#better watch out Emma
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Assorted Gravity Falls doodles!
#Havent posted anything in a few days cause I keep rotating too many ideas in my brain. These are just some wips. Anyway doodle notes! ->#had to draw twink!Bill okay. Being a pretty boy was like Annatar's whole Thing. & OBVIOUSLY I had to draw Celebrimbor & Annatar Billford#As many pointed out on my LOTR comic Ford would have seen the 80s Animated movies! I may do a post on my thoughts(tm) of him watching it#but to tdlr I think he missed Bashki's Movie in movie theatres and watched it with fiddleford in november 1981! :3#Anyhow was thinking about Trans!Fiddleford & the DOOMED T4T potential of Emma-may also being trans hit me like a truck. I have many thought#Stan: Quit worrying Pointdexter. not like Mabel can find ANOTHER annoyingly smart & gruff yet whimsically eccentric Grunkle to bond with#Mabel * dragging in a bedraggled 12th Doctor *: Guess what I found in the woods!#<- I think Ford should feel socially threatened/jealous and be pushed into being a better grunkle because of it <3#Second to last is PURE indulgence as I am a big Dr Who fan and the Last is Ford after watching Jackson's trilogy ;)#Gravity Falls#GF fanart#Fanart#fan art#Bill cipher#stanford pines#ford pines#grunkle ford#fiddleford mcgucket#young fiddleford mcgucket#young stanford pines#Emma-May Dixon design#doctor who#twelfth doctor#mabel pines#crossover#sketch dump#artists on tumblr#my art
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hi hi, I have a request !! You should do that meme where theres a guy tearing off a calendar to say 1984, but instead it's Noah and Cody when they find out that Noah is straight and with Emma </3
(also your drawings are super cool!! have a nice day :D)
day 26: god i hate noah fans i hope noah gets in a new season and gets a girlfriend
#noco#total drama#td noco#this was a monkey paw moment 4 noah fans or whatever i havent watched rr since 2016#emma deserves better though why would she choose NOAH out of. literally everyone
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.....ok it's legit wild to see people saying that emma may is unironically their fave character
#like i get complaining about how badly wendy was done but it is kinda funny seeing folks crying out 'justice for emma!!!'#when we got tons of other characters who didn't get the focus they needed-- heck ford himself didn't get the time in the show he needed#and i will always be mad about grenda and candy getting absolutely nothing with the comics and tbob they're part of the fam!!!!#(i suppose trying to make up a character for emma makes more sense than the fandom's old obsession with s/tancarla i guess?)#oh whoops now i have to add#neno blabs about ships#but yeah it always struck me as odd that some fans saw stan's highschool gf and decided it was their otp akshdskajhd#some are real mad about how giffany was treated but im just eh. she honestly got a kinder fate than most of the abusers in this show#and i would always keep the cash money sequence over 'and then she just got another bf aka rumble :)' being animated#(i dont forgive people glossing over how she is an abuser just cos 'uwu she's so sad and lonely' boooo treat victims better!!!)#but anyway i think the writers were too chicken about undoing wendy's 'cool factor'? i honestly can't solely blame alex for this cos#there's a whole damn writers room and none of them was able to make something satisfying lmao#anyway something something we needed like 4 more eps in s2 to flesh stuff out#but also the whole 'working on this show was literally burning alex to a crisp and that's why one of the other directors(?) bailed after s1#anyway damn the cipher zodiac i would trade love god in for a stale biscuit instead of that shit robbie ep#(kinda mad at some complaining that soos got eps focused on him when its like. 2. and that's still less than what paz got lmao)#op was annoyed that wendy wanted to use the memory gun to get rid of an annoying song but honestly. i get it.#i would erase tons of bullshit i see on the internet lmao#(and im eh at the idea that she would erase memories about her mum??? that's kinda way more messed up#and also 20 min time limit when the ep is about mcgucket lmao#need way more of a setup for that and also the blindeye cult was also. something that was winged)#edit: of course the next post i had to see was emma watching her husband kissing ford#emma fans i believe your true enemy is the fandom lmao
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tav qotd: for those with playlists, pick three songs and tell me in the tags how they describe your tav/durge <3
#bg3#baldur's gate 3#tav qotd#bg3 tav#i don't know what else to tag this as 🫥#anyways three of makaria's are: cheerleader by ashnikko - brutus by emma blackery - mercy by king mala#naturally there are spoilers below so watch out ‼️#cheerleader is kind of a joke one bc she was originally based on the mean cheerleader trope but it plays into her ego and her hubris#and is kinda eerie in a way. also the 'cut throats and i feel better' line is just so good LMAO this song is such an earworm to me#brutus is wrt orin and how her treachery affected makaria; 'taking back what you stole' isn't in reference to bhaal's chosen but +#to makaria's sense of control over herself after being left helpless and forever changed by orin's literal knife in her back#and mercy kinda speaks for itself i think but it's the internal struggle against the dark urge and how could she ever possibly reconcile +#her ungodly past and move forward to be something more than what bhaal created her to be#rb games#jess.txt#makaria
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after all the times Rhaenyra lied through teeth, she never got any better at it.
#props to#emma d'arcy#cause her acting is phenomenal when it comes to making Rhaenyra flounder whenever she lies#lukewarm feelings on Rhaenyra Targaryen#anti rhaenyra targaryen#(putting this here for my own safety and well being)#its just so frustrating to see her do literally anything to cover her lies#from murder. maiming. faking ones death. seeking to torture her own little brother. etc. etc.#yet she can't lie to anyone worth a damn#not once has anyone not seen past her lies#like girly... if you and your children's lives depend on you keeping your card house of lies standing#get better at lying#hotd#house of the dragon#rewatching hotd is hell cause every time I do so I notice more and more bones to pick#like the first time theres just so much to absorb you miss a lot of it#but the more you watch it#the more you notice#the more you want to rip your hair out
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what i liked about one day netflix version:
set production details--every room was impeccable. every location, stunning.
music--every track felt specifically picked but never did it feel out of place nor did it feel like it took over a scene.
episode format > movie version. clearly.
the acting was better too. i felt like in the first half emma was always looking at dexter like she was trying to figure him out and he always had a habit of looking away from her like he knew she was looking and was afraid she'd find nothing there but an empty vessel. really highlighted his insecurities when it came to her.
what i didnt like:
the unequal attention to her parents vs his. we never even meet her mom but apparently she really liked ian the comedian. why? and it clearly bothered dexter that emma had never introduced them. and we dont even get to see them at the end???
i think his parents had too much screen time.
despite liking the episode format, i do think some screen time was wasted during the solo individual episodes.
their 3x time sex night not being shown and only talked about ??? um i deserved to see that (we all did).
we dont even get to see them get married which bothered me a lot bc emma kept saying the event was like a party but it seemed really important to both of them. like not even a wedding picture.
i would have loved it if dexter had seen the box of all the pictures she had of them (the box ian discovered). i mean yeah, depressing but i still wanted it.
#one day#everybody already watched this so i dont think my post will resonate much#also---now that ive seen it#i dont understand posts saying he didnt love her or something??#he clearly did but he was all messed up and didnt have his priorities in order#hes not perfect and emma was clearly his anchor and when their friendship deteriorated it clearly affected him#bc he tried to get to sober and tried to take his relationship with slyvie seriously#and then sought emma out to tell her 'hey look im a mature adult now'#like this man always wanted her approval\for her to be proud of him bc he thought she thought less of him all the time#i mean he did annoy me but like he did very much love her#i think dexter just always knew that if he went for emma for real it would have to be REAL#he couldn't toy around with her#thats why it took so long#anyway this was better than my memory of the movie but its still depressing
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i'll come out and say it *inhales deeply* Emma is boring
#la junk talks#book reading adventures#i'm so very sorry#jane austen is Queen but i just cannot with emma#i cannot relate to her at all. i find her annoying. i've been waiting for mr knightly to appear more#i'M LIKE IN THE MIDDLE. AND HE BARELY HAS BEEN AROUND????#i'm giving up#i'm going to watch instead of the book#i'm so sorry Queen i cannot appreciate your work as it's supposed to be appreciated#i've been listening to it in audio format. and it's just so FRUSTRATING FOR ME#emma annoys the hell out of me#and the only character i'm interested in so far appeared so LITTLE#i'm really giving up and moving onto another novel from austen bc i cannot with this#i'm going to watch the 2009 version later and hope that works better for me
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CORIO MOVE YOU BITCH ITS MY TURN
got a pretty face ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ a pretty boyfriend too

i wanna be you so bad , and i don't even know you !!!!!
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I just realized that as a kid I lived out what was basically the plot of all those horse girl movies, but with semi feral barn cats 😐
#emma posts#my current cat lives a normal pet cat life#as do all of the cats now on that farm#but growing up it was different#they weren’t even indoor-outdoor. let alone house cats#I used to watch those ‘girl befriends animals because she’s different’ movies a lot as a kid#and loved those horse movies.#but because I wasn’t around horses much. let alone wild ones. i couldn’t even really fantasize about it#I was still good at befriending animals though and would get even better with age#I just never really thought of getting several barn cats to like me as a similar thing l#even though many of those cats were skittish around others#they were just… the cats. ya know?#but I managed to win some of them over (there was one already friendly one to begin with though so I’m not counting her)#and a few would even hang out and let me pet them#in hindsight I’m pretty sure one was partially deaf and he actually relied on me to warn him about his mean brother when I was around#so I literally did the horse girl thing but with cats#and I’m crediting some of that to several autism symptoms being comparable to cat behavior#but also my love of animals and desire to learn about them
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things i know that i can't have
jake's life was hard enough before he fell for you—balancing uni, football, and being a good christian son. in some cruel twist of fate, sleeping with you has only made things harder—and, according to sunghoon (and scripture), damned him to hell the first time he thought about it.
pairing ✩ jake sim x fem!reader
genres: college au, (established) fwb to lovers, smut, fluff, angst
warnings: minors dni, mild religious exploration and guilt, strained parental relationship.......... deeply unserious and a bit melodramatic at times, jake's pov, jake crashes out every few paragraphs, football player jake (british), jakeyn are so nct dream (young and freaky), surface level gatsby analysis, creative liberties taken w the location of freshwater fish.. author loves jake so jake must suffer, and one peep show quote
word count: 33,666
playlist: ...what are we lizzy mcalpine, all my ghosts lizzy mcalpine, north clairo, 20191009 i like her mac demarco, 10:36 beabadoobee, lover/friend kaytranada and rochelle jordan
fic taglist: @heechwe @yunjardi @fancypeacepersona @skyearby @kimjkejyy @sanriowoozzz @ii-mimii @pochakkeu @xylatox @seung-log @anofi @immelissaaa @mssishipi @somuchdard @yuniesluv @m3wkledreamy @jakesimfromstatefarm
author's note: uhm.. if you have been tagged in this fic fifteen thousand times, i sincerely apologise 😭😭😭 the powers that be have been working against me, but im letting go and letting god 🤞 i had a lot of fun writing this and i hope you love bi disaster jesus lover jake as much as i do......i hope u all enjoy the fic! do let me know ur thoughts (positive only on this one), as always thank u emma for beta reading, miss u so bad :'(
But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body be thrown into hell. And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body go into hell.
— Matthew 5:28-30, English Standard Version.
There it is, in black and white—red and white, since Sunghoon has a red letter edition. Jake skims the passage again, certain words sticking out this time: lustful intent, adultery, with her. Underlined, italics and bold, like they could be missed. If only. It’s too late now; they’re etched on his retinas, branded on his skin. Lodged deep in his chest, taken root already. It hardly seems fair that a single thought could hold so much weight.
Or, in Jake’s case, many, many thoughts.
Shuddering, he closes the leather bound book softly, a slow exhale ripping out of him as he glances up at his best friend. “You mean I.. can’t even think about fucking her?” he whispers, brows touching in the middle.
A crack of thunder splits the air. Jake flinches. The sound lingers, rumbling over the grey sky. Meant for him. An answer from Heaven—from God Himself. Condemnation, more like. With bated breath, he turns his head slowly, expecting his judgment to be scrawled in the clouds, true divine intervention. But nothing. Just grey. Heavy, oppressive grey.
Sunghoon laughs, a strange little chuckle Jake has never heard before, but knows immediately that he doesn’t like. He adjusts his tie. Shifting the Windsor knot, smoothing the blade—a calculation in his movements that leaves Jake wondering if his friend hasn’t orchestrated this whole situation, weather and all.
“Afraid not, buddy.” Sunghoon’s tone is light, but there’s something solemn about it all—the rain, the smart clothes, this terrible, terrible realisation.
March’s wind nips at Jake’s cheeks, stinging them red no doubt as rain splashes around his feet, wetting his socks in tiny, cold drops. He shivers but doesn’t leave, watching as a smirk spreads over Sunghoon’s lips. A pit stirs in Jake’s stomach as Sunghoon looks over both shoulders before leaning in.
His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “But if thinking about it is as bad as doing it, you might as well just go ahead.”
Jake stares, incredulous, takes a step back as if Sunghoon’s suggestion might smite him where he stands. “Of course, you think that. You lost your virginity behind the worship tent at camp four years ago. Forgive me if I don’t consider you a sound moral compass, Sunghoon.”
“I prayed about it after.” He shrugs. “Clean slate.”
“Hoon,” Jake cries, exasperated, mortified. “You can’t intentionally sin and think you’ll be absolved because you prayed about it after.”
“Why not? Isn’t that what forgiveness is for?”
Glaring, Jake’s jaw works soundlessly. Where to start? At Sunghoon’s audacity or the fact he doesn’t even have a proper answer. Arguing won’t change anything. The whys-or-why-nots of it all are Sunghoon’s cross to bear. Not that he cares enough to. That’s his problem, and his saving grace, if you ask Jake—he makes everything sound so easy, like there isn’t a fuck load of consequence attached.
A frustrated sigh escapes Jake as he glances down at his watch, rain warping the digits on his Casio. It’s almost eleven. Almost an hour since service started, and they’re still standing at the door. A gust of wind whips through his coat.
“Just get inside,” Jake mutters, tone sharp, more from the cold than anything else.
Unmoving, Sunghoon frowns, lips pursed in genuine contemplation. Jake might be endeared if he didn’t know any better.
“Can I ask you something?” Sunghoon’s voice is lighter now, curious, sincere.
Jake doesn’t have time for this—but it's Sunghoon. So, he pinches his nose, bracing himself for whatever’s coming. “What?”
“Do you think you’re better than me because you lost your virginity in a bed?”
Taken aback by the question’s absurdity, Jake blinks. Wonders briefly if he misheard. A nervous laugh bubbles out of him, but Sunghoon’s expression morphs into something unreadable—calm, expectant maybe. Genuinely awaiting an answer. Jake tilts his head, considering it before letting out a short and decisive huff.
“Yes, actually. I do.”
r/Christianity
u/footballfan1511 | 2m
How bad is premarital sex, really? (Need quick answers!!!)
I (20M) have been having sex with my friend (20F) for three weeks now. I knew it was wrong, but she’s everything (very hot, totally, completely sexy), so I didn’t care. BUT I just saw this verse (Matthew 5:28-30) and apparently it’s a sin just to THINK about it???
The last time we did ‘it’ was this morning before church (sorry), and I was supposed to go over there tonight, but I’ve been freaking out about that verse all day…….. idk what to do but I really like her, so much, and I still want this, with her. Please give me advice ..
Every Thursday night. Ten p.m. sharp. Almost no exceptions. You call Jake, talking shit for as long as it takes one thing to lead to another. Tonight is an exception—you had friends over, rescheduled for midnight. Jake lies in bed, hair still damp from his post-football training shower, counting each minute as it passes. 23:55. His leg is shaking. 23:56. He sits up straight, jolting as if waking from a nightmare, nerves sharp and restless as his thumbs fly over the keyboard, texting Sunghoon.
Jake: What about phone sex?
Jake: Like if I don’t think about her while I do it?
Sunghoon’s groan reaches Jake through the thin walls of their shared flat. Drawn-out and long-suffering. Read receipt. 23:57. Three dots.
Hoon: I can’t tell you what to think, but if you’re asking me then you probably alr know
Hoon: Also..??? Do you think you can jack your shit on the phone without thinking about her 😭😭😭
Jake snorts despite himself, much too loud for the quiet. Echoing as if even the room disapproves. He closes his eyes, shakes his head. Palm to his cheek. A low smack, half-joking, half-sincere. Guilt snakes around him, a hot, unwelcome coil that won’t ease. Jake gets the sense that the choice ahead — to answer or not to answer — might drastically skew his life one way or another.
A minute early. 23:59. Your name on his screen. Phone humming in his hold, pulse lashing his throat. On the other end of the line, before he has the chance to weigh his options, you dead the call—making his decision for him.
Jake’s heart stumbles, clumsy in his chest. He thinks of the verse, sharp and prickly—crown of thorns on heavy head. He has been thinking about it since Saturday morning. Extra training with Team B, avoiding you, six-thirty wake-ups to join Sunghoon at the rink. Ice-cold mornings melting into afternoons. No matter what he tries, it always comes back. Lustful intent, adultery, with her. And despite his best efforts to pray for rapture, Thursday has come, and Jake has lived to see it.
A minute late. 00:01. Your name on his screen. Hovering thumb. He knows that phone sex and sex-sex aren’t the same thing, Matthew didn’t even have a phone—but if he could’ve, and he could’ve known you, and you wanted him? Jake sighs. He should answer. If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off, and throw it away. The words sink their senile claws into him, holding on for dear, frail life. His phone stills in his palm.
You don’t call again. You never have. If this phone call is going to happen, it’s up to Jake to make it so. This knowledge and its weight multiply by the second. An itch he doesn’t try to scratch, knowing he won’t be able to reach it. Another agonising nine minutes trudge along. 00:10. His phone buzzes on his chest, and he knows it’s you before he looks. Two texts.
YN: Said you’d stay up for me Yunie :(((
YN: You don’t think I’m worth the wait?
Reading your messages through the notifications, he’s having a hard time convincing himself not to reply. Not to tell you he waited, that of course, you’re worth it. His guilt loosens, making space for his desire to reassure you—he cannot rule out the possibility that this desire outweighs his guilt. Silence settles in his room, stretched thin and strange around him. He sighs.
YN: Attachments: 2 images
YN: Wanted to hear your reaction, but you can tell me when you’re up ig.
YN: Night, loser :P
Butterflies, sudden and bright—teenaged. Foolish. Tucked under the notification, the photos dare him to look. His curiosity clicks it, and the first picture fills the screen, yanking his breath from his lungs.
Most of your face is cut off, showing only your lips—pouty and glossy and pretty. Pulling at him in a way he’s not quite equipped to name. This would be enough for him, an innocent selfie, you and those pretty eyes, that smile. More than enough—pulse quickening just thinking about it. His gaze lingers on your lips, stuck for a while. Then, unintentionally, his eyes flick lower. Hair fanned over your pillow, breasts peeking out from under black lace. Fuck. A sight he’s seen a million times, but somehow, each time feels like the first. Jake gulps. Holy shit. He ignores the throbbing in his pants, how much tighter they are—he won’t give in. No matter how badly he’s craving it. He’s stronger than that. With his eyes, he traces your lips. Ogles until his screen dims, locking the picture away again.
Picture two. Fuck. You on your stomach, grainy in your webcam. Arched back, black lace panties over your hips. Fuck. The lingerie, the shape of your body.. Seeing you like this, so perfect and all for him—it’s taking every last shred of his self-control not to get in his car and rush over to you. Want, need, tugs at him. A tether he can’t break. His phone locks.
Enough is enough. He drags his feet all the way back to the shower, oppressive cold water hitting him. Doing absolutely nothing for his revolting need. This isn’t working—not the water, not the attempt at self-control. Not when he’s already hard and aching against his stomach. Soft breasts. Round ass. Wet—his hand moves instinctively, forehead resting on the cool tiles. He closes his eyes, your body clear in the dark. Full lips. Arched back. He’s breathless when he finishes, head bowed as heat coils low in his stomach. The water carries his release away. Nose crinkled as it swirls around the drain, cringing at the sight—guilt, shame curling around him.
