a moment, as you force yourself not to choke and spit all of him out.

meanwhile, riki rolls his hips, cock bringing you through your high—you’re twitching, thighs tensing as it hits you like a truck, and you swear you start to see an entirely new galaxy when riki finally buries himself to the hilt, tip pressed flush against your womb, his hair a mess as he falls forward, chest warm against your back.

jake watches it all: you, shaking uncontrollably as his best friend fills you up with his own cum—and it should make him sick. it should make him want to punch riki and pry him off of you.

it should. it’s supposed to be filthy. this is supposed to be wrong.

but jake’s eyes are half-lidded, glazing over the two bodies in front of him, scanning. his heart sputters when he sees nishimura riki press a sloppy kiss to the back of your shoulder, sucking, leaving a memory in the form of a purple bruise—oddly enough, his cock only throbs harder, especially when your nails dig into his knuckles.

god, if there is a heaven, let your grace extend to the greedy.

the room is spinning. everything’s hazy, blurry, and your chest heaves in an attempt to even out your breathing. you swallow all of jake’s cum, the thick fluid moving down your oesophagus, slow. riki lies on top of you, big arms caging you in, pressing gentle kisses along your shoulder and upper back.

“my turn.”

you can’t even tell who’s speaking anymore—but it doesn’t really matter, does it?

you feel it all happening: how jake slides your beautiful mouth off of him, hand letting your hair loose. your head drops to the mattress, hips still up in the air when you feel riki’s cock pulling out, both of your cum spilling out of your empty hole. just begging for for him to plug you back up.

god, if there is a heaven, let your grace extend to the greedy.

you find yourself repeating this, over and over.

when you feel jake’s cock plunging into you, haphazard, no longer gentle like he’s always been—and when riki taps his tip against your bottom lip before prying your mouth open with his fingers.

when you end up taking a shower after it’s all done, only to feel two bodies shut you in.

when you’re on your back, hanging off the kitchen counter, face stuffed full of one of the two while the other rolls his hips against yours.

and especially, when you’re beginning to question if you can ever go back to having just one of the two.

© kissued 2026 — do not repost, edit, redistribute or translate my work without prior permission and credit. all my work is strictly fictional and not an accurate representation of these people in real life.

[wonnfavee]

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ㅤㅤ𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗒𝗋𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 ‎ ♩

8068% ✿ 𝗠𝗗𝗡𝗜 stripper reader⠀𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗋𝗂𝗄𝗂 cheating riki is engaged to sooha 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝗂𝗄𝗂⠀mean 2 sooha 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 lap-dance mastrbation (m) 𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗰𝗵!𝗸𝗶 p in v no protection 𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 (𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝖼) slight angst riding 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄 carsex belly buldge 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗅!𝗄𝗂 ៸៸៸

‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍‍ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𝐜𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐮 𝓻𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 .ᐟ

“come on, riki. it’d be fun, wouldn’t it?” jake nagged, shaking his forearm desperately, pointing towards the bright orange sign ‘pyramids’, his lips in a pout and eyes wide. “just think about it, for your bachelor's party, we go in there, strippers all around us in a private room!”

riki’s body slowly got pushed by his other friend, jungwon, inching slowly towards the club. “it’s like your last chance of freedom, riki, it’ll be your last time before you get married, live a little!” he hummed, the orange finally hitting his body. he could hear the don toliver blasting from the outside of the club – he could feel the bass pumping through his chest.

“pyramids…?” he scoffed, raising his eyebrows with suspicion, as he looked between the two grinning men, with a soft sigh, and under no pressure at all, he reached into his back pocket to take out his id card. “fine, but since it’s my bachelor party… i get first dibs.”

the light reflected off jake’s eager and excited grin, staining jungwon’s white shirt. each step of the way, riki held a smile on his face, in all honesty, he didn’t want to marry her, sooha. it was too fast, the agreement, the young love, it was something he would’ve dreamed of in high school, but now he was 25, stuck in something he didn’t want.

with a fina shake of his head and a smirk, riki handed his id to the bouncer, who couldn’t care less about who came and how old they were, unhooking the red rope, glaring them down until they disappeared into the dark.

as the three walked deeper, they could feel their soles peel off the floor – smells of booze, sex and cheap cologne filling their nostrils in an instant, strobe lights cutting through the fog and smokey air, blinding them.

“see, told you it’d be a good idea!” jake yelled directly into his ear, as they sat down at a booth next to the stage. the pole was shining against the dancer’s sweaty, glittery bodies, money being thrown at them as if they were nothing, just a meer tool of entertainment.

jungwon let out a low whistle as he noticed a hostess in an outfit that was more skin than any sort of fabric approach them with a smile and in rollerskates.

“hiya!” she exclaimed cheerfully, sliding menu’s to the three hungry men. “welcome to the pyramid, i’m your host for tonight, wh’d you like to take a look at the food menu or… our exclusive one?” she hummed, leaning against the sticky table, her cleavage practically in jungwon’s face while waving the bunny shaped paper.

“exclusive.” jake said a little too fast, eyes not once looking up at her face, as he wiped the drool from his lips, “we’ll take the exclusive one.”

the woman giggled, sliding it slowly against the table before skating away, not forgetting to blow a kiss towards the flustered jungwon.

“i’m dibsing her, you got that?” he murmured, eyes lingering on her uncovered behind, as he pointed at the other men, who were laughing at the sight of his chub in his jeans. jungwon’s hands didn’t even drop to hide it – rather, he was trying to flex it, to attract attention, even.

both riki and jake threw their hands up as a surrender, a way to back off of jungwon’s claim as they searched the menu. jake’s smile grew wide as he saw the name of one of the, as the club would call it, ‘desserts’, puppy.

with a giddy smile, he finally slid the menu to riki with a wink, finger lingering on the woman he thought riki would’ve liked – and oh boy was jake more than right. – you. on the paper, you were titled as ‘cleo’.

he swore he had never seen such beauty, not when sooha was in high school, and certainly not now. he could feel his pants tighten up, the fabric feeling heavy against his boner. “her. i want– no, need her.” he hitched.

he couldn't care less about the laughter from the other two men, as he raised his hand up almost at the speed of light to call the host back, the sound of skating filling his ears as she arrived once again.

“what can i do for you gentlemen?” she hummed, resting her hand on jungwon’s shoulder, lightly squeezing, feeling how tense he is. “i see you’re looking at our exclusive menu, wanna order one of our ‘desserts’?”

“please.” jungwon whined, looking up at the woman with almost glossy eyes. “We’ll order them, for me i want you, for jake – the brunette, we want ‘puppy’ and for this… soon-to-be husband, we want ‘cleo’.”

“soon-to-be husband, aye?” the woman smiled brightly, grabbing jungwon’s wrist, guiding his hand around her waist. “why don’t ya follow me, handsomes?” she hummed, slowly skating towards a velvety pink curtain, holding it open for them. “room 109, will be there shortly!”

she skated past the men, further down the hall, where a door sat, labelled ‘desserts’ in glowing pink lights. it was… fitting to say the least.

the hallway had absorbed the club’s music, the bass disappearing to be replaced with a low thrum. the air now cooler and laced with a perfume that did little to mask the scent of sweat and salty sex.

the walls were drapped with velvety curtains – ones mixed with deep reds and golds, each of them hiding a private room behind them, the number 109 glinting softly under the dim lights.

jungwon pushed the curtain aside with eagerness, revealing a heavy black metal door, which made him groan for the hard labour to get into the room. he nudged it open with his arm, finally revealing the room.

it was one that was of medium sized, as in the room there was a red-velvet sofa wrapping around the walls, as in the center a stage was lit with a silver pole straight through the middle, walls dusted in glitters. the air conditioner was placed on full, raising the hair’s along riki’s arm.

“last change of freedom?” riki murmured to himself, as he slid into the booth, feeling the velvet of the sofa to be cold and slightly sticky.

“oh come on, ki, don’t look so grossed out,” jake laughed, slapping his shoulder as he sat away from him, manspreading. “‘yer bout to have an experience even your fiancee would never give you, y’know about her preaching sex after marriage.”

the word ‘fiancee’ didn’t hurt as much as riki thought it would, sooha. her smiling face, the way she’d plan the wedding from the first day they started dating in high school, to the pressure in her voice when they talked about kids.

it was too much, it felt like a room too small for two. without a word, he grabbed the bottle of cheap wine from the icebucket in the center of the table, pouring a generous glass – downing it in one go.

jungwon and jake let out low whistles as they watched riki drink his, what he’d like to say, ‘sorrows’ away. before riki could pour a third or fourth glass, the curtains swished open a loud shrill.

the hostess had skated in first, playful as she winked at jungwon, who instantly sat up straighter, legs spread wider as he winked back. behind her, came in two other women – the one’s that the group had ‘ordered’.

next, was a women with her hair in twin pigtails as she bounced into the room, a leather collar sat against her neck with a leash connected, which she placed in jake's hand, before kneeling between his thighs and nuzzling his knee with a grin. “woof,” she hummed, voice playful.

jakes face lit up as he curled the leather between his fist, pulling it closer to him, so her palms could sit against his thigh. “hey there, puppy.”

riki’s legs bounced in anticipation as he waited for you to enter. was he going to get catfished? did you not look like yourself? did he order the wrong person–

the air shifted as you entered, and riki’s heart had stopped entirely.

the meny description and photo did you no justice, ‘cleo’. you moved with a seductive elegance that was oddly hot with the tacky setting around you. your eyes were lined with black, smoky eyeshadow, which found riki’s own immediately.

a small knowing smile rested on your lips, not one of a performative grin of the hostess, or the dumb one of your coworker – puppy – but something more quieter. the gold fabric of your outfit barely covering anything, the onlything under was the small bikini set.

riki felt the air leave his lungs, if his pants couldn’t get tighter before, they were even tighter now. it was a feeling of unsettling desire and recognition, as if he’d been waiting for a moment like this his whole life. as if he had dreamed of seeing you walk through those curtains, as he waited in the sticky booth.

“must be the almost-husband” you hummed, voice dropping low, but enough to cut through the club’s obnoxious music. you didn’t wait for an invitation, instead you slid beside him on the sticky velvet, leg brushing his as you rested your hand on his bicep – a warm jolt sliding through him.

“that’s me,” riki managed, voice a slight mumble, and rougher than he needed it to be. he took a quick sip of wine from the bottle itself.

to the left, he had noticed jake’s fly already down, as he pulled ‘puppy’s’ leash upward – a soft gagging sound filling his ears.

to his right, he sees the hostess from before, now slowly grinding the bikini bottoms she wore against jungwon’s boner, his face stuffed between her bare breasts as her top hung god knows where.

riki made a face of disgust at the sight, before looking back at you with a sigh – a bubble of silence forming between the two of you. you studied him, head tilting with a squint of your eyes. he could smell the lotus from your perfume.

“you don’t seem very… happy,” you hummed, finger tracing the soft lines of his muscles, a pout highlighting the gloss of your lips. “most bachelor parties are… eager. well, the groomsmen are, and clearly yours are ecstatic about this.”

riki let out a short laugh, deprived of any sort of humour. “maybe i’m not most bachelors.”

“clearly,” you coughed out, gaze direct. “what’s her name?”

the air between the two of you filled with something out of place, one that stunned him to the point he couldn’t hide. “sooha,” he mumbled, voice as soft as a secret.

“do you love her?”

he should’ve been offended by your words. should’ve said it wasn’t any of your business, that he was paying you to get his dick wet and not a therapy session. but the wine he downed echoed in his mind, like he needed to tell you. the view of the glowing orange sign, etched into his head, had felt like the point of no return – all it did was loosen his mouth.

“i did. once. or i thought i did, now it just feels… like a chore.”

you nodded slowly, as if he had confirmed your speculations, which he had. “a chore? that’s a strange way of saying the beginning.” your body moved closer to his, breasts pressing against his forearm, lips close to his face, and for a wild second, he thought you were going to kiss him. instead, you whispered against his cheek, breath hot in the cool air, “do you want to be free, mr groom-to-be?”

he froze at your words, reality hitting him. he was engaged. he was going to have a wife in three months time, what was he doing at a strip club. yet, he didn’t feel any sort of sadness, the way you said it, like a spell, it made his skin spike.

he swallowed the lump in his throat, glancing down at your shining lips. “what are you offering?” he whispered back, heart hammering against his ribs.

your smile returned, one more smirk and mischievous like than enjoyment. you stood up, extending a hand – gold fabric of your outfit shimmering against the lights. “a dance. for the almost-husband, a story for the future. maybe something more.”

hypnotized, he placed his hand in yours, your skin cooler than the aircon. you led him past the stage, pushing open the heavy door with your shoulder, leaving the room with him. in the back, he could hear the wolf whistles of his friends, and jakes moans.

the air had shifted as you dragged him past every repeating door, only to push the one at the end of the hallway open, one revealing a bed – a heart shaped bed, decorated in hot pinks and reds.

your hand had shoved him down onto the bed, letting him lay down against the soft covers, hips instantly straddling his waist, as heavy breathing filled the room. the music had seemed to shift, through riki’s head, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked. not sooha. not his friends. not the wedding, nor the future. but you and how your body swayed.

you began to move, to the rhythm of whatever song was echoing in the speakers from the stage. each beat a guide of your hips as your lower half moved slowly against riki’s half-hardened cock.

this wasn’t your usual routine, you had rarely even brought anyone back here, unlike some of your co-workers. you weren’t fast, nor were you what people would call ‘boring’. your hands stayed idle against his upper abdomen, soft panting escaping both of your lips. a soft, vulnerable moan escaped your lips with the arch of your back. you could feel your bottoms slick up, your stomach pooling with desire.

riki’s hands go to grip your wrist, pushing them higher against his body, resting on his chest – as if he wants you to do more than grinding against his hard-on. and you listened, customer’s always right, arent they?

your fingers pressed against his hard nipples through the button-up, earning a loud groan from his lips, one that vibrated through your palm. this wasn’t any sort of performative one like a porno you’ve starred in, but it was real. something that burnt under your skin, your urges to strip away from your persona filling your mind.

it wasn’t about ‘cleo’ and him, but you and him, this desperation, a friction. something to spark any relationship between you and him. not his fiance, but you.

“harder,” he rasped, voice wrecked in way’s you’ve never heard from any man. his hands left your wrist, sliding down your sides to grip your hips, fingers digging into your bare skin. he took over each thrusts, guiding your own movement as his thrusts meet your grinds with something that stole air from your lungs.

the sound of fabric rustling and the bed creaking from beneath you, combined with the slick sound of fabric on fabric, too lewd to even comprehend. you could feel the wet heat browning between you, a small patch developing on your bottom and riki’s jeans.

his earlier vulnerability now gone and consumed with a hunger. he watched your face, from how your lips parted and how your eyes fluttered close – he was trying to memorise every reaction he pulled from you, like he’d never see you again. it wasn’t about the money or customer service anymore, this was about pleasure.

“take it off,” he growled, eyes glancing down at the buttons of his own shirt, where small water particles dampened.

a shiver of anticipation ran down your spine, there was a rule for everyone: never more than a dance, never more than a blowjob. the real treat was served somewhere else, for a much larger price range and with stricter views. but, to you, the rule book was a myth; it was gone in an instant when you saw him walk through the door.

your fingers, which were trembling now, not from any sort of fear, but a need that mirrored his, went to work on the buttons. one. two. three. with each one removed, more of his torso was revealed to you, the slightly tanned skin, hard planes of his stomach, a fair trail of dark hair leading down to his pants.

you pushed the fabric aside, letting him shrug it off his shoulders, letting it pool behind him on the pink sheets. the sight of him under the amber lights was more clearer than any sort of fantasy in your mind or sold.

you let your hands map the warmth of his skin, nails scrapping lightly against his nipples, a hiss escaping his lips, as he let his head fall back against the velvet on the bed.

“your turn,” he grunted, gaze dropping to the flimsy gold ties that held your top together, his words werent a request, but a demand.

every part of your body screamed at you, telling you no, don’t. you could lose your job. hostess. management. every deal you could’ve gotten. but it was too late, you’ve already crossed the line of no turning back, the pounding in your ears matching the bass of the music.

holding his gaze, your fingers reached back, fumbling with the string before pulling, gold fabric loosening in an instant. the top slid down from your chest to riki’s lower abdomen, the cool air instant hitting your perked nipples.

his breath hitched in awe, a hunger in his eyes replaced with something for a second, maybe adoration, or even some sort of warmth. “god,” he whispered, the words a prayer on his tongue.

the hands from your waist slid up to your chest, his warm and rough hands cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your hard nipples. your body arched into his hands, a needy and genuine sound tearing through your throat as you rocked against him, layers of clothing between your lower bodies feeling like a barrier.

outside the room – thumping music, other girls with elder men, and the clock ticking of his old life – had ceased to exist. there was only the seeking want of your bodies, the slick of leaking heat, and the taste of red wine and sweat on hus lips when you had finally crashed your mouth to his, the kiss all tongue, teeth and a desperate oxygen.

it was a kiss that felt less like a promise and reckoning, but more of the beginning of something new, something more.

he broke the kiss, panting hot air as he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes wild and dilated. “tell me your name,” he demanded, voice rough against your lips. “your real one, please.”

the words made you swallow a thick lump, your own breath coming in short of gasps. you could lie, you should lie. but between the two of you, you knew you didn’t want to. after you gave him a lap dance on a heart-shaped bed, after you flashed your tits to him, with your skin under his hands, and his wrecked future in the heat between the both of you, it felt like the only thing you should tell him.

you exhaled a shaky breath, opening your mouth to answer. “i’m–”

“who the fuck is in there? hurry up! i have a client here, and you know the policy, you’ve been in there for more than 15 minutes!”

you gasped at your co-worker's words, pushing riki down with some sort of secrecy. “give me a second, i’m finishing up!” you lied with an apologetic look down at riki, whose eyebrows furrowed.

riki, with a disgruntled look and almost regret, reached into his wallet, pulling out a thick wad of bills, he didn’t count it, but rather pushed you off his body and threw the cash at you. green bills flying over the place as he stormed out of the room in a rage, not even bothering to thank you – leaving you half naked, door wide open with your co-worker and her client staring in disbelief.

as riki walked down the hallway, his mind raced with emotions, regret, confusion, rage. he couldn’t place a finger on it, his hand pushed the door to room 109 with a loud bang, making every single person in there jump.

“we’re leaving,” he growled out, cheeks flushed red.

the silence was deafening; if something from outside had even dropped, you would be able to hear it.

jake was the first one to speak, letting out a low whistle as he looked him up and down, eyes lingering on his boner and the wet stain. “damn, ki. she… wow, she did a number on you.” he raised an eyebrow, finally looking back at his mad expression.

jungwon chirped in, hand rubbing the hostess's lower back softly. “you okay, man? you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“we are leaving.” his voice left no room for any sort of argument, as he turned on his heel, expecting the other two men to follow him, which they did, saying goodbye to their ‘desserts’ with a kiss and a call me motion.

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀˚　　　✦　　　.　　˚　 . ⠀⠀♪ ˚

a month goes by, and riki could still feel the ghost of your lotus perfume on his skin.

he say stiffly on the black leather sofa in the apartment he shared with sooha, morning news droning on about trafficking, local politics and assumed doxxing of the president. the soft sunlight streamed through the blinds, small specks of dust floating.

everything was clean, quiet, how they should be. a photo of the couple, ‘smiling’ at a strawberry garden, sat on the shelf close by the television. it felt like the perfect life, or what should be perfect.

sooha scooted closer, her head an uncomfortable weight on his shoulder as her finger hooked around the string of his hoodie, giving it a soft tug. “they’re saying it’ll rain later,” she hummed, her voice soft with what many would consider as ‘wifey material’. “maybe we should move in the sofa on the patio, and don’t forget about the cake tasting at three.”

he made a noncommittal grunt in his throat, eyes fixed on the news reporters moving lips, yet nothing clicked in his brain, mind elsewhere and trapped in the memory of the heartshapped bed.

the feeling of it – the sticky leather under his thighs, to the plush hot pink of the bed. the smell of a perfume cut by his own adrenaline that was almost haunting, how the lotus scent had clung to him as he made his way back to the hotel.

the sound, not the television, but the wet rustle of fabrics, a sharp inhale, a moan that wasn’t fake, and a voice, one low, like you’ve had this happen to you before, asking, “do you want to be free, mr groom-to-be?” you didn’t know his name, and he felt attached.

“riki?” sooha’s voice rang straight through the memory, tingling with an annoying and gentle concern. “honey, you’re tensing up again. is it work? all the merger stuff?”

she shifted to look up at him, her thigh wrapping on his as her eyes were wide and caring. he forced himself to meet her gaze, offering a a smile that was too fake to even be classified as one, but sooha, blinded by love, didn’t notice it. “yeah. just… work, y’know?” he huffed, looking back up at the television. “alot on my mind.”

to be fair, it wasn’t a complete lie, he was clouded with the merger at his frim. but, it wasn’t the main thing that was occupying his thoughts, the main thing was the black, smoky eyeshadow and the way her hips moved like she was trying to make him forget about sooha.

he saw it every night when his eyes shut tight. not the full ordeal, but fragments of the events. the way your back arched as his hands cupped your chest. the way your lips parted as you moaned. the face you made as he threw his money at you in a rage, your skin unde his palms.

it was almost devastating how much he missed the moment when you were bare from chest to your waist, the way in his mind, you were his and he was yours. he’d replay the moment he’d asked you for your real name a thousand times, the silence before you wouldve answered only to be ruined with his own panic.

‘we are leaving.’

he’d fled, tear himself from the room, from you, as if the building was burning down. he’d dragged out a confused jake and a whiney jungwon into the cold, ashy, night time air, the neon orange sign now a glow on their back.

he’d spent the cab ride to the hotel in silence, his body radiating a desired heat that he couldn’t ever solve.

and for what? to return to this bullshit of a ‘home’. to mornings on a black leather sofa that resembled the booths where you first met. to cake tasting and moving furniture. to no sex what so ever, and a future that he could see before him. one very boring, very predictable.

sooha’s phone buzzed against her lap, a reminder of the cake tasting flashing against the screen – her wallpaper a photo of the two of them when they first met in high-school. her smile widened at the sight. “the baker said she has a new lotus buttercream she want’s us to try. sounds perfect for out wedding doesn’t it?”

lotus. those words felt absurd, annoying. and in a way, painstaking – thats what you smelt like, it practically made his teeth ache. he could vividly see the wine in the ice bucket, the way the taste of grape burned his throat.

“yeah, perfect.” he grumbled, words feeling more forceful than not.

he gently pushed her off, pretending to stretch his limbs. “i’m gonna grab a shower before the day gets going, okay?”

sooha’s eye’s widened at his actions, before letting out a sigh. it must’ve been stress, yeah, stress. “okay, honey. don’t take long we have to–”

“i know, cake tasting. stop repeating yourself.” he sighed, one more aggressive than before as he walked away, disappearing down the hallway.

he braced his hands against the wall of the shower, allowing the spray of water that he’d think is the perfect temperature, which is now more colder than usual, his head hanging in an emotion he couldn’t put his finger on.

the water couldn’t wash it away, the memory of you crawled in your skin, in his brain.

'do you want to be free?'

he had left the club that night thinking he was running away from any regret, from any mistakes. but, it cost him a month of sleepless nights and distracted him from his job, his annoying fiance, and the truth.

he didn’t run away, rather back to the cage he was trapped in for the rest of his life.

when he closed his eyes, he didn’t see sooha’s face or the lotus cake. he saw the velvety curtains, the glowing numbers of 109. he saw a pair of eyes that looked at him and saw the man trapped inside something he didn’t want to be a part of. he could see his own hand, the money you sat in as a substitute for what he’d really wanted to give you – you being on the sofa instead of sooha.

once he opened his eyes once again, all he could see was the raging boner he sported against his stomach. with a loud groan, his rough hands wrapped around his cock, slowly stroking up and down.

his fingers traced each vein as he grunted, the image of you imprinted in his mind. he imagined how you would look on your knees, how your pretty lips would wrap around his cock. his fist ran up and down his cock faster, to the point he could see stars.

“fuck, right there…” he moaned to himself, head thrown back as he felt his stomach churn, before a loud groan escaped his lips, cum dribbling out from the head of his cock before falling onto the tiled ground, soft splats echoed through out the bathroom only to be drowned out by the sound of water.

he didn’t want to open his eyes, yet he had to eventually. he wasn’t in that fantasy land he dreamed of, rather he was back in the shower, one of the apartment he shared with sooha. with a final breath, he turned off the water – the ghost of the lotus scent still lingering in the air.

and for the first time within a month, the answer he was looking for was clear: he needed you, this instant. he loved you, as crazy as it sounded, he wanted you, not sooha.

the steam clung to the tiles, droplets traced a slow path downwards as riki stood there, towel wrapped low around his wairs, his black hair damn against his neck.

he walked out of the bathroom, plush carpet muffling his steps against the carpet. sooha, who was still sitting on the sofa, was now scrolling through her phone, most likely looking at the floral arrangements and seating plan.

the morning light caught the tiny diamond of her engagement ring, sending a soft glittering shimmer across the wall.

“sooha.”

his voice was quiet, yet it wasn’t his usual nervous calm voice. it held more power, confidence, something that was going to destroy her.

she looked up from her phone, smile wide as if she was about to comment on the flower arrangements, before faltering at the sight of riki’s face.

“we need to talk.” he stated bluntly, eyes dark. “now.”

the next hour was a blur of straight foward sentences which were met with silence and silent tears. he hadn’t mentioned you, nor the club. no, that would’ve been wrong. he spoke of not feeling the spark after 10 years, the feeling that he was living a life made for someone else.

he had used words such as “unfair to you” as well as “finding myself”, which were true in their own aspects, but felt fake and hollow even to him.

they were polite and acceptable to the public eye, but to speak the truth, what he really meant was: ‘i’ve met a woman at a strip club that jake and won dragged me to, she showed me what it felt like to be seen, to actually get my dick wet unlike you and your rules. i hate it, i hate how i was living under your shadow. i can’t deal with it anymore.’

he packed a single large bag, movements swift and fast, he wanted to leave the dumpster fire as fast as he could, while sooha sat shivering on the edge of what used to be their bed, face red and hot from tears and sorrow.

as he left, he didn’t look back, nor did he feel any guilt. rather, he felt a sense of excitement and giddyness for the first time in forever. he didn’t head straight to jake or jungwon’s place. they would’ve welcomed him, sure, but with shit eating grins, which would’ve made him was to punch their perfect faces.

instead, he drove.

the city blurred past his car windows, each house in the neighbourhood blending into one as he drove further and further away into the afternoon. the sky was a orange, the neon orange sign now off, building looking deserted and empty in the daylight.

his heart hammered against his ribs, this was fucking insane. you were a fantasy for men, a persona. you wouldn’t be there, nor would you remember him. you wouldn’t care.

but something in his mind pushed him. he had to know, had to see if the lotus was real or just a trick of his mind, his desperation.

he parked in the almost empty parking lot, each step towards the entrance feeling heavier and regretful, he could remember it, the fateful night. a bored looking man in a security shirt was smoking by the dumpster, the bud glowing a orange as well.

riki took a large gulp, saliva burning his throat before he approached the man. “i’m looking for someone,” he said bluntly, voice steadier than he felt. “she works here, dances, strips, whatever. goes by the stage name… ‘cleo’?”

the guard took a drag, eyeing riki’s expensive jacket and the panicked and eager look in his eyes. “don’t know ‘er, girls come and go around here.”

“please.” riki reached for his wallet, not for cash to bribe the guard with, but a small reumpled recepit he found ages ago, in the pocket of his jeans. one the back, in a moment of a sort of vulnerability in the first week, he had scribbled information he could remember to the best of his abilities: 109, lotus, cleo. “it’s important.”

the guard, glanced at the pathetic piece of paper before shrugging with almost sympathy. “try coming back after seven, sometimes they come in early to get dolled up. but i ain’t promising ‘thing.”

with a defeated sigh, riki nodded thanking the guy as he dragged his feet to the seven-eleven nearby, purchasing a can of hosegarden and a pathetic sandwich.

the hours until seven felt like forever. he sat in the passenger seat of his car, phone connected to the aux, playing different rnb song’s as he watched the sun set, the sky shifting into tones of orange and pinks that reminded him of the club.

when he saw the first glow of the ‘pyramids’ sign flicker up, he got out, practically running around to the back of the dimly lit alley way, watching figures arrive. different women with large makeup cases. a man carrying a crate of liquor and drugs.

and as he was about to give up, he saw you. you stepping out of a car that was rusted, and modest.

you something casual, the warmth before stripping it all away within a few seconds. your face was free of any sort of dramatic eyeshadow, you looked younger, more real, and even more beautiful than the beauty he saw in the private room. you were checking your phone with a frown etched into your face.

his breath caught, every cell in his body screamed to run to you. to hold you, kiss you. but he froze, the reality crashing down onto him. what the fuck was he doing? stalking a stripper in the alley way? after what, one lap dance? this was the actions of a psycho.

but when you looked up, eyes scanning over the alleyway, passing over him as he was nothing before you did a double take, eyes snapping back.

your body went frigid.

everything had stilled around you, the city sounds, thumping base being tested inside of the club, the flickering of the alley lights – it had all dissolved into the back of your mind. there was only twenty feet of ruined pavement between you and the customer you couldn’t keep your mind off of.

you remembered.

slowly, you tucked your phone into your pocket, face still. you didn’t smile, nor did you look away. you just looked at him, head tilting slightly, the same unnerving look in your eyes. waiting for him to move.

he found his feet moving slowly, before he was sprinting across the alleyway, with a flushed face until he stood before you, bendin g down to catch his breath – the scent of lotus filling your nose, mixing with the clean detergent and smokey air.

it was the real you.

“hi,” he panted, words sounding ridiculous.

“hi,” you replied, voice the same tone that he had first heard when you entered the shared room. it wasn’t a performance, but just you.

“i’m riki.”

“i’m… aware.”

the air filled with an awkward silence, making you bounce on your heels as you waited for his words.

“i left her,” he blurted out, the hard-cold truth spilling out of his mouth. “i called it off– i called off the wedding. i’m… i’m here.”

your eyes squinted at him as you studied his expression, his posture, looking at the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, raw hope with the fearful expression.

you didn’t look triumphant. you didn’t look seductive – just… normal.

“why?” you finally asked, the words almost devastating.

he wanted to say more, for anything to explain the heartbreak of a woman that he had caused, all because of you. all he had was the sharp truth.

“because you asked me if i wanted to be free.” he sighed, taking a shaky breath. “and… the answer is yes, it’s you. always been you. as stupid as it may sound, since the moment you had walked into that room. i completely forgot about her, about everything.”

a slow smile touched your lips, not the persona nor was it something disingenuous, but something softer and more real. it practically lit up your face. you took a small step closer, closing the distance between you. you reached out, not to touch him, but to brush the drop of sweat away from his temple.

“y/n,” you said softly.

his eyes caught yours in confusion, eyebrows furrowed softly. “what?”

“my name is y/n,” you repeated.

his breath hitched for a second. he captured your hand, holding it against his cheek, eyes snapping closed for a second, before opening them wide open, as if he thought he was dreaming. the world not a blur, but rather something else, like it answered a prayer.

“y/n,” he repeated, your name a whisper, a beginning. the solid ground he needed to return to, as if he had known you for years. in the alley, the club, the past – it had melted away. it was only you and the decision he had made.

without a word, he grabbed your wrist, dragging you to his car. you didn’t argue with him, infact, you allowed him to manhandle you, you wanted this – if atleast what you’re thinking would happen is about to happen.

the sound of the back cardoor opened snapped you out of your thoughts. you looked up from the concret floor, tracing the line of his body, from his feet, to his long legs, to his undeniable hard on to his flushed face.

he was giving you a chance to leave – but you didn’t. you practically jumped in to the car, crawling against the soft leather of the seats, ass shaking lightly as an invitation for riki. and he didn’t hesitate at it.

he climbed in behind you, his lankyness never a trouble for stuff involving sex. the door slammed shut with a soft jitter, before his hands found your waist, fingerings lingering at the band of your sweats.

with a moan and a nod, he smirked, fingers dipping under the waistband of your pants, pushing them down to your knees – revealing what he had missed the first time. the smell of your arousal instantly hit his nose, making him moan.

he could see the damp spot against the thin fabric that covered nothing, his thumb slowly rubbing your needy hole. “already so wet for me…” he mumbled to himself, his teeth coming to bite the soft flesh of your ass.

“can’t wait to taste this sweet thing…” he coo’d, pushing the small fabric to the side, landing a small kiss against the wetness of your hole. the words hung in the air as he breathed against your skin.

a high, broken sound tore from your throat, one of pure sensation. your fingers gripped the cool leather of the car seats as his tongue traced slow circles around the your gasping hole – his thumb slowly finding your clit, matching the motion of his tongue against your hole.

your legs thrashed softly, only to be held down by riki’s free hand as his tongue pushed into you, the hot muscle pressed inside you with a relentless pace. the air being thick with the sound of your shared breaths and the slick of his mouth on you.

he let out a low hum, vibrating against your core – making you jolt upwards, the strength in your arms faltering as your face planted onto the seats. the grip firm against your thigh as his tongue and thumb worked together to get your stomach churning – perfect circles with sent shocks up your spine.

“riki–” you gasped, his name a plea and prayer that dissolved into a moan as his free hand slid from your thigh to your hip, his nails digging into the plush of your skin, angling you just to you could take his tongue deeper.

his eyes were shut tight, drinking you in, tasting you as if it was his last meal he’d ever eat, every choked-off cry and moan was music to his ears.

he had pulled back, just enough to speak, voice ragged and breath hot against your soaked skin. “so… fucking good… you taste so delicious, baby.” before you could say anything, he was back on you again. his tongue flat, rough and broad all at once lapping up every bit of your slick before pushing it back inside, deeper than the last, as if he couldn’t get enough.

everything outside the car was a blur, fading into the sensation of his mouth and pressure of his thumb. you could feel your stomach coil, a pressure that you needed to release asap. “riki–! i– i need too–” you gasped, back arching in desperation for more.

“fuck, cum on my face–” he grunted, kissing your clit before delving in for more. his grunts muffled by your puffy pussy. with his words, you felt your stomach let go – walls tightening around the muscle of his tongue and dripping your release onto it.

not once did he let go, his mouth attached to you as if he was made for it. the sensation was almost too much to the point you had to use your hand to push him off your pussy – even then he was reluctant.

“fu–ck riki,” you panted, chest heaving as you yelped at the stinging of cool air against your twitching pussy. “as much as i want you to eat me… fuck, out. i need you in me…” you gasped.

if riki wasn’t hard before, he was certainly harder than ever now. without a word, he had spat against your pussy, watching it glid down to your pulsing hole, his middle and index finger slowly moving in and out, curling to find the spot that would make you cry.

with a few thrusts of his fingers, you let out a whine, one embarrassing even for you. your hands clasped around your mouth as a way to shut yourself up, before riki reached over to pin your hands against your back. “don’t cover your mouth, ‘wanna hear you and how good you take me.”

he pulled out his fingers once he thought you were ready, a whimper escaping your lips at the lose of him – only to shut up at the sound of his tip slapping against his lower abdomen. with a soft gulp, you peaked over your shoulder to look at him – and fuck, he was big.

you could remember how he looked a month ago, but this was even better. the way riki’s body was still toned – maybe even more than last time, that path of hair now slightly thicker, the glimpse of a new tattoo on his side. it was everything you dreamed of.

you pushed your ass backwards, as if to say you were ready, earning a chuckle from the man. “‘yer gonna have to work for it, pretty.” he hummed, taking a seat against the leather, bringing you to straddle his lap.

you let out another whine at his words, work for it? that was ridiculous, atleast thats what your brain thought. your hands went straight to work, stroking the tip of his cock softly before hovering over him, your slick running down your thighs as you felt the thick head enter you.

as you slowly sank down on him, you both let out a sharp moan and groan in unison, your stomach feeling more fuller than ever.

“oh god–” you cried as you felt him poke your cervix, your walls stretching to fit him – his stupidly perfect, big cock that made your head spin. for a moment, you just stayed there, sat there impaled and trembling – every singly throb and twitch of his cock making you moan softly.

his rough hands, oh how you missed them, held your hips steady, not letting you move as he rested his forehead against his shoulder as a low rumble escaped his chest. “so fucking tight… just– sit. let me feel you.”

he was trying his best not to fuck you right there. you unintentionally clenched around him, walls squeezing his cock as a plea. he groaned, hot breath against your clothed shoulder, fingers digging into your skin under the sweater. “that’s it… just like that. show me how much you want it.”

slowly, he began to guide you, his fingers digging into your hips that’ll leave bruises for the next day, lifting you up until it was only the head that remained, before pushing you down on his dick, making your stomach burn.

his eyes were locked to where you were both joined, watching your slick coat him everytime you weakly pushed up and down, a soft foam forming between you two. “that’s it, pretty. work for it – show me you’re mine.” his voice was dark and possessive.

his panting hit your neck before his teeth found your skin, biting against the salt, marking you and claming you with every slow stroke.

a hand slid from your waist, up your stomach, to your breast, his thumb flicking your nipple through your thing bra, a string of moans escaping your lips as you gripped his shoulder, leaving scratch marks with your nails.

“ki–” you whined, hips tired yet still going. you could feel the skin wrap around his cock against your stomach – mind dizzy.

your voice made him growl, his eyes dark with an animalistic intent. before he could control himself, he set himself at a pistoning pace – his thrusts harsh and rough, the tip of his head gliding up your cervix slowly.

“riki–riki–” you gasped, his name a prayer on your tongue as you felt tears prick up in the corner of your eye.

your stomach felt full and heavy, you felt your orgasm slowly leak against his cock, your tits jiggling under one of his hands and the car rocking violently – but you couldn’t care less. neither of you did.

“oh fuck– y/n,” he grunted, his thrusts harsh but sloppy as he felt his orgasm – his chest and balls tightening. “‘m gonna cum in you– fuck, breed you– so you don’t have to come and work here.” he growled, biting your neck and leaving marks.

“pleasepleaseplease–” you gasped, eyes widening as you felt a gush of liquid escape you, soaking riki’s cock and the leather seats under you both. drool leaking from your mouth as you felt him thrust three more times before his hot seed spilled deep into you.

both of your pants filled the car, the smell of sex and fogged up windows harsh evidence of it. before you could think about it, your lips latched onto his, tasting yourself on his tongue. a rough groan vibrated against his chest into yours as you made out with him, his fingers cradled your jaw as he deepened the kiss. it was messy and possessive.

he pulled away with a smirk, eyes heavy. “you liked that,” he breathed against your lips, his thumb brushed your cheek, still damp from earlier and you weren’t sure if it was swear or something else. “could feel you falling apart on my cock.” he rumbled, hooking your underarms softly to pull you off his chub.

“come on, sweetheart. you still gotta make money, yeah? for us.” he hummed, sliding your panties back to normal, watching how the cum slowly leaks through – yet he could care less, nor could you. his fingers ran through your fingers softly, flattening it out to atleast look presentable.

“go get dolled up for me, okay? i’ll watch you from the booth’s, 'cleo'.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀˚　　　✦　　　.　　˚　 . ⠀⠀♪ ˚

𑄝 @hoonsocks @gyuzies @ewstain @haruawya @renwon @yvampyr @nishisgirll @nanilis @kikidoul @saeivra @ni-k1ttie @unicornglitt3rrbtvch @vprslzt @kissued @dathappygoluckymango @leakingjaywon @enpyshgirlyy0812 @emilyisntreal @tzuyusyaoon @kaitheo @writtenbyyoongu @aamirazxx @ddiore @moonf1owerr @blindingvenomss @strwberie

[wonnfavee]

i jsut busted a nut

[wonnfavee]

im so not updated but im vv confused w all the posts and idk where they rooted from so if anyone is kind enough to inform me i'd really appreciate it so i can become aware :,)

[hanniehaeo]

our pillow princess

synopsis... texts with your two boyfriends, jake and sunghoon pt.2! this is part two of send whimpering videos, but can be read on it's own!

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ pairing... enhypen jake&sunghoon!bfs x reader

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ genre... smau, fluff, smut

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ trigger/content warning... very very very suggestive language, nsfw, minors dni, puppy as a nickname, they are all freaks, mpreg, ky$ joke, use of babyboy, c0ck, etc.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ please consider liking, commenting, or reblogging!

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a/n... i don't know if i love this one, but it was so fun to write the first time, i had to run it back <33 happy early valentines for my engenes! i have a svthub valentines collab coming up, so please look forward to that too! as always, thank you everyone for reading, and have a great day (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

first slide inspired by @ori2ari (*¯︶¯*)

hanniehaeo navi 𝜗𝜚 taglist

© intellectual property belongs to hanniehaeo 2026

images belong to original owners; the work isn't an accurate representation of reality

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૮ ․ ․ ྀིა taglist: @livelaughloveseventeen @coupsarchive @choco-scoups @markoplolo @strawberry-yeo @minorwithchampagneproblems @shotovhs

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divider by: @cursed-carmine

[wonnfavee]

OH MY GOSH THERES A PART TWOWIEFJSBD