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F.R.I.E.N.D.S (1994-2004) ☕ The One With The Cop

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"LEGALLY BLONDE" 2001, dir. Robert Luketic

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Twisters (2024) dir. Lee Isaac Chung

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4 - Certainly A Dare

Part 5

The Hollywood Profiler

- Please leave comments and reblogs with feedback are always appreciated ❤️

Tag list - @gpsmississippihippie @rootedinrevisions s @kmc1989 @elenavampire21 @frost-queen

@jssmississippihipie helped with this idea

The fluorescent lights of the makeshift mess hall hummed, a stark contrast to the dramatic explosions and gunfire we’d played out all day. My shoulders ached, my brain was buzzing with potential plot holes for the ‘scenes’ I was supposedly writing, and honestly, a cold beer was calling my name louder than any director. As the cast and crew of ‘Crimson Divide’ started to filter in, the din of tired chatter slowly morphed into something more relaxed, more human.

“Addi! Over here!” Chase’s voice cut through the noise, annoyingly bright even after a fifteen-hour shoot. My younger brother, bless his energetic heart, was already sprawled on a worn-out couch, surrounded by what looked like half the stunt team and a few of the supporting actors.

I walked over, managing a tired smile. “You’re practically bubbling. Did you get to blow something up today without supervision?”

He grinned, taking a swig from his bottle. “Better! I convinced Jed to let me try that quad bike jump. Almost wiped out, but hey, I lived.”

Rolling my eyes, I sank into an armchair next to him, scanning the room. That’s when I saw him. Glen. He was leaning against the doorway, chatting animatedly with the lead actress, a genuine smile on his face. Even from across the room, the way he held himself, the slight crinkle around his eyes when he laughed – it pulled at something inside me. We’d only known each other a few weeks, ever since Chase had practically shoved us into an awkward introduction at a coffee shop I’d been staking out. “This is my sister, Addi! She’s like, a super smart writer person. And this is Glen! He’s the star of the movie and totally cool.” His words had been mortifying, but Glen had just laughed, a warm, deep sound, and shaken my hand. “Nice to meet you, super smart writer person,” he’d said, and I’d felt my cheeks flush. Professional, Addi. Remember your cover.

“Alright, who’s up for some classic fun?” a booming voice, belonging to Big Mike, our head of security, cut through the air. “Truth or Dare!”

A chorus of groans and cheers erupted. I leaned back, internally debating if I could feign a sudden onset of fatigue. My mission here was critical, undercover as a screenwriter, searching for a serial killer who seemed to be targeting film crew members. Getting too involved, especially with the main cast, was a risk. But then again, blending in was key.

“Okay, Spinner, you’re first!” Mike pointed at a lanky grip.

The game started, a mishmash of silly dares and awkward truths. Beth, one of the costume designers, had to sing the national anthem backwards. Daryl, the second AD, admitted to having a crush on the catering manager. Laughter filled the room, easing the tension of the day. Then it was Chase’s turn. He swirled the bottle, eyes twinkling mischievously. It landed squarely on… Glen.

“Truth or Dare, big shot?” Chase challenged, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He’d probably noticed the subtle shifts in conversation, the lingering eye contact between Glen and me. Brothers were infuriatingly perceptive sometimes.

Glen pushed off the doorframe, a confident smile on his face. “Dare, obviously. You know me, Chase. Never one to back down.”

A flutter started in my stomach. Please don’t be anything too embarrassing. Please don’t involve me. My internal monologue was already failing.

Chase’s eyes darted from Glen to me, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across his face. “I dare you,” he enunciated slowly, drawing out the suspense, “to kiss Addi.”

The room went silent for a beat, followed by a collective gasp, then a flurry of excited murmurs. My blood ran cold, then hot. My cheeks burned. I wanted to strangle Chase. This is not part of the plan, you idiot! Glen’s gaze met mine. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly replaced by that familiar, charming confidence. He took a single step forward, then another, closing the distance between us. My mind raced, weighing the options. Refuse? Make a scene? That would draw attention, make me stand out, possibly compromise my cover. Accept? It was just a dare. A performance. As a ‘screenwriter’ I should be able to handle a little drama.

He stopped in front of me, tall and radiating warmth. His eyes, a mesmerizing mix of blue and green, held mine. “Well, Addi?” he murmured, a low, playful challenge in his voice. “Up for a dare?”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Chase, you are such a menace,” I managed, my voice a little shakier than I liked.

“Just a little fun!” Chase crowed, clearly enjoying himself immensely. “Come on, for the sake of the game!”

Glen chuckled, a deep rumble that vibrated through me. He reached out, his hand gently cupping my jaw. His thumb brushed over my cheekbone, sending a jolt through me that had nothing to do with adrenaline or FBI training. “If you’re okay with it,” he said, his voice softer now, for my ears only.

My logic, usually so sharp and precise, short-circuited. My gaze flickered to his lips, then back to his eyes. This was just a show. Right?

“Fine,” I breathed, barely audible. “For the game.”

A triumphant smile touched his lips, almost imperceptible. Then, he leaned in. It wasn’t a gentle peck. It wasn’t a quick brush of lips. As his mouth met mine, it was firm, confident, and surprisingly… thorough. His arm went around my waist, pulling me closer until there was barely any space between us. My hands, which I hadn’t realized were clenched, instinctively went to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt.

My mind, usually so disciplined, just emptied. All the complex data, the profiles, the timelines, the potential suspects – vanished. There was only the surprising softness of his lips, the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth spreading through my body. I’d expected a performance, a perfunctory peck to satisfy the dare. But this… this was different. There was an insistent pressure, a gentle exploration that stirred something primal deep within me. I found myself responding, tilting my head just slightly, my lips parting fractionally. The world outside us faded, the excited murmurs of the cast becoming a distant hum. Heat bloomed in my chest, startling me with its intensity. I was completely, utterly caught off guard. I liked it. More than liked it. I was enjoying it so much it scared me.

When he finally pulled back, slowly, reluctantly, the air crackled between us. My breath hitched. His eyes, dark and intense, searched mine, a hint of surprise mirroring my own. Time seemed to drag, the silence in the room deafening.

“Well,” Glen said, his voice a little husky, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “That was certainly a dare.”

My cheeks were definitely a fiery red now. I could feel it. “Uh… yeah.” I finally managed, pulling back slightly, still feeling the ghost of his touch. “Chase, you’re a menace.”

Chase just threw his head back and laughed, a loud, triumphant sound. “Told you there was something there! You gotta admit, Addi, there was something!”

The spell was broken. The room erupted in hoots and whistles. “Get it, Glen!” someone yelled.

Glen just winked at me, a silent message passing between us that went beyond the dare. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, a chaotic rhythm that had nothing to do with solving cases.

Damn it, Addi. Focus.

My cover as a screenwriter felt thinner than ever. Glen and the rest of the crew saw ‘Addi, the writer who just got dared to kiss the movie star’. They didn’t see Addi, the FBI agent, here to catch a dangerous killer. This attraction, this undeniable spark that had just flared into a roaring flame, was a dangerous complication. It was a distraction I couldn’t afford.

But as I looked at Glen, still smiling, a hint of that shared intimacy in his eyes, a small, selfish part of me whispered, Maybe just one more complication wouldn’t hurt. And that thought, more than any dare or chase, truly terrified me. I had to get my head straight. This was a mission, not a romance. And a serial killer was still out there. With that, I reminded myself of the empty feeling in my stomach when I remembered the coffee shop. I was there for a reason, but now, I had a new, complicated variable. Glen.

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someone asked me to describe h o m e, and I started talking about your hair color and the sound of your voice and the taste of your lips and how your skin feels like. until I realized they had expected to hear a place. [x]

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Do a friends moment where a game of thrones characters are getting married to someone they don't love and they accidentally say the readers name instead 🤣🤣🤣 not a real request but it would be hilarious

Slip of the Tongue

- This was so cute to write ❤️

@kittykylax @makeshift-prime @rosie-posie08 @kmc1989 @frost-queen @elenavampire21

The great hall of Riverrun, usually a place of grim strategy and whispered despair, hummed with an unfamiliar, almost festive tension. Tapestries depicting ancient battles and noble houses hung from the high walls, catching the faint glint of torchlight. The air was thick with the scent of pine and roast meats, a stark contrast to the churning anxiety in my gut. I stood among the assembled lords and ladies, a forced, brittle smile plastered to my lips, my heart an leaden weight in my chest.

Today, my dearest friend, my secret love, Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, was to be wed.

He was a king now, though it felt like only yesterday we were children, scrambling over the walls of Winterfell, muddy and laughing. I remembered his quick temper, easily sparked but just as swiftly cooled, his fierce loyalty, and the way his eyes, blue as the northern sky, would crinkle at the corners when he truly smiled. He carried the honor of his father, Lord Eddard, like a cloak, sometimes a comfort, sometimes a burden. And now, that burden had led him here, to the altar, to Lady Talisa Maegyr.

She was beautiful, I couldn’t deny it. Her dark hair was braided with pearls, her eyes kind, her smile gentle. She had tended to his wounds, earned his respect, and, I suspected, a genuine affection from him. But affection wasn't love, not the kind that had silently bloomed between Robb and me over years of shared secrets and unspoken glances. We had always been there for each other, a constant, comforting presence. I had seen the unspoken questions in his eyes, the moments he almost reached for my hand, only to pull back, duty pressing down on him. I had returned those looks with a fierce longing, a hope that was now being extinguished with every breath I took.

The war had brought so many changes. It had crowned him King in the North, and it had forced him to break a solemn vow to the Freys, leading him to this very alliance, this very marriage. Honor, his guiding star, had become a tangled knot. He was doing this for his people, for the cause, for a greater good. I understood. But understanding did not dull the ache.

A hush fell over the hall as the doors opened, and the procession began. First, the musicians, then a parade of lesser lords and ladies, finally Robb. My breath hitched. He was magnificent, clad in dark Northern leathers and furs, a circlet of iron adorned with direwolves upon his brow. He moved with the quiet power of a predator, yet there was a tension in his shoulders I knew too well. He looked every inch the king he was, but also a man walking towards a future he hadn't chosen with his whole heart. As his gaze swept the room, it lingered for a fraction of a second on me, a flicker of something unreadable in his blue eyes, before moving on. I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing my smile to stay put.

Then came Talisa, escorted by her kin, graceful and serene. She looked at Robb with quiet adoration, and my heart clenched. She loved him. Truly. And he… he was fond of her. It was enough for a political marriage. It was enough for them. It wasn't enough for me.

The High Septon, a dour man with thin grey hair, stood before the Weirwood heart tree that had been brought into the hall for the ceremony – a nod to Northern traditions. His voice, dry and monotonous, filled the air as the couple took their places.

"We stand here today, before gods and men, to witness the binding of two souls," he intoned, his words a dull thrum against the frantic beat of my own pulse. "Robb of House Stark, King in the North, and Lady Talisa of House Maegyr."

Talisa went first. Her voice, though soft, was clear and unwavering. "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger," she recited, her eyes fixed on Robb's. "I am hers and she is mine, from this day until my last day." She clasped his hand, her gaze full of open affection.

It was Robb’s turn. My heart hammered against my ribs, so loudly I was sure everyone in the hall must hear it. This was it. The final, irreversible step. I squeezed my hands together, knuckles white.

Robb took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. His gaze, usually so sharp and commanding, seemed to unfocus for a moment, as if looking through the very fabric of the hall and seeing something far away. He looked at Talisa, his hand clasped in hers. His lips parted.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger," he began, his voice strong, a true king's voice. "I am hers and she is mine, from this day until my last day."

He paused, a beat too long. My breath hitched. He closed his eyes for a fleeting second, just a flicker, and for a terrifying, wonderful moment, I imagined his mind was on me. Then he opened them, looked directly at Talisa, a soft, almost wistful expression on his face.

"With this kiss I pledge my f-faith, my love, and take you, as my love, my life, my wife..."

And then it happened.

His eyes, instead of focusing on Talisa, seemed to drift slightly, over her shoulder, past the Septon, past the hushed faces of the lords, directly to mine. And in that fraction of a second, something shifted. A different kind of light entered his eyes – an undeniable recognition, a raw, exposed truth.

His voice, firm moments before, stumbled. "With this kiss I pledge my faith, my love, and take you, my love, my life, my wife, Y/n."

The word hung in the air, a bell tolling in the silence, clear and terribly, irrevocably true.

Y/n.

My own name.

The hall went absolutely still. The silence was so profound, I could hear my own blood rushing in my ears. A gasp rippled through the gathered nobility, quickly followed by a chorus of confused murmurs.

Talisa's beautiful face, moments ago serene, morphed into a mask of pure shock, then hurt. Her eyes widened, her gaze snapping from Robb to me.

The High Septon, who had been about to prompt the final actions, froze, his mouth agape. His eyes darted between Robb and me, then back to a bewildered Talisa.

Robb, too, seemed to freeze. His eyes, fixed on mine, were wide with a horrifying realization. His hand, still clasped with Talisa’s, visibly trembled. He looked like a man who had just walked off a cliff.

"Wait!" Robb exclaimed, his voice cracking, the regal composure shattering into a thousand pieces. He pulled his hand back from Talisa, who flinched as if struck. "No, wait, I... I meant Talisa! Lady Talisa! My apologies, a slip of the tongue!" He stammered, his face flushing crimson, desperately trying to backtrack, but the words were already out, hanging undeniably in the air. "It was... a moment of distraction! Lady Talisa, please forgive me."

But the words felt hollow, even to his own ears. His eyes kept darting back to me, an undeniable pull.

Talisa, though clearly wounded, possessed a grace I could only admire. She said nothing for a moment, simply looking at Robb, then at me, as if piecing together a puzzle, the pieces of her heart breaking with each click. Her lips trembled. "Robb?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The murmurs in the hall grew louder, whispers of scandal and broken promises. This was not a minor gaffe; this was a public declaration, in front of gods and men, that the King in the North’s heart was elsewhere. The delicate political dance that had led to this marriage was now threatening to collapse.

Robb, the Young Wolf, who had faced down armies and made kings tremble, looked utterly lost. His gaze tore away from me, sweeping over the assembly, the weight of their judgment and his own truth pressing down on him. He saw the shocked faces of his bannermen, the bewildered High Septon, the utterly devastated Talisa.

Then, he looked at me again. And in that moment, something in him shifted. The panic subsided, replaced by a weary, resolute calm. The very thing he had tried to suppress, the secret he had buried for the sake of honor and duty, had erupted from him, undeniable. And now that it was out, he seemed to embrace it.

He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, his kingly demeanor returning, but infused with a new, fierce determination. He turned to Talisa, his voice now steady, though laced with regret. "Lady Talisa," he said, taking her hands gently again, his eyes sincere. "I... I cannot do this to you. Or to myself. My heart is not truly here, and to promise you my life when that is the truth would be a greater dishonor than any I could inflict upon myself."

Talisa's eyes welled, but she nodded slowly, tears tracing paths down her cheeks. "I understand, King Robb," she said, her voice a fragile whisper. "I wish you happiness." She extricated her hands from his, bowed her head briefly, and then, with a dignity that broke my heart anew, she turned and walked slowly from the hall, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.

Robb watched her go, a profound sadness on his face. Then, he turned. Not to the High Septon, not to his bewildered council, but to me.

He began to walk, slowly at first, then with increasing purpose, directly towards me. Every eye in the hall followed him. I felt like a stag caught in the open, exposed and trembling. My mind raced – the repercussions, the war, the alliances, everything he was throwing away for a slip of the tongue, for a truth he had denied.

He reached me, his gaze never leaving mine. He took my hand, his touch warm and firm, a jolt passing through me. The small, forced smile I had worn all day finally crumbled.

"My lords and ladies," Robb's voice boomed through the hall, echoing with the authority of a king, but also the raw emotion of a man finally free. "I apologize for this disruption. For the embarrassment caused, and for the promise broken." He looked at me, his eyes locking onto mine, a lifetime of unspoken words passing between us. "But I cannot pledge my life, my faith, my love, to a woman when my heart belongs to another."

He squeezed my hand. "It has always belonged to her."

A fresh wave of whispers erupted, louder this time, tinged with a mix of shock, approval, and concern. His bannermen looked at each other, some nodding slowly, others shaking their heads.

"To betray my heart would be a greater dishonor than to break a promise made under duress," Robb continued, his voice ringing with conviction. "My honor dictates I follow my heart, for only then can I lead truly, for only then can I be whole. And my heart, as you have just heard, has always been bound to Y/n."

He turned fully to me, his stance protective, possessive. "Y/n," he murmured, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. "Come with me."

He led me out of the great hall, away from the stunned faces and murmuring voices, into a quiet back chamber, away from the prying eyes. The door closed behind us with a soft click, plunging us into a blessed silence.

I turned to him, my mind reeling. "Robb," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion, "What have you done? The war, the alliances... everything! You've risked it all."

He let go of my hand, only to cup my face in his, his thumbs gently stroking my cheeks. His blue eyes, usually so burdened by the weight of kingship, were alight with a fierce, almost desperate, joy. "Y/n," he said, his voice raw, "I risked betraying myself. I risked a lifetime of regret." He shook his head, a ghost of a wry smile touching his lips. "I tried. Gods, I tried to force it. To be the king my father raised me to be, to do my duty. But every time I looked at her, I saw you. Every time I imagined a future, it was with you."

My own eyes blurred with tears. "I thought… I thought you didn't feel it back. I thought I was mad to even hope."

"Mad?" He chuckled, a soft, broken sound. "I’ve been mad, Y/n. Mad with trying to deny it. You were always there, a quiet constant, a warmth I took for granted, then a warmth I had to push away because duty called. But when I stood there, and the Septon asked me to pledge my life... your face was all I could see. Your name was all I could speak." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "I love you, Y/n. I have loved you for years. More than I ever dared admit, even to myself."

The words, so long imagined, so desperately longed for, hit me with a force that stole my breath. "I love you too, Robb," I confessed, the dam breaking, tears streaming freely down my face. "More than words can say. It’s been torture, watching you, wanting you, knowing I couldn't have you."

He pulled me into his arms then, a desperate, crushing embrace. His lips found mine, urgent and tender, a kiss that tasted of long-held longing and the terrifying, breathtaking promise of a future finally within reach. It was a kiss that sealed more than a vow; it sealed a truth that had waited years to be set free.

The following days were a whirlwind of arguments, political maneuvering, and a surprising amount of understanding from some of his bannermen, who saw the raw honesty in his actions. Robb, with his characteristic conviction, stood firm. He argued that a king who could not honor his own heart could not truly lead. He offered Lady Talisa and her family ample compensation and an assurance of future Northern protection, which, to her credit, she accepted with quiet dignity.

Within a fortnight, the great hall of Riverrun was again prepared, but this time, the atmosphere was different. There was no forced grandeur, but a quiet, heartfelt joy. I stood before the Weirwood tree once more, but this time, Robb’s hand in mine was not a formality, but a lifeline.

His eyes, when he looked at me, were clear and utterly devoted. The High Septon, still a little bewildered, performed the ceremony.

"With this kiss I pledge my faith, my love, and take you, Y/n, as my wife," Robb said, his voice strong and true, his gaze never leaving mine. There was no hesitation, no slip of the tongue. Just pure, unadulterated love.

We were married under the watchful branches of the Weirwood, a Northern king and his Northern queen, bound not by political necessity, but by a love that had defied duty and burst forth in the most unexpected, spectacular way. The war still raged, the path ahead still uncertain, fraught with danger and sacrifice. But now, we would face it together, as one.

Later that night, in a quiet moment, after the modest feast, Robb held me close. "No regrets, Y/n," he whispered, pressing a kiss to my hair. "Only you. And that, my love, is the truest honor I could ever hope to claim."

And in his arms, beneath the silent gaze of the Northern stars, I finally knew peace. For a king's love, freely given, was a crown more precious than any iron circlet.

[bellarkeselection]

5 - Our First Date

Part 6

Talk Me Down, Hotshot

- Please don’t be a silent reader on this story, I’d greatly appreciate comments or reblogs with your thoughts ❤️ Tag list - just ask to be added @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @frost-queen @elenavampire21 @lover-of-books-and-tea @gpsmississippihippie

“You sure about this, Hotshot?” I’d asked him last night over lukewarm coffee at the base’s mess hall, a smirk playing on my lips. “You think you can really pull off ‘charming country boy’ for a whole evening? Or are you just gonna accidentally compliment your own reflection in a spoon?”

Jake Seresin, even slumped over a less-than-stellar dinner, had managed to radiate an infuriating aura of confidence. His jaw had tightened just a fraction, a challenge in his eyes. “Casey, darlin’, you wound me. I’m a man of many talents. And besides, I agreed, didn’t I? You set the terms, I rise to the occasion. If you want a Southern gentleman, a Southern gentleman you’ll get.”

I’d snorted, pushing my mug away. “A Southern gentleman who happens to be a hotshot Navy pilot with an ego the size of Texas? Yeah, right. Fine. Bedford, Indiana. Tomorrow night. And no Top Gun bravado, no ‘Hangman’ swagger. Just… Jake. And if I catch even a whiff of that usual arrogance, the deal’s off, and you’re buying me a whole damn thing of sweet tea, just for wasting my time.”

He’d winked, a glint in his eye that promised trouble but also… something else. “Deal. And when I’m done, you’ll be begging for a second date, backroad queen.”

Now, standing in front of my chipped mirror in my tiny Bedford bedroom, I was half-convinced I was insane. My worn Levi’s, a soft, hunter-green flannel shirt (my favorite, broken in just right), and my trusty, scuffed boots felt like a uniform. They were me. No frills. And yet, I found myself brushing my hair a little longer, debating a touch of mascara. It was a date with Jake Seresin, for crying out loud. The guy who, until recently, had been a walking billboard for toxic masculinity and fighter jet fumes.

My lungs, usually a quiet whisper of their rough start in life, felt a little tight with a mix of anticipation and disbelief. What fresh hell had I signed myself up for?

The porch light flickered as a vehicle I didn’t recognize pulled up the long, gravel driveway. Not a sleek sports car. Not even a military-issue sedan. It was a pickup truck. A dark Ford F-150, clean but not overly polished, with just enough lift to suggest it wasn’t afraid of a dirt road. Well, well, Hotshot, I thought, a slow smile spreading across my face. He’s trying.

I grabbed my small purse and headed out, a cool Indiana evening breeze already rustling through the sycamore trees. Jake was already out of the truck, leaning against the door, his posture just a fraction less cocky than usual. He wasn’t in uniform, obviously, but neither was he in his usual ‘off-duty Maverick’ clothes. He wore dark jeans that fit him just right – not too tight, not too baggy – and a simple, dark blue button-up shirt, sleeves rolled once to reveal his forearms. His hair was styled, but not overly gelled, just falling naturally. And he was… smiling. A genuine, easy smile that reached his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. No trace of the ‘smirk’ I usually tolerated.

“Casey,” he said, his voice a low drawl, deeper than usual, somehow. “You look… exactly right.”

My brow quirked. “Exactly right for what? A bonfire? A tractor pull?”

He pushed off the truck, taking a step towards me. “Exactly right for a night out in Bedford, Indiana. As promised.” He gestured to the truck. “Hope this meets your ‘country boy’ specifications.”

I walked around the front of the truck, running a hand over the hood. “It’s a start, Hotshot. No shiny chrome, no loud pipes. Impressive. Did you rent it, or do you have a secret farm somewhere?”

He chuckled, the sound a low rumble that surprised me. “Let’s just say I have friends who understand the importance of making a good first impression. Now, are you gonna stand out here all night, or are we gonna get you some supper?” He opened the passenger door with a flourish.

I slid into the passenger seat, the truck’s interior smelling faintly of pine and something distinctly masculine but not overwhelming. “Supper, huh? Fancy talk for dinner. Where we heading, Seresin? Momma Jo’s diner? Or are you gonna try to impress me with some overpriced city food that tastes like cardboard?”

He got in, starting the engine, a low growl that wasn’t obnoxious. “Momma Jo’s it is. Got the best fried chicken this side of the Mississippi, so I hear. Thought you might appreciate some genuine local flavor.”

I just stared at him. “You did your research.”

“I aim to please, ma’am,” he said, pulling out of the driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires. He actually used ‘ma’am’. I hid my smile behind a hand. This was… unexpectedly charming.

Momma Jo’s was exactly as I’d pictured it: red checkered tablecloths, mismatched chairs, and the comforting scent of fried food and coffee. It was bustling, and a young waitress with a knowing grin led us to a small booth in the corner. Jake, without missing a beat, held the door for me, then waited for me to slide into the booth before he took his seat opposite. He even pulled the table out a little for me. My internal meter for "douchebag points" registered zero.

“This is… surprisingly authentic for a Hotshot,” I admitted, looking around.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his eyes twinkling. “I told you, I’m a man of my word. So, Y/N Casey, tell me about growing up in a place where ‘mud-splattered boots’ are a way of life. Anything they don’t tell you in the official files?”

I laughed, a genuine, unforced sound. “Oh, plenty. Like how you learn to drive a stick shift before you learn to tie your shoes. Or how ‘fixin’ to’ is a legitimate verb. Or that a good storm means you might lose power for a week, and it’s actually kind of fun.”

He listened, really listened, his gaze steady and engaged. He didn’t interrupt with a story about himself or a boast about his piloting skills. He just nodded, occasionally asking a follow-up question that showed he’d absorbed what I’d said.

“So, no fancy private schools for you, then?” he probed gently.

“Nah,” I said, shrugging. “Public school, then straight to college. My parents always said if you’re gonna be stubborn, at least be smart about it.”

“Stubborn, huh?” he repeated, a slow smile spreading. “I might know a thing or two about that.”

We ordered. He let me pick the appetizers, nodding enthusiastically when I suggested the fried pickles. And when they came, he didn’t just grab the biggest one. He actually offered me the plate first. The whole evening, he was like that. Small, subtle gestures that spoke volumes. He even refilled my water glass from the pitcher before I even realized it was low. It was disarming. 

“Alright, your turn, Seresin,” I challenged him between bites of chicken and mashed potatoes. “Beyond the ‘cocky pilot’ persona, what’s the real Jake like? What are you like when no one’s watching, when you’re not trying to impress the brass or flirt with every woman in a fifty-mile radius?”

He paused, a momentary flicker of something I couldn’t quite place – vulnerability, maybe? – in his eyes. Then he took a slow breath. “Well, he’s a guy who grew up in Austin, Texas. Who loves a good classic rock song on a long drive. He loves a home-cooked meal, especially if it’s macaroni and cheese with extra cheese. And yeah, he actually does like to just sit and listen sometimes, even if he doesn’t always show it.” He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “He’s also fiercely loyal, maybe to a fault. And he cares more about his people than he lets on.”

My heart did a little flutter-kick. He was… serious. And honest. And it was incredibly attractive. “Okay, Hotshot,” I said softly, “that’s… a good start.”

After dinner, bellies full and the diner slowly emptying, Jake suggested a drive. “There’s a spot I heard about, not too far from here. Good view of the stars, if you’re up for it.”

“Lead the way,” I said, feeling a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with Momma Jo’s hot coffee.

The drive was quiet, the windows down, the cool night air refreshing. Jake had Classic Rock radio playing low, and I found myself humming along to a Fleetwood Mac song. He didn’t try to fill every silence, which was a welcome change from his usual M.O. He just drove, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel, the other on the gear stick. He pulled off the main road onto a narrow, unpaved lane, the truck’s suspension easily handling the bumps. We went for a few minutes, the trees getting thicker, until he pulled into a small clearing overlooking a field that stretched out into the dark. The sky above was a canvas of glittering stars, far more visible than they ever were near base.

“Wow,” I breathed, pushing open the door and stepping out. The air here was even cleaner, mixed with the scent of damp earth and distant honeysuckle.

Jake was already around the truck, opening his tailgate. “Hop on up,” he said, patting the truck bed. “Best seats in the house.”

I climbed in, settling back against the cool metal, looking up. He joined me, not too close at first, just sitting beside me, his arm resting on his bent knee.

“See that cluster there?” he pointed, his finger tracing an invisible line in the sky. “That’s the Pleiades. My grandpa used to tell me stories about constellations. Said they were the original maps for wanderers.”

“You had a grandpa who told stories?” I asked, surprised again by this glimpse into his past.

He nodded, a soft smile on his face as he looked at the stars. “Yeah. He taught me how to change a tire, how to fix a leaky faucet, how to find true north without a compass. Said every man needed to know how to take care of himself and his own.”

“Doesn’t sound much like a fighter pilot,” I murmured, leaning my head back against the truck bed.

“Doesn’t it?” he asked, a hint of something philosophical in his tone. “I think he taught me how to be dependable. How to do your job and do it well, no matter what. And how to look out for your people. Maybe that’s not so different.” 

The sincerity in his voice was undeniable. This wasn’t an act. This was Jake, unfiltered. I felt myself relax, a tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding easing from my shoulders.

A comfortable silence settled between us, punctuated only by the distant chirping of crickets. After a while, a chill wind picked up. Before I could shiver, Jake shifted, subtly closer. His arm, which had been resting on his knee, moved, and his hand gently found mine, lacing his fingers through mine. His thumb began to slowly rub circles on the back of my hand. My heart did more than flutter-kick this time; it practically did a cartwheel.

“Cold?” he asked, his voice a low murmur, close to my ear.

“A little,” I admitted, my voice breathy.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he simply moved his arm around my shoulders, drawing me closer until my head was resting against his shoulder, our hands still intertwined. He felt solid, warm, and surprisingly comforting. I could feel the steady beat of his heart against my ear.

“You know, for a Hotshot, you’re not half bad at this ‘country boy’ thing,” I mumbled, my voice muffled against his shirt.

He chuckled, a rumbling sound in his chest. “Did you really think I couldn’t pull it off, Casey?”

“Honestly? Yeah,” I confessed, looking up at him. His eyes, in the dim starlight, looked softer than I’d ever seen them. “I thought you’d try for about ten minutes, then start bragging about your kill count or something.”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “I made a deal. And besides,” his gaze held mine, “tonight wasn’t about showing off. It was about… showing you.” He paused. “Showing you a little more of myself. The parts I don’t usually parade around.”

My stomach flipped. “And you’re good at it,” I said softly, almost a whisper. “This… this is good, Hotshot.”

He squeezed my hand. “Glad you think so, backroad queen.” He used a new nickname, but it felt different tonight, like an endearment rather than a tease.

We stayed like that for a long time, talking about nothing and everything. We talked about home, about the Navy, about stupid jokes and childhood dreams. He was genuinely interested in my life, asking about my weak lungs and how I managed to keep up with the demands of a Air Traffic Controller. He wasn’t pitying, just curious and understanding. When I coughed gently, he automatically shifted, his hand moving to rub my back in a comforting circle. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world.

Eventually, the moon began to dip lower, and a chill truly set in. “Guess we should probably head back,” I said reluctantly, pushing myself up.

Jake helped me down from the truck bed, his hands steady on my waist, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “Already?” he asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

“It’s getting late, Hotshot,” I reminded him, though a part of me wanted to stay out under the stars with him all night.

The drive back to my house was even quieter, a comfortable silence filled with the unspoken understanding of a night well spent. When he pulled into my driveway, the gravel crunching softly, neither of us moved to get out immediately. “Thank you,” I said, turning to face him. “Truly. This was… really nice, Jake.”

He turned in his seat, facing me, his arm resting on the back of my seat. “It was more than nice, Y/N. It was a damn good night.” His eyes searched mine, open and sincere. “And I’d like to do it again. Soon.”

“What? More country boy charm?” I challenged, a playful spark returning to my eyes, but softer now.

He grinned, that familiar cocky grin making a brief appearance, but it was warmer, tempered by the night’s revelations. “Only if you insist. Though I think I’ve proven I can handle myself on a date. Maybe next time, you can show me how to wrangle a stubborn mule?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Don’t push it, Seresin.” I reached across the console, my hand finding his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “But yeah. I insist. I’d like that.”

He leaned closer, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Good,” he murmured, his voice husky. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this all night, backroad queen.”

His lips met mine gently at first, a soft, tentative exploration. It wasn’t the aggressive, confident kiss I might have expected from “Hotshot” – it was the charming country boy’s kiss. Slow, sweet, and incredibly tender. He tasted faintly of coffee and something warm and spicy. My fingers curled around his arm, holding on, as the kiss deepened, a soft sigh escaping me. All the tension, all the skepticism, melted away. This was real. This was him.

When he finally pulled back, our foreheads still rested against each other, his thumb caressing my cheek. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.

“Goodnight, Jake,” I whispered back, a smile blooming on my face. A genuine, happy, completely smitten smile. I stumbled out of the truck, a little dazed. He watched me walk to the door, and I could feel his eyes on me even after I stepped inside, closing the door softly behind me.

I leaned against the wood, my chest heaving slightly, not from my lungs this time, but from the sheer exhilaration of the night. Jake Seresin. Who knew? The cocky, arrogant fighter pilot had a genuinely charming, sweet, attentive side hidden beneath all that bravado. And he’d shown it to me. Just me.

I walked to the mirror, touching my lips. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright. The deal had been for one night. But something told me, this was just the beginning of a whole new kind of deal. And I had a feeling, I was going to like this one very much.

[bellarkeselection]

3 - One Night Off

Part 4

The Hollywood Profiler

- Tag list - @gpsmississippihippie @rootedinrevisions @kmc1989 @elenavampire21 @frost-queen

@gpsmississippihippie helped with this idea

The stale scent of old coffee mixed with the faint, sweet perfume of jasmine from the potted plant on my windowsill. My apartment, usually a haven of quiet focus, felt eerily still tonight. On the coffee table, spread out like grim, disjointed puzzle pieces, were the victim files. Photos I’d seen a hundred times, yet each viewing unearthed a new, chilling detail. One of the  victims, Sarah Jenkins, a twenty-four-year-old aspiring actress, found… The details were etched into my brain, a permanent ink. Blunt force trauma. No forced entry. Suspect known to the victim. My mind was a whirlwind of probabilities, profiles, and the sickening sense of urgency.

My phone, vibrating insistently on the polished wood, startled me. It was an unfamiliar number, but familiar enough to make my stomach do a nervous flip. Glen. We’d swapped numbers on set a few weeks ago, but I hadn’t expected him to actually use it. Not like this.

"Addison?" His voice, smooth and undeniably charming, flowed through the speaker. "Hey, it's Glen."

"Glen, hey!" I tried to sound casual, pushing the grim reality of Sarah Jenkins’s last moments to the back of my mind. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

He chuckled, a warm sound that filled the small space of my apartment. "Well, pleasure is definitely the aim. So, here's the deal. We're having a wrap dinner for the movie tonight – cast, crew, all that jazz. And I know you were planning on coming as Chase’s plus-one, right?"

My brother, Chase, had mentioned it offhand. "Yeah, he said something about it."

"Right. Well, Chase just called me. Apparently, he woke up sick this morning. So, he can't make it to the dinner."

"Oh, no," I said, genuinely concerned about Chase. "Is everything okay?"

"He said it's all fine, just… sudden. Anyway," Glen continued, his tone shifting, "my problem is, I suddenly have an available plus-one spot. And I was thinking… instead of you not going, or just showing up on your own, maybe you’d want to come with me? As my date?"

My breath hitched. My brain, usually so quick to analyze and strategize, felt like a broken record player skipping on the same groove. Date? Glen Powell? Me? This was so far out of my usual orbit. My usual orbit involved dark interrogation rooms and the psychological dissection of violent offenders, not red carpets and movie stars.

"With you?" I repeated, perhaps a little too faintly.

"Yeah. Unless you had other plans, like… profiling serial killers from your couch?" He joked, completely oblivious to how close he was to the truth. "We had a really good chat the other day, and you seemed cool. Plus, you’re a screenwriter, right? You’d probably enjoy seeing the team all together."

The screenwriter cover. My go-to explanation for why I spent so much time on my laptop, "researching complex human behavior." It allowed me to ask a lot of nosy questions without raising too many eyebrows.

"I… I don't know, Glen," I stammered, my eyes flitting back to Sarah’s file. The two worlds couldn't have been more disparate. "I'm not exactly dressed for a movie dinner. And I was kind of in the middle of… a very riveting script analysis session."

"Nonsense!" he boomed playfully. "You look great, I'm sure. And ‘riveting script analysis’ can wait. This is a chance to relax, unwind. Plus, it’ll be a good networking opportunity for you," he added, hitting on my perceived profession. "Think of it as method acting for your next big project. Come on, Addi. Say yes. It'll be fun. I promise I won't be boring."

He always had a way of cutting through my hesitations. And truthfully, a break from Sarah Jenkins, even for a few hours, might be a good idea. My mind was starting to fray.

"Okay," I said, a small smile finally touching my lips. "Okay, Glen. You twisted my arm. What time?"

"Fantastic! Knew you’d come around. I’ll send a car for you at seven. Just send me your address."

"A car? You don’t need to do that."

"Addison, it’s a wrap dinner. Of course, I do. See you soon!" He hung up before I could argue further.

I stared at my phone, then back at the grim files. FBI profiler to movie star’s date in under five minutes. This was going to be… an experience. I definitely needed a shower. And a dress.

The restaurant was a symphony of clinking glasses, boisterous laughter, and the distinctive hum of A-list conversations. I clutched my small clutch bag, trying to project an air of calm confidence that I definitely didn’t feel. Being in a room full of actors was like being in a room full of highly polished, incredibly charming, human chameleons. Every smile felt a little too perfect, every laugh a little too loud. My profiler instincts, usually so sharp, were overwhelmed by the sheer volume of charismatic personas. 

Glen, however, was a natural conductor in this orchestra. He introduced me to everyone with genuine warmth, his hand resting lightly on my lower back as he navigated the crowded room. "This is Addison, everyone. She's a brilliant screenwriter, and my date for the evening." 

"Addi, this is Chad," he said, gesturing to a hulking man with a surprisingly gentle smile. "He played the villain." 

"Nice to meet you, Chad," I offered, shaking his hand. "Great work." I had no idea what his work was, but it seemed appropriate.

"You write, huh?" Chad boomed. "Anything I'd know?"

"Not yet," I quickly replied. "Still mostly conceptual and pitching." A safe answer. 

Glen rescued me, steering the conversation to the catering. "Addison, have you tried these mini quiches? They’re phenomenal."

We eventually found ourselves at a large round table, surrounded by more actors, producers, and crew members. The conversation was light, mostly recounting funny stories from set. I laughed along, interjecting occasionally with non-committal screenwriter-esque comments about "character arcs" and "narrative structure."

As the evening wore on, Glen turned to me, a glint in his eye. "You know, one thing I love about these gatherings is just how many places everyone's from. You get folks from New York, London, Australia…" He paused, leaning slightly closer. "Where are you from again, Addison? You mentioned it once, briefly."

"Indiana," I replied, a small smile forming. "Born and raised. Little town you’ve never heard of. You know, cornfields, Friday night lights, not much else. Not exactly the typical path to LA, I guess." 

"Indiana, huh? See, I like that," he nodded, genuinely interested. "That’s honest. You sound like you grew up with a lot of space. We didn't have cornfields in Texas, not like that, but we had plenty of open land. You could drive for hours and just see sky and scrub brush. We’d eat chili that would make your tongue sweat, and my grandma would always be asking if you were 'hungry as a hippopotamus' after a day's work." He chuckled, a genuine, nostalgic sound. "You learn to fix anything with a roll of duct tape and a prayer. And manners, always manners. 'Yes, sir, no, sir, please, thank you.'"

I found myself genuinely engaged, forgetting for a moment my FBI life. "Sounds like hard work, but real. We had our own kind of real. Summers were spent fishing in Mud Creek, trying to catch bigger bass than my little brother. And bonfires in the backyard, listening to the cicadas, trying to stay up late enough to see the first stars pop out. My mom’s fried chicken was legendary, and she’d fuss if you left a single crumb on your plate." I laughed. "And everyone knew everyone’s business. If you sneezed in one part of town, someone three blocks away would send you chicken noodle soup." 

"See, that's what I'm talking about!" Glen grinned, his eyes sparkling. "That sense of community. Not like here, where everyone’s chasing the next big thing. In Texas, it was about family and knowing your roots.” 

"Same," I agreed. "My dad still hunts, you know? Not for sport, but for the freezer. It’s part of who we are. 

Every fall, we’d go out and pick pumpkins, then carve them on the porch. The smell of pumpkin guts and woodsmoke. It just felt… solid. Safe. Different from… this," I gestured vaguely around the sophisticated restaurant.

"Different, but not necessarily bad, right?" Glen leaned back, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Just different. But I do miss the quiet sometimes. The actual quiet, not the 'LA zen garden' quiet." 

"Definitely," I said, a wave of longing for that simple, solid feeling washing over me. 

For a moment, I forgot the grim files, the intricate web of deceit I untangled daily. For a moment, I was just Addi from Indiana, talking about home with a guy who understood what it meant. And it was surprisingly nice. This Hollywood facade, even if temporary, was a welcome reprieve.

[bellarkeselection]

Hello :) as a single mom of two could I request a Glen being in a relationship with a single mom and meeting her child for the first time?

At Your Pace

Summary: After going steady for a little bit it's time for your boyfriend Glen to meet your little one.

Warnings: This story contains themes of single parenthood, dating after separation, and the challenges that come with it.

Word Count: 1.3k

Author's Note: Hello! Thanks so much for the request! I did my best, and hopefully, I did your idea justice!

The late afternoon sun was dipping below the horizon as you pulled into the parking lot of the park, catching a glimpse of Glen’s Dodge truck parked near the playground.  Glen was standing at the back of it, leaning against the back bumper as he waited for you to arrive.

You weren’t sure if the flutter in your chest was because of how things were progressing with Glen or the nervousness brewing inside you about what was coming next. It was one thing to date someone new after becoming a single mom, but introducing them to your son? That was a whole new territory.

With a deep breath, you parked next to his truck. Glen spotted you and gave one of his signature grins—wide, infectious as if nothing could faze him. He hopped out of his truck and walked toward you, his hands casually in his pockets.

“Hey, there,” he greeted you, his voice as warm as the fading sunlight. His eyes flicked to the back seat where your son was strapped into the car seat, and he softened instantly. “Ready for some park fun?”

You smiled, your heart pounding a little too fast. “I think so.” You hesitated before opening the back door, glancing over at him. “Glen, I... I want you to meet my little one.”

This was it. The moment you’d been mulling over for weeks. Glen had been incredible with you—patient, funny, respectful—but this was different. This was your world he was about to meet.

Glen’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it seemed to grow more genuine. “I’d love that.”

You unbuckled your son from his car seat. He squirmed in excitement, their small hands reaching out for you as you hoisted them out. "Hey, sweetie, this is my friend, Glen."

At the sound of Glen’s name, your son’s big eyes turned to him. Shy at first, he grabbed onto your leg, peeking out cautiously. Glen crouched down immediately, coming down to his level, and held up his hand, palm open, waiting for a high five.

“Hey, bud,” Glen said softly, his tone calm and inviting. “How about a high five?”

Your son clung to your leg for a moment longer, watching Glen intently. Glen didn’t rush it, keeping his hand out but making no moves to push further. He just waited, that easy grin still on his face. You smiled, feeling your heart ease a little. He wasn’t forcing anything. He understood.

After a moment, your son let go of your leg and slowly stepped forward, eyes still wide but curious. He slapped Glen’s hand, a quick tap, and then giggled, pulling back shyly. Glen chuckled, standing back up with a twinkle in his eye.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about! Great high five.” He winked at you, sending a wave of relief washing over you.

Your son’s shyness faded as he spotted the playground, his little legs already moving toward it. “Park! Park!” he shouted, taking off in that unsteady but determined toddler sprint.

You laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Well, that went better than I expected.”

Glen grinned and fell in step beside you as the two of you followed closely behind. “He seems great. Takes after his mom, I see.”

You shot him a side glance, a mixture of nerves and gratitude swirling inside you. Glen had been so good about respecting your pace, never pushing for more than what you were comfortable with. And now, as you watched him interact with your son, you could feel the tension start to melt away.

You watched as your son made his way over to the swings and started trying to climb up. You were about to go help him when Glen straightened up and asked, “Mind if I give him a push? I might try talking to him a little more…if that’s okay?”

You hesitated for a second but nodded, trusting him. “Go ahead.”

Glen caught up with your son, kneeling down beside the swings as your son continued to try and figure out how to climb up. 

“Hey,” he said gently, “Do you like swings? They’re my favorite.”

Your son nodded, still a bit shy, and pointed toward the playground equipment but didn’t say much.

Glen’s smile never faltered. “Do you have a favorite movie?” he asked, as he helped him onto the swing seat. “I love movies.”

You watched from a few steps away, surprised that your son actually paused to think of an answer to Glen’s question. After a moment, your song mumbled a response, “Toy Story.”

Glen’s eyes lit up. “Toy Story? Oh, that’s a good one! You know, I love Buzz Lightyear. He’s so cool, right? ‘To infinity and beyond!’” he said, quoting the famous line with just enough enthusiasm to catch your son’s attention.

Your son giggled softly at Glen’s imitation, the first sign of real excitement on his face. “I like Woody,” he said, their voice a little louder now.

Glen nodded, his expression brightening even more. “Woody’s awesome. He’s a great friend, always looking out for everyone. You know, I get to act in movies sometimes. Have you ever thought about being in one? You’d make a great star.”

Your son’s eyes widened in curiosity. “You’re in movies?”

“Yup!” Glen said with a nod, but he didn’t make it about himself. “But you know what? I bet you’d be even better. I’ve seen how fast you can run. You’d be perfect for a superhero movie.”

Your son’s face lit up with the kind of wide-eyed wonder only kids have, and you felt the tightness in your chest start to loosen. Glen had found a way to connect with your son without forcing it, using his natural charm and love of movies to bridge the gap.

By now, your son was more comfortable, no longer hiding behind you. Glen gave the swing a gentle push, keeping the momentum slow as he chatted with your little one. “What else do you like? Do you have any favorite games or cartoons?”

Your son, still swinging, seemed to relax, opening up more as he babbled about his favorite toys and shows, occasionally glancing back at Glen with a growing smile. You stood off to the side, watching the two of them interact. The sight of Glen patiently engaging with your son, letting him lead the conversation, warmed your heart in ways you hadn’t expected.

After a few more minutes of chatting and swinging, your son suddenly declared, “Slide!” and hopped off the swing, running toward the slide set. Glen followed, still giving your son some space but clearly enjoying the moment.

You felt a lump in your throat, emotions you hadn’t anticipated rising up. You’d been so anxious about this—about how your son would react, how Glen would handle the situation. But seeing the two of them together, interacting so naturally, it felt… right. Like maybe this wasn’t as terrifying as you thought it would be.

“Hey,” Glen said quietly, coming up beside you as your son climbed up the slide for what felt like the hundredth time. “I just want you to know, I don’t take this lightly. Meeting him—it’s important to me. And I know it’s a big deal for you too.”

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “It is,” you admitted. “But I’m glad it's going well. This feels… good.”

He smiled, leaning in just slightly, his voice lowering. “Then we’re on the same page. No rush, no pressure. We take it at your pace, okay?”

He then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. Showing just the right amount of affection without it being too much in front of your son.

You exhaled, feeling more at ease than you had in weeks. “Okay.”

And as you watched your son reach the top of the slide, giggling as he slid back down, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as scared as you had been. Not with Glen here, not with the way he respected every boundary, every unspoken rule. This might just be the start of something beautiful.

[bellarkeselection]

Hopelessly Devoted To You – Jake Seresin

There are some people who come into your life that you never expect. But once they are in your life, you can't let them go. You don't want to let them go.

Jake had someone like that, but, unfortunately, he let her go. He never told her how much she meant to him. He never told her how he felt. And he never thought he'd see her again.

The second the pilots walked into the club, Jake thought he recognized the voice singing. He searched for the stage, and when he found it, he swore his heart jumped into his throat.

There she was. The girl he let get away. The girl he never forgot about. His best friend, with whom he fell in love but never told.

The butterflies in Jake's stomach went crazy as he slowly sat down, his eyes never leaving Y/N. He felt like he could barely breathe as she sang one of her favorite songs.

"But now there's nowhere to hide Since you pushed my love aside I'm out of my head Hopelessly devoted to you

Hopelessly devoted to you Hopelessly devoted to you

My head is sayin', "Fool, forget him"My heart is sayin', "Don't let go Hold on to the end", that's what I intend to do I'm hopelessly devoted to you

But now there's no way to hide Since you pushed my love aside I'm outta my head Hopelessly devoted to you

Hopelessly devoted to you Hopelessly devoted to you."

"Damn," Jake mumbled under his breath as the entire audience jumped to their feet and applauded. His eyes followed his old crush as she smiled shyly before slipping off stage.

The other pilots were quickly distracted by drinking and games. Jake, however, was very interested in when she would come out. When she finally did, he couldn't help but straighten up. He watched as she went over to a private booth. The only reason he knew it was a private booth was because of the two security guards in front of it.

Once she sat down, she didn't talk to anyone or look at her phone. Instead, she scanned the club. He quickly turned around when her eyes got close to him.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" A cocktail waitress asked. Usually, this was the kind of girl Jake flirted with all night until she begged him to come home with her. But tonight, he was more focused on the girl who taught him what love was.

"Yeah," he stuttered. He cleared his throat when he got an idea. "Can you send a drink to the young woman who just sang?"

"Of course," she giggled. Jake then ordered Y/N's favorite drink. Well, he thought it was her favorite drink. When they were kids, she used to talk about how she'd grow up and drink this fancy drink all the time.

As the waitress went to grab the drink for Y/N, Jake didn't wait to see her response. Once he was outside, he glanced through the window to see the same cocktail waitress taking the drink to Y/N. His eyes were glued to Y/N as the waitress gave her the drink and walked away.

Y/N looked at the drink with a confused look on her face. Suddenly, it turned into a small smile. Jake's heart jumped into his throat, and he quickly ducked out of the window when Y/N searched the room. He cleared his throat and slowly walked away from the club and toward the beach.

"And where do you think you're going, sailor?"

Jake turned around, and his breath got caught in his throat when he saw Y/N standing perfectly in front of him. She was still in her dress, her hair in loose curls, and the wind blowing in just the right direction, making her look even more flawless.

"I'm not a sailor," Jake stuttered.

"You're a Navy Pilot, right?" She chuckled. "You work on a boat, therefore, you're a sailor."

"I guess so," Jake stuttered again. He cleared his throat, not entirely sure how to act in front of her.

"It's good to see you, Jake," she giggled. "It's been a long time."

"Yes, it has," he said, unable to resist looking her up and down. "You look good."

"So do you, sailor," she teased. He couldn't help but love it when she called him 'sailor,' and he hoped she'd never stop.

Silence fell between the two as they stared at each other. Jake cleared his throat and broke the silence.

"I can't remember the last time I heard you sing."

His comment made her face turn pink. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away.

"I'm not really used to singing in front of people I know," she admitted. "It's kind of embarrassing."

"It shouldn't be," Jake answered a little too quickly. "You've always had a beautiful voice."

"Thanks," she said, her face still burning.

"I loved listening to you sing when we were growing up," Jake admitted before he could stop himself.

Y/N looked up and studied him. The soft look in her eyes made him look away. He cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his pants pockets. When he looked back at her, she was subconsciously rubbing her arms. He quickly took off his jacket and draped it across her shoulders.

Things seemed to freeze when he didn't let go of his jacket and take a step back. Neither one of them moved away from the other. Instead, they stared deeply into each other's eyes. The longer he stood in front of her, the faster his old feelings came swarming back.

"I've really missed you, Y/N," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"And here I was thinking you forgot about me the second you shipped off," she said, hiding her insecurities behind a small giggle.

"What?" Jake asked, his heart sinking. "Why would. . . Why would I forget about you?"

"I don't know," she stuttered.

"We were best friends," he said, not realizing that he was getting closer to her. "Hell, when we were seven, we used to joke about getting married one day so we'd never be apart."

"I forgot about that," she said under her breath.

"Did you think I didn't mean it?" Jake reached down and slowly grabbed her hands. The second he was holding her hands, he remembered everything about their childhood together.

"I thought it was just a joke," she said slowly.

"I never joked when it came to us," Jake whispered. "Y/N, you were so much more than my best friend."

"What do you mean?"

To answer her, Jake leaned in and delicately pressed his lips to hers. Her heart jumped into her throat as she slowly kissed him back. When they broke the kiss, they were out of breath.

"I've missed you so much, Jake," she said, her voice slightly breaking.

"I've missed you, too," he whispered as he let go of her hands and wrapped his arms around her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, not looking away from his eyes.

"What happens now?" She whispered. Jake sighed as he pulled her closer to his chest.

"I don't know," Jake said honestly. "But what I do know is that I don't want to go back to the way things were."

"You mean, back to not talking for 3 years?"

"That," he chuckled, "but also, being just friends."

She unwrapped her arms from his neck, and her eyes fell to her hands as they pressed to his chest. He used his finger to lift her chin so she was looking at him.

"You are the first woman I ever fell in love with," Jake confessed. "Actually, you're the only woman I've ever fallen in love with. Leaving you after high school was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Not a day has gone by that I haven't thought about you. When my team and I walked into the club tonight, I instantly recognized your voice. And the second I saw you, I knew I couldn't let you go."

Y/N softly smiled at him as she dragged her hands up his chest and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Then don't, sailor."

[bellarkeselection]

2 - The Secrets We Keep

Part 3

The Hollywood Profiler

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Set in Quantico, Virginia

The sterile hum of the FBI building in Quantico, Virginia, usually offered a dull comfort. Today, it was just another layer of the suffocating air in Dante Bird’s office. I sat across from him, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, trying to project a calm I didn’t feel.

“So, Addison,” Dante began, his voice surprisingly soft for a man who often sounded like he was dictating military orders. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, his gaze uncomfortably direct. “He’s in. The Viper is off the streets. It’s over.”

“Yes, sir,” I managed, my voice a little too thin. “Excellent work by the team. A huge win.”

Dante chuckled, a dry sound. “Team? Addison, you found him. You put this case together. You were the one on the ground. Let’s not mince words here. This is your victory.”

“We all played our part, sir,” I insisted, looking away, focusing on a framed commendation on his wall. Anything but his probing eyes.

“Indeed. And that’s why I need you to debrief me fully. I’ve read your reports, of course. Detailed, meticulous, as always. But there’s a… a texture missing. Something I can’t quite grasp from the paper.” He paused, letting the silence stretch, heavy and expectant. “What happened out there, Addi? Really happened?”

My stomach clenched. “Sir, I’ve provided every piece of evidence, every interview, every interaction relevant to the investigation.”

“Relevant, perhaps,” Dante countered, his voice losing its softness, sharpening into the familiar command. “But not everything. You’re holding back, Morgan. I can feel it. What aren’t you telling me about how you closed this? About him?”

I swallowed hard. “It’s… it’s complicated, sir. Some things are just hard to articulate, the nuances of an undercover operation…”

“Complicated isn’t an acceptable answer when we’re talking about a man who’s responsible for seven brutal deaths,” he cut in, his gaze hardening. “I need a full, unvarnished debrief. Every detail. Every instinct you had.”

My mind raced, trying to find an answer that wasn't a lie but wasn't the truth either. How did I explain that the monster wasn’t always monstrous? That he had a face, a charm, a human side that made the monstrosity even more terrifying? That I’d almost… almost let myself be drawn in?

“I… I can’t,” I whispered, the words barely audible. “Not right now.”

Dante leaned forward, his expression unyielding. “Why not, Agent Morgan?”

I met his gaze then, a flash of desperation in my eyes. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to spill every disturbing, confusing detail. But the words wouldn't form. The truth was, the complications started long before the final arrest. They started the moment I first met him, under a different sky, under a different identity.

LA ( Six Months Earlier )

The Los Angeles sun, a relentless, blinding spotlight, beat down on the sprawling outdoor set. My first few weeks in the city, and I was already deep in the charade. My cover: an aspiring screenwriter, fresh off the bus, trying to make it big. My real job: an undercover agent, meticulously scouting for a serial killer hiding in plain sight among the city’s glittering elite. An actor, the profile suggested. Someone who blended in, who could become anyone.

"Addi! You made it!" Chase’s voice cut through the clamor of crew members, rolling equipment, and shouted directions. My brother, already a rising star, bounded over, his face lit up.

I grinned, pushing my sunglasses up into my hair. "Couldn't miss my little brother's big break, could I? This set is… something else." My eyes scanned the faces, the costumes, the fake blood splattered on a prop. Every interaction was a data point.

"It’s crazy, right?" Chase threw an arm around my shoulder, pulling me into the organized chaos. He steered me towards a group of actors huddled around a craft services table. "Glen! My sister’s here!"

A tall man with a shock of dark hair and eyes that seemed to hold a permanent twinkle turned. Glen. We’d met just a few days ago, on my very first morning in LA, when Chase had dragged me to a ridiculously trendy coffee shop. He’d been charming then, disarmingly so. My internal profile had immediately flagged him as "potentially suspicious due to charisma and proximity to initial victims' social circles."

Glen’s lips curved into a familiar, playful smirk. "The coffee shop connoisseur returns. I didn't realize you were related to the esteemed Chase Morgan. What a revelation."

I forced a light laugh, trying to keep my expression neutral. Esteemed? Or suspicious? "Small world, right? Good to see you again, Glen."

"Likewise, Addi." He extended a hand, and his grip was firm, warm. "So, 'scriptwriting genius,' huh? That’s what Chase tells me. What kind of masterpieces are you churning out?"

"Oh, ‘genius’ is a bit strong," I demurred, pulling my hand away. "Just getting started. Learning the ropes. Looking for inspiration, really." Keep it vague, Addi. Don't give him anything he can trace back to your actual life.

Glen’s eyes danced. "Well, you’ve come to the right place. Movie sets are bursting with… interesting characters." He lowered his voice conspiratorially, leaning in slightly. "And not all of them are on the payroll." He winked.

Chase, oblivious to the undercurrents, clapped Glen on the back. "Leave her alone, Glen. She's here to observe, not be your next muse."

"Oh, but she would be a wonderful muse," Glen purred, turning his attention back to me. His voice was low, captivating. "So mysterious. Tell me, Addi, what's your biggest fear?"

My mind raced. Give him an honest answer, and it could be a vulnerability. Give him a fake one, and it could be inconsistent. My biggest fear is you being the killer, Glen. "Spiders," I said, a little too quickly. "Definitely spiders. The hairy, scuttling kind." It was a safe, common answer.

Glen threw his head back and laughed, a rich, full sound that turned heads. "Spiders! A woman of refined terror. My deepest fear is running out of coffee. Or maybe getting stuck in a scene with a real method actor. We’re very different, you and I."

"Seems so," I replied, trying to read his genuine amusement from a performance. He was an actor, after all. Everything could be a performance.

"So, screenwriting," he continued, smoothly changing gears. "Any big plans for your first script? A sweeping romance? A gritty detective drama?"

"Maybe a bit of both," I said, my voice carefully even. I decided to try and bait him a little. "Something with depth. And maybe a twist." I held his gaze, trying to gauge his reaction. Did his smile falter? Did his eyes betray anything?

Glen’s smile remained, easy and unbothered. "Oh, I love a good twist. Keeps you on your toes, doesn't it? Makes you question everything you thought you knew." He ran a hand through his hair, still smiling, perfectly at ease.

“Well currently I’m trying to focus on the psychological aspects,” I ventured, watching his reaction carefully. “What makes people tick.”

“Ah, a mind reader,” Glen chuckled, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Be careful, you might find more than you bargained for in this town.” He held my gaze, a playful challenge in his eyes. “So, ‘Addison Thorne,’ huh? Is that your real name, or your movie-star pseudonym?”

My heart gave a little jump. He was probing. Was it flirtation, or was he testing me?

“It’s my name,” I said smoothly, forcing a light laugh. “And Thorne just sounds better than Morgan when you’re trying to sell a script, don’t you think?”

Glen tilted his head, a thoughtful, almost predatory look in his blue eyes. “Hmm, maybe. But I think ‘Addison Morgan’ has a nice… grounded feel to it. Like someone who knows what they want.”

He held my gaze a moment too long, a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in his expression that hinted at something deeper, something sharper, beneath the playful facade. He knew. He couldn't. Could he? My mind raced, trying to analyze that subtle shift. Was he just good at reading people, or was there something more? Was he suspicious of me?

“Well, I definitely know what I want,” I replied, my voice steady, injecting a hint of double meaning. “To write a killer script.”

“A killer script, you say? I’m intrigued.” He smiled, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Tell me, ‘Addison,’ what inspired you to dive into the cutthroat world of Hollywood?”

“There’s always more than what actors show on the surface and I want to show that.” I forced a smile back, but inside, a cold knot of dread began to tighten. This was going to be harder than I thought. He was charming. Too charming? Or just an actor playing a role? Either way, he was good. Very, very good.

[bellarkeselection]

1 - The Special Detail

Part 2

The Hollywood Profiler

- Tag list - @gpsmississippihippie @rootedinrevisions @kmc1989 @elenavampire21 @frost-queen

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The fluorescent hum of the Quantico briefing room always grated on my nerves. It was a monotonous backdrop to the endless parade of paperwork, cold cases, and the occasional sting operation that felt more like a chore than a hunt. My mid-twenties, and I was already feeling the burn-out, the gnawing itch for something more. My mind, perpetually wired to seek patterns, to dissect human behavior, felt underutilized, collecting dust in the quiet corners of the FBI Academy.

“Agent Morgan, my office, now.” Dante Bird’s voice, a gravelly baritone that could cut through concrete, startled me from my reverie. My boss, a man whose eyes held the weight of a thousand grim investigations, rarely summoned me without a purpose. I straightened my tailored pantsuit, my heart already picking up its pace. This wasn't a disciplinary meeting; it was something else. I could feel it, the subtle shift in the air, the faint scent of imminent chaos.

His office was sparse, just like him. A large oak desk, a worn leather chair, and a single framed photograph of his family – the only humanizing element in a room designed for cold, hard facts. He gestured to the chair opposite him, bypassing the usual pleasantries.

“Addison,” he began, his gaze direct, unwavering. “I’m pulling you off your current assignments. You’re on special detail.”

My spine stiffened. This was it. “Sir?”

“We have a situation in Los Angeles. A serial killer. He’s been abducting women, all in their early twenties, similar profiles: aspiring artists, models, actresses. He holds them for a few days, then… well, it’s not pretty. The bodies are found in increasingly public places, a clear escalation.”

My mind was already racing, categorizing, sifting through the limited data. “Any leads? Motive?”

Dante leaned forward, placing a thick file on the desk. The photos on the top sheet were blurred, but even distorted, the terror in the victims' eyes was palpable. “That’s where you come in. Local PD is stumped. We’ve had eyes on the ground, but nothing’s stuck. Our best guess, based on victimology and the geography of the abductions, is that he’s blending in, likely posing as an actor. Hollywood, Addison. A city full of people playing roles.”

My breath hitched. An actor. The ultimate chameleon. Someone who could embody anything, anyone, at will. This was my kind of twisted puzzle. For years, ever since I was a teenager, I’d been profiling people – friends, strangers, even characters on TV. It was an involuntary reflex, an almost supernatural ability to peel back the layers and see the raw circuitry beneath. It was how I protected Chase, always scanning for threats, for people who might hurt him. This case, though, was on a different scale entirely.

“The detail is classified, Addison. You’ll be operating under deep cover. No one, and I mean no one, knows your true purpose there. Not even local law enforcement, unless specifically cleared by me. You’re going in as… an aspiring screenwriter, looking to break into the industry. You’ll be networking, getting close to the scene. Find him, Addi. Before he takes another life.”

The weight of his words settled on my shoulders, heavy and cold. “I understand, sir.”

“Good. Your flight is booked for tomorrow morning. All your expenses, your cover identity documents, everything is arranged. Just pack your bags.” As I walked out of his office, the sterile air of Quantico suddenly felt charged, electric. My purpose had finally arrived, cloaked in the grim reality of a monster.

My phone buzzed, startling me as I scrolled through flight details on my laptop, a half-eaten microwave meal growing cold beside me. It was Chase, my little brother, my entire universe packed into a vibrant, chaotic, supremely talented twenty-year-old. My fierce protectiveness of him was a deep-seated instinct, a constant hum beneath the surface of my consciousness. Seeing his name flash across the screen always brought a genuine smile to my face, a rare commodity these days.

“Addi! You are not going to BELIEVE this!” His voice, normally a smooth tenor, was practically vibrating with excitement. I pulled the phone away from my ear, wincing slightly.

“Whoa, slow down, Speed Racer. What’s got you so jazzed?” I chuckled, imagining him probably bouncing off the walls of his tiny LA apartment.

“I got it! The part! Remember that indie flick I auditioned for last month? The one with the amazing script? They called! I’m in, Addi! I’m actually in a movie!”

My heart swelled with pride. Chase had been grinding in LA for two years, taking every acting class, waiting tables, doing short films, facing rejection with a relentless optimism that both amazed and worried me. “Chase! Oh my god, that’s incredible! I knew you’d get it. You were born for this, you know that?”

“I know! And get this, the lead actor, his name is Glen Powell? He’s sort of taken me under his wing. He’s been giving me pointers, even vouched for me with the director. He’s amazing, Addi. So grounded, so cool. Not at all like those other Hollywood types.”

A faint alarm bell chimed in the back of my mind. Glen Powell. I’d seen his name, his face, on the big screen, on movie posters. A leading man. My brother, new to the cutthroat world of LA, finding a mentor in someone so prominent… it was both a blessing and a potential vulnerability. My profiling instincts, always on high alert where Chase was concerned, immediately began to churn. Did he have a public persona and a private one? What were his motivations for mentoring a newcomer?

“That’s… that’s really great, Chase. I’m so happy for you.” I kept my tone even, infusing it with genuine warmth, even as my internal gears whirred.

“Yeah! And I was just about to call you anyway. I was going to invite you out here, but now you HAVE to come! We have so much to celebrate!”

“Funny you should mention that, little brother,” I said, a mischievous grin finally breaking through my analytical facade. “Dante just assigned me to a special project. Guess where it’s taking me?”

A beat of silence, then Chase’s joyous shout. “No way! LA? You’re coming to LA? This is perfect! No more creepy Quantico nights for you! We can finally catch up, properly! You can see me on set! You can meet Glen!”

“It’s work, Chase,” I reminded him gently, even though a part of me was thrilled at the timing. Two birds, one stone. Protect my brother, hunt a killer. “But yeah, LA. I’ll be there tomorrow. Just landed the perfect excuse to escape the Indiana winters for a bit.”

We’d grown up in a small town in Indiana, the kind of place where everyone knew your business, and the biggest crime was usually a stolen garden gnome. LA was going to be a shock to the system, but I felt ready. More than ready.

“Yes! This is the best news ever! I’ll pick you up from the airport!”

“No, no, don’t worry about it. I’ll grab a cab. Just text me your address. We can grab dinner tomorrow night. My treat.”

“Deal! See you tomorrow, Addi! This is going to be epic!”

I hung up, a complex mix of excitement and unease swirling within me. My brother, unwittingly, was now a crucial link to the world I was infiltrating. And this Glen Powell, the successful, grounded actor, was now a person of interest by proxy. The hunt had already begun.

Los Angeles hit me like a glitter-covered brick. The air, thick with exhaust fumes and the faint scent of jasmine, felt foreign after the crisp cold of Virginia. Palm trees, reaching impossibly high into a sky that was bluer than any I’d seen in months, lined streets packed with luxury cars and people who looked like they’d stepped off a magazine cover. It was a city of perpetual sunshine, of curated dreams, and I was here to uncover its darkest nightmare.

The taxi ride from LAX was a blur of sun-drenched freeways and billboards advertising everything from blockbuster movies to questionable plastic surgery. My mind, however, was already adjusting to the new environment, observing: the nuanced body language of the driver, the almost imperceptible micro-expressions of pedestrians, the subtle hierarchy displayed by the drivers on the road. It was all data, all potential pieces to the puzzle.

Chase’s apartment building was surprisingly modest for LA standards, a charming Spanish-style complex nestled away from the main thoroughfare. He met me at the door, a wide grin splitting his face, his arms open for a bear hug that lifted me clean off my feet.

"Addi! You made it! Oh my god, you look amazing! Quantico must be good for something." He pulled back, his eyes sparkling.

"You're not so bad yourself, superstar," I countered, ruffling his hair. He hadn’t changed much since he left Indiana – still the same boundless energy, the same optimistic spark, though perhaps a little more polished around the edges. "How's the movie stuff going? You excited?"

"Beyond excited! We start rehearsals next week. It's a small role, but it's gritty, and it’s a stepping stone. And Glen’s been incredible. He actually invited us to grab coffee with him later today. Said he wants to hear about your screenplay ideas." Chase winked.

My blood ran cold for a second. Glen Powell. Already? Talk about hitting the ground running. Part of me, the FBI agent part, was thrilled at the immediate access. The sister part was screaming, too close, too fast. But I couldn’t refuse. It would look suspicious.

"Coffee? Sure," I said, trying to sound casual. "Lead the way. Just let me drop my bag."

We ended up at a chic, bustling cafe that felt entirely too vibrant for a Tuesday afternoon. The kind of place where every patron looked like they were either pitching a movie, starring in one, or influencing millions on Instagram. Chase, however, seemed perfectly at home, effortlessly navigating the crowd.

“He’s over there!” Chase pointed to a table nestled in an alcove, partially obscured by a potted fern. My eyes zeroed in. Even from a distance, Glen Powell radiated a quiet confidence, an effortless charm. He was laughing at something on his phone, a genuine, easy laugh that seemed to echo Chase’s own. He was dressed casually, a simple t-shirt and jeans, but everything about him, from the cut of his hair to the way he held his coffee cup, exuded a polished yet unpretentious aura.

“Glen!” Chase called out, drawing his attention.

Glen looked up, his smile widening as he spotted us. His eyes, a striking blue, locked onto mine for a fleeting moment before shifting to Chase. He rose smoothly as we approached, extending a hand to my brother.

“Chase! Good to see you, man. And this must be the infamous Addi.” His voice was warm, a distinct, subtle Texan drawl softening the edges of his words. He turned to me, his hand now extended. “Glen Powell. It’s truly a pleasure to meet you. Chase talks about you nonstop.”

I took his hand. His grip was firm, warm, and confident, but not overly dominant. His eyes, when they met mine, held an intelligent spark, an almost unnerving perceptiveness. This wasn't just a friendly glance; he was assessing me, just as I was assessing him. It was an instant, silent duel of observation.

“Addison Morgan,” I replied, my voice calm, professional. “But everyone calls me Addi. And the pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Powell. Chase talks about you nonstop, too.”

His smile deepened, a genuine crinkle appearing at the corners of his eyes. “Please, call me Glen. ‘Mr. Powell’ makes me feel like my dad. Have a seat.” He gestured to the empty chairs.

As I settled in, my internal profiling engine roared to life. He was exactly as advertised: grounded, charismatic, self-aware. He seemed utterly at ease in his own skin, something rare in this city. I noted the faint lines around his eyes, a testament to genuine laughter, not just practiced smiles. His posture was relaxed, open, but there was an underlying current of controlled energy, like a coiled spring.

“So, Chase tells me you’re a writer,” Glen began, leaning slightly forward, his gaze attentive. “He made it sound like you’ve got something big brewing.”

“I’ve got a few ideas,” I demurred, trying to play the part of the aspiring screenwriter. “Just trying to get a feel for the landscape, really. It’s all a bit… dazzling, coming from Indiana.”

“Oh, I get that,” he said, nodding. “Born and raised in Austin myself. This city can be a lot. But there’s a real heart to it if you know where to look. What kind of stories are you drawn to?”

“Stories about people,” I said, letting a sliver of my true self through. “About what makes them tick. The layers, the contradictions. The things they hide beneath the surface.” My eyes held his, a silent challenge. Was he conscious of the double meaning?

Glen’s expression flickered, a momentary tightening around his jaw, almost imperceptible, before his charming smile returned.

“I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I love playing characters with depth. The ones that aren’t just archetypes. The ones that make you peel back their motivations, see what’s really driving them.” He paused, his gaze thoughtful. “You’ve got an interesting way of looking at things, Addi. Very… observant.”

“Comes with the territory, I guess,” I said with a shrug, trying to deflect, but knowing he’d already seen past the casual exterior. “I tend to notice the details.”

“You do,” he mused, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “It’s refreshing. Most people just skim the surface. You seem to dig deeper. Even when you’re just meeting someone.”

My carefully constructed facade threatened to crack. He knew. He’d seen me profiling him. Not just seen, but acknowledged it. Most people, if they even sensed it, would get uncomfortable, defensive. Glen Powell found it interesting.

Chase, oblivious to the subtle currents flowing between us, interjected, “That’s Addi! She’s like, a human lie detector. Used to freak me out when we were kids. She always knew when I was lying about raiding the cookie jar.”

Glen chuckled, a rich, genuine sound that resonated through the bustling cafe. “A human lie detector, huh? That’s a valuable skill to have.” His eyes were still on me, a curious glint in their depths. “So, Addi, what interesting details have you noticed about me?”

My breath caught. He was throwing the ball back in my court, openly inviting me to profile him. It was a bold move, or an incredibly confident one. Or both.

“Well,” I began, choosing my words carefully, my mind racing through the data points I’d collected in just minutes. “You’re clearly comfortable in your own skin, but also highly aware of how you present yourself. You value authenticity, not just in roles, but in interactions. You’re charismatic, but it feels largely unforced, not a performance. And you’re grounded, probably due to those Texan roots Chase mentioned.” I paused, then added, pushing the boundary slightly, “But there’s a deeper current there, too. A sense of… something held back. Not necessarily negative, just… contained.”

Glen listened intently, an unreadable expression on his face. When I finished, he didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Instead, a genuine, almost pleased smile spread across his face. “Wow,” he said softly, a hint of awe in his voice. “You really are good, Addi Morgan. Most people just see the actor, the goofy guy from the movies. You… you see beyond that. And you’re right. There’s always more to people than meets the eye. Especially in a city like this.” His gaze lingered on me, a deep, knowing look that sent a shiver down my spine. “I have a feeling we’re going to get along just fine.”

I offered a small, polite smile in return, but inside, a new kind of alarm blared. Glen Powell was not only aware of my profiling, he seemed to enjoy it, to be intrigued by it. He wasn't threatened. He was… welcoming it. And that, in my line of work, was far more dangerous than any overt hostility. He was a puzzle, a contradiction, and my instincts screamed that he was either the most disarmingly genuine person I’d ever met, or the most masterful actor of all. Either way, my assignment just got infinitely more complicated. And a hell of a lot more interesting.

[bellarkeselection]

The Hollywood Profiler

Special Agent Morgan otherwise known as Addison “Addi” Morgan is a very skilled criminal profiteer. She does her job well, but what happens when she’s asked to find a serial killer that is posing as a Hollywood actor. During her mission she crosses paths with the one and only Glen Powell who she instantly has chemistry with. The pair begin falling for each other as she gets closer to finishing her case she might find out more than she ever imagined.

@gpsmississippihippie helped with this idea

1 - The Special Detail

2 - The Secrets We Keep

3 - One Night Off

Author note - this is just fanfiction so not everything is true that is going to happen in this story

Tag list - @gpsmississippihippie @rootedinrevisions @kmc1989 @elenavampire21 @frost-queen

[bellarkeselection]

No Grand Plan, Except You

- Y/n is still figuring out her future and Jake is right there supporting her until she feels certain

Tags - @rootedinrevisions @kmc1989 @elenavampire21 @frost-queen - let me know your thoughts below in the comments below ❤️ and also reblog @gpsmississippihippie

The rumble was a constant companion here at Top Gun. Not just the roar of jets tearing across the sky, but the low thrum of ambition, of lives lived with an almost aggressive certainty. Everyone here, it seemed, knew exactly where they were headed. Especially the pilots. Especially Jake Seresin.

Me? I was still trying to figure out which direction was north.

My official title was ‘Logistics Coordinator, Aviation Support Staff,’ which really just meant I made sure the right parts got to the right planes at the right time, and occasionally wrangled paperwork that even the most disciplined pilots seemed to lose in the ether. It was a good job, steady, and it paid the bills, something I was still incredibly thankful for after graduating college into a world that felt like it had no place for liberal arts majors. But it wasn't a passion. It wasn't the kind of calling that made your blood sing, the way launching a multi-million-dollar fighter jet apparently did for guys like Jake.

"Morning, L/N. You look like you're contemplating the meaning of life, or debating if the coffee machine needs another prayer."

I didn't even have to look up. That voice, dripping with casual confidence and a hint of playful mockery, belonged to only one person. Jake Seresin. Hangman. My boyfriend.

I sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair from my face before finally glancing over. He was leaning against the doorframe of my small office, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk playing on his lips. His flight suit – probably still smelling faintly of jet fuel and ambition – clung to his powerful frame, making him look every inch the ace pilot he was. He was impossibly good-looking, in that all-American, slightly arrogant way, and he knew it. Oh, how he knew it.

"Just debating if you’re going to manage to make it through breakfast without insulting someone, Seresin," I shot back, a wry smile finally breaking through my morning haze. "Or, more accurately, if you’re going to survive the day without Rooster decking you."

He scoffed, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering in, his presence immediately making my cramped space feel even smaller. He moved with an effortless grace, like a predator surveying his domain. "Bradley should be honored. My insults are a form of high praise. Means I see potential. Means I care." He paused, reaching out a hand to gently cup the back of my neck, his thumb tracing a slow circle on my skin. The touch, as always, sent a familiar shiver down my spine. It was a habit of his, that casual, almost proprietary physical contact, a silent claim. "Besides, I don't need to worry about Rooster. He knows who's going to be chosen for this mission."

"And that would be you, I presume?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. He always presumed it was him. For anything.

The best pilot, the best shot, the best at charming anyone he wanted. And nine times out of ten, he was right. It was both infuriating and undeniably attractive.

"Who else?" he chuckled, his fingers still warm on my neck. He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. "Unless you're volunteering, L/N? Heard you're pretty handy with a joystick… in the simulator, of course."

I swatted lightly at his arm. "Get out of here, Hangman. I have work to do. Unlike some people, my job doesn't involve playing chicken with gravity for a living."

He pulled back, but his eyes never left mine, a challenge in their depths. "Ah, but it's such a thrilling way to live, isn't it? Every day a new adventure, a new test. You should try it sometime. Might just put some fire in that soul of yours." He winked, then turned to leave, but not before pausing at the door. "Meet me at the O-Club tonight? Celebrating my inevitable selection for the mission."

"You haven't even been selected yet!" I called after him, but he was already gone, his laughter echoing down the hallway.

I leaned back in my chair, the lingering warmth of his touch on my neck. That was Jake in a nutshell. Arrogant, charming, magnetic. He was a force of nature, a man who knew his purpose with an unshakeable conviction. And that, more than anything, was what I envied about him.

I shuffled through a stack of maintenance requests, trying to focus. My life, post-college, felt like a series of disconnected chapters. A brief stint in marketing that taught me I hated marketing. A soul-crushing few months as a barista that taught me I hated mornings. Now, Top Gun. It was interesting, definitely, but wasn't the thing. I didn't have that burning desire, that singular focus that Jake possessed. He'd known since he was a kid he was going to fly, going to be the best. Me? I was still trying to figure out what I wanted for dinner most nights.

Later that afternoon, I was walking past the ready room when I heard the familiar sound of Jake’s voice, raised in competitive banter. I slowed, peeking in. He was leaning against a table, arms crossed, facing off against Rooster, who looked perpetually annoyed by Jake’s existence.

"Come on, Bradshaw. You know who’s made for this mission. Someone who doesn't hesitate, someone who’s got ice in their veins and fire in their belly," Jake was saying, his smirk evident even from my vantage point. "Someone who won't be flying with ghosts in the cockpit."

Rooster’s jaw tightened. "Some of us actually fly with a conscience, Seresin. Maybe you should try it sometime."

"Conscience? That’s what gets you killed out there. What gets the mission failed," Jake countered, pushing off the table and taking a step closer to Rooster. "No, what we need is someone who trusts their gut, someone who knows they're the best, because they are the best. And that, my friend, is me." He clapped Rooster on the shoulder, a move that was meant to be friendly but felt more like an assertion of dominance. "Don't worry, I'll send you a postcard from the debrief."

I shook my head, a small smile playing on my lips. He was relentless. He thrived on the push and pull, on proving himself superior. It wasn’t always likable, but it was undeniably effective. It was his way of navigating relationships, of staying sharp. Sometimes, I wondered if it was also his way of pushing down something else.

The thought flitted through my mind – a flicker of insecurity beneath the bravado, a fear of not being good enough that he buried under layers of arrogance. I’d only ever caught glimpses of it, moments quickly masked, but they were there. Small cracks in the polished facade.

That evening, true to his word, Jake was waiting for me at the O-Club. He’d already secured a corner booth, a couple of untouched beers on the table. He was in his civvies now – a dark t-shirt that hugged his biceps and worn jeans, still radiating that effortless coolness.

"Took you long enough," he grinned, pulling me into the booth beside him. His arm immediately found its way around the back of my seat, his fingers brushing my shoulder.

"Some of us have to work actual hours, Hangman," I retorted, taking a sip of the beer he’d clearly ordered for me. "Unlike you, who just floats through life on a cloud of self-adulation."

He laughed, a deep, resonant sound. "It's not self-adulation if it's true, sweetheart." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low purr. "So, you ready to celebrate my impending triumph?"

"You're insufferable," I mumbled, but I leaned into his space slightly. The truth was, his energy was infectious. It was hard to stay in a funk when Jake was around. He had a way of pulling you into his orbit, making you feel alive, if slightly exasperated.

We talked, or rather, he talked. About the mission, about his confidence, about Rooster’s clear inferiority. I listened, interjecting with sarcastic comments, watching the easy way he held court, even with just me. He was in his element.

"You know," I said, after a lull in his monologue, swirling my beer, "it must be nice, knowing exactly what you want. Having that kind of clarity."

He tilted his head, studying me. "What, you don't know what you want, L/N?"

"No, not really," I admitted, looking down at my glass. "I mean, I know what I don't want. And I know I want to be happy, financially stable, all that. But there’s no big dream, no grand calling like flying jets for you." I finally met his gaze. "You’ve always known, haven’t you? Since you were a kid."

His usual cocky grin faltered slightly. For a brief moment, the mask slipped. "Yeah, I did," he said, his voice softer than usual. "Always seen myself in the air. Nothing else ever really clicked." He reached out, his hand covering mine on the table. His thumb traced a gentle pattern on my knuckles. "Doesn't mean your path isn't just as important. Just means it's a different one. Maybe it's not one big thing, but a bunch of smaller things that add up."

The sincerity in his tone caught me off guard. It was rare for him to drop the bravado completely, to offer a moment of genuine empathy without a follow-up joke. It was a reminder that beneath the layers of arrogance, there was a man capable of insight, of kindness. It was one of the reasons I stuck around.

"Maybe," I whispered, squeezing his hand. "Thanks, Hangman."

He gave a small, almost shy smile. "Anytime, L/N." Then, the smirk was back, like a drawn curtain. "Now, are you going to finish that beer or are we heading back to my place? Figure we can kick off the celebrations properly." His eyes held a warm promise, a silent invitation.

I didn't need to be asked twice. The thought of escaping the noise of the O-Club, of being alone with him, was suddenly very appealing. "Lead the way, Seresin."

His apartment, surprisingly, was far less chaotic than his personality. It was tidy, sparsely decorated, with a few personal touches – framed photos of jets, a couple of trophies, a surprisingly well-stocked bookshelf. It felt like a space a man who valued his privacy would create.

The moment the door closed behind us, cutting off the world, Jake spun me around, pulling me flush against his body. "Finally," he murmured, his hands finding purchase on my waist. His lips found mine in a hungry, bruising kiss, a stark contrast to the subtle touches from earlier. This was raw, immediate, a silent declaration of desire.

I met his intensity, my fingers tangling in the short hair at the nape of his neck. His scent – clean, masculine, a hint of his cologne – filled my senses. The kiss deepened, his tongue exploring my mouth with an almost possessive hunger. He pulled back slightly, just enough for me to gasp for air, his forehead resting against mine.

"You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to get you alone," he breathed, his voice husky. His thumbs stroked my hips, sending shivers through me. "All day, seeing you in that office, looking all serious and distracting…"

A laugh bubbled up from my chest. "Distracting, huh? Imagine that."

He pulled me closer still, if that was even possible, his body a warm, solid wall against mine. "More than you know, L/N." He lowered his head, trailing kisses down my jaw, along my neck, making my skin prickle with goosebumps. He found the sensitive spot just behind my ear, eliciting a soft moan from me. "See? I knew you’d come around."

My hands slid from his hair, down his powerful shoulders, feeling the taut muscles beneath his shirt. I began to unbutton it, slowly, deliberately. He watched me, his eyes dark with desire, but he let me lead. There was a quiet intensity in his gaze that was far removed from his usual cockiness. In these moments, stripped of the pretense, he was just Jake. Vulnerable, human.

When his shirt was finally undone, I pushed it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His chest was broad, sculpted, a testament to the rigorous physical demands of his job. I ran my palms over his warm skin, feeling the steady beat of his heart. He shivered slightly under my touch.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he whispered, his voice rough. He leaned down again, his lips brushing mine, his breath hot against my face. "Just… be here. With me."

It wasn't a request; it was a plea. A rare glimpse into that deeper need for connection he usually masked. I wrapped my arms around his waist, holding him close, pressing my body into his. "Always, Hangman," I whispered back, kissing him softly. "Always."

He picked me up effortlessly, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. I buried my face in his neck, inhaling his scent as he carried me through the apartment, the world outside fading into a distant hum. The mission, my uncertainties, his arrogance – they all receded, leaving only us, in this quiet, private space, where confidence was simply a prelude to connection, and vulnerability was the truest form of strength. And for tonight, that was more than enough.

[bellarkeselection]

4 - The Dare

Part 5

Talk Me Down, Hotshot

- Please don’t be a silent reader on this story, I’d greatly appreciate comments or reblogs with your thoughts ❤️ Tag list - just ask to be added @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @frost-queen @elenavampire21 @lover-of-books-and-tea @gpsmississippihippie

The reek of stale beer, fried chicken, and a hundred years of spilled secrets hung thick in the air of The Rusty Anchor. It was a smell I’d come to associate with my life. Tonight, though, the familiar scent was just another layer in the personal hell I found myself in, trapped between Daisy’s overly enthusiastic grin and Jake ‘Hotshot’ Seresin’s perpetually smirking face.

“Another basket of wings, Y/n?” Daisy chirped, oblivious to my internal turmoil, or perhaps, enjoying it. She was my coworker, a fellow radar jockey, and damn near the only person who understood the intricate dance of signals and blips we dealt with daily. She also had an uncanny knack for bringing people together, whether they wanted to be or not. Tonight, I was in the latter camp.

I pushed my empty glass forward. “Just a refill on that sweet tea, Daisy. And no, no more wings. My stomach can only handle so much grease before it revolts.” My voice, always a little rough around the edges, carried a hint of my Southern drawl, a sound Jake had, on occasion, claimed was “charming as all hell.” I’d responded to that particular compliment by telling him to go charm a rattlesnake.

Jake, leaning back in his chair, managed to look impossibly relaxed even in the cramped, sticky booth. His aviator shades were perched on his head, catching the dim light from the beer signs, and his blue eyes were fixed on me with an infuriatingly knowing glint. “Come on, Casey. You’re telling me those delicate Hoosier lungs of yours can’t handle a little heat? I thought you were tough.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Delicate? Did you just call my lungs delicate, Hotshot?” Born premature, I’d spent my childhood battling a respiratory system that wasn’t quite up to snuff. It had made me tougher, not weaker. Made me learn to pick my fights and breathe deep when it mattered. I’d grown up on a farm where you either pulled your weight or got left behind, and I pulled mine just fine, thank you very much. The idea of anyone calling me delicate, especially him, chaffed worse than a week-old blister.

“Just a figure of speech, sweetheart,” he purred, a challenging smile playing on his lips. “Though I will admit, you do have a certain... fragility to you that’s surprisingly alluring. Makes a man want to protect.”

I snorted, loud enough to draw a couple of glances from the next booth. “Protect? From what, a stray gust of wind? You’re pushing it, Seresin. And for the record, I’m about as fragile as a concrete block. You’d know that if you’d paid any attention to anything I said two days ago when I told you, in no uncertain terms, to back off.”

That had been after a particularly grueling simulation, where he’d flown like a goddamn maniac and I’d, against all odds, kept him from flying into a mountain. He’d tried to pull the charming, post-mission debrief line. I’d shut him down colder than a Hoosier winter. Apparently, he was either deaf or masochistic.

Daisy, ever the instigator, giggled. “Oh, he paid attention, Y/n. He just thought you were playing hard to get.”

“I don’t play games, Daisy. I don’t have time for them. I got a job to do, and I got my own two feet to stand on. I wasn’t playing. I was being direct. Something you hotshot pilots could learn a thing or two about.” I shot another glare at Jake. “Some of us aren’t built for the drama. Some of us are built for, you know, actual work.”

Jake’s smile widened, unperturbed. “See? That’s what I like about you, Casey. No bullshit. All attitude. And that flannel shirt actually makes you look... charming.”

“It’s a shirt, Seresin. It’s practical. It’s what you wear when you’re not trying to impress anyone, which, if you haven’t noticed, is my natural state of being.” I gestured vaguely at my well-worn flannel, tucked into jeans that had seen better days, and my mud-splattered boots propped casually under the table. This was me. No frills. No fuss. Just Y/n Casey, the radar guru with a stubborn heart and lungs that sometimes decided to be ornery.

“And yet, here you are, impressing the hell out of me,” he said, his voice dropping just a notch, a hint of genuine warmth beneath the usual bravado.

I rolled my eyes so hard I felt a crick in my neck. “Give it a rest, Hotshot. You’re like a broken record. You already tried this routine, remember? Two days ago? Didn’t work then, ain’t gonna work now.”

“A man can dream, can’t he?” He lifted his glass of amber liquid, a silent toast.

Daisy, who had been quietly sipping her soda, slammed her glass down on the table, making us both jump. “Alright, alright, that’s enough! I can’t listen to this back and forth anymore. It’s exhausting, and frankly, I think you two are just flirting.”

“We are not flirting!” I practically yelled, leaning forward. “I am verbally assaulting him with the truth, and he’s being a persistent, irritating fly!”

“And I’m appreciating the artistry of the assault, Y/n,” Jake interjected, a twinkle in his eye.

Daisy ignored us. “No, no, I’ve decided. This has to stop. Or rather, it has to start.” She looked between us, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I have a dare.”

My stomach dropped. Daisy’s dares were notorious. They usually involved public embarrassment or something incredibly inconvenient. “Daisy, no. No dares. We’re adults. We’re in a public establishment. We have reputations to uphold.”

“Yours is already shot, Y/n, you literally just called a Navy pilot a fly,” Jake chimed in, earning him a sharp kick under the table from me. He let out an exaggerated yelp.

“Ow! What was that for, Casey?”

“That was for being a fly, Hotshot.”

Daisy clapped her hands together. “Perfect! See? This is what I’m talking about. You two have chemistry. Whether you admit it or not. So, here’s the dare: Y/n, you go on one date with Jake.”

I stared at her, utterly aghast. “Are you out of your mind? A date? With him?” I pointed an accusing finger at Jake, who was now thoroughly enjoying the show, his confident smirk back in place. “He’s got more ego than brains, Daisy! He thinks a uniform is a personality and a wink is a conversation!”

Jake put a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Ouch. That cuts deep, Casey. And I assure you, my personality is far more complex than any uniform could convey. Many layers. Like an onion.”

“Yeah, an onion that makes you cry from irritation,” I muttered.

“Come on, Y/n,” Daisy pressed, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Just one date. Think of it like reconnaissance. Or, even better, like a social experiment. How else are you going to prove him wrong if you don’t let him try?”

That last bit hit a nerve. Prove him wrong. I liked proving people wrong. And Jake Seresin was a walking, talking embodiment of everything I usually wrote off as ‘too much hassle.’ But the idea of letting him think he was right about anything was galling. Especially about me.

I looked at Jake, who was watching me with an unreadable expression, though the confidence hadn’t entirely faded from his eyes. He wasn’t pushing, just waiting. That surprised me. Usually, he’d be pressing his advantage, buttering Daisy up, trying to charm his way into my good graces. But he was just... waiting.

“Alright,” I said, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. “One date. But I have conditions.”

Daisy clapped her hands again, a wide grin splitting her face. “Yes! I knew it! What are the conditions, Y/n?”

I looked straight at Jake, my gaze unwavering. “You wanna go on a date with me, Hotshot? You wanna see if there’s anything beneath this ‘attitude’ and ‘flannel’?” I jabbed a finger at my chest. “Then you gotta show me you’re more than just some cocky naval aviator pilot. You gotta show me you’ve got something real going on up there. Show me you're not just a pretty face in a uniform with a smooth line.”

Jake’s smirk faltered a fraction. His eyes, usually so full of lighthearted mischief, seemed to deepen. “You think that’s all I am, Casey?” he asked, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it.

“That’s all I’ve seen so far, Seresin,” I stated simply, truthfully. “You wanna convince me otherwise? That’s your challenge. You wanna go on this date? Then you have to prove you’re worth my time. Prove there’s substance behind the swagger.” My voice was firm, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “No pilot talk. No Top Gun stories. No trying to impress me with how hot you are or how fast you can fly. Just… you. Whatever ‘you’ is under all that.”

Jake held my gaze for a long moment. It wasn’t a challenge anymore, not really. It was a test. And he seemed to understand exactly what I was asking. He took a slow breath, then straightened in his seat, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something... quieter.

“You got it, Casey,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Consider it a challenge accepted. I’ll show you. I’ll show you there’s more to Jake Seresin than the uniform.”

Daisy nearly bounced out of her seat. “Oh my god! This is happening! This is actually happening! When? When are you going?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Tomorrow night. It’s the only free slot I’ve got before I’m on rotation for the next two weeks.” I looked at Jake. “And you’re picking the place. Something… normal. No fancy restaurants where I have to wear heels.”

Jake nodded. “Understood. Normal. No heels. I’ll come up with something.” He paused, then tilted his head slightly. “So, tomorrow night, then. What time should I pick you up, Y/n Casey? And where?”

“Six bells. And you know where I live, Hotshot. Same address you dropped me off at after the last debrief.” My apartment was tiny, cozy, and filled with more books than furniture. A far cry from the sleek, sterile base housing.

Daisy clapped again, her excitement barely contained. “Oh, this is going to be amazing! I can’t wait to hear all about it! Y/n, you have to tell me every single detail!”

“Calm down, Daisy. It’s one date. A dare. A social experiment. Not a marriage proposal,” I grumbled, though a strange flutter of something I refused to name stirred in my stomach. It wasn’t nerves. It was… well, I didn’t know what it was. Annoyance, probably. Or indigestion from all those wings.

Jake, however, seemed to bask in Daisy’s enthusiasm. He gave her a charming smile. “Don’t worry, Daisy. I’ll do my best to finally convince this stubborn woman that I’m not just a pretty face.” He winked at me, and I felt a fresh wave of irritation. Old habits, I suppose.

“Don’t push it, Seresin. You’re on probation,” I warned him. “And remember the rules. You break ‘em, the date’s over. And you owe me a lifetime supply of sweet tea.”

“Deal,” he said, his smile genuine now, no longer just a smirk. “A lifetime supply of sweet tea, if I can’t impress you without the pilot bravado.”

Daisy leaned across the table, beaming. “I’m so excited! This is going to be epic! I’ll even help you pick out an outfit, Y/n!”

“Absolutely not,” I stated flatly. “I’ll be wearing flannel. Just like always. You think I’m going to change for him?” I gestured at Jake. “Pfft. Please.”

Jake chuckled, a low, pleasant sound. “Wouldn’t expect anything less, Casey. Flannel suits you.”

I caught his eye then, and for a split second, something flickered between us – not flirtation, not annoyance, but a raw, unvarnished curiosity. He looked at me, really looked at me, and I felt a prickle of unease, mixed with an unfamiliar sense of… challenge accepted. I’d thrown down the gauntlet, and for the first time, it felt like he was picking it up not just to play, but to genuinely meet me on my terms.

My lungs, usually a little tight after a long day, suddenly felt a little freer. Or maybe that was just the sweet tea kicking in. Either way, tomorrow night was coming, and I had a feeling it was going to be anything but normal. God help me.

[bellarkeselection]

3 - Daisy and Jake

Part 4

Talk Me Down, Hotshot

- Please don’t be a silent reader on this story, I’d greatly appreciate comments or reblogs with your thoughts ❤️ Tag list - just ask to be added @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @frost-queen @elenavampire21 @lover-of-books-and-tea @gpsmississippihippie

The fluorescent glow of the TACRON-4 console usually felt like a second skin, a familiar hum that soothed the restless energy I'd carried since birth. Today, though, it felt… itchy. Maybe it was the static electricity in the air, or maybe it was just the persistent ache in my lungs that flared up whenever the pressure dropped. I popped another handful of sunflower seeds into my mouth, crunching them methodically as my eyes scanned the intricate web of air traffic. My fingers danced over the holographic display, adjusting, filtering, predicting. Radar, comms, air defense – it was all a symphony I conducted, even if my instrument was a beat-up pickup truck of a brain and a body that sometimes forgot how to breathe right.

“Casey, my office. Now.” Commander Miller’s voice, sharp and clipped, cut through the comms. My left eyebrow twitched. Now? I was right in the middle of routing a particularly stubborn cargo plane through a knot of civilian airliners.

“On it, Commander,” I grumbled, hitting a final sequence of commands that would put the system on autopilot for a few minutes. I wiped my hands on the worn denim of my flannel shirt, pushing myself back from the console. My boots, bless their scuffed, dependable hearts, hit the polished floor with a satisfying thud. I hated being pulled away from a live board. It felt like leaving my baby with a stranger.

Miller’s office was a glass box overlooking the main operations floor, all sleek lines and muted tones. Too fancy for my taste. I preferred the organized chaos of the backroads, where you knew where you stood because the mud was either on your boots or it wasn’t. I pushed open the door without knocking, my usual Southern charm momentarily forgotten in the face of an unexpected interruption. And then I saw him.

Leaning against Commander Miller’s pristine desk, all casual grace and tailored flight suit, was Lieutenant Jake Seresin. Hangman. The very sight of him made my teeth ache. His smirk, sharp and confident, was already in place, like he’d been practicing it in a mirror all morning. He glanced at me, his eyes—that particular shade of blue that reminded me of a clear summer sky before a tornado hits—sweeping over me from my perpetually messy bun to my combat boots.

“Casey. Good of you to join us,” Miller said, totally ignoring the fact that I’d just been yanked from a critical phase of operations. He gestured to the empty chair in front of his desk. I took it, sitting up straight, though every instinct in my body wanted to slouch and hide my face behind a cloud of sunflower seed shells.

Jake pushed off the desk, crossing his arms and settling his weight on one hip. He looked like he belonged on a magazine cover, not in a functional office. “Lieutenant Jake Seresin,” he drawled, extending a hand. Like I didn’t know who he was. Like every single person on this base hadn’t heard of ‘Hangman,’ the self-proclaimed ‘savior’ of the fleet or that we hadn’t already met two days ago at Shorty’s Den. I ignored his outstretched hand. Too much effort.

“Y/n Casey,” I replied, my voice a little rougher than usual. My lungs felt tight. Probably the stress of being in a room with him. “I’m aware of who you are, Hotshot. Heard a lot about you.” Most of it involved overly confident remarks and reckless maneuvers.

He chuckled, a low, smooth sound that probably made half the women on base swoon. It just made me want to chew my seeds louder. “All good things, I hope?”

“Depends on who’s tellin’ the tale,” I shot back, meeting his gaze head-on. No way was I letting him get under my skin this early in the day.

Miller cleared his throat, clearly annoyed by our immediate sparring. “Alright, gentlemen, settle down.” He paused, realizing. “And lady.” He sighed. “Casey, Lieutenant Seresin is here under a special directive. He recently returned from a… highly sensitive mission. His superior officer, Captain Pete Mitchell, callsign Maverick, needs to be informed of his safe landing. Our usual comms channels are… tied up. And given the nature of the mission, we need absolute certainty of the transmission.”

My eyes narrowed. Maverick. That explained the ‘sensitive mission’ part. The man was a legend, and a mystery. “And you need me for this because…?”

“Because, Casey,” Miller said, leaning forward, “you’re the best we have at establishing secure, long-range links under… less than ideal circumstances. Your work with those satellite arrays, your ability to cut through the noise… it’s unparalleled. Lieutenant Seresin needs to make contact. You’ll be his comms specialist.”

I stared at Miller, then at Jake. Jake was still smirking, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes now – not cockiness, but perhaps a hint of genuine need. It was unsettling. “You want me to get this…Hotshot… to his Captain?” I shook my head slowly. “With all due respect, Commander, I’m busy.”

“It’s a direct order, Casey,” Miller stated, his voice devoid of humor. “This isn’t a request. This is top priority. And Lieutenant Seresin’s brief stint here is only for three more weeks, so we need to get this done efficiently.”

Three weeks. The thought was both a relief and, strangely, a minor annoyance. Three weeks of this man’s radiating confidence filling up my airspace.

I sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that felt a little thin on the exhale. “Fine. But if he so much as breathes wrong on my console, he’s payin’ for a new one.” I pushed myself up. “Let’s go, Hotshot. You got a Captain to call.”

Jake’s smirk widened. “Lead the way, Casey.”

We walked down the long corridor, the polished floors reflecting the overhead lights like a runway at night. I led him to one of the more isolated comms stations, tucked away in a corner of the facility. It was an older rig, but I’d personally rebuilt parts of it, tweaking its antenna arrays and processors until it hummed with a fierce, quiet power.

“Alright, Hotshot,” I said, pulling out the chair and settling in. I gestured to the screen. “Tell me what kind of signal you’re expecting, what encryption, the works. And don’t touch anything that ain’t glowing at you.”

He leaned against the console, close enough that I could smell a faint hint of something clean and masculine – not cologne, just… him. “Relax, Casey. Just tell me what you need.” His voice was low, almost conversational.

“I need you to tell me what I need to know, is what I need,” I retorted, already typing. “Look, a secure long-range comm with Maverick ain’t exactly like calling your mama on a landline. He moves, he’s probably under strict radio silence. We’re gonna be lucky if we get a two-second burst of static.” I ran a diagnostic, the screen spitting out lines of green code. “Give me the coordinates of his last known position, the window, and any protocols he might be using to establish contact.”

“You got it.” Jake recited the information, his voice professional now. Gone was the playful lilt, replaced by a focused tone that surprised me. My fingers flew over the keyboard, configuring the satellite dishes, adjusting frequencies, cross-referencing known patterns.

“Alright, initiating sequence,” I muttered, my brow furrowed in concentration. The hum of the console intensified. “This is gonna be a long shot, Hotshot. You might want to mentally prepare for disappointment.”

“I’m never disappointed, Casey,” he replied, his voice a low rumble beside my ear. “And I sure as hell ain’t unprepared.”

I ignored the subtle flirtation, focusing on the blinking lights and the fluctuating waveforms on the screen. “Easy for you to say. You just gotta talk. I gotta make the magic happen.” I chewed my sunflower seeds, the soft crunch a counterpoint to the electronic whirring. “You got a specific message?”

“Just confirmation of safe return,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “He needs to know we made it.” There was a genuine note of care in his tone, a crack in the arrogant facade. It momentarily disarmed me.

“Right. Standby.” I pushed a button, and the comm line went live, a faint hiss of static filling the air. I adjusted a dial, listened intently, then tweaked another. My weaker lungs often meant I paid more attention to the subtle shifts in sound, picking up nuances others missed. “There. Weak signal, but it’s there. Encrypted. Give me a second to decypher.”

The next few minutes were a blur of intense concentration. My mind raced, sifting through algorithms, trying to break the temporary code. Jake stood silently beside me, a rare display of patience from him. I could feel his gaze, but I didn’t look up. This was my moment, my domain.

“Got it!” I breathed out, the word a little strained. “Okay, Hotshot, you got maybe thirty seconds. Go.”

Jake leaned into the microphone. “Maverick, this is Hangman. Seresin. Alpha mission complete. All ground personnel recovered. We are home. Repeat, we are home. Confirmed safe landing.”

He pulled back, his eyes fixed on the screen. The signal was fading fast, but then, a faint crackle. A voice, barely audible, filtered through the speakers. “—copy that, Hangman. Good work. Break. Out.” That was it. Brief, almost imperceptible, but it was enough. The signal died.

I slumped back in my chair, exhaling slowly. “Well, I’ll be. He got it. You got your call, Hotshot.”

Jake was staring at the blank screen, then he slowly turned to me. The smirk was gone. Replaced by an expression I hadn’t seen on him before – relief, pure and unadulterated. “You… you got through. Casey, you’re an absolute wizard.”

He slapped the console panel next to me, a little too hard for my liking. “Don’t break my toys, Hotshot,” I grumbled, but there was less venom in my voice than usual. My chest felt a little lighter.

“No, seriously,” he said, his eyes still holding that genuine look. “That was… damn impressive. Most people would’ve given up after the first twenty seconds. You just kept at it.”

“I grew up in southern Indiana, Hotshot. We don’t give up easy there. Stubborn hearts are a way of life,” I said, shrugging, trying to brush off the compliment, but a small spark of pride ignited in my chest. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go log this and get back to my actual job.”

He nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. “Right. Thanks, Casey. Seriously.” He gave me a quick, almost imperceptible nod before turning and striding out of the comms station.

I watched him go, then shook my head, a small, wry smile tugging at the corner of my lips. Hotshot. He was a piece of work, alright. A frustrating, cocky, unexpectedly grateful piece of work.

The end of my shift couldn’t come soon enough. The air in the facility felt stale, and my lungs were ready for a dose of fresh, outdoor air, even if it was just the recycled air of the base parking lot. I packed up my console, tidied my workspace, and grabbed my worn backpack. Daisy, one of my best friends and a fellow radar tech, was already waiting for me by the exit. Daisy was all sunshine and immediate friendships, the kind of person who could make friends with a brick wall.

“Finally, Casey! I thought you were gonna marry that console tonight,” she chirped, linking her arm through mine. “Long day?”

“You know it,” I muttered, stretching my shoulders. “Had to play personal assistant to Lieutenant Hotshot Seresin for half the afternoon.”

Daisy’s eyes widened. “No way! Hangman? The one who looks like he walked off a movie poster? What’d he need you for?”

“Special comms detail. Apparently, only I can get him through to his Captain,” I said, rolling my eyes. “He’s got three weeks here, you know. Three weeks of that ego.”

As we pushed through the double doors leading outside, the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, painting the sky in warm oranges and purples. And there, leaning against a pillar just outside the entrance, was Jake Seresin. He had swapped his flight suit for a casual polo shirt and jeans, looking even more annoyingly handsome than he had inside. He was scrolling on his phone, but looked up as soon as he heard the doors open. His gaze immediately found mine.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Daisy whispered, nudging me. Before I could react, she broke free and practically skipped over to him. “Lieutenant Seresin!” she chirped, her smile dazzling. “Hi! I’m Daisy O’Connell, I work with Y/n here. You were amazing at that Top Gun stuff, everyone’s talking about it!”

Jake straightened up, his signature smirk back in place. “O’Connell. Always a pleasure to meet a fan,” he drawled, his eyes flicking to me, an amused glint in them.

I trudged over, feeling an impending sense of doom. “Daisy, come on. We gotta go.”

“Hold on, Y/n!” Daisy waved me off. She turned back to Jake. “So, are you heading out? Me and Y/n were just about to grab a drink. You should totally come! It’s a great bar, really chill, good music, you’d love it.”

My jaw dropped. “Daisy! No! He’s… he’s busy.” I elbowed her, hard.

Jake’s smirk grew. “Actually, O’Connell, I’m not busy at all. Sounds like a fantastic idea.” He met my furious glare head-on. “Unless, of course, Casey here has other plans for me?”

“I have plans to not have plans with you, Hotshot,” I retorted, crossing my arms. “Daisy, he’s got… uh… important… pilot stuff to do.”

“Pilot stuff can wait for a cold beer, Casey,” Jake said smoothly. “Besides, I hear you’re quite the expert on the local watering holes, given your… roots.”

He was referring to my Southern Indiana upbringing in the most condescending way possible. My temper flared. “My roots involve knowing a good time when I see one, and it sure as heck ain’t gonna be with a hotshot like you trying to pick up every single waitress in the joint.”

Daisy giggled. “Oh, come on, Y/n! Don’t be a buzzkill! It’ll be fun! He’s only here for three more weeks, remember? We gotta show him the local hospitality!”

“That’s exactly why we don’t need to show him anything, Daisy!” I hissed through gritted teeth. “Three weeks is barely enough time for him to stop bragging about himself!”

Jake just chuckled, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Don’t worry, Casey. I promise to behave. Mostly. Besides,” he added, his voice dropping slightly, meant just for my ears, “I already found the most interesting person on base today.” He gave me a pointed look.

I felt a flush creep up my neck. Damn him. He knew exactly how to needle me.

“See, Y/n? He’s charming!” Daisy beamed. “So, seriously, Jake? You in?”

He pushed off the pillar, a confident sway in his step. “Lead the way, ladies. Just point me towards the coldest beer and the loudest music. And maybe a place where a man can find some good, honest conversation.” He winked at me, clearly implying I was anything but.

I wanted to groan. Or maybe scream. Or maybe just kick him in the shins. “Lord have mercy,” I muttered under my breath, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

Daisy, oblivious to my internal turmoil, clapped her hands together. “Awesome! Okay, so, The Rusty Anchor it is! Their wings are amazing.” She started walking, completely confident in her decision.

Jake fell into step beside her, glancing back at me with that infuriating smirk. “Something wrong, Casey? You look like you just swallowed a lemon.”

“I’m just picturing the next three weeks,” I said, starting to follow them, resigned. “And frankly, Hotshot, it looks like a long, painful eternity.”

He laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that somehow grated on my nerves and, in spite of myself, sparkled a little. “Oh, it’s going to be a blast, Casey. Trust me. You might even learn to like me.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Hotshot,” I shot back, quickening my pace to catch up with Daisy, who was already chattering excitedly about the bar.

Three weeks. Three weeks of Jake Seresin. My lungs already felt tired just thinking about it. This was going to be a very, very long three weeks.

[bellarkeselection]

Hi there! I noticed on your OUAT Master list you haven't written for Sheriff Gharam. I was wondering if I could make the first request for him?

Y/N, Emma Swan's twin sister, finds Gharam's heart and puts it back; Gharam says something along the lines "My chest has been silent for so long I forgot how it feels. You're the reason it beats now" or "In fact, I find myself thinking about you even at the most inopportune moments of the day. I feel as if a link exists between your heart and mine, and should that link be broken, either by distance or by time, then my heart would cease to beat and I would die."

You’re the Reason

Here is your request for Graham, I hope you like it 🤗

The air in Storybrooke always felt thick, like a forgotten dream lingering on the edge of waking. It was a peculiar kind of static, a hum of unlived moments that vibrated beneath my skin. Unlike Emma, who initially saw it as just another small town to escape, I felt it differently. I felt the absence. As her twin sister, I often thought of myself as the quiet observer, the one who picked up on the nuances Emma sometimes bulldozed over. And in Storybrooke, those nuances screamed.

My name is Y/N Swan, and frankly, Storybrooke was a nightmare dressed as a postcard.

My suspicions, fueled by Henry’s outlandish tales, crystallized around two people: Regina Mills and Graham Humbert. Regina, with her meticulously manicured facade, was the obvious villain of Henry’s story, the Evil Queen. But Graham, the stoic Sheriff, was the more unsettling enigma. He moved with a peculiar emptiness, a quiet deference to Regina that struck me as unnatural, even for a small-town chief. His eyes, when they met mine, held a distant sorrow, like a landscape seen through a perpetually fogged window. He was handsome, in a rugged, melancholic way, but it was his profound lack of presence that drew my attention. He was a shell, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something vital was missing from him.

I'd catch him sometimes looking at me, or Emma, with a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, a phantom longing. He seemed to be searching for something he couldn't name, a sound he couldn't quite hear. Henry’s mentions of the Huntsman, a man forced to do the Evil Queen’s bidding, resonated deeply within me every time I saw Graham. He was a puppet, and the strings, I was certain, led straight to Regina.

One evening, after another tense dinner at Granny’s where Graham had been unusually unresponsive, even for him, a cold dread settled over me. He’d seemed paler than usual, his movements almost sluggish. I watched Regina dismiss him with barely a glance, and something in his slump shoulders tightened a coil of certainty in my gut. He wasn't just under her thumb; he was broken. And if Henry’s book was to be believed, hearts could be stolen.

That night, my mind buzzed. I couldn't sleep. The static in the air felt suffocating. I needed to know. I needed to see. Driven by an impulse I couldn’t articulate, a burgeoning empathy for the broken man, I slipped out of the motel.

The Mayor’s office was dark, silent, and imposing. It felt like walking into a mausoleum. I knew Regina was usually here late, but I’d checked – her car was gone. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs, echoing the unspoken fear that I was perhaps going insane. But the thought of Graham’s empty eyes spurred me on.

I tried the door; of course, it was locked. But Emma had taught me a thing or two about lock-picking, and a bobby pin from my hair quickly became my most valuable tool. The click, when it came, was shockingly loud in the silence.

Inside, the office was meticulously ordered. Nothing seemed out of place. I paced, my gaze sweeping over every shelf, every ornate piece of furniture, searching for anything that screamed 'evil queen' or 'hidden secret'. Henry’s book had talked about hearts kept in vaults, in boxes. Logic dictated Regina wouldn't keep something so crucial in plain sight.

I ran my hand along the heavy oak desk, then the wall behind it. Nothing. My fingers brushed against a large, framed portrait of Regina and Henry, saccharine and unsettling. I paused. The frame felt unusually thick. My fingers probed the edge, and I felt a faint seam. My breath hitched. With a surge of adrenaline, I pushed. The painting swung inwards with a soft click, revealing not a wall, but a dark, narrow alcove.

Within the alcove, illuminated faintly by the moonlight filtering through the window, sat a small wooden box. It was intricately carved, dark wood, with silver filigree twisting across its surface, depicting vines and thorns. It was exactly as Henry had described – a heart box.

My hand trembled as I reached for it. The wood felt cool, almost unnervingly still. I lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, lay a single, pulsating object. It was undeniably a heart, not the anatomical kind you’d see in a diagram, but something that glowed with a faint, otherworldly luminescence, beating with a slow, agonizing throb, a rhythm that was too weak, too fragile. It pulsed with a pain that was palpable, even from where I stood. It was Graham's. I knew it with an absolute certainty that transcended logic. It was his missing piece, his very essence, held captive.

A cold rage, unlike anything I’d ever known, surged through me. How dare she? How dare she steal a living being’s core? I carefully, almost reverently, lifted the heart from its velvet prison. It felt surprisingly light, yet carried an immense weight, a reservoir of suppressed emotion.

My next move was instinctual. Graham. I had to get it back to him. Now.

I found him in his apartment, the address a simple matter of looking him up in the Storybrooke phone book. The lights were off, save for a dim lamp in the corner. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, staring blankly at the wall. He hadn't bothered to undress, as if he simply ceased to function when not needed. He looked utterly desolate, empty.

"Graham?" I whispered, my voice barely audible in the quiet room.

He didn't startle, didn't even flinch. He just slowly turned his head, his eyes devoid of recognition, like a doll’s. It broke my heart to see him like this.

"Y/N," he rasped, his voice flat. "What are you doing here?"

I kneltbefore him, the heart clutched to my chest, its faint warmth seeping through my shirt. "I found this," I said, my voice thick with emotion, holding it out to him.

He looked at the pulsating organ, then back at me, a flicker of something, perhaps confusion, in his eyes. He reached out a hand, hesitant, as if unsure what he was seeing.

"It's yours," I murmured, my voice cracking. "She took it. Regina."

His eyes widened, ever so slightly. A shiver ran through him, a ghost of a memory stirring. He looked from the heart to my face, then back again, a growing realization dawning, chasing away the fog.

"I don't... I don't..." he stammered, his hand going to his chest, where a painful void seemed to reside.

"Let me," I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. I gently took his hand, guiding it to his own chest, directly over his heart space. "Place it here."

With my other hand, I carefully, with a profound sense of purpose, brought the glowing heart towards his chest. It felt almost magnetic, drawn to its rightful place. As it hovered an inch from his skin, it pulsed faster, brighter, throbbing with an urgency that mirrored the beat of my own heart.

Then, I pressed it gently against him.

It didn't just merge; it surged.

A gasp tore from Graham’s throat, raw and sudden. His body convulsed, a violent shiver racking him from head to toe. His eyes, fixed on mine, snapped into focus, clarity flooding them like a dam breaking. Color rushed back into his face, startlingly vibrant against his previous pallor. He inhaled sharply, a deep, shuddering breath, as if tasting air for the very first time.

His hand, which I’d guided, pressed instinctively against the spot where his heart had just returned. His fingers clenched, knuckles white, as if trying to physically hold onto the new, overwhelming sensation.

His eyes, now alive with a thousand emotions, burned into mine. They were no longer distant, but piercing, wide with a mixture of shock, terror, and an indescribable gratitude. He blinked rapidly, as if clearing away years of dust.

His gaze never left mine. His lips parted, and a low, resonant voice, filled with an emotion I’d never heard from him before, broke the silence.

"My chest has been silent for so long, I forgot how it feels," he murmured, his voice thick, heavy with the weight of forgotten pain and sudden, overwhelming life. His eyes, still locked with mine, glistened. "You’re the reason it beats now."

The words hung in the air, potent and staggering. He moved, his hands reaching out, not to touch me, but to steady himself, grasping the edge of the bed. He was reeling, a storm of sensation and memory awakening within him.

Then, as if a dam of memories had truly burst, his eyes narrowed, a different kind of intensity entering them. He looked at me, truly looked at me, as if seeing me for the very first time, yet also recognizing me from every moment of his unlived life.

"No," he corrected himself, his voice deepening, resonating with a power that shook me to my core. He leaned closer, his gaze unwavering, magnetic. "In fact, I find myself thinking about you even at the most inopportune moments of the day. I feel as if a link exists between your heart and mine, and should that link be broken, either by distance or by time, then my heart would cease to beat and I would die."

The intensity of his words, the raw, unbridled emotion in his eyes, rendered me speechless. I could feel it too, a sudden, undeniable tether between our souls, a connection forged in the moment I’d returned his life to him. It was a dizzying, terrifying, exhilarating feeling.

He was Graham, the Huntsman, now whole again. And in that moment, he was seeing Storybrooke, and me, with a clarity that threatened to shatter everything. The curse, I realized with a jolt, had just taken its first real hit. And I, Emma Swan's quiet twin, had just sparked a revolution within a man whose heart now beat for the first time in decades, a beat inseparably linked to mine.

The static in the air hadn't vanished, but now, it felt alive, charged with magic, danger, and a connection I never could have foreseen. My very existence in Storybrooke had just gotten infinitely more complicated.

Comments and reblogs really appreciated ❤️