Again, he dries off, pulls on clean pyjamas, and drags his feet to bed. On his side, he closes his eyes, your body like a brand behind his eyelids, thoughts filling the quiet in his room. Exhaustion however, is its own kind of mercy, and eventually, pulls him under.
Everything is sharper in the morning, clear in the cool light of the college campus. Bare branches cast shifting shadows over stone paths, breeze stealing the sun’s warmth. The weight of his dreamless sleep clings to him, stalks him through the courtyard on his quest to find Jeno—until he sees you and stops in his tracks. Phone in hand, lip between teeth, standing by the library doors. You aren’t doing anything special, frowning at your screen, but Jake’s heart rate spikes anyway, cheeks heating against the cold. He blinks, taking you in. Hair billowing around you, sunlight caught in its edges. Affection bubbles under his skin, tugs him towards you before he knows it, his arm falling over your shoulder.
You flinch, glancing up, startled. Recognition narrows your wide eyes. “Ugh, let go of me, you asshole,” you say, freeing yourself.
Surrendering, Jake steps back, hands raised. “Me, asshole?” He points at himself, feigning offence. “What did I do?”
A frustrated laugh. “Are you serious?” Pressing your cute palm to his chest, you shove him. Not hard, but enough to make him lose his balance, rocking a little. “Yes, you, asshole.”
He doesn’t speak.
You scoff, blank faced, like you don’t care, like you didn’t just shove him. “I sent you those photos, and you ignored me.” Stoic. Detached.
Those photos. Even in reference, they work him up. Too vivid—mainly because he took another look when he woke up. He had to turn off his phone to stop, shoving it into the bottom of his backpack. He didn’t feel guilty about it then, but good grief, he feels like shit now. Shame burning his nape, creeping over his shoulders. At least he isn’t thinking about that Bible verse anymore. Lustful intent. With her. He wasn’t thinking about it. He tenses, sighing.
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“You were.” Your voice is quiet—vulnerability inching through your cool exterior. “At least turn your read receipts off if you’re going to pretend you didn’t see them.” Your arms drop stiffly.
A hesitant step towards you, gaze searching yours. “Hey.” Soft, whispered almost. “I wasn’t trying to ignore you.”
On-campus commotion scores the quiet between you — overlapping conversation, bike bells ringing — and you inspect him before you speak. “Right. So you saw the photos and came so hard you passed out?”
Jake licks his lips, embarrassed. Wonders briefly if he’s been so transparent about your effect on him, that you’ve quite accurately hit the nail on the head—even in jest. “Something like that.” At this, you scoff, shoving him again—lighter. He chuckles, breathy and relieved. “Sorry,” he says sincerely. “I really am sorry. I loved the photos, seriously. You know I did.”
Finally, you sigh, a reluctant smile twitching at your lips. “Whatever, asshole,” you say, voice a cute mumble with no real bite.
“How about I make it up to you tonight? Show you my reaction in person?”
“You’re not even free tonight,” you point out.
Shit. You’re right—he has a group project to work on. He should do the sensible thing and say no. “For you, I can be,” he says instead. He’ll figure it out.
“Shut up.” A grin stretches over your lips, and relief washes over him. Finally, a good answer where you’re concerned—until your face tilts into shock. Opening your bag, you bring out a tub. “Don’t overreact, but I made you something,” you tell him, voice lighter as you pull off the lid, pushing foil out of the way. “I know you prefer milk chocolate, but.. it’s White Day, so I just thought—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”
This isn’t the first time you’ve done something nice for Jake, this isn’t even the first time you’ve made him something, but it feels different—the way everything to do with you feels different now. He stares into the container for a second, suspecting he’ll wake up in bed if he blinks, so he tries not to. Eyes drying, hurting—nothing changes when he succumbs.
As far as he knows, you haven’t baked anything since your shared high school Home Economics class. He chose it to soften the blow of his STEM-heavy course load, you chose it because he did—getting all the way to lesson three before switching for Music. Scones were the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. His weren’t perfect, he’ll admit it — softer than he’d have liked — but yours? Yours came out of the oven soggy and burnt all at once.
And now, here you are, handing him cookies you made. Edible-looking cookies. For White Day. For Jake. How is it White Day already? One whole month since you first made out with him on Jeong Jaehyun’s birthday—one whole month since you took him home and had your way with him.
He tears his eyes from the cookies to look at you again. You’re smiling, eyes wide, sparkling, and Jake has to remind himself to breathe. “Thank you.” Fondness flares against his ribs, too big to contain. He swallows hard, blinking too fast. “You—” His voice comes out faint, clearing his throat doesn’t help. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know..” You trail off. “I originally wanted to kill two birds with one stone and bake you a pie, but.. that was a little out of my depth.”
“A pie?”
“You know, March Fourteenth.. Three point one-four.. Pi day.” You tilt your head. “I’m surprised you forgot about that, maybe you’re not as much of a nerd as I thought.”
“I’m surprised you know about that.”
“You’re the one who told me.” Closing the container, you hand it over to him, fingers brushing his for long enough that he loses his train of thought. You’re smiling fondly, completely stealing his attention until, suddenly, a pair of hands clap down on his shoulders, making him flinch.
“I’ve been looking for you, dude. We need to go,” Jeno says, his grip firm, already steering Jake away.
Your name sounds weird coming from Jeno’s mouth when he greets you. Too bright, too happy. Jake can picture his shit-eating, Samoyed-esque grin, those cute smiling eyes—never so uncharming as they are right now. Not only has Jeno interrupted, he’s towering over Jake like he’s trying to prove a point, like being taller than 180 cm means anything to anyone. And you, tiny smile, soft wave—are you.. shy?
There’s a pang in his chest he can’t quite name. A protective instinct, maybe. Jealousy? He sighs. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
You nod, eyes warm, fixed on Jake, and it’s enough to anchor him even as Jeno shoves him to class.
The moment Jake slides into his seat, he fishes his phone from his bag, turning it on. A message from you tops his notifications. Come over after class and make it up to me? A smirk curls his lips as he reads it, shaking his head a little as he reacts with a thumbs-up. The heat in his cheeks lingers longer than he’d like, even as his lecturer arrives and hands out the register.
Why Jake signed up for a residential architecture module, he has no real idea, but he met Jeno in this class, and he’ll take whatever wins he can get. Jeno likes architecture. Loves it—more than anyone else Jake knows. He designs structures in his free time, uses words like façade and fenestration when he catches Jake playing The Sims in class, and has a strong stance on panelised vs volumetric construction.
Jeno goes to Building Design and Technology to learn, and Jake goes so he can sign his name on the register and get marks for attendance.
Time slogs on, an endless mass, numbers added to the clock as his leg bounces under the desk. Thoughts of you consume him. After it happened, Jake thought often about that first night you shared—this one-off miracle. Five loaves and two fish. Lazarus resurrected. Never to happen again, but it did. And it has, so many times now that his memories are starting to bleed into each other. Details lost to frequency. Yet that night, those firsts — the softness of your lips on his, the birthmark on your right hip — always come back to him with such clarity, that he is, again, shocked to realise it’s been a month.
A bigger, more jagged thing haunts him too, cleaves through the sweetness—the way you acted the morning after. He woke up to you walking into your room, wrapped up in a towel and whatever you were typing on your phone. Hair damp, skin dewy. Jake still wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t dreamt the whole thing. You didn’t even glance at him until he cleared his throat.
“Are you hungry? I’m not really in a cooking mood, but I can order something for you. Or we could go to Samantha’s?” you suggested, voice remarkably clear, loud in the Saturday morning quiet.
Jake blinked, staring like you’d spoken another language—though the idea of a breakfast roll from your favourite spot was tempting. “Yeah. Cool. Sure. Whatever’s easiest.” And as if stumbling over his words wasn’t enough, his voice cracked.
You frowned like he was the one acting weird. “You okay, Jakey?”
A drop of water slipped down your cheek slowly, the way your sweat had last night. He sits up suddenly, tugging the duvet over his chest, oddly vulnerable in this position. “Yeah. Sure..” He hesitated, twisting the fabric around his finger. “Do you maybe.. want to talk?”
“Talk?” You tilted your head, brows furrowed. “About..”
Ungraceful silence trampled over you both as Jake racked his brain for something to say. “It’s just.. Last night, before.. You said you wanted to talk about something,” he said eventually.
“Hmm..” You sighed, thinking for a while before shrugging. “If it was important, I’ll remember.”
It was all your idea—to kiss, to invite him upstairs after he walked you home, to.. well. You know. It felt like something, like all those years of quietly pining after you hadn’t been for nothing. A real breakthrough, finally. But there you were, acting like… whatever that was.
When you got to Samantha’s, you let him pay for your roll and scone, and joked with him as usual while he drove you to your workout class as if you hadn’t been begging him to dick you down five hours prior. All while Jake was still there, stuck in the moment, replaying the feeling of your lips and your soft skin. In his car, parked outside your gym, you leaned over the centre console and kissed him, soft and fleeting.
“See you, Jakey!” you said, voice bright as you got out of the car and waved goodbye.
Sometimes, if he thinks hard enough, he can feel those first curious touches again, see the look in your eyes before you leant up to kiss him. And the butterflies in his stomach tangle, vicious flapping that scrapes his insides. Arguably, the worst of it all — the glaring detail he always fixates on — is that you were both completely sober. You didn’t want to feel like shit at Pilates in the morning; he was still recovering from his antics the night before. No distractions, no excuses, just you two.
Jeno calls out an answer, voice tugging Jake back into the present. Heat creeps up his neck as all eyes shift in their direction, and he sinks lower in his seat, hoping his laptop screen is enough to hide behind. He glances at his calendar widget, immediately reminded that he has to finish his part of his group research paper—a task he has to get done before he leaves for his away game tomorrow afternoon. A task he has to get done now if he wants to see you tonight.
All it takes is a few focused minutes, a couple quick messages to his group, and he’s sharing the finished document before class is over. So when his lecturer finally dismisses everyone, instead of heading to the library to go over the lesson, he finds himself here—on your doorstep, hands in pockets, pulse thudding in his ears. It’s not like he was running or anything, just walking with purpose, that’s all.
Seeing you does nothing for his breathlessness. You’re wearing one of his hoodies — when did you take that? — neckline slightly askew, showing part of your shoulder. It’s a little too big for you, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs and for more than a second, Jake tries not say, aww, out loud.
A grin stretches over his lips. “Hey, gorgeous.”
You cross your arms over your chest, squaring your shoulders, eyes cut in a way that screams, I’m mad at you, but not really. It’s a new dynamic that he’s still getting used to: your feigned disinterest, his irresistible charm. Your lips twitch, a short, reluctant laugh slipping out, and you roll your eyes like he’s inconvenienced you.
A split second passes before you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him close. He hugs you tighter than he should, savouring the smell of his detergent on you.
“Can’t stay mad at me for too long, huh?”
“Get off of me,” you mutter, face pressed into his chest, grip on him tightening.
Eventually, you let him in, smiling as he takes off his shoes by the door. He follows you, your footsteps soft and familiar against the carpet. Sweetness lingers in the air, and when you reach the kitchen, his eyes land immediately on the containers stacked on the counter—both crammed full of cookies.
“Wow.” He brings a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “And here I thought you made those just for me.”
You sigh, barely meeting his gaze as you approach the counter. “You’re so dramatic,” you murmur, the words almost lost under your breath. Opening the container, you tip it towards him. “Ever heard of a test batch?”
Laid out in shades of golden brown and charred black are your several attempts. Some are burnt at the edges, others rock-solid or collapsed into thin, brittle discs. Misshapen, imperfect—each a testament to your determination. His stomach flips, a pang of affection he tries not to wear too openly.
“I didn’t feel right about wasting them, so Jimin and I are going to be big, brave girls and eat them,” you explain. “This isn’t even all of them; she took some to Aeri’s this morning.”
“Oh,” Jake says with a slow nod, taking it all in. He takes one from the top—Communion wafer-thin, square. “See, this makes sense.” It crunches between his teeth, too crispy, but not bad. Honestly, he likes it, chewing with a smile as the sweetness hits all the same.
When he reaches for another, your hand swats his away, fingers firm but not unkind. “I made you twenty perfect cookies and you want to eat these?”
He shrugs, smiling down at you. “What? I’m not allowed to be a big, brave girl too?”
Your expression falters, the teasing edge giving way to something softer, warmer. You look at him for just a beat too long, and then your fingers are brushing the hair from his face. Your smile is a quiet, private curve on your lips. “You’re the biggest, bravest girl I know.”
Jake isn’t sure why, but the words settle nicely in his chest.
Before long, you’re standing side by side at the stove watching a pot of ramen simmer quietly, steam curling into the air. In an effort to avoid extra dishes, you snap apart two pairs of disposable chopsticks for the two of you to use—as if you ever have to worry about doing dishes when he’s here. He blames the steam from the pot for the warmth spreading all over him, eating bite after bite of spicy ramen. Gossip Girl plays on your laptop, your eyes glued to the screen as its glow dances over your face. He can’t ignore the fuzziness taking over him as you share your dinner straight from the pot, chopsticks and hands bumping occasionally.
Jake washes the pot in the sink. Gentle clink of steel on steel, soft murmur of running water, you in the doorway, eyes on him. He is overwhelmed by how domestic, how easy this is—and how desperately he wishes he could stay in this moment forever.
With his hands dry, he follows you to your room, neck flushing under his collar as he shuts the door. Leaning against it, he watches you sink into the mattress, setting up your laptop. Chuckling, you pat the empty spot on the bed. “I don’t bite, Jakey.”
Jake knows now, from experience, that you absolutely bite, so your reassurance only concerns him. But still, like the big, brave girl he is, he crosses the room and sits on the bed, leaving a respectful, Jesus-approved distance between you. The newness of this, its fragility, throws him off. Not too long ago, you were fighting men off with a stick. In fact, Jake was half-convinced you’d leave Jaehyun’s party with Na Jaemin. A guy you haven’t said anything about since pre-friends-with-benefitsgate—an observation he finds only mildly relieving. He’s too busy thinking about what it means, if anything, to relax into the fact that you’re with him now.
If whatever you two are doing can be considered ‘with’ each other.
Sharing a pot of ramen and watching Gossip Girl is easy enough though. Familiar. The two of you wouldn’t have made it to the middle of season four if he wasn’t enjoying it. Like this, far enough apart for an extra person to sit between you, two whole episodes start and finish with neither of you reaching out to touch the other. Jake would like to think — on his part — it’s only proof of his master level self-control, wanting you so desperately but holding back. Proving to himself, to you that this isn’t just about sex or whatever else for him. That Jake can behave and make rational decisions when it comes to you.
And maybe, if this was a different Friday, in a different week, or Sunghoon hadn’t shown him that verse, he might have believed that. But Sunghoon had shown him that verse, and Jake is thinking a bit too much about his right hand, and the sinning, the cutting off and throwing away of the whole thing. About Hell and the suffocating weight of one decision—an all-consuming decision, worth his potential damnation.
On your part, he has no clue what the hold up is, seeing as this is the first time you’ve made it through a Gossip Girl blast without starting something, never mind watching a full episode. By now, your hand would normally have found its way into his pants, or your lips to his neck. But there you sit, unmoving, focused as ever, like on your tenth rewatch you still care about whether Blair or Dan gets the internship at W Magazine.
As if you can read his mind, or the part of it that you occupy, you reach into his underwear and take a hold of his dick. You go through all the familiar motions — twisting your wrist while you stroke it, thumb over his tip when you reach it — and Jake, as always, eats it up, melting like wax in your fist. He is only mildly humiliated by how much you get to him, how quickly he loses his shit when it comes to you, shuddering and whining, hips bucking in a matter of strokes. And then, you stop—hand slipping away like nothing happened, like he’s not hard as a rock in his pants, precum staining his underwear because of you.
Jake — fighting for breath — can only stare at you, watching you ignore him for the show instead. A few minutes pass like this until you sigh, hitting pause with a dramatic motion. “What are you looking at?”
“You.”
At this, you roll your eyes, but Jake grabs your wrist. Somehow, he’s only now appreciating you in his hoodie. Admiring how it sits on you—sleeves too long, fit too baggy. Historically, Jake’s generally emaciated look hasn’t really lended itself to seeing you, or anyone else, in his clothes, so it’s tripping him out how much he likes it. The way the fabric pools around you, covering your body completely.
“Ugh,” you mutter, trying and failing to hide a smile. “Quit looking at me like that.” He’s not sure why you insist on playing this game, on why you make it seem like you’re doing him a favour when you want him just as much as he wants you—but he won’t pretend he doesn’t like working for it, like it’s not that much better when you cave.
“Like what?” he asks, playing along in a soft voice.
“All horny and.. weird.”
Jake laughs. “You think I look weird?”
“A little.” You shrug.
“Shit,” he mutters. “You’re not into that? I thought my off-putting nature was part of my charm.”
This makes you smile, leaning in without closing the gap. Instead, you tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear, your touch making his stomach flip. He can’t take it any longer, being so close and doing nothing about it, so he wraps his fingers around your wrist to hold you there, and closes the gap himself. It’s everything—it’s always everything. The warmth of your lips against his, the way you hold him, like it’s more than just a kiss for you too.
There’s nothing he likes more than this.
Biting down on his bottom lip, you pull away a little. “Is this part of your grand plan to make it up to me?”
Jake hums, dick throbbing in his pants. “Yeah, baby.” He nods, still attached to your mouth. “Been thinking about it all day.”
“It’s working.”
A breathless laugh—amused, turned on, taken aback. He pulls away, patting his lap and you don’t hesitate to straddle him, sparks between your bodies. Palms on your hips, fingers grazing the soft fabric of your yoga pants. A stir in his chest—heart hammering when he looks at you, breathless. Thank you, God, he thinks, sincerely. I needed this. His gratitude tangles quickly with guilt, uncertainty. Am I doing the right thi—your hand rests on his, snaps him out of it. Eyes soft, lips parted, want written all over your face. So beautiful, and so different from the resting frustrated face you seem to wear whenever he’s around—which he won’t pretend to dislike.
“Wanted to come over here and see you last night.”
Sheepishly, you twist the cuff of your sleeve between your fingers. A stark change from your usual behaviour, rarely reserved about anything — at least not with him — and so mouthy until he gets his hands on you. “I wish you did,” you mumble, looking away.
“I should’ve, baby, but I’m here now,” he says softly.
Another kiss—deeper, slower. An act of restitution — one of many to come — the way his tongue moves against yours, eager to keep to his word. He reaches for the curve of your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh under your hoodie. The swell of your breast against his palm, cool zipper brushing his knuckles. He tugs on it just enough for you to smile against his lips.
“Can I take this off?”
You nod, clearly flustered, worked up already.
Pulling at the zipper, he savours every inch of skin that comes into view. A shaky inhale seeing your bra—the same one from the pictures, having the exact same effect. Holy shit. Lace under his fingers, touching it as gently as he can manage like it’s sacred, because to him it is. He can’t look away, gaze fixed, reverent. Holy shit. Jake clears his throat, mouth suddenly dry, like he’s seeing you for the first time. The pictures don’t do you justice, not even close. And he loves the pictures.
You’re watching with lidded eyes, and swollen lips. He cups your cheek. “My pretty girl. So gorgeous,” he says, though it doesn’t seem enough. With two languages to choose from, Jake should have the words. But he doesn’t. Not for this—for you.
Heat diffuses beneath his hand, coating your cheek as you turn into his touch, hiding your face. Smiling lips pressing a muffled word into his palm. “And?”
“And I’m sorry about last night.”��
You raise an intrigued brow, no longer hiding. “And?”
“I’m an idiot.”
A grin, a glorious grin as you nod. “I just wanted you to say it wouldn’t happen again, but this is way better.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “I’m a big idiot, and you’re the smartest girl I know. It’s not going to happen again, I promise.”
Sudden betrayal in your squinted eyes, clutching your hoodie over your chest, his palm trapped against the cup of your bra—he almost thanks you. Deeply unimpressed, you scoff. “You know other girls?”
Charmed, Jake smiles, freeing his hand. “Don’t worry, baby. None of them make me as nervous as you.” A kiss before you can respond, pulling your chest flush with his. You hum against his lips, whimpering when he rolls his hips into yours. Hands on your back, quickly unclasping your bra. He nips at the spot below your ear, making you shiver. “And none of them get me this hard either.”
“I know,” you say simply, but your breathlessness undercuts your confidence, and steals his patience.
Taking your hoodie and bra off, he guides you onto your back, settling between your spread thighs like it’s where he belongs. At a loss for words, he squeezes your hip, eyes catching on every part of you. Hard nipples, soft plane of your stomach—nothing about you he doesn’t love. Jake gulps, awestruck, always awestruck. Overwhelmed by the weight of how much he wants this. Wants you.
“So perfect, baby,” he whispers, finally. “So, so perfect.”
A smile tugs at your lips, hands coming up to cover your face. “Shut up,” you grumble.
Huffed laughter slips out of him, endeared. Aching slightly, wondering if you don’t know you’re the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen. He tugs your hands away, holding them in his, lips brushing your knuckles before he leans in and pecks yours.
Slow, desperate kisses along the curve of your jaw, trailing the length of your neck to your shoulder. He lingers, sucking pretty love bites onto your collarbone, soothing the skin with his tongue after. A shudder, as you pull his hair, whimpering under him. He could stay like this all day, forever if you let him. Lips on your nipple, finally, licking, biting.
Your moan is instant, pulled from somewhere deep, and he groans at the sound, tongue flicking just to hear it again. “Jake,” you say, breathless. Even better. “Jake, please.”
“Tell me what you want, baby,” he says, nosing between your breasts, the warm skin there heady, dizzying.
“Want your mouth—can’t wait any longer.”
His dick twitches as he lifts his head. Takes you in—your pouty lips, ruffled hair, sweat beading on your skin. Jake is not going to come in his pants again because of you. No matter how much it feels like he is. That won’t happen. It can’t. He’s an adult man with self-control. He tells himself these things over and over, willing them to be true, even though he knows better.
Jake leans up, pressing a kiss to your lips. He can’t get enough. “I’m not going to make you wait,” he says—a blatant lie. He has every intention to make you wait, at least a little.
His fingers toy with the waistband of your underwear, slipping beneath, eyes wide when he feels the heat of you. Fuck. You take his middle finger easily, pulling him in, clenching around it, and the choked sob you let out sends a sharp spike of need along his spine. He lets his thumb brush your clit, slow, deliberate. You’re too worked up to focus on kissing now, squirming underneath him, nails digging into his forearm. His lips trail your throat again, more marks, his own breath coming faster, a little unsteady—almost as wrecked as you.
“I feel like—” You pause, mouth falling open to let out a harsh exhale. “I’ve been waiting for a while, baby, need it.”
For reasons he doesn’t fully understand, there’s just something about hearing that word. Baby. So rare from you, uttered only at your most vulnerable, that always undoes him. Has him acting at your beck and call without a second thought—so it can’t come as a surprise when he tears your pants off, presses his lips to your core, and groans hungrily, breathing you in.
There’s a certain reverence to it all, he can’t help it—it just comes naturally with you, a need to please you, worship you. His arms wrap around your thighs, keeping you in place, savouring the soft whine you let out when his nose brushes your clit.
Fuck.
He likes this a lot more than kissing. Likes the way you moan and cry out his name, the way you tug his hair, and crush his head between your soft thighs. Loves the way you fall apart on his tongue, and the way you taste. The wet look in your big eyes — chest heaving, breath ripped out of you — after he licks you clean.
The tension lingers, sweet and heavy, pressing in on Jake from all angles when he finally pulls away, leaving a kiss to your inner thigh before sitting back on his heels. He watches you, sinking into the sheets—lashes fluttering, bottom lip pulled between your teeth. Spent and glowing as you look at him. Jake pulls off his shirt, cool air pulling goosebumps along his skin. A deep breath, a few deep breaths. You ask in a quiet voice if you can wear it. He nods, hands moving instinctively, fingers brushing your skin as he helps you put it on.
“Did so good for me, baby. Didn’t you?” he asks, pulling you into his arms, hand stroking your back.
You lift your head from his chest, a dreamy look in your eyes when you look up at him. “Does that surprise you, Jakey?”
His breath hitches, heat spreading on his cheeks and neck. He doesn’t have the upper hand with you, not at all. But he does have the option to kiss you instead of answering so he does that. Kissing you until you say, one minute, against his lips, and leave the room.
Soft warmth settles in Jake’s chest as he heads to the kitchen, smiling. All of this, these moments after sex, makes his heart race. Makes him want to get on his hands and knees and beg you to love him back—though he would settle for like. This routine, this quiet afterwards might honestly be his favourite part of it all. The two of you, inhabiting this tiny world you’ve carved out together—big enough for you and him only. The flat to yourselves. Your head on his chest. You even asked to wear his shirt! These moments when the thought of being your boyfriend doesn’t seem so out of reach. When he feels like he is your boyfriend.
He can’t stop smiling.
At the sink, he washes his hands before pouring you a glass of water, and when you step out of the bathroom, he’s already there, leaning against the wall. He melts at the sight of you—barefoot and sleepy-eyed, a smile on your face. His favourite sight in the whole world. He can’t believe his blessings, that you would want him — even if only for sex — and each day he spends with you makes it harder for him not to test how far he can push it.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he says, handing you the glass. “You feeling okay?”
You hum in response, thanking him. Your fingers slip around his, warm and delicate, and he has to remind himself to breathe as you lead him back to your room. Jake’s eyes are glued to you, addicted to the way you fill out his shirt. It’s senseless—how a piece of his own clothing, something so familiar, suddenly looks brand new just because you’re the one wearing it. Looks better. Nipples nudging the soft cotton, hips curving out into the hem, ass hanging out of it. He lies down on the bed, watching you, each movement entrancing him. His heart stills in his chest when you tie your hair back, shirt riding up enough to show off the lace of your underwear. It’s too much. It’s perfect. He clasps his hands in his lap, trying and failing to cover the effect you have on him.
You get into bed, body molding to his like a second skin. Head on his chest, ear pressed over his heart—hearing it thud, no doubt. Jake wraps his arm around you, fingers splaying over your back, holding you close. He exhales slowly, wondering how much longer he can lay here like this, with you, before he overstays his welcome. He’s made good on his promise, done what you invited him here to do, and it’s not late enough that you’d object to him leaving at this time. Your breath is a steady lull on his skin. Asleep, probably. But then—your hand trails on his stomach, fingers resting on his waistband, and he can’t help feeling a bit bad.
He knows better than to think anyone could make you do something you didn’t want to do—but has no idea if that includes him, too. Novelty long gone. Your curiosity sufficiently sated, while he kills himself trying to pretend he’s fine being just a friend to you again. This is hardly a perfect arrangement, but Jake feels nice sometimes, worthy and handsome, knowing you want him too—even if it’s only sex. It’s really good sex.
As if you can hear his brain thinking his arousal away, you reach into his underwear. All of his blood rushes south, your soft palm wrapping around him. His mouth opens, then shuts. He wants you, he always will, and it’s all he can do to pray that won’t cost him this friendship—or you.
Jake clears his throat, shakes his head. “You don’t have to.”
“I know, Jakey. I want to.”
He kisses the top of your head with a soft, contented sigh, fingers curling around the back of your shirt. Eyelids fluttering shut. It’s good, more than—leagues better than when he does it himself. Perfect. A shiver runs through him when you kiss his stomach, leaving a mark on the ticklish skin. He wants to look, really wants to, but he doesn’t want to come yet. Your lips brush his belly button and the hair underneath. A mumble of his name into his skin that he hears, feels, but can’t address.
“Jake,” you say again, leaning off of him.
He hums, eyes snapping open when you whisper in his ear, “Do you want to stay over?”
A nod. “Yeah, baby. I’ll stay over.” The words spill out of him with no consideration for the long day he has ahead.
You pull his earlobe between your lips, nipping gently, a jolt down his spine. “Good boy.”
The praise makes him throb in your hand. Fuck, he thinks. Absolutely none of these words are in the Bible.
Jake wakes up in an empty bed, your door ajar. It’s only eight — too early to rush — and he stretches out his arms, twisting against the mattress. Fifteen lonely minutes go by without you, and so he gets up, dragging his feet through the apartment.
You’re in the kitchen, speaking in a hushed voice to Jimin—who seems to forget about the whole whispering thing for long enough that her voice rings through the hall when she says, “You need to get a grip before you get hurt!”
Sensing him, you whip your head towards the doorway, spotting Jake where he stands. Jimin wears a too-tight smile as he approaches. “Nervous about the game?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Great! Listen, I have to run, but good luck out there!” she says, patting his shoulder before leaving the room in a cloud of jasmine.
Chewing your lip, you follow her out with your eyes, blinking when the door clicks shut behind her. Jake shifts his weight between his feet, tensing his abs on instinct when your gaze trails over him. You don’t comment, but you linger before looking away. For a second, something unreadable passes over your face—gone as soon as you speak. “Do you want something to eat?” you ask, smiling, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “We need to do a food shop, but I can make you some..” You trail off, pulling the fridge open. “Greek yoghurt with blueberries.”
“Is everything alright?”
You nod, not meeting his gaze. “Jimin just thinks I’m stretching myself a bit thin.” You huff a small laugh, trying to downplay it, but your shoulders stay tense. Pulling out the punnet, you frown at it. “Greek yoghurt on its own?” you suggest, throwing the blueberries into the bin.
Jake shakes his head, a small, appreciative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I need to go soon, I still haven’t packed.” He fiddles with the drawstring on his pants, eyes lingering on you. Still so beautiful with a crease between your brows—he wants to reach out, smooth it over with his thumb. “Are you going to be alright by yourself?” It’s a bit of a useless question, he knows what you’re going to say. Knows you would tell him you were fine even if your arm was hanging off. You know it too, if the arch of your brow is anything to go by.
A chuckle. “Don’t worry about it, Superstar—you have a game to play.”
Jake hesitates, wondering if he should argue or just accept it. You’ll be fine. You always are. But something about leaving feels harder this time. Feels wrong. “You’re more important to me than a college football game.”
In theory, it’s true.
In practice, he’s not going to skip his game, not unless you ask him to—which you won’t. His football career is running on a clock that will only tick for two more terms after the summer. In his email, a timetable awaits, outlining all of his games for his last season. It’s provisional, for now, but bears weight regardless. He can’t afford to miss a game right now, but he’s a little shaken by the feeling that he can’t afford to leave you either.
You smile, a barely there curve of your lips as you close the fridge. Taking his hand in yours, you give it a squeeze, a steady reassurance. “Honestly, Jake. I’ll be alright. And if I’m not, I’ll still be here when you get back. So go.”
For someone so desperate to get rid of him, you’re having a hard time parting with his hoodie. He doesn’t want it back, but he needs something to wear to the car. It’s only fair, he showed up in only his t-shirt after all—his t-shirt that you’re still wearing and seem reluctant to return. You pull it close to your body like it’s yours now.
“It’s two degrees out,” he reminds you. “Do you want me shirtless in that?”
A sick and twisted silence passes, long enough to convince Jake you’re actually going to say yes. He watches your gaze flick downwards, want for him so clear that his dick twitches. Dragging your fingernail over the dip in his abs, your touch leaves a trail of fire in its wake.
He’s thankful for the discipline he’s developed in the new year—consistently following Sunghoon to the gym, eating unseasoned chicken breast and three eggs at breakfast because Sunghoon does, because Sunghoon is.. a lot. Wide shoulders, solid frame. Built like God put him on Earth to look good shirtless, and Jake—well. He eats the chicken. He lifts the weights. He does his best.
“No, not really,” you say, frowning as you shove the hoodie into his arms.
Jake smiles, glad you didn’t take too long to come around. He puts it on, zipping it slowly. Eyes on you the whole time, and when his abs disappear beneath the fabric, you sigh. His lips twitch, pleased.
At your front door, he hugs you—contemplates never letting go. The scent of coconut drifts up from your hair, and it tugs at something deep in his chest. His fingers tighten, pressing into your waist. He frowns. He shouldn’t miss you—not this much, not for one night. A night where, realistically, he wouldn’t see you even if he stayed home. But no amount of logic or reason is enough to make him feel better.
“I wish you were coming with me,” he says, mumbling into your collarbone.
You lean back a little, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. For a second, a desperate, fleeting second, he thinks that maybe you’ll say, fuck it, and come along, that you might see the appeal of sneaking around a four-star hotel with him. He can picture it already—matching fluffy robes, doing your skincare routine together at the end of the night, sharing a twin bed while Jay Park snores in the other one.
Instead, you look up at him with a smile that turns his knees to mush. “Not my fault you suck at planning, Jakey.”
He groans, tips his head back, feigning exhaustion. “Right, because everything is my fault, and I’m the villain in your story. I get it.”
You roll your eyes. “Get out of my apartment,” you say, but your grip doesn’t ease.
Jake exhales a laugh, but he doesn’t move either. Just stands there, holding you, memorising this like he’s shipping off to war—your hands on his skin, your vanilla scent under his nose. “Without a kiss?” His voice comes out quiet, hopeful—half teasing, half not. He’s stalling, trying to buy another second. Maybe two.
You push at his chest a little. “Out, Jake.” But you’re smiling and he feels your fingers tighten just a fraction before they let go.
Jake only smiles, his arms locked around you. He dips his head, pressing a kiss to your temple, and his voice is soft when he says, “I’ll text you when we get there.”
A sigh slips out of you, feigning annoyance, but the brush of your fingers down his arm gives you away. “Yeah, yeah. See you later.”
He grins. “You’ll miss me.”
A beat passes before you speak, just long enough for Jake’s smile to falter as he watches you. You pout, hand on his cheek, thumb moving tenderly over his skin. “No,” you say, shaking your head. “But you’ll miss me.”
“I already do.” He’s not lying.
Jake doesn’t kiss you before he leaves, which is okay. He tells himself it’s okay. But regrets it the whole drive home, drumming his fingers against the wheel as if he can tap the thought away. He regrets it while he stuffs his kit and toiletries into a duffle bag. And he regrets it on the bus, staring out at the passing motorway, the new Beabadoobee album blaring in his headphones. He’s so consumed by his regret that he doesn’t even have it in him to pretend he’s annoyed when Jay falls asleep with his head on his shoulder.
Not for lack of trying, Jake doesn’t sleep, and as it turns out, the protein bar he found in his backpack earlier is not enough sustenance for a three-hour journey. The bus rumbles on, road stretching out endlessly through the windscreen when he takes a look. He sighs, cracking his knuckles and willing himself to stop thinking about you. This doesn’t work either, and he’s typing out a text to you before he realises.
Jake: I hope you’re feeling better ❤️
Jake: I’ll see you soon, okay?
You reply with a picture of yourself in bed—glasses on, a book in your lap, lips curved into a soft, easy smile that makes something in his chest tighten. He stares for too long, caught up in the details. Gentle slope of your nose, loose strands of hair framing your face, dark love bites peeking out from under the collar of your shirt. His stomach flips, a giddy laugh slipping out. He wishes he could do something, turn the bus around, and go see that pretty face in person.
YN: All good, Jakey !!! Just needed to shower apparently..
Jake: My gorgeous girl :)
Jake: You did smell kinda weird when I hugged you
YN: ???
YN: Don’t even joke lad.
Jake snaps a quick selfie—grinning, a little flushed, hair messy from having his hood up. In the corner, Jay is dead asleep, mouth agape, face smushed into Jake’s shoulder. He laughs quietly, sending the picture, heat flooding his cheeks when you react with heart eyes.
YN: Such a pretty boy ☹️
YN: Jay obviously
Jake: Obviously.
It’s just past two when they start filing off the bus, the sharp coastal wind biting at Jake’s cheeks. He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching against the cold. The hotel in front of them is huge—way nicer than anything they actually need. But still, it’s nice, knowing that the football budget is going to something tangible, that they enjoy. A small comfort. The younger boys he sees like brothers will be looked after when he’s gone, and that thought warms him despite the cold. Towering windows glint in the afternoon sun, the kind of place with sleek, startlingly shiny floors and crystal chandeliers that don’t make sense for a one-night stay. But he’ll take this any day over the dingy motels he remembers from first year, stained towels and plywood mattresses.
At the front desk, Jay stands in line next to Jake with his eyes shut, as if three hours asleep on the bus weren’t enough. Jake knows better than to say anything though — after three years on the same team — he understands that Jay isn’t tired. He’s following a ritual. The Rilakkuma band-aid on his wrist is proof of that. And in case that isn’t enough, Jay doesn’t touch the key card either. He claims the bed furthest from the door, sits on the edge of the mattress, and blasts Mama, You’ve Been On My Mind—the Joan Baez and Bob Dylan live version, not the Bob Dylan studio outtake. And he listens to it twice before saying a word to Jake. Of course, because they had a single brief conversation before that first away game three years ago, their post-check-in discussions are forever based around two subjects: food, and you.
Jake: We’re here :)
YN: Has Jay asked about me yet?
Jake: One more stream
YN: Ah, almost settled then, I see
Jake laughs at this, a small exhale from his nose as he watches you type.
YN: If you stayed home, would he just.. not play?
Jake: Never considered that but I’ll ask later
Jake: Kick-off at 5:30 btw
YN: Good luck 🥳🥳🥳
He reacts to the message with a heart and tosses his phone aside, pressing the heel of his hand to his empty stomach. It’s a lot, Jay’s routine, but Jake isn’t in a position to judge him too harshly. Ever since high school, he eats a bowl of brown rice, grilled chicken and vegetables before away games, like it’s a charm against failure. Because it is. Because the first time he did, he played the best game of his life, and now the thought of eating anything else makes his stomach coil. It might seem silly to believe that a bowl of rice could change the outcome of a game, but Jake has seen it first-hand and isn’t willing to risk it again.
Jay is humming, oblivious, bobbing his head slightly, and Jake can’t help the smile on his face as he watches. Music spills from his headphones—Dylan’s voice a scratch against the air, Baez’s softer, sweeter. It’s almost grating, a taste he’s yet to acquire. They don’t talk much outside of football, not really, but there’s a closeness anyway. Built from hours of drills, sharing meals after training, and rooms for away games, retreats. A sudden rush of dread hits Jake, remembering that after next year — after graduation — the two will likely never share a room again. Even more hauntingly, they may never share the pitch again. Jake shakes his head. The plight of the student athlete, he supposes.
A happy sigh comes from Jay as he takes his headphones off, standing up. He stretches his arms out over his head, turning to Jake, grinning. “Hey, buddy.”
Jake would never admit this to him — or anyone — but he has a lot of respect for Jay. He takes training seriously, giving his all even during warm-up games, he’s got killer technique, and is (unfortunately) really nice. If Jake couldn’t make captain, he’s glad it went to Jay.
“I was talking to your girlfriend the other day.” The grin doesn’t fall from Jay’s face when he speaks, wagging his brows.
The G-word makes Jake roll his eyes—even though he likes hearing it, praying that God is listening and taking notes.
“She cornered me in the library to ask if I knew how to make a pie.”
“That sounds like her,” Jake says, smiling too.
His cheeks burn thinking about what you said yesterday—about how you’d wanted to bake him a pie. The memory jolts him. He digs through his bag without thinking, quickly finding the tinfoil abomination he made sure not to leave the house without. Jay catches it easily in his left hand when he tosses it over, eyeing it suspiciously before unwrapping it.
“She ended up making cookies, but I guess you knew that.”
He blinks at them like they might explode. “Wait, she made these for you?” Jay tilts his head, impressed. “You might not be as hopeless as I thought.”
Giddiness overwhelms Jake as he nods. It’s weird, a bit ridiculous even, how a batch of cookies can feel like a championship win—better. He likes it though, and doesn’t try to fight his smile.
His stomach rumbles into the silence. “Do you want to come get food?” He always extends an invitation to Jay.
“I’m good, man.”
And Jay never accepts.
This meal is a sacred one. As soon as Coach announces the hotel, Jake pulls up Uber Eats and Google Maps on his desktop to meticulously survey the surrounding area. And if his work reaps unfavourable results, he’ll call the hotel to enquire about the microwave arrangements. And if that doesn’t work out, he calls the convenience shops nearby to ask them.
He knows how he must seem, but before the first away game of this season, he brought his rice bowl in tupperware, had to eat it cold, and sprained his ankle on the pitch. So to say he was delighted when he found it on the menu of a local place would be an understatement—an independent Mexican restaurant with a 4.7 star rating only twenty-minutes away on foot. Perfect. His Promised Land. He applauded the monitor when he saw it.
Tres Mesas—a quaint restaurant, with three tables and a TV in the corner playing the news on mute, but damn if that wasn’t the best bowl of brown rice, grilled chicken, and pico de gallo he’s eaten in his life. The rice was fluffy, the grilled chicken tender, smoky. Even the pico de gallo was incredible—he only ordered it because he hadn’t looked at the vegetables yet, and panicked when the waitress sighed. Luckily, it’s the one component of the meal he’s willing to play fast and loose with. He can’t actually remember which vegetables he ate that first day, just that he enjoyed them.
When he finishes eating, he gets up from his table with half a mind to go to the kitchen and ask for a photo with the chef. He settles for going to the cash machine across the road and taking out a tenner for the tip jar by the till. On the walk back to the hotel, he texts his dad a photo of the bowl, looking at it lovingly as he sings its praises via text.
Jake: Kick-off is at 17:30 💪 will let you know how we get on, love you
On the way to the other school, again, Jay rests his head on Jake’s shoulder—whether he’s awake or not is anyone’s guess. But when Jake’s phone vibrates in his pocket, he retrieves it with as little motion as possible, just in case.
Dad: I’m glad you enjoyed your meal. Was it hot? 😂.
Dad: You do not need luck, son. You are always wonderful. Love you.
Jake: It was hot, dad 😭😭😭 of course, it was
Jake: Way too soon…………..
Warm-ups go by in a blink, a blur of sweat and jump squats until Jake finds himself standing in the tunnel with everyone else. Muscles humming, heart racing. He shakes out his limbs and prays to God for a miracle.
At church, when someone gives a testimony, they say, “God is good,” and the rest of the congregation responds in unison, “All the time.” Then, that person says, “All the time,” and in unison, the congregation says, “God is good.”
Jake doesn’t know why he finds it so grating, but week after week, he sits in his seat suppressing an eye roll while muttering the responses along with everyone else. However, when the ref blows the whistle to call full-time — scoreboard reading: HOME 0, AWAY 4 — ‘God is good’ sits on the tip of his tongue. He covers his mouth with his collar, pressing his lips together so it doesn’t slip out.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because Kim Sunoo comes running up and jumps on his back, looping his arms around Jake’s neck, and he nearly topples over. The rest of the team come rushing towards them, loud and triumphant. Jay reaches them first, his eyes gleaming with pride as he ruffles Jake’s hair. Adrenaline courses through him, dulling the ache in his legs.
And as they start to leave the pitch, heading for the locker room, he kisses his hand, points to the sky, and mouths, thank you.
People are often surprised to hear Jake admit that the best part of winning a game isn’t the roaring crowd, his coach’s praise, or even personal satisfaction. No, the best part of winning a game is laughing at the dinner table with his teammates after, and washing down a tomahawk steak — mushrooms and potatoes on the side — with a glass of champagne. And all on the university’s dollar at that.
Winning the first away game of the spring semester was more than enough cause for celebration, and Jake — full-bellied and alcohol glazed — has been keeping an eye on his drinks all night. He glances at his empty glass, pleased with his restraint. Someone had to keep a level head, and it wasn’t going to be Jay. O Captain! Our Captain!—for whom the only thing between tipsy and shit-faced is a whiff of vodka. Maybe less.
Turns out, Jake was worried about the wrong guy.
Nishimura Riki, 186 cm of arms and legs, dawdles over, red in the face (and ears and neck) and stumbling. With each step, his well-consumed IPA sloshes dangerously in his glass, splashing the back of his hand when he comes to an abrupt halt. “Sunoo, move,” He starts. “Need to talk to Jake.” His voice is slow and syrupy, at least an octave higher than normal.
Their youngest — their scrawny Goliath — only turned eighteen a few months ago, and (quite bravely) attended his first three months of college parties completely sober until then. He’s still figuring out his limits, and Jake can’t help but be endeared by this large child—if not a little alarmed.
“Knock yourself out, kid,” Sunoo says, amused, as he stands up. He sticks around for long enough to make sure Riki doesn’t fall over trying to sit, and takes his empty seat at the other end of the table.
This conversation he came stumbling over for is a request — delivered in a harsh whisper, hand over his mouth — to sit beside each other at the next meal. Jake flinches, too startled to respond, when Jay stands abruptly from his chair. “Get up, Riki. I’ll swap with you.”
Childlike delight floods Riki’s flushed face, looking up at his captain like manna from the sky, and wrapping his gangly arms around him when they cross paths. Jake shares a look with Jay as he sits in front of him—equal parts amusement and concern.
“Do you think I could finish that off for you?” Jay asks, gesturing to what’s left in Riki’s glass.
He nods quickly, extending it. “Of course, I’ll just get ano—”
“No!” Jake all but yells, cutting him off. “I mean, Coach is limiting us to three drinks tonight, so, no more.” A lie he deems more than necessary, a lie he wishes someone had already told.
Riki grins, leaning in. “That’s my sixth.” A laugh, and then another bubbles out of him as he sinks into his seat, shoulders racking. This disclosure seems as surprising to Jay as it is to Jake—not at all. He is extremely lucky that his teammates like him so much. Settled, finally settled, Riki shifts, letting his bony knees dig into Jake’s thigh. “Did you see my tackle? What did you think? Am I getting better?”
Jake nods sincerely, Riki’s been working hard — eager to prove himself so Coach won’t regret signing a first-year — and it’s paying off. “It was clean, buddy. You did great,” he says, meaning it. And Riki doesn’t try to hide his boxy grin.
On his other side is Jungwon—head tipped back over his chair, knocked out after one mojito. Jake takes a photo, sends it to you. Lil bro can’t hang. You reply right away: AWWWWW cutie 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 how much did he drink lmao.
Jake: Mojito
Jake: Singular
YN: 😭😭😭
Jake can’t suppress his smile, taking a selfie at a high angle and sending it to you. What about me am I cutie ?
YN: Yes, very cutie !!! You look so handsome 🤒
YN: So blushy, baby, are you also very drunk?
Cutie. So handsome. Baby. Jake is as giddy as he is confused. All that in the span of two consecutive text messages—he can’t believe his luck, struggling to tamp down his sudden desire to buy a lottery ticket. You might even tell him you miss him if he plays his cards right.
Jake: Sweet girl 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹
Jake: Not drunk just a few glasses of champagne hehehehe
YN: So you’re drunk 😭😭😭
Jake: You can’t see but I’m rolling my eyes
YN: I believe you, Jakey 😐 put the phone down and celebrate w your friends, okay?
YN: We can talk when you get back to your room !!!
What an exciting suggestion—talking in his room. With you. Jake stares down at his phone, in awe. Wow, he thinks. So clever. He almost wants to get up and start bragging about you like a proud parent. Oh. That is not an image he likes.
Jake: Whatare you gonna do if I keep texting? Leave me on read?
Yes, apparently—you read the message as soon as it sends and don’t reply. Don’t even start typing. Thirty minutes pass by before they leave the restaurant. Jungwon on Jake’s back. Riki on Jay’s.
He was never very good at cards.
Finally in bed, light-headed and smiley after three glasses of champagne, Jake pulls up your contact and calls you. He waits, staring up at the ceiling, tapping his fingers against his phone case. The room hums softly around him. After a few rings, you answer, and he smiles at the sound of your voice. “Hey, Superstar! Congrats!”
“Thanks, gorgeous,” he says, eyes fluttering shut. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Jimin and I are going to pres at Yizhuo’s and then the club. I actually think we’re leaving soon, but it should be good—Yizhuo hasn’t come out since Valentine’s.”
The mention of Valentine’s makes Jake’s breath hitch, fingers tightening around his phone as the memory comes rushing back—relentless. He hasn’t been out since then either, now that he thinks about it. That night. The dance floor. Your breath fanning his neck when you asked him to kiss you.
Jake froze, caught off guard. “What?”
“Don’t be a kid about it, Jakey,” you said in his ear. “If you don’t kiss me, Jaehyun will.”
The thought of Jaehyun kissing you, again, while Jake was stuck at zero kisses in ten years, made him sick. Historically, he had always been unlucky when it came to you—countless games of spin the bottle spent kissing the person to your left, watching as you kissed his friends. Yet there you were, asking him to kiss you and he was hesitating. Stupid, really. Ridiculous.
He cleared his throat, heart pounding. He’d read too many romance novels, seen too many films, to believe that you two could kiss once and it wouldn’t change everything—but he liked you, and he suspected he always had. So he asked, “You really want me to kiss you?”
“Please,” you said, voice small, vulnerable, as if you were giving him a piece of yourself and begging him not to break it.
Through the phone, your voice hits his ear, bringing him back. “Did you fall asleep?” You don’t sound anything like you did last month.
“No, no, I was just thinking,” he says faintly, a distracted beat passing as something crosses his mind. “Hey, what was that about with Jimin earlier?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly, and he's certain that’s the end of it. “She just thinks I’m going to get hurt when you go off, and use all your new experience on someone else.” You laugh, and he can’t tell if you’re amused by the notion of getting hurt, or there being someone else.
Jake wasn’t expecting you to tell him anything, never mind that. The thought that you, or Jimin — or anyone — could think there was someone else. That there could be someone else, hollows his chest, grinds an ugly gear in his brain. But it clears up a lot about this morning, she wasn’t being weird, she was.. warning you? His thoughts race, a million and one questions rattling in his head.
“Are you?” Is the one he asks, not fully equipped for any of the answers you might give.
A long quiet beat passes. “Are you?”
This feels like an opening, an opportunity for him to set some things straight. How could there ever be anyone else? To confess, maybe. You’re it for me, you’ve always been it for me. He can’t bring himself to—it doesn’t feel right to say over the phone. “If something was seriously wrong, you would tell me, right?” he says instead. At your silence, he continues. “The world won’t end if you open up to me, you know. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Of course. You’re my best friend,” you say belatedly.
“Yeah,” he says, ignoring the ache in his chest. “Always.”
You don’t reply right away, a minute passing before you clear your throat. “I have to go, okay? But I’ll text you.”
Jake nods even though you can’t see. “Have fun tonight.”
“Thank you, Jakey.” You hang up.
His phone vibrates with a text from you. Fit check 🤧. You’re wearing a lace tank top and a little black skirt. I’ll have a drink for you since you’re staying in! He stares at the photo—flutter in chest, heat on cheeks. His screen locks, and his reflection grins back at him, clear-eyed, flushed. Happy. Unlocking his phone, the photo stares back at him—you, so beautiful, and so far away. His thumb brushes the screen absentmindedly. Gosh, he misses you.
Jake: You look so perfect……wish I was there 🤒
Jake: Look after yourself, cutie
YN: Haha thanks me tooooo
YN: Yes sir 🫡
He types out that he misses you but thinks better of it, clearing the message and leaving a heart-react on your response.
“Was that your girl on the phone?” Jay asks, closing the bathroom door behind him.
Smiling, Jake turns the phrase over in his head. My girl. Butterflies erupt just thinking about it. Another silent prayer. “It was.”
Jay only nods, taking his charger from his bag and plugging it into the wall by his bed. He takes a long sip of water from his bottle and sighs, relieved, Jake thinks. For a long time, Jay looks at him from the other end of the room, saying nothing.
Until. “You’re a good guy, Jake,” he says, his tone a bit too serious for Jake’s liking. “And it’s fine that you like her, it’s good that you like her, but how much longer are you going to keep that to yourself?” he asks, looking at Jake like he actually wants an answer.
Sighing, Jake pinches the bridge of his nose. “I get that you think you’re helping, but just—maybe stay out of it.”
Jay blinks, his brows twitching together for the briefest second before smoothing out. Jake hadn’t meant for it to come out so sharply. Silence stretches out over them, long and heavy, and before he can take it back, Jay exhales slowly, looking away.
“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. It’s just—” A pause. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, like he’s saying something that will cost him to admit. “Look, I’ve tried sleeping my way from friend to boyfriend, and it doesn’t work. At some point, you’re going to have to show her you care about more than just sex, and I hope, for your sake, as your friend, that you do it before it’s too late.”
Jake stiffens, every muscle in his body tensing up. Heat spreads from his ears down the back of his neck, sharp and unforgiving. His first instinct is to argue, to say something to get on Jay’s nerves, but he relents—there’s no point in arguing over something they both know is true.
He clears his throat, sighs deeply. “Thank you, Jay, for your unsolicited advice,” Jake says, turning around and screwing his eyes shut, willing for sleep to pull him under.
It doesn’t.
Jay shuffles around the room for a bit before flicking off the light. Jake wonders if he should say something, but he knows there’s no need. Grudges don’t belong in their friendship—it shows on the pitch when something’s off. So they get everything off their chests, yell at each other if they have to, and move on like it never happened.
And yet, he feels bad for meeting Jay’s vulnerability with sarcasm. He goes over the things he could say, again and again, until he hears snoring over his shoulder.
With a sigh, Jake rolls onto his back and rubs a hand over his face. He sends a text to Sunghoon—a question he already knows the answer to: Do you think I’m fucking things up w YN? It’s only after hitting send and putting his phone under his pillow, that sleep finally overtakes him.
In the morning, he stirs before waking up, dragged from sleep by rustling fabric and soft, persistent thuds. A moment later, something light smacks him in the face, jolting him from his slumber. He squints into the morning light, a blurry shape above him. A pillow. To the face, again. When Jake’s eyes finally focus on Jay, he has the faintest idea that he’s being rewarded for something. He’s standing there, looking down at him, all tan skin and toned stomach, arms flexing as he swings the pillow again. It’s annoying, really, how effortlessly put-together he looks, and Jake forces himself to look away, covering his face with his hands.
“Morning, princess!”
Jake groans. “What, Jay? What is it?” he asks, sufficiently disturbed.
“They wouldn’t let me bring a plate for you, so you need to get up before breakfast is done,” Jay says, aiming another hit at Jake’s chest.
Still trying to get his bearings, Jake slaps at the pillow and pulls the blanket over his head. Jay isn’t having it. He smacks him with what Jake suspects is all of his might. At this point, it’s hard for Jake to stay touched by the fact that Jay had wanted to fix him a plate.
“Fine, fine!” Jake’s voice isn’t quite working yet, the words coming out in a low rumble as he sits up. “I’m going.”
“How’d you sleep?” Jay asks, hugging the pillow to his chest.
Jake shrugs. “Pretty good. You?”
“Same.”
Jake inspects Jay, searching for a sign that last night is still hanging over him too. But he looks.. fine—bed already made, bag packed, hair still damp from the shower. Jake knows Jay well enough to tell when something’s wrong, and there isn’t even a trace of tension on his face. No irritation, nothing at all—he’s over it. It should be a relief, but instead, it makes Jake’s heart sink.
“I have to tell you something, but you can’t make a big deal about it,” he says, stretching a little as Jay nods. “You have to promise, dude.”
Jay rolls his eyes, but extends his pinky anyway, curling it around Jake’s. “I promise.”
Jake is struck by how still the room feels, like it’s holding its breath. Why is he doing this? Jay has already moved on, and now, because of Jake and his lack of self-regulation, they’re standing around shirtless in a hotel room, miles away from home, holding hands. It’s all very bizarre, and he is looking forward to stepping down from the top of this mountain-sized molehill he’s made.
He sighs, tired of himself. “You were right, about.. everything. And I’m sorry,” he admits.
Jay grins, his smile smug, almost feline, in a way that entrances and confuses Jake at once. “About everything?” he asks, amusement in his tone, making Jake wonder whether he’s taking this seriously.
“Come on!” Jake says, incredulous, holding up their locked fingers.
Jay’s smile falters, and he rolls his eyes. “Oh no. I broke my promise,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I suppose you’re going to make a scene now? Tell me, Jake, what are you going to do? Tell me off? Spank me? Amputate?”
Irritated – flustered, maybe — Jake yanks his finger free, cheeks hot. He pulls on a shirt with a little more force than necessary, not bothering to look at Jay as he does.
“Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I already knew I was right,” Jay says, and the smile on his face is audible. “I do accept your apology, though.”
Jake exhales, a tension he hadn’t even noticed unwinding from his shoulders. He steps out into the hall feeling lighter, relieved, so chipper he takes the stairs instead of the lift, practically skipping down them. The air in the stairwell is crisp against his skin, the smell of coffee drifting up as he gets closer and closer to the dining hall. His phone vibrates in his pocket, lighting up with three messages from Sunghoon when he checks it.
Hoon: You are definitely handling things in a way I wouldn’t even recommend to my worst enemy!
Hoon: But things have a weird way of working out for you so
Hoon: Don’t worry too much 💪
Jake: Thanks?
The morning rush has thinned, and the emptying buffet trays aren’t his favourite sight—congealed scrambled eggs at their edges. He fills his plate anyway, hungry and happy enough to ignore how yellow the eggs are. At the nearest table, he chews absently, crunching crispy bacon, sipping pulpy orange juice, and his mind drifts. Jay’s voice, Sunghoon’s text, the lingering hum of a hundred past conversations—background noise. He pulls out his phone before he even registers the impulse, thumbs flying over the screen.
Jake: Hey, pretty girl :) how was your night?
YN: It was good! And then Yizhuo threw up all over the smoking area which was.. terrifying
YN: But I was in bed at 1 a.m. which I’m counting as a positive!
Jake: Sorry about Yizhuo, how’s she feeling? How are you feeling?
Jake: Damn it’s early, are you okay?
YN: Okay, 20 questions 🤨 Like shit. Good. On my way! To Pilates.
Still hungry after breakfast, Jake leaves the dining hall to take a shower and pack his bag before they leave. He sleeps for the whole journey, head on top of Jay’s.
When they step off the bus at uni, Jake waves goodbye to the team and heads straight for his car—he doesn’t go home. The drive is endless, knee bouncing at every red light, grip tight on the wheel. When he reaches your building, an older couple lingers by the entrance, hand in hand, giggling. He slips past them, taking the stairs two at a time. At your door, he stops, hunching over to catch his breath before knocking.
It takes a while, but Jimin opens the door, her smile falling when she sees him. “Jake, hi,” she says quietly, though it sounds like a question. She doesn’t step aside to let him in. “She’s not home, you just missed her actually. Jaemin picked her up.”
Just hearing Jaemin’s name is like a stake to the chest. Jake tenses without meaning to, jaw tight. He’s been avoiding the guy like the plague since Jaehyun’s birthday, when he cornered Jake in the kitchen. “Are you two, like, serious, or what?” he asked, voice low even though they were alone.
Throughout ten years of friendship, Jake had been asked that question more times than he could count. Throughout four years of pining, it was one of two questions that made him want to throw himself into oncoming traffic. He didn’t need to follow Jaemin’s eyeline or hear another word to know exactly what he meant. Who he meant—you, of course. In the living room, laughing with the birthday boy, Jake’s jacket slung over your shoulders as you waited for him to bring you a can of Sprite.
Jake only shrugged, the red cup of water in his left hand crunching a little under his tightening grip. “We’re friends.”
“So I’m allowed to ask her out?”
That was the second question that got under Jake’s skin—not just because it was reductive, but because it wasn’t his decision to make. And yet, there came Jaemin, like every guy before him, asking as if they really think that if Jake had any say in it, you’d be with anyone but him.
With a sigh, he said, “I’m not her father, Jaemin. It’s up to her.”
Jaemin smiled, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear. “You got a light?”
“No.” He shook his head, shoving his clenched fist into his back pocket, the cool metal of his lighter grazing his right knuckle. “Can’t smoke in here anyway, mate.”
The memory slams into him, full-force, knocks the wind out of him. “He did?”
“She didn’t tell you?” Jimin tilts her head. “Weird.”
His brain stalls, unsure which thought to torture himself with first: that you’re seeing Jaemin, or that you didn’t tell him. As it turns out, the more hurtful thought is of the text you sent him an hour ago while he was asleep on the bus, the reason he’s even here.
YN: Travel safe, Jakey, I can’t wait to see youuuuu <3
Jimin’s hand reaches for the door. “Goodbye.”
His lips part, trying to gather his thoughts, to say something before the door clicks shut in his face. Nothing comes to mind, but your voice rings out into the silence. “Who’s at the door?” The sound of it rattles through him, curious, gentle as ever, and the seconds that pass stretch out in front of him, vast and unending.
Jimin only frowns, her shoulders slumping. She seems more disturbed by the fact that now she’ll have to let him in than the fact that she’s been caught lying. “Oops,” she says simply, leaving the door open as she goes back to her room.
Sighing, Jake leaves his shoes next to yours and locks the door behind him, his fingers fumbling a little as he twists the key. Smelling food, he goes straight to the kitchen where he finds you. You’re standing by the stove, hair covering your face, lost in the task at hand: trying to tear open a bag of cheese without scissors. You succeed. Before he says a word, you look over at him, and the grin that spreads over your lips makes his stomach swoop, butterflies tumbling around like they’re looking for a point of exit. You’re perfect. There’s something about that smile that brightens everything around you, grounding and dizzying him all at once.
“Hey,” he says, breathless, smiling too.
You turn off the stove before stepping into his space, arms looping around his waist like you need this as much as he does. “Jakey,” you mumble into his chest.
It’s nice to see you, he can’t overstate that, and he suspects it always will be. Yet, even with you in his arms, he can’t smooth out the crease in his brows, can’t relax into your touch like he wants to—like he’s been thinking about since he left yesterday. The only thing on his mind is whatever the fuck is going on with Jimin, and how to ask you about it.
“I see you’ve done your food shop,” he says dumbly, looking over your head at the pot on the stove.
“Uh huh.” You nod, tilting your head back to look at him. “I even got those chocolates you like.”
Jake smiles, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, liking the way you lean into his touch. “You didn’t have to do that.”
You shrug, but the softness of your voice betrays your attempt at nonchalance. “I wanted to make sure you had a reason to come and see me.”
“You’re being really sweet,” he says, frowning. He doesn’t mean to sound suspicious, but for some reason, it’s easier to question you than to believe you might actually want him here. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. Your skin is warm, but not feverish. Normal. Still, he keeps it there. “You feeling okay?”
You roll your eyes, catching his wrist and pulling his hand away. “Are you okay? You look like Jimin caught you out there praying for pussy.”
It would have been less mortifying if she had. He chuckles, an awkward huff of air that sounds more like a strangled cough than anything close to a laugh. Pressing his fist to his mouth, he clears his throat as if it will somehow clear the feeling in his chest, too. As if summoned simply by Jake thinking about her, Jimin comes into the kitchen, buttoning up her coat. Her eyes skip over him like he’s not there, her smile reserved for you.
“I have to go, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” she says, opening her arms.
You step forward without hesitation, slipping into her embrace like it’s second nature. The hug is warm and sweet, the two of you in your own world while Jake is stuck in its orbit, watching it spin without him. “I’ll miss you,” you say sincerely. “Text me when you get there.”
Jimin ruffles your hair when you pull away, smiling when you protest. “I miss you already.” And with that, she squeezes your wrist affectionately before turning on her heel without so much as a glance in his direction.
At the sound of the front door swinging shut, Jake sighs, glancing at it like he expects her to reappear. To say it was all a big joke, that she was doing a bit, and hug him too—the way she would have done a month ago, before..
It’s quiet in the flat—just you and him. He shifts on his feet, shoving his hands into his pockets, watching you watch the pot on the stove. You take off its foggy lid, steam curling out as you sprinkle grated cheddar into it—cheese dakgalbi. His mouth waters.
Silence persists. Not awkward, not quite comfortable. He has to ask. “Did you ask Jimin to pretend you weren’t home?”
A laugh bubbles out of you, amused by the mere suggestion. You shake your head. “No.”
Jake sniffs, his voice quieter than before. “Is she mad at me or something?” He tries for casual, but he sounds a bit pathetic.
You give him a look—confused, as if you didn’t see the way she’d ignored him. “Did she tell you I wasn’t home?”
He nods slowly, saying nothing about the Jaemin-shaped elephant in his proverbial mind-room. Instead, he reaches into the cupboard behind him, the hinge creaking softly as he pulls out a bowl for you. He hands it over without meeting your eyes.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
There’s too much going on in his head to navigate your line of questioning. “What are you talking about?”
You hold up the dish like the answer to his question is written on its base. “One bowl,” you say—it isn’t, by the way, the answer. He looked.
“I’m not staying,” he says without meaning to, though now that he’s thinking about it, he likes the idea of going home and being alone with his thoughts. It might even be nice to sit in silence on the couch with Sunghoon if he’s home.
Putting the bowl down, you take a step back, and scoff. Defensive. Hurt, he thinks. You sigh. “Why are you here then?”
Your question, your tone, makes him feel a little silly. Silly for cancelling his plans with Jay to come here. Really silly, actually. For thinking you missed him too. For thinking, can’t wait to see you, meant anything more than just something nice to say to a friend who’s been away.
“Well.. I don’t know.” Jake shrugs. “I just wanted to look at you or something, I guess. Make sure you were alright.”
Your expression softens, a step towards him, eyes — wide, searching — meeting his. “Stay, Jake. Please.”
His breath catches, taken aback by this unprompted offering of vulnerability—asking him to stay because you want him to, not because he asked if he should. He wonders if it could always be like this. If you could be like this with him again. Open. Gentle. Like before.
“Did you miss me?” Jake asks, greedy for you to open up. To give him more than just a little. “While I was away?”
“It was one night.”
“So? I missed you,” he admits.
Your eyes flicker over his face, but you don’t answer. No, you roll your eyes like he’s being ridiculous—it bothers him though he knows it shouldn’t. He approaches you before he can think better of it, hands finding the counter on either side of you, caging you in. You don’t resist or pull away, only tilting your head to meet his gaze. And fuck, you’re right there and so beautiful. Close enough for him to see the way your eyes widen ever-so-slightly. Close enough that his pulse trips over itself.
“Why won’t you tell me you missed me?” he asks.
You arch a brow. “Why do you want me to tell you if you already know?”
Jake exhales sharply, tilting his head, pressing his fingertips into the counter like it’ll ground him. “I just—” He pauses. Swallows. Tries again. “Please.”
A hesitation. He feels your hand on his waist, your fingers squeezing. Sees the way your lips part, like you might actually say it. But you don’t. “Why?” you ask instead.
He blinks, throat working around an answer that won’t come out. And suddenly, he feels stupid. Standing here, begging you to say something he already knows, something that shouldn’t matter so much. His eyes flick to yours, and he tries again, softer this time, whispering, “Please, baby.”
Finally, you break, quietly confessing, “I hate being away from you.” And it’s a million times better.
A startled breath escapes him, soft and disbelieving. His heart stumbles over itself, warmth flooding his chest. He blinks at you, processing, the words replaying in his head, sweeter each time. His fingers twitch against the countertop, resisting the urge to touch you, but you’re looking at the floor, and that won’t do. Gently, he tilts your chin up, your eyes meeting his—all wide and pretty, uncertainty flickering in them.
He swallows, voice unsteady. “Say it again.”
A slow smile curves your lips, and he sees the flash of realisation in your eyes—you’ve got him, you know you do. “I hate being away from you, Jake,” you repeat, confident now.
The shape of the words on your lips, how they roll off your tongue, hitting him with so much affection it’s a wonder he doesn’t burst into tears. Those words spoken to him, in your voice, by you. He takes a deep breath. “See? That wasn’t so bad,” he says, trying to tease but his voice is too soft.
You roll your eyes, but your lips are twitching, fighting a smile. “It was excruciating.”
Jake hums, brushing his thumb along your jaw, memorising the feel of you, liking the way you gulp. “My poor girl,” he teases, a pout on his lips. “I was about to drop it, you know. One more why, and I’d have let you off the hook.”
And then — before you can fire back some sharp remark — he kisses you.
He takes his time, desperate — quite frankly — to make up for what he missed yesterday morning. His hands find the small of your back, pulling you close as if he can’t bear being away from you again. Every touch is a relief, his gratitude and adoration poured into the warmth of his lips against yours. A tiny sound, low and wanting, slips from your mouth to his, stirring his chest. When he pulls away, your lips linger, and he almost can’t find in him to break the connection. You chase his kiss, whining a little—so cute it weakens his knees, and he can’t help but smile, liking the flutter in his stomach.
Looking down at you, he exhales shakily, heart pounding. Overwhelming warmth fills him up, crams itself into every single part of him, knowing that this is real. That you’re real, and you’re here, with him.
“That wasn’t so bad either, huh?” he asks, giggling, his voice almost as light as he feels.
You beam at him before hiding your face in his chest, letting out a giddy laugh as he rubs circles on your back, chin on top of your head. You hate being away from him. The words echo in his head, surreal, sweet.
He’s not convinced he’ll ever stop smiling.
Until his stomach growls, loud, slicing the quiet. Another laugh from you, the sound vibrating through him — too real to be imagined — as you pinch his waist. “Come on, baby,” you say, eyes sparkling. “Let’s eat.”
You slip out of his hold, and Jake, helpless to do anything but follow, wraps his arms around your waist at the stove. His chest is pressed to your back, fingers curling into your sides so you don’t leave again. If you mind, you don’t voice it. You sway a little against him, humming the same song he was listening to on the bus.
Why can’t he stay here, with you, like this, forever?
His bowl warms his lap while you put your glasses on, turning on the TV. Gossip Girl fills the screen, the voices familiar, comforting, fading into the background when you sit, your thigh pressed against his. He wonders if you realise how much of the space in his head you occupy. The flavours are rich, familiar, perfect—he’s never had cheese dakgalbi as good as yours. He sighs happily. Heart skipping a beat when he glances over at you, finding you already looking at him. You hate being away from him. Lips kiss-bitten, lenses foggy from the steam. You give a tender smile.
Jake bites back a grin, stuffing chicken into his mouth so he doesn’t speak and admit to something crazy—the future in his head, with you. Your child (children if you want them, a dog if you don’t (hopefully a dog even if you do)), and countless nights together like this for the rest of your natural lives.
Beside him, sane, you give commentary—perfect outfits, Serena’s hair, ugh, why is Chuck here? He nods, too far gone to do anything but copy your homework and change the answers a bit. That dress is beautiful, there’s probably tutorials if you look, why is Chuck here?
After he clears his bowl and what you couldn’t finish from yours, you make a pillow out of his shoulder. Sighing, you get comfortable while he inhales the familiar scent of your shampoo, your hair brushing his cheek. Shifting closer, you press into him, his arm tightening around you. It doesn’t take long for your breath to even out. Jake’s chest swells, overwhelmed by how much he likes this. He presses his lips to the top of your head, the softest kiss of his life, and lets his eyes flutter shut.
He hates being away from you too.
Jake has rescheduled this dinner with his parents so many times, his mother actually called him. He didn’t answer. Instead, he flinched, threw his phone to the other end of the couch and waited for the ringing to stop. If it weren’t for his dad texting to ask about it, he wouldn’t be standing on the doorstep of his family home doing breathing exercises.
He takes one last deep breath before putting his key in the lock. Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale. One, two, three. Open the door. “I’m home!” he calls out, stepping inside and taking off his shoes.
Jake’s mother gasps in the kitchen as if she’s surprised, jogging out into the hall. “Jaeyun!” she cries, arms flung around him. “Oh, my boy, it’s so good to see you.”
He only nods, letting go prematurely, long before she releases him.
“It’s just a shame you’re harder to reach than the Prodigal Son.”
“Yeah.” Jake gives her a tight smile, a slow nod. “Just got a lot on at the minute with uni. Good to be home though.”
She’s already heading back to the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. “Dinner’s nearly ready, so you’ve come at the perfect time. You might think about changing?”
With furrowed brows, he looks down at his outfit. Jeans. Jumper. Hardly unpresentable. “I think I’m alright, actually, Mum,” he says, following behind her.
Seeing his dad stand up from the table tugs Jake’s lips into a boyish grin. “Dad,” he whispers, breathless, pleased, allowing himself to be pulled into a hug, his dad’s unchanged cologne hitting his nose. Floral, warm. Strong arms around him.
“How are you, son?” he asks, quiet, private, just for them.
“I’m good, Dad. I’m good.”
The simmer of broth. Oil frying eggs in a pan. The smell of beef strikes him, turning his hunger fierce. His stomach rumbles quietly, unsoothed by his attempts at rubbing it. He asks if his mother needs a hand, and she waves him off, shakes her head, it’s her pleasure to cook for her son. She’s wearing her apron, the same red checkered one she’s had for as long as he remembers, stirring a pot by the stove. She looks so motherly like this. As if she might come over and kiss the top of his head just because. Pat his back and say good job for simply existing. It’s all very maternal of her, like that instinct has finally kicked in, twenty short years postpartum. Maternal in a way that digs a nasty pit in his stomach. The mum-in-a-million, best-mum-ever figure he always thought Big Mum made up to push Mother’s Day cards.
“Are you seeing anyone?” his dad asks.
That word choice sticks out to him, it’s almost been a full year of anyones and peoples from his dad and it still warms his heart in a way he’s not sure he’ll ever adjust to. There had been some.. concerns when he was younger and innocently introduced his first school friend, Jaehyun, to his parents as his boyfriend. Concerns that were not entirely baseless, as Jake’s teenage years would soon reveal to him.
“Any nice girls?” his mother corrects from the kitchen, not looking away from the drawer as she takes cutlery out. “Oh, who was that girl you used to be friends with? What was her name? From school, Jaeyun? Funny girl. Her mother used to teach you, what was she called?”
Jake mumbles your name, reminds her that the two of you are still friends. He’s not sure why she insists on this song and dance, when both of them know she wouldn’t exactly be happy if he brought you — or anyone — home. He bites the inside of cheek remembering you — age fourteen — sitting at this very table, passing Jake the salt shaker and scrunching up your nose at the mention of church. Church? No, my parents said church is for people who think they’re better than everyone else. Only Jake and his dad found that funny.
She puts cutlery down for all three of them, looking down at him after placing his chopsticks. “The atheist?” she asks, saying the A-word with a certain level of distaste that Jake can’t help find amusing.
“Yes, mum. The atheist,” he confirms, holding back a laugh at the amused smile his dad — the other atheist — wears.
There’s a look on her face when she hums, as if satisfied he acknowledged your lack of faith out loud. “I mean, you’re a bit young for a relationship, anyway.”
“I’m twenty,” he points out.
She raises her brow from over the kitchen island, stopping in her tracks with a steaming pot in hand. “Do you want to get married?”
Jake shrugs, watching as she puts the pot on the table, letting the smell of short ribs envelop him. “I mean.. not right now, but at some point? Maybe?” The words leave his mouth unthinkingly, seeming wrong as soon as he says them.
“So why would you be looking for a girlfriend?”
His mouth opens and promptly closes again, unsure of what to say. Jake glances at his dad, but he only takes a sip of his water. He’s not going to argue with her—he never does.
“Look.” His mother sighs, tucking her hair behind her ears as she takes a seat at the table next to his dad. “A lot of people your age are out drinking and having sex, and I understand that’s how this country is, but that is not how we raised you, Jaeyun—we didn’t bring you here for that. Sex isn’t about your age; it’s about marriage. And until then, you shouldn’t even be thinking about it, never mind having it.”
Mortified, he runs a hand over his face. “I’m not having sex. Jeez, Mum.” It’s a lie that only gets harder to say the more he tells it. He might actually abstain — even from hand stuff — until marriage, if he has this conversation again.
“Are you drinking?”
“No, I’m not drinking.” This lie is easier. “I’m an athlete.” Because half of it is true.
His mother tilts her head, affronted. “Jaeyun, you’re a Christian first.”
A familiar tension wraps around him, not any easier to manage for how often he feels it around her. “You’re right, Mum. Sorry.”
She seems pleased enough with this, her eyes lingering on him for a beat before they narrow. “I heard from Sieun’s mum that you weren’t at church this week.” Of course, she heard. She is always hearing things about Jake, and Sieun’s mum always seems to be the one saying them.
“I had a game.”
“On Sabbath?”
There is, for Jake, no winning where his mother is concerned. Because, of course, his breaking of the Sabbath is what matters right now. Never mind that he’s playing at a level she used to brag to her friends about. Never mind that he’s doing that, and getting top marks in his classes, and still finding time for family dinner every other week. Never mind that last term he spent two days with an IV drip in his arm from overworking himself and she didn’t text him back when he told her.
Jake’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding as he forces himself to swallow the words burning on his tongue. A glance at his dad, who’s staring down at his empty plate, pretending not to hear. Finally, he clears his throat, setting his glass down with deliberate care, a delicate arm over his wife’s shoulders. “Honey..” He trails off, eyes flicking to his son quickly. “How about we say grace before dinner gets cold?”
Conflicted relief settles over Jake’s shoulders at this. He knew his dad would step in eventually. He had to. This is the man who sat him down at thirteen and explained consent to him in careful, measured words—again at seventeen before he moved out. The man who passed him a beer on a fishing trip when he was sixteen, told him to sip slowly, to learn the taste so he wouldn’t feel the need to prove anything to anyone later. Who had wrapped him in a hug, kissed the top of his head last year when he said he likes boys too. You’re my only son, Jaeyun. I want you to be happy. He can’t look at his dad, see the hard lines of his face, the silver strands of his hair, without seeing that too.
He nods obediently when his mother tells him to pray, holds hands with his parents, closes his eyes. His dad’s rough hand squeezes his and he smiles. “Dear Lord, thank you for giving us the opportunity to sit around the table tonight as a family. Please bless the food we’re about to eat, and the hands that made it. In your name’s sake we pray, amen.”
With that, they eat ugeoji galbitang—Jake’s favourite. He likes it too much to let anything, even his mother (who makes it best), ruin it for him. Luckily, his dad steers the conversation, shares his wins at work, compliments Jake’s highlight tape from the game over the weekend, talks about the trash movie he’s got lined up for them to watch tonight.
Tonight. Together. As a family. Jake always spends the night after dinner, no exceptions. But he’s certain that if he spends any longer than he needs to in this house, he’ll die. He needs to come up with something, an excuse, a lie, something suddenly remembered. A commitment heavy enough that he must leave at once to attend to it. He thinks about Sunghoon, about you—but Jake’s mother is a blood is thicker than water kind of woman, and in her eyes, the only things thicker than blood are God and school.
He clears his throat, takes a sip of water, keeps a hold on his glass even when he puts it down. “That sounds great, Dad—I mean Operation Christmas Drop sounds truly awful, but I have a paper due tonight and it’s saved on a USB so I’ll have to go home to submit it.”
His mother continues to eat, unbothered. It’s hard to watch his dad’s smile falter, but he nods, understanding. “Another time, then.”
Dinner continues, marked mostly by the clatter of cutlery—chopsticks on side plate, spoon on bowl. There are a lot of negative things Jake could say about his mother, but she’s the only woman in the world who could call him an embarrassment for quitting violin at fifteen, then console him with her cooking. Even the simplest sides — her fried eggs and white rice — move Jake beyond words.
He clears the table when they finish eating, his parents packing up the leftovers while speaking quietly to one another as Jake washes the dishes. He strains his ears over the running water, but it’s no use, only catching murmured honeys and nos. Coming home is a bit like being caught in a loop sometimes, like he’s checking off boxes on a list:
1. Mum warns Jake about premarital sex
2. Jake lies and says he’s not having it
3. Dad sits in silence, pretending he didn’t buy Jake condoms when he went off to college
4. Substitute sex for some other mostly harmless vice
5. Rinse and repeat.
This absurd script they’re following, these roles they all fall into, time and time again. He can’t be the only one exhausted by this.
Jake dries his hands with the dish towel hanging from the oven door and scratches at the back of his neck. “I’d really better go,” he says. “Thanks again for dinner, Mum.”
He doesn’t hang around for her response, taking the stairs two at a time until he gets to his room. Slipping on his jacket, he looks around at the walls again. Certificates, postcards. Barer now since he took some of his favourite posters with him when he moved. Still, his Dune poster, brought home from a midnight showing, hangs above his bed. He’d stayed at Jaehyun’s house that night—his mother would never let him out so late with friends. As much as he loves it — the outline of Timothée Chalamet, Paul, tall and trim in his stillsuit — he left it behind. A quiet reminder of his small rebellion.
Leaving always feels so final, like he has to memorise the details of his childhood room even though he’ll be back in two weeks. A sighs, more than ready to leave, but stops short, seeing the photo booth strip under his light switch. You and him, frozen in the pink frames of a four-cut photo, sixteen forever. In the last shot, your arm is around his shoulders, lips pressed to his cheek. Back then, he didn’t think he liked you—not the way he does now. But his skin had burned where you kissed him, and he hadn’t washed his face that night, afraid to lose the trace of your clear lip gloss.
After four years, the memory sends a swarm of butterflies through his stomach, his fingers reaching up to brush his left cheek. He takes the photo, slipping it into his jacket pocket before joining his parents at the door.
“I just want you to make good decisions,” his mother says, hugging him. Her perfume is floral, familiar. He breathes it in, holding on just a second longer than normal.
“I’m trying.”
“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” his dad says, already putting on his shoes.
Jake’s chest tightens. He gulps, nodding, waves at his mother. Her eyes burn holes into his back as he follows his dad out. March’s breeze whips his jacket, lunchboxed leftovers warm his palms. They walk in silence to Jake’s car.
“Are you happy, Jaeyun?” His dad’s voice is soft, careful. “None of this matters if you aren’t.” His calloused fingers rub at the back of Jake’s neck—a comfort. “Not your grades, not football, not church.. It’s no use working so hard if you’re not happy.”
Jake nods. “I am usually,” he admits.
A grin. Crinkled eyes. “That’s all I ask of you.”
“Are you happy, Dad?”
His dad’s face softens, shoulders relaxing. “With you as my son?” A chuckle slips out of him. “How could I not be happy?” He pulls Jake into a tight hug, his arms strong and steady. Jake squeezes back, fingers gripping his dad’s shirt.
“I love you,” Jake says, the words muffled against his dad’s shoulder.
His dad holds him even tighter. “I love you, son.”
They pull apart slowly, reluctant. A shared exhale. Breeze biting, still.
“Drive safe, okay?”
Jake nods, unlocking the car. “I will.”
His dad smiles again, giving him a nod before heading back to the house. The porch light is off when Jake starts his car.
Thirty silent minutes pass by in a blur, unregistered until he’s taking off his seatbelt outside his building. Backpack on, leftovers in hand, he goes inside, dragging his feet up the stairs to the eighth floor. He doesn’t even have to slow his pace or catch his breath at the door to his flat—at least the gym is paying off.
Sunghoon isn’t home. Monday night. Evening practice. Jake leaves the food on the kitchen counter to cool down and goes to his room. His bed, neatly made, fresh sheets, looks tempting, but he has other plans for the night. He gets changed and sits on the couch, waiting for Sunghoon.
For the next hour, his phone goes off regularly, but none of the notifications are from you so he doesn’t care. It only dawns on Jake that he can simply text you when he wants to see your name in his phone.
Jake: Can I come over?
YN: I thought you had family dinner tn?
YN: Oh. I’m not at home but you can call me!!! My signal is a bit shit on the train rn but you can always call me, Jake
Jake: It’s okay, usual shit w my mum lol
Jake: Idk why I always think things will be different when I go there and always get surprised when they’re not
YN: I’m sorry she gives you such a hard time, baby
YN: I know you don’t feel like it but you’re doing such a good job. You’re juggling shit I don’t even want to imagine and you still make time for football and all your uni stuff and to make everyone in your life feel special. I promise you’re not fucking anything up at all.
YN: You don’t have to keep going over there, you know.. I get you like seeing your dad but surely you two can hang out alone? Another fishing trip, maybe? I know you had a really good time in the summer
The summer—the fishing trip, the beer, the hug. He smiles.
Jake: Yeah, maybe
When he hits send, a key turns in the lock. Sunghoon—whistling to himself after practice. It’s nice one of them had a good Monday, that’s half of the people in the flat. Much better than thirty seconds ago, when a hundred percent of people in the flat were having a terrible day. His footsteps pad down the hall and he freezes in the doorway, brows raising in surprise. A beat. “Hey, buddy. I didn’t know you’d be back tonight.”
Jake clears his throat, but the roughness of his voice persists. “Left early.”
Sunghoon hums, nodding once before he leaves, coming back in a t-shirt and sweatpants, two beers in hand as he sits on the couch. He hands one to Jake, pulls the tab on his own, and takes a long, slow sip. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” Jake shakes his head. “I put some ugeoji galbitang in the fridge for you. I don’t know if you saw.”
“Nice, man, thanks.”
These are the last words from either of them for hours. Even when one of them gets up to use the toilet, or Sunghoon goes to get more beer. It’s not until two a.m. that they speak again.
“Are you alright if I turn in? I need to be up soon.” Sunghoon yawns, arms stretched out in front of him.
Jake nods, yawning too. “Yeah, of course. I should get some sleep anyway.”
Sunghoon lingers, his hand curling and uncurling on the edge of the couch. “You sure?” he asks, only standing when Jake nods again.
Jake collects the cans, flicking the lamp off on the way out. He turns towards the kitchen but stops in his tracks, looking over his shoulder. Sunghoon’s heading to the bathroom, hand on the doorknob when Jake says, “Thank you.” For being my best friend. For doing nothing with me for hours, he doesn’t say.
Yet Sunghoon seems to understand. He always does. In three steps, he reaches Jake, a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “You’re my best friend,” he says, matter-of-factly, and leaves Jake in the hall, locking the bathroom door behind him.
When Sunghoon is done, Jake goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth. He steps into the shower, appreciating the heat of the water on his skin, how he reddens under it. Washes his face, his hair. Stands aimlessly under the spray until he starts worrying about the planet. He feels a bit better after this. Moisturises in his room, puts Vaseline on his lips, gets into bed.
He’s lying on his side, staring at the wall. He pats around the mattress for his phone, finding it and calling you without thinking. It rings out, because, of course, you can always call me, Jake, does not mean: call me at three in the morning.
He looks at his screen for so long it locks. Too dark to see his reflection on it. Thankfully. He opens your text thread, drafting a message. Called by mistake HAHAHAHAHA dw! Delete. Sorry for calling so late, maybe we could hang out when you’re up? Coff—there’s a knock at his door and he locks his phone, tucking it under his pillow like a child.
“What is it?” he calls out.
The door clicks open behind him, closes softly. Your voice. “Hey, Jakey.”
He sits up immediately, your name falling out of his mouth like a question. You’re standing there in your pyjamas, angelic, everything he’s ever wanted, blued by the moon shining through his window. And if he wasn’t so upset, so convinced he’s making this all up, he would scold you for coming over at this time in only a vest and shorts. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move too abruptly, so as not to disrupt the dreamscape. Slowly, carefully, he lifts the end of his duvet, a silent invitation. You step towards him, crawling into his arms, soft skin warm on his, a kiss to his chest.
This is.. real?
You are real?
Turning on his lamp, he pushes your hair from your face, studying you. Soft bow of your lips, gentle slope of your nose, flutter of your lashes when you blink. Lamplight cuts sharp orange angles over your cheekbone, carving you out of the dark. He kisses you, a fleeting press of his lips to yours. To check.
You are real, and breathtaking, always so breathtaking, and here, with him.
“How did you..?” He trails off, unsure what to ask—get here? Know I needed this?
“Hoon called and came to pick me up,” you say, answering both of his questions at once.
This is.. overwhelming. Beyond. That Sunghoon would think to call you, go so far as to pick you up at this hour. That you would get out of bed for this—for him. That there are people in his life, bound only to him by choice, who care this much. Jake swallows around the lump in his throat, eyes stinging with hot tears, desperate to spill.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, cupping his cheek in your palm. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
Baby. Your baby. He has half a mind to tell you he loves you, but he’s touched, not insane, so he bites his tongue. Hides his face in the crook of your neck.
“Oh, Yunie,” you say, stroking his back, your touch a grounding force. “I wish there was something I could do.”
He kisses the spot where your neck and shoulder meet. Lifts his head. Smiles as the first tear slips from his cheek onto yours. “You’re here.”
Jake kisses your lips—soft, fleeting, hardly more than a peck. It’s not enough. Another kiss, longer, lingering, your warmth undoing him. Wrapping you in his arms, he tucks you close to his chest, clinging onto you like a lifeline. I love you. Over and over, he thinks it. Prayers on a rosary. So loud in his head he’s not convinced you can’t hear him. His eyes flutter shut, and with your steady breath on his skin, he lets himself fall asleep.
Jake wakes up first, grinning at the sight of you curled against him, your face squished into his chest. His arms tighten instinctively, as if to keep you there, as if you might slip away. He watches you, still as he can, taking in the quiet, the warmth, you. As if sensing his gaze, you open your eyes, sleep-heavied blinks as you look up at him. You shift in his hold, turning your head enough to see his alarm clock. 08:46. A groan leaves your lips, and you bury your face back into his chest.
He kisses the top of your head, mumbling against it. “Morning, baby.”
Your groan doesn’t stop, drawn-out, dejected, rumbling against his skin until you tip your head back. “Come shower with me.” Your voice is thick with sleep, the words said as if you think it might be the only solution for your suffering.
And it would be rude of him not to at least help you find out.
Jake has definitely had more productive showers, but he’s never had a better one than this. Skin on skin. Lips on lips, and neck, and chest. Slippery hands all over each other. Wet heat overwhelming him—press of bodies, rush of water. Trembling breath, racing heart. Your fingers around his wrist, guiding his hand between your thighs.
By the time you’re clean, and moisturised, there’s only twenty minutes until your class starts. Pulling a pair of his sweatpants over your hips, you make a joke, laughing to yourself as you blame Jake for what you started. He’s a terrible influence, using his masculine wiles to seduce, corrupt, and make you late.
He snorts, shaking his head. “So I’m a pervert in this fantasy of yours?”
“I think you like it, Jakey,” you say, walking towards him, arms looping around his neck, fingers in his hair, chuckling. “Making a harlot out of an honest woman.”
Jake pinches your waist, liking the way it makes you jolt and squeal—trying to focus on that instead of the sharpness of the word harlot against his ears. He almost shudders, jarred by its dissonance. Sounding more like a word that might share a page with some of the other words that have disturbed him recently. Words he’s done a good job of pushing to the back of his mind—words he’s putting in a lot of effort to keep there. He sniffs, leaning down to kiss you. It was a joke, Jake. You were joking. It was a Christmas joke.
“Alright, Virgin Mary,” he mumbles against your lips, pulling away before you accuse him of further debasing. “Let’s go.”
He drives you home so you can get your stuff, and you make a beeline for your room when you arrive. He doesn’t follow. Instead, he takes a deep breath and knocks on Jimin’s door.
She groans when she sees him, head falling back. “What?” she huffs, voice thick with irritation.
“Can we talk?” he shifts on his feet. “Please?”
Jimin’s answer takes a while. She eyes him with her arms crossed over her chest. He can’t help looking over his shoulder, at your closed door, wondering how long you’ll take to change and pack your bag. With a sigh, Jimin steps aside, and he takes a cautious step in, making a point to stay near the door as he closes it—unsure how welcome he really is.
“What did I do to you?” he asks hesitantly, watching as she sits on the end of her unmade bed.
“You didn’t do anything to me.” Jimin shrugs, continuing when Jake opens his mouth to speak. “But I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I don’t trust the ‘innocent’ guy best friend who pounces at the first chance he gets.”
“Pounces?” he repeats, like it’s his first time hearing the word. “I’m not an animal, Jimin. There was no pouncing. If anything, she pounced on me.”
“So she’s an animal, is that what you’re saying?”
Jake sighs, seeing there’s no way to win here. “Sure,” he says dryly. “She’s a tiger. Happy?”
This doesn’t amuse Jimin. “What do you want with her?”
He shrugs like he hasn’t given it much thought. “I want whatever she wants. If she wants to hook up, we’ll hook up. If she doesn’t, we won’t.”
“You like her.” It’s not a question, but an accusation that softens her voice, raises her brows.
Jake chews his lip, and that’s enough. Jimin’s jaw drops. “Oh, my God. I was worried you were going to hurt her, and this whole time I should’ve been worried about her hurting you.” She shakes her head, a laugh of disbelief coming out. “Good luck.”
He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
Until it involved him, Jake hadn’t heard much about your sex life since first year. Thankfully. Kim Mingyu — Hot Mingyu, as you and Jimin still call him — is the last name he remembers. Older, massive, lived up to his moniker. He was always talking about the gym or his tech start-up, and eventually, he ended things because he didn’t believe Jake was just your friend. Jake suspects that the memory of Hot Mingyu will stick with him forever, because it was the first time it ever occurred to him that he didn’t want to be just friends with you.
Jimin apologises, opening her arms and approaching him. She says that she should’ve known. Quiet, sympathetic, Jake thinks, hating it. But the door swings open, hitting his back before she can hug him. You poke your head into the room with a smile, oblivious. “Ready to go?”
Back in the car, you try to peer pressure Jake into speeding, and he appeases you, doing thirty-two miles per hour in a thirty zone. Giving up with a huff, you turn your body away from him, knees against the passenger door. He’s too busy thinking about what Jimin said to comment—what the fuck does good luck mean?
And he’s so busy trying to figure that out, he doesn’t even realise you’re still wearing his sweatpants until you get out of the car. “Thanks for the lift, Jakey.”
Jakey smiles. Jakey waves. Jakey watches you leave. Jakey sits in his car for an hour before going home.
He finds Sunghoon—home from practice, and eating an early lunch by the kitchen window. Standing, like he always does when he eats alone. “Hey, buddy,” he says, glancing quickly over his shoulder. “Feeling better?”
Without a second thought — or a first one — Jake charges towards him, tackling him more than he hugs him. “Thank you.”
Sunghoon goes stiff, completely tense in Jake’s hold. A shrug, slow and unnatural. “Don’t mention it,” he says, voice strained. A single, awkward pat of Jake’s back. “Could you please let go of me now? For a minute?”
Apologising, Jake quickly releases him, feeling bad for the ambush. “I’m going to thank you again for last night, and I need you to accept it this time. You didn’t have to do that for me, but you did it anyway.”
Sunghoon turns, amused, leaning against the wall and taking a spoonful of yoghurt to the mouth. “I’m waiting.”
“Thank you, Sunghoon. Really.”
“You’re welcome, Jake,” he says, monotone, but his eyes are soft and he’s smiling. “And if you’re going to the library today, can we go together? I’m slacking, man—I need to lock in. Quickly.”
Jake chuckles at his deflection, but nods and says, “Of course.”
They have different approaches to studying — Sunghoon puts his headphones on, and hyper-fixates on his task for as many consecutive hours as he can; Jake swears by Pomodoro, twenty-five minutes on, five minutes off — but they work alongside each other quite effectively. Jake squints at AutoCAD. Sunghoon scrolls through physio clinic listings. Jake texts his dad, asking if they can go fishing soon. Sunghoon continues to look for summer placements. Parallel play.
His Pomodoro timer goes off silently, a notification in the corner of his laptop screen, and he lets out a relieved breath—he has high hopes not to study anything architecture related after this term, in a perfect world, he’ll never have to so much as look at a building again. When he checks his phone, his dad has replied, suggesting that they go next weekend, and he’s still typing when Jake opens their thread.
Dad: And if you want, you can bring that ‘friend’ of yours. It would be nice to see her again.
Dad: The atheist. 😆.
Jake: Yeah, dad, that sounds good haha. I’m sure she’d love to! I’ll ask
Sunghoon takes off his headphones, thick brows furrowed as he looks over at Jake. “Training starts, like, now, no?”
The time is bright and reproachful on Jake’s screen. 19:55. Five minutes to get to Coach’s office on the other end of the building. A jolt of panic launches him out of his seat, shoving his laptop and notebooks hurriedly into his bag while Sunghoon watches, yawning.
“Can I come?”
The question catches him so off guard, his hand freezes over the zipper of his backpack. “What? To training?” Jake asks, cocking his head. “I mean, probably. We have analysis before we start so I’m not sure about that, but you can definitely watch us on the pitch if you want.”
A sigh of relief, as he stands. Firm hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Thank God, bro—can’t be fucked walking home.”
They’re the last to arrive, but thankfully Coach isn’t there yet. None of the guys question Sunghoon’s presence, they’re actually more pleased to see him than they are their own teammate. He leads Sunghoon to the end of the room, instructing him not to draw attention to himself—he gives a thumbs-up, whispering, got it, when the door clicks open.
The first thing Coach says is, “Who the fuck is this guy?”
Why he thought his gargantuan best friend could be inconspicuous anywhere, never mind standing right behind him, is anyone’s guess. Sunghoon, for some reason, says nothing. Jake clears his throat. “He’s—uh—he’s my flatmate, Coach.”
Coach sighs, rubs his face with his hand. “Whatever. Don’t speak unless I speak to you. Understand?”
“Sir, yes, sir.” Sunghoon gives a firm nod, raising a hand in salute.
Another sigh from Coach, wrinkles in his forehead showing as he mutters something to himself. “We have a lot to cover, so let’s not waste more time.” He pulls up the match video on his laptop—always calling them the highlights, but criticises them aggressively. “Yang, what have I told you about hogging the ball?”
Jungwon’s smile is audible. “That I’ve improved a lot, and you’ve never seen a better sportsman than me.” This answer wins him a death glare. “Fine, I hogged the ball a little, but we won!”
This seems to amuse Coach, who laughs and looks around the room. “A little, the boy says.” The video starts—a minute long clip of Jungwon with the ball at his feet, neglecting multiple opportunities to pass. No cuts. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t bench you.”
“I’m not seeing the big deal here. We literally won.”
“You didn’t win this weekend because you have a selfish striker,” Coach says coldly. “You won because the other team was incompetent. And if you keep playing like that, you’ll cost us the season.”
Jungwon isn’t smiling anymore.
Analysis goes on like always. Backhanded praise; thinly-veiled insults; Coach is pleased with his decision to appoint Jay Captain—words that no longer form a lump in Jake’s throat. In fact, he even pats Jay on the back, smiling sincerely when he looks over.
Jake: Post-match went well 💪
Dad: Of course, son. You played brilliantly! So proud. 😆.
Training flies by in a blur of five-a-side games and recreations of some of the poorer plays from Saturday’s game, Coach giving real-time corrections with varying degrees of rudeness. And before he knows it, the final whistle blows, dismissing them. Jake jogs off the pitch, legs heavy with exertion, mind buzzing with the rush of playing. His shirt is damp with sweat, sticking uncomfortably to his stomach, but he can’t look away from his reflection in the locker room mirrors. Cheeks and neck flushed, glowing. He looks good. Feels good—too good to just stand there staring at himself. So, he takes his shirt off, and without much thought sends you a photo.
YN: Day 537727272724733 without dick: I came just from seeing this picture
Jake: Has it been that long?
YN: I can’t count how many times I squirted while looking at that
YN: Fr though come over rn. Need that bad.
Jake: Are you objectifying me?
YN: Is it working .
Jake: Yes. But I need to drop off Riki and Hoon then shower so……..
Jake: Wait up for me?
YN: Fine.
The drive to Riki’s place has never been so long, and Sunghoon sleeps the whole way. Growing impatient, Jake almost starts driving off before his teammate is even all the way out of the car. Every light is green on the way home, no traffic at all—a blessing, Jake thinks. He takes a quick shower, brushes his teeth, and leaves the flat in a hurry, sprinting down the stairs to get back to his car.
He buckles his belt with shaking hands, a text lighting his phone screen. Checking it immediately, he sees that Sunoo sent a Reddit link to the team group chat: like palmer’s not one of the best players in the league rn. Curious, he clicks it, the app’s familiar logo colouring his screen orange, and before Sunoo’s video has the chance to load, something else catches his attention—the number 54 sitting on his notification tab. His heart sinks to his stomach, he knows exactly what’s waiting for him under there. But he clicks it anyway, rereads the post he made only two weeks ago now. And looks straight at the comments, knowing what they’ll say before he sees them.
It is a sin, brother. And there is a demon inside of you that wants you to keep committing this sin. You need to repent and flee from fornication at once. This sin is extremely demonic, it took me away from Christ completely, and I was on my way to h*ll.
The Holy Spirit is working in you. Thank God for giving you a conscience and do not go through with it no matter what.
You want advice? Turn to 1 Corinthians 7:2 and Hebrews 13:4. The Bible is very clear that the only acceptable time for sex is after marriage.
Honestly bro, just marry her lmao
I lost my job, my girlfriend left me, and I got hit by a car after indulging in fornication. It is not worth it, my brother, take heed. I will pray for you.
Jake’s brain buffers, the words blurring together as he scrolls, searching for a different answer. Someone, anyone in the comments telling him it’s okay, that he will be okay, and he’s not going to hell for simply wanting to have sex.
Nothing.
A humourless laugh comes out of him, an exhausted huff. He rests his heavy head on the steering wheel—he can’t be bothered anymore. This isn’t just sex for him. There’s a future here—he’s not sure what it is, or how he’ll get there. But surely, surely, something good, something worthwhile is at the end of this. And isn’t that worth something? Wouldn’t God want him to enjoy himself?
Jake takes a deep breath, white-knuckle grip on the wheel, and says a prayer. “Dear Lord, thank you for all you’ve done for me—but I’m not waiting any longer. I’m really going to do this, Jesus. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
Jake pauses, peeking around the car with one of his eyes to check for hellfire—the coast is clear.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Amen.”
It’s the most cautious drive of his life, checking every mirror and blindspot thrice, hands sitting firmly at ten and two—kissing twenty miles per hour the whole way. Parked outside, he climbs over the centre console to use the passenger door because it opens out onto the pavement, and no way one of those cars that’s going around striking down the sexually immoral is going to spawn there. He uses the stairs instead of the lift, and makes it to your flat in one piece.
He doesn’t even have a chance to knock before you pull the door open, telling him he took so long as you take him by the hand and tug him over the threshold. “My fault, baby,” he says, apologetic. Jake bites his lip, eyes trailing over you. Fallen strap of your tank top, nipples pressing through thin fabric, shorts riding up. Good God. He gulps, dick stirring in his pants as you drag him to the living room.
Sinking into the couch, he looks up at you, eyeing him like you want to eat him alive—he’d let you, he wants you to. He pulls you into his lap, kissing you. A moan tugged out of his chest when you grind down on him. At this, you pull away, chest heaving. Lips swollen, wet. He can’t help but reach out and touch them, tracing your mouth with his thumb, pressing down on your plush bottom lip, before pushing it past your teeth. Fuck. Your eyes meet his, hazy, unfocused as you suck on his thumb, letting your tongue graze the tip. Holding his wrist, you stroke it and take his finger all the way to the knuckle, looking at him the same way you do when you’re kneeling between his spread thighs.
You tug at his shirt, mumbling around his finger. “Why are you still wearing this?”
“Waiting for you to take it off of me, baby.”
An imperceptible hitch of your breath before you reach for the hem, tugging it over his head. You bite your lip, admiring him and his cheeks burn scarlet under your gaze. “Can’t believe you look like this.” Warm hands on his skin, fingers trailing his abs and the fading love bites you’d left behind. “Such a lucky girl,” you whisper, awestruck as you kiss him urgently.
Emboldened, eager for more praise — and frankly, extremely turned on — he stands, grip firm on your ass when he does.
“Holy shit,” you utter, pulling away, eyes blown and unguarded. “Have you always been this strong?”
This acknowledgement of his efforts makes his entire body flush, hot and bothered from head to toe. As he shrugs sheepishly, he can’t help wishing he could be more nonchalant when it comes to you. Wishing he could just nod, say yeah—even though you both know the strength and the muscle definition are new. Jake’s stomach flutters when you smile, leaning back into him, kissing and mumbling against his lips that he’s so hot.
In your room, the two of you collapse onto the bed, attached at the hips and mouth. He begins to understand some of those freaks in the subreddit, how this — how you — could easily knock him off-kilter and take over his life. You grab his wrist, tugging his hand towards the spot between your legs, and killing his train of thought in the process.
Nothing else registers except your soft cotton shorts, drenched against his fingers and stuck to you. “Holy fuck,” he mumbles.
“Do something about it.”
Nodding, he pulls the fabric off of you, moves it to the side. Sucking a breath through his teeth, he stares straight ahead. Shocked, turned on by how wet you are, and his fingers slip around so much he has to focus to keep them on your clit. It’s worth it, more than, for the way you whine, rutting your hips on his hand. Groaning, he lets his finger slip into you, adjusting his pants when you moan, his thumb working your clit in circles. Another finger slips inside, so easy, so slick and so warm, your walls clenching around him. The sound alone makes him dizzy. “So fucking wet,” he says, pressing deeper, fingers curling, watching your mouth fall open. “You’re killing me, baby.”
Completely under your spell, he can’t look away from the spot where his fingers disappear into you. “My pretty girl.” He hums, licking his lips. “So pretty all over.” Jake’s dick actually hurts looking at you, straining against his pants, darkening the fabric with precum. Adding a third finger, he presses harder on your clit, groaning when your back arches off the bed. “You like it, huh? Feels good?”
You only moan in response, clutching the sheets in your fists as you shake against them. It doesn’t take long for you to gasp, letting out a cry of his name as your body gives in, release spilling out around his fingers all while he stares in awe, open-mouthed. The soft curves of your body, flushed and shuddering and perfect.
Panting, you look up at him with sparkling eyes and tug lightly at your waistband. He guides your hips up gently, pulling your shorts down and leaving them at the end of the bed. “Your turn,” you breathe out. Jake stands up from the bed to take his sweats and underwear off without a second thought. Your gaze traces his body, tongue wetting your lips, eyes caught on his dick as it smacks his stomach. “Need a minute.”
“Course, baby.” He needs a minute too, hardly able to tear his eyes off the cum painting your pretty pussy white. As gently as he can, he runs his fingers through it, bringing them to his lips and humming around them. Oh, my God. “Tastes so good.”
A lazy smile curves your lips and you nudge his chest with your foot, leaning up on your elbows. “Twelve days. It’s been twelve days, Jake.”
Confused, he tears his eyes from between your legs, looking up at you instead. Sweat-slicked skin glowing in the dim lamplight. No one has ever looked so beautiful, he’s certain. “Of what?” he asks, stroking himself absentmindedly.
Your eyes follow the movement of his wrist, chewing on your bottom lip for a beat before your gaze flicks up to meet his. “Earlier, I said some stupid number and you asked if it’s been that long.”
“Twelve days,” Jake repeats, hardly believing it. Hardly believing the fact that you’re laid out in front of him, glowing, gorgeous, and he’s still waiting—for what, he’s not sure. “Whoa,” he mutters, leaning over you, his hand on your cheek. “Twelve?”
You nod, pouting. “Twelve,” you repeat, holding onto his wrist, kissing his palm. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”
“Condom, baby.” He pulls away, but your grip on him tightens.
“Don’t need it.”
Jake raises a brow. Sceptical. Horny. “Are you sure?”
“Certain. But I’ve never..” You trail off, clearing your throat.
He knows what you mean, and his stomach flips over. “Same,” he admits. “Where should I..?”
“Inside. Please.”
His eyes widen, searching yours, staring. You nod again, saying, please.
Leaning down, he kisses your cheek. “Missed this, baby. Missed you,” he admits. He feels you shudder under him, a shaky breath fanning his skin when he nudges your clit with his tip. Lifting his head, he looks down at your face, taking you in. Lidded eyes blinking heavily, fluttering lashes, sweat beading along your hairline. “Still can’t believe it—how lucky I am, getting to see you like this.”
“Never wanted anyone this much.”
His breath ceases, butterflies tumbling in his stomach. “Me neither.” The words feel bigger than they should, heavy as they settle between you. A beat passes slowly, his heart shifting in his chest. He leans in, pressing his lips to yours and hoping this kiss is enough to tell you everything he can’t quite say out loud.
“Please, Jake,” you say, mumbling against his lips.
So hot and so soft and so wet. Holy fuck. He sinks his teeth into his lip, freezing. It’s his tip, literally just his tip, but it’s enough to leave him lightheaded. He wonders if he’ll even last long enough to get to the part where he’s all the way in. “Won’t last long like this,” he says out loud, his own voice seeming distant.
You’re looking up at him with wet eyes, shaking—breath harsh, shallow. “Good,” you whisper. “We can go again, however you want it.”
Again, he thinks, looking forward to it. As if he’s not already losing his mind.
“Need more,” you breathe. “More, baby. Please.”
Rocking his hips forward, slow as he can, he holds his breath at the feeling of you opening up around him, inch by precious inch. It’s incredible he went so long without this. Twelve whole days. Unfathomable now—impossible, surely. Both of you whine as he bottoms out, a ragged sigh coming out of him, his head falling. Relieved. Wound up. He opens his eyes and regrets it immediately—you, mouth agape, eyes screwed shut. Holy shit. “You okay, baby?” he manages.
A smile spreads over your lips, a content breath slipping out of you. “Perfect, Jakey. Always forget..” You trail off, shaking your head, struggling to get the words out. “Forget how big you are.”
His entire body flushes, set alight. “You always take it so good, though. Such a good girl, yeah? Fit me just right.” He knows how it sounds, but he means it. Truly. It’s never felt like this. He didn’t even know it could feel like this — so perfect, so right — until you. The rightness of it all is so intense he almost comes then and there, biting his lip so hard he tastes copper on his tongue.
The clench of you around him is raw and startling, forcing stars behind his eyelids with each blink. There’s a brief, stunned silence when Jake finally pulls his hips back, like neither of you quite believe it. There’s nothing between you like this, no clear distinction between your body and his. Your hands skim his back, delicately tracing the column of his spine with your nails, careful, venerating, plump lips apart as your eyes meet.
Before he knows it, he’s thrusting all the way back in, one smooth, desperate stroke. A half-gasp, half-sob cry of his name comes out of you, unravelling him entirely as your legs wrap around his hips. Breath staggered, shallow, he tries to keep his cool, letting his mouth find your neck—trailing the distance from top to bottom. Four kisses long.
Not bothering to suppress his own moans and whimpers, he sets a steady rhythm, relieved that you seem to be enjoying this as much as him, mewling and clawing at his skin. Trembling, gasping, you — cut and pasted from his dreams — pull him in and the need to spend forever like this consumes him. With another cry of his name, you tense around him, head tipping back into the pillows as your orgasm hits. And he’s right there with you, skin burning from the inside out as he falls apart, gasping your name when he comes, filling you up.
He doesn’t move right away — he’s not sure if he can — staying on top of you while you card your fingers through his hair, panting. As his heartbeat steadies, he leans up on his palms. You look at him, all soft and sleepy and perfect, still catching your breath.
“Hi,” you whisper, smiling.
“Hey, baby.”
Neither of you seem to be in any rush to move, so he rolls you onto your sides, all tangled up and face to face. You press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before curling into his chest, your skin damp and hot. Bowing his head, Jake offers a silent prayer—not seeking forgiveness, but giving thanks.
A week goes by as usual—football, uni, seeing you. No pestilence or famine. No mark of the beast branded on his chest. Two suspiciously placed pimples on his forehead that have not sprouted into horns. No vehicular retribution. So far, no smiting.
The spring sun sets slowly, pinkening Jake’s wall through the cracks in his blinds. He has the apartment to himself while Sunghoon’s at training, so he’s making the most of his alone time. Head on pillow, phone in hand, switching through apps every few minutes as it nears time for him to leave. It’s a dangerous game, his favourite perhaps — doomscrolling time in bed — one that typically ends with him missing his plans, or staying up into all hours of the night watching Cole Palmer edits, and eighty-seven part Tiktok storytimes.
Tonight’s plan — every Wednesday night’s plan — is Bible study at church. And it’s not like he doesn’t want to go, honestly, he’s looking forward to it. It’s just that Chelsea played Arsenal yesterday, and won, so the edits are extra good, hot off the press and populating his for you page. Jesus would understand, surely. Would do the same, probably. As it stands, he’s watched this one edit of Palmer’s last-minute goal four times, and finds himself reciting, City’s boy is Chelsea’s man, with the commentator as your name pops up on his screen. A phone call.
“Jakey, hey,” you say, voice so sweet his lips curl up. “Can I see you? In like, an hour, maybe?”
“Are you alright?”
You hum in response. “Just want to see you.”
Something about the words, their softness, sincerity, knocks the wind out of him. He clears his throat, pulling the phone from his ear to check the time. 18:30. His stomach flutters, his heart racing, suddenly struck by your absence as if he hadn’t realised he was alone. A voice he’s gotten good at tuning out reminds him that he already missed church this week because he slept in, so he should at least go to study tonight.
“I have Bible study in an hour, and it’s on until like half eight, but I’m free after that.”
“Ugh,” you groan, and you sound so genuinely perturbed by this news that he has to fight a smile. “Jimin and I are having the girls over at nine.”
“Thirty minutes is plenty,” he points out.
You sigh. “I don’t mean sex, Jake. I just.. want to spend time with you,” you say softly, “I’m kind of missing the friends part of this whole thing.”
Jake shifts against his pillow, a pit in his stomach. He frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, yeah, I’m sorry. Of course.” The words come out quickly, tripping over his tongue. “I’m all yours tomorrow, I have nothing on,” he says, only slightly lying—he has football training in the evening.
“I’m not free until Sunday..” You trail off. “What if I come to your Bible study? Can I do that?”
A slow moment passes while he considers this. You? Come to Bible study? “But you’re.. an atheist.”
“So what? If your church friends are as hot as you, I’d like to see for myself.”
“They aren’t, but I’m happy you said that.” This is.. only slightly untrue. If you ask Jake, his church friends are hotter than him. In a silent prayer, he wishes ill on Mark Lee and Hamada Asahi. Nothing major, of course, just enough that they can’t make it tonight—an itchy throat, runny nose. Anaphylactic shock, maybe.
“Do I have to dress up or anything?”
He shakes his head even though you can’t see. “You can wear whatever you want, it’s casual. Do you need a ride?”
“A ride home, maybe?” you say, sounding unsure. “I’m out right now.”
“What are you doing?”
You hesitate, stumbling over your words to say, “I’m—uh—I’m looking at records with Heeseung.”
This information makes Jake’s stomach tense—just a little. Lee Heeseung. Tall. Older. Freakishly handsome. Sits at the friends-you’ve-kissed table with Jake. And Jaehyun. And Yizhuo. An—have any of your friends gone unkissed? Sigh. He feels significantly unspecial.
“Oh..” he offers, trailing off, unsure what to make of that. “Find anything cool?”
“Like you won’t believe!” The excitement in your voice is not lost to the phone, in fact, it’s so clear he can picture you rocking on your feet as you speak. He grins at the thought, distracted enough not to worry about when Heeseung graduated from drunken makeout to sober hangout. “Okay, I have to go, but I’ll see you in an hour!”
Jake laughs on an exhale. “See you in an hour.”
With the end of the call, his Palmer edit starts again, and Jake falls back into the for you page like nothing happened. Edit after edit, each more creative than the last slip by at the swipe of a thumb, but now he’s starting to think that maybe he should wash his hair before he sees you, and you know, put on a suit, or something. In a casual way. Hair washed. Suit on hanger. It only takes four tries to settle on the perfect hoodie and baggy jeans, and with a spritz of his good cologne, he leaves the flat.
It’s colder out than he’d like, the March chill nipping at him as he sits on the church steps, worsened he’s sure by his lack of a jacket. He prays you had the foresight to wear a jacket. If you didn’t—well, there’s not much he can do if you didn’t. Why didn’t he bring one for you? Jake sighs, breath clouding in front of him like smoke. Logically, he knows he’d be better off waiting in his car or inside, but he’s glued to the spot. What if you get lost? What if you miss the massive, traditional cathedral with the steeple and the steps? Or his car in the parking lot? What if you somehow miss all of those things located at the address he sent you?
Bible study starts in ten minutes, but time stops when he sees you. Wearing a jacket, zipped all the way up to your chin. He exhales, relieved, a part of him unravelling. Before he realises, he’s jogging over, pulling you into a hug. He can’t resist breathing you in — all soft vanilla and coconut — glad to see you. Your arms loop around his neck, hands — ice cold — on his skin, making him shiver. You pull back, just a touch, and press your lips to his cheek in a soft kiss. Jake stiffens, his breath catching as the warmth of your lips lingers on his skin.
As you walk ahead towards the church, he can’t stop focusing on the spot where your lips brushed his skin, resisting the urge to reach up and touch it. You’ve been talking, he realises, and he hasn’t heard a word—a distant hum until he catches the question in your voice.
“What did you say?” he asks, eyes flicking up towards you as you turn to face him on the steps.
You’re a whole head taller like this, gaze trailing over every inch of his face. “Are you alright? You look a little sick.”
Jake forces a smile, nodding. “All good,” he says, trying to convince himself more than you.
He moves ahead, deliberately putting space between you, avoiding any chance for you to press further. His stomach flutters when you take his hand, the touch small, soft, but he smiles nonetheless as you give it a gentle squeeze. The foyer is empty when you arrive, but the murmur of voices from the Parish hall reaches his ears, grounding him.
Jake holds the door open, gesturing for you to go in first as he follows behind you, taking stock of the room. No Asahi (thank gosh), but Mark is here, beaming, talking to—is that Park Jihoon? Back from college? Today? (What the fuck???) Sunghoon, at least, is a grounding sight, a sigh of relief slipping out of Jake when he sees him—sitting with.. Kim Chaewon? Of ‘Park Sunghoon, you’re dead to me,’ fame. Incredible. Somehow, your being here is the least surprising part of this whole affair.
Sunghoon grins when he sees Jake, but he jumps from his seat seeing you, and jogs across the room to say hi. Much to Chaewon’s displeasure, he throws his arms around you, and Jake sees her eye twitch. With his hands on your shoulders, Sunghoon looks at you like it’s been years, genuine delight on his face. “I hope you feel blessed tonight, really.”
Jake eyes his friend, trying to suss him out, but he can’t discern the source of his elation, which makes him wary. If he knows his friend—Sunghoon’s happiness is coming at Jake’s expense.
“May God bless you, Jake.”
He can’t help rolling his eyes. “Thank you, Mr Chaewon.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” Sunghoon says wearily, shaking his head.
Jake’s brows touch his hairline, hardly believing his ears. He leans in, asking quietly. “You’re not sleeping with her?”
“Okay, yeah, it’s exactly what it looks like.” Sunghoon scratches the back of his neck, excusing himself before going back to his seat and leaning toward Chaewon, whispering something in her ear that makes her smile.
Quiet lingers in Sunghoon’s absence, just long enough for Mark to come over, elated, as he daps him up. “Hey, man! Good to see you,” he says, grinning. He means it. It really is good — for Mark — to see Jake. And to think, Jake had been praying for this guy’s demise just an hour ago. Guilty, embarrassed, he echoes Mark’s sentiment, smiling at this ray of sunshine man in front of him.
“I’m Mark,” he says, extending a hand for you to shake. He repeats your name when you say it, nodding, that warm smile on his sweet face. “Thank you for coming, I’m so glad you made it,” stupid, charming Mark continues, still holding onto your hand.
You lean up to Jake’s ear when Mark leaves, whispering. “I thought you said your church friends were a bunch of ugly, incel freaks.”
He snorts, eyes on his shoes. “They are.”
“Mark definitely isn’t.”
“He’s abstaining,” Jake blurts out, looking around to make sure no one’s close enough to overhear. “Which is fine,” he adds, trying to play it off. His gaze catches on Jihoon and his new college biceps, and in a panic, he stumbles over his words trying to deter you from him too. “And Jihoon.. well..” Jake’s voice falters. A pause. “He’s in love with Mark.”
“How convenient.” You roll your eyes, sitting down in the empty seat behind you. “Who’s Jihoon?”
Jake shakes his head, checking his phone as he sits. “Nobody.”
Hoon: You brought her to Bible study bro?
Jake: She wanted to come
Hoon: You picked a good night, I’m excited to get into tonight’s study!
Hoon: Godspeed, brother. Amen.
He sighs, shaking his head as he tucks his phone into his pocket. Beside him, you shift a little, your knee bumping his.
Mark clears his throat, pulling Jake’s attention back to the circle. “Is there anyone who wants to say a prayer to get us started?” he asks, looking around the room.
From the other side of the circle, Sunghoon’s hand shoots up, and Jake has to stop himself from sighing in relief. Some of the other more.. enthusiastic members of the church pray for a while, but Sunghoon has a certain way of getting to the point. Bowing his head, he clasps his hands neatly in his lap. “Dear, Lord. Thank you for bringing us here safely this evening,” he starts, voice steady and sincere. “Please bless the study we’re about to take part in and help us to understand. Thank you for touching Jake’s heart and allowing him to bring a friend, may she be filled by your word.” He pauses, clearing his throat.
At this, Jake steals a glance up, eyes flicking to Sunghoon, only to see him staring already, a wide grin on his face. What the Hell? Jake’s stomach twists as he looks away, focuses on his hands in his lap, the white-knuckled grip he has on his pant legs.
“In your name’s sake we pray, amen.”
A resounding amen follows, and when Jake looks at you, you’re shooting Sunghoon a thumbs up like he just delivered the prayer of the century—not a terrifying snippet of what the night might entail if he has anything to do with it. In his seat, Sunghoon crosses one leg over the other with a smirk, winking at Jake.
Who needs enemies with a best friend like this?
“Uh, thank you for that, Sunghoon,” Mark says, taking a seat. “Jake, can I ask you to open 1 Corinthians 6:18, and read it out for us?”
“Of course.”
Jake ignores Sunghoon’s eyes on him as he pulls out his phone, searching for the verse in his Bible app. 1 Corinthians. Perfect. He’s at ease, trying to remember its exact wording, something about how love is patient and kind. Sunghoon was right, with a study topic like this — light, inoffensive — tonight is a good night to have brought you along. Who knows? Maybe divine intervention will have you confessing your undying love for him before the night’s over.
He sits up straighter in his seat when he finds it, smiling. “Reading from the New International Version, 1 Corinthians 6.18: Flee from sexual immorality—” Wait. What? Jake stops short, his stomach dropping. He skims the rest of the verse and offers a silent prayer, suggesting to Jesus that now is a perfect time for His second coming—you know, if He’s planning on it. Amen. There’s a choked-off snicker from the other side of the circle. Sunghoon.
“Uh—sorry. Going on.” Jake clears his throat, ignoring the heat creeping up the back of his neck. “All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body.”
Before he has a chance to lock his phone or launch himself out the window, Jihoon starts speaking. “I think it goes without saying that this is not a space for judgment. Everyone’s journey is their journey and no one here is without sin.”
“Exactly, Hoon,” Mark says, nodding. “So now that I’ve scared you all into abstinence, is there anyone who wants to talk about what they think that verse might mean?”
Silence. Everyone glances at each other, waiting for someone else to speak. No one does.
Mark exhales, slumping in his seat. “Really? Nothing? Great. Well—uh.” He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes flicking to the ceiling as if God might come down and help him out. Maybe even rapture him. That could be cool, and Jake could maybe be raptured next. “Look, I didn’t pick this topic to scare anyone. I mean, I don’t even pick the topics—there’s a whole timetable, and, well.. some of your parents are freaking out about you.” His mouth twists like he shouldn’t have said that. “Anyway—that’s not the point. What I mean is..”
He straightens up, trying again. “If you don’t want to wait, that’s your choice. I’m not here to judge anybody—it wouldn’t be fair. And honestly? I think there are ways to have sex that can honour your body, you know? Staying safe, using protection, getting tested. Being clear about consent, setting boundaries, being open with your partner.”
Mark’s words hang in the air, oddly light, completely unexpected—quieting the uncertainty in Jake’s head for the first time in weeks. Sex as an act of honour to the body. Not negative, nor neutral, but.. positive. That this idea could exist at all, never mind be voiced in church of all places, seems so absurd that he looks around the circle to see if anyone else is as surprised as him—but they aren’t.
“It’s about making choices that protect you — emotionally and physically — while respecting whoever you’re with.” Into the silence that follows, Mark clasps his hands together. “How about we wrap things up here, and go home early, huh?” More silence. “Great. Okay. Does anyone have any prayer requests? Anything they want to thank God for?”
It takes a while, but mentions of sudden illness and new jobs go in one of Jake’s ears and out the other as Mark prepares to say the closing prayer, and Jake hardly realises everyone’s standing up and moving their seats until you nudge him.
“You okay?”
Clearing his throat, Jake nods, stacking your chair on top of his and adding them to pile in the corner of the room. He introduces you as his friend to a seemingly unending carousel of the nosey people he grew up around. Of course, you already know Sunghoon, and Chaewon is extremely pleasant when she realises you’re not vying for his attention.
In his car, you tell Jake about the records you found—loads of folk stuff, first-press hip-hop LPs from the mid-’90s, obscure bootlegs people had brought in going for dirt cheap. You didn’t get anything, but it was a great trip. Heeseung got this insane home-pressing of songs by Laufey and the Black Eyed Peas for the girl he’s seeing. When Jake parks the car, you show him the picture you took of the jacket—a poorly Photoshopped monstrosity of the Monkey Business cover with Laufey’s face over all the members.
“We’ll have to go together when you have time.” You shake your head, laughing. “Oh, and thanks for letting me crash—it can’t have been easy having the Whore of Babylon sitting next to you, but I had fun tonight. It was funny.”
“Funny?” Jake repeats.
“Yeah.” You shrug. “I don’t know, it just seemed like Mark was trying to be nice about the whole.. premarital sex is damning thing.”
The thought doesn’t even make him cringe. No pit in his stomach. Steady heartbeat. Is he.. cured?
Jake hums. “He was, wasn’t he?” A mumble, spoken more to himself.
“Don’t you find that phrase sort of funny? Premarital sex—as opposed to the pure and moral matrimonial sex.” You laugh, head falling back against the headrest. “I’m not trying to be rude about it or anything, I just find it amusing.”
Shaking his head, Jake smiles. “No, I know.” A beat. “I think I do too.” He means it.
You reach for your seatbelt, pressing the button and taking it off. Jake does the same, hesitating before reaching for the door handle. “Are you free next weekend?” he asks, chewing on his lip.
“Yeah, how come?”
“I’m going fishing with my dad, and he was wondering if you’d want to join us.”
“Your dad was wondering, but..” You trail off, looking out over his shoulder, like you’re checking for pedestrians or anyone else who might behold your Jake-related vulnerability. “Do you want me there?”
“You know I do.”
Turning your body to face him, you lean against the door. “Mm.” A sage nod. “But I want you to tell me.”
“You mean a lot to me, so it would mean a lot if you came with us.” Jake takes your hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I really want you there.”
At this, your gaze falls to your linked hands, fingers intertwined in your lap. Holding his breath, he waits for your response, half-expecting you to brush him off, roll your eyes. Traffic flows outside, heavy, Jake thinks, for this time on a Wednesday evening. More quiet—too many clumsy beats passing to count.
Finally, your eyes find his, a smile on your lips, voice soft under the hum of cars passing in the street. “You mean a lot to me too.”
The lake house—his dad’s childhood home. Unchanged. Perfect. Dark wood floors that bear the scuffs of time—some from Jake’s own football boots as a child, others older, carved by lives before his. Faint scent of saltwater and old books with cracked spines. Frozen in time, but not untouched.
Three months have passed already since Christmas, the last time he and his parents were here. No gifts, no tree, just shit films and quality time. But the lake house always strikes him anew. The fleeting nature of this solid structure, this sanctuary where his father had been a boy. Eight-year-old handprints immortalised in the patio concrete, height marked on the living room doorway. The boy in the photos that Jake will never meet, though looks exactly like—his broad-nosed, full-lipped father.
Your voice is sudden over his shoulder. “Whoa.” Jake almost flinches despite its softness. He can’t believe you’re here.
“Yeah,” he utters, finally looking at you.
Jake has never dared to imagine you here, worried it wouldn’t ever live up to the real thing. And he was right. His heart stutters like a skipped stone. In your winter coat, chin hiding under your fluffy scarf, hair frizzed on the left side from where you’d slept against it in the car. The spread of the trees, vastness of the lake peeking through them, all framed by the open door behind you like something from a postcard.
Jake carries your bags upstairs, and you follow, getting a tour. The master bedroom is the last stop—queen-sized bed, en-suite bathroom, a space meant for two. You’ll be sharing it for the night—news that would mortify his mother if she found out. A thought that, only in theory, delights Jake.
In the kitchen, you prep ingredients for dinner while discussing Gatsby—his dad’s favourite. Materialism. Affluence. The American Dream. The excitement is mutual. You, eager to pick his brain. His dad, grateful for an audience more responsive than his students. Jake listens in silence, peeling carrots—heart warmed by the ease with which you converse. Comfortable, unmarred by years apart.
“Gatsby could’ve had anything he wanted in the world—but he never got to have Daisy,” his dad says, checking the fridge.
You hum in response, a soft sound of disagreement. “He had Daisy in some ways, I suppose,” you offer, sounding hopeful, seeking approval, Jake thinks.
“I think that might be more tragic than if he’d never had her at all.”
In the corner of his eye, Jake sees you tilting your head, brows furrowed. His dad laughs, not mean-spirited, no, an endeared sound he remembers from childhood—too scared to get back on his bike after his first fall; first wobbly tooth wrenched from his mouth by his own hand.
“A taste doesn’t make a meal, sweetheart—it just leaves you hungry,” he says after a moment.
In the same split second that Jake looks up at you, your eyes flick over to his. He can’t be hungry forever, surely not, that would just be cruel. His stomach curls in on itself at the thought. For a single, fully indulgent second, he lets himself believe that you might be hungry for him too.
“Jesus, kid,” his dad says suddenly, gripping Jake’s wrist and dragging him towards the sink. “You’re bleeding.”
Surprised, Jake blinks down at his hand, vivid red spilling from his index finger down the drain—carrot still half-peeled and bloodied.
“Fuck, Jaeyun,” his dad goes on. “That could’ve been really nasty. Are you alright?”
Jake only nods, distantly hearing his dad tell you where to find the first aid kit. Your footsteps disappear upstairs. Quickly, the stinging behind his eyelids turns into a pathetic flow of tears, his shoulders wracking as his dad wraps an arm around him. A kiss to the top of his head. “You’re alright, kid. Everything’s going to be alright.”
He doesn’t want to be hungry anymore.
All thanks to Jake’s little episode, the two of you are banished from the kitchen, and decide to take a walk. His feet lead you toward the dock, and you light up—jogging ahead, eager to reach the water. Standing at the edge, swaying, wind whipping your hair around your head. Leaning forward, you point out a green shed in the distance. A smile in your voice. “East Egg,” you say happily.
Jake remembers enough from the film to at least understand this reference, smiling too. “Alright, Mr Gatsby.” He wraps a protective arm around your waist, pulling you back. “That’s enough, baby, you’ll fall in.”
You laugh, turning in his hold. He’s hooked on your lips, their shape, how they part to form your words. “I do say, Old Sport.” You start. “You’re looking rather flushed.”
Air flees from his lungs, stolen. You — his Daisy — wrapped up in his arms, palms flat on his chest. Everything he wants, but can’t have. Tragic maybe. But wasn’t Gatsby brave, at least, to want in spite of what was feasible? Isn’t Jake? He shakes his head slightly, clearing the thought—you are not Daisy, nor is he Gatsby. There need not be tragedy here.
For a second too long, your gaze lingers on his lips—you’re waiting for a kiss that you won’t initiate. Everything about this moment feels primed for it. Alone on the water, the steady crash of lake against rock, virtually no space between you. But he’s stuck. Unmoving. The wind stings his ears. You shiver, teeth chattering before you press your lips together. Jake can feel the window shutting, but still, he does nothing.
Clearing your throat, you blink up at him. “Let’s head back, Jakey. We’ll freeze to death out here.”
Jake opens his mouth. Falters. Then, softer than he means to, he asks, “Will you kiss me?” The words startle him, borrowed from you and that night—almost two months ago now.
You nod, smiling. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just the curl of your fingers around his jacket, the tipping of your chin. The steady, certain, press of your lips on his. Relief crashes into him, unfurling the tension in his chest. Warmth, soft and overwhelming all at once, sinking into his skin.
By the time you get back from the dock, dinner is almost ready—late lunch, really. Budae jjigae curling through the air, filling the house completely. The three of you eat together at the table, conversation weaving in and out between bites. Jake eats like it’s his first meal in ages, tearing into the steaming jjigae like it might disappear.
Full to the point of fatigue, he washes the dishes and sinks into the couch, head resting against the cushions, limbs loose and heavy with contentment. He twists the cuff of your sleeve between his fingers when you cuddle into his side, nursing a glass of water. In the armchair, as always, is his dad, book open in his lap, though he’s hardly reading. You keep pulling him into conversation, peppering him with questions about lecturing you must have been holding onto for years.
Eventually, the wind settles, and armed with fishing rods, and bait his dad picked up on the drive over, the three of you make your way back to the dock. Empty-handed, you run off ahead, giddy laughter, and a called out, come on, over your shoulder.
“She hasn’t changed a bit,” his dad says fondly, gaze lingering on Jake. “You haven’t either.”
He gives him a curious look. “Is that a good thing?”
A shrug, warmth in his dad’s eyes. “I think so.”
On the dock, Jake kneels by the tackle box, patient as ever as he shows you how to hook the bait, and hold the rod steady. His voice is quiet, calm, guiding your hands with his own until you get the hang of it. Following his instructions, you take it quickly, your cast smooth—a smile in his dad’s voice when he tells Jake you’re a natural. Pride swells in his chest as if the compliment was for him. Your line tugs almost immediately, breath catching in your throat as Jake scrambles over to you, an incredulous laugh from over his shoulder.
“You’ve got one!” he calls out, more excited than you are. “Reel it in, you have to reel it in!”
You fumble a little bit, but get it when you calm down. A flash of silver breaks the surface, water scattering in drops. Jake grins from ear to ear, like you’ve made the biggest catch of the season. Or at least caught something slightly more inspiring than a fifteen centimetre ssogari.
His dad chuckles, clapping you on the back. “Wow, sweetheart. Great job!” he says, nodding affectionately.
With some help, you hold up your catch, shaking with excitement — fear, maybe — while Jake snaps a photo, capturing the moment and sharing it with Sunghoon.
Jake: Baby’s first catch 😭😭😭😭😭
Hoon: So cute, no way !!! Where’s yours?
Hoon: Bring me next time I miss your hot dad :(
Jake furrows his brows, locks his phone without replying, and turns back to you.
“Are we going to cook it?” you ask, curiosity piqued.
“Uh, no.” He shakes his head, laughing softly. “We just look at them for a bit and then put them back.”
It’s a busy day in the water apparently, for you and Jake’s dad at least. Jake, for all his enthusiasm, catches nothing—the fish did not choose him this weekend. Eventually, as the sun starts to dip, you all pack up, leaving the water behind in exchange for something warmer.
In the garden, the night settles over you, thick with cold as the fire pit does what it can to fight off the chill. Flames flicker, snapping into the quiet, soundtracking your laughter and stories, the smell of smoke curling around you. In the seat beside Jake, your arms are wrapped around his, your head resting on his shoulder. His dad across the fire, its glow catching in the lines of his face, softening them and showing off his fond smile.
Eventually, Jake’s dad rises, brushing off his hands with a yawn. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of Jake’s head, and one to yours. A quiet goodnight, familiar, unhurried. In the doorway, he pauses, pointing a finger at his son. “Make sure the fire’s all the way out before you go to bed, okay?”
Nodding, Jake wishes him a goodnight again. Through the glass door, his dad moves through the kitchen, checking the sockets before flicking the light off, and disappearing down the hall. Resting his head on top of yours, he exhales. “You want another drink?”
“No, thank you.” You lift your half-full can, cider sloshing noisily. “I’m good, baby.”
Jake gets up, stretching his arms and legs before heading into the house, enveloped by the quiet of the kitchen. Pulling open the fridge, harsh light spills across the tiles as he reaches for a beer. Cold beads of condensation slip against his fingers, a relief as he lifts it, presses it to his cheeks to quell the heat blooming there. Baby. He giggles. Will he ever get used to that?
Opening his can, he sits back down and kisses your temple. A sip of beer warms his insides, he looks at you and smiles. “Did you have fun today?”
You nod eagerly, then seem to think better of it. Tilting your head. Pursing your lips. “I’m a little disappointed though.”
“Oh, yeah?” He arches his brow, leaning back in his seat. “How so?”
Your lips twitch. “It’s stupid but I guess I had it in my head that you were like—I don’t know, actually good at fishing, or something. But wow, Jakey.. You suck.”
“Ever heard of beginner’s luck?” he says, rolling his eyes, too endeared by you and the grin on your lips to bite back. “You’re lucky I like you too much to take that personally.”
A suggestive lift of your brow, a smug smile. “Oh, so you like me, huh?”
Briefly, Jake entertains the thought of telling you — finally fucking telling you — that he like-likes you. It seems simple enough, only three words. Four technically if he says ‘like-like’ out loud the way a child might. He watches you, searching—do you already know? And if you don’t, and he tells you, will anything change?
Firelight flickers over your face. Jake shrugs. “Yeah, quite a lot, actually.”
Chuckling, you bring your cider to your lips and take a long, slow sip. Over the edge of the illustrated can, you eye him. Gaze steady. Unnerving. Like you’re in on something he’s not.
You shrug.
Reaching out, his fingers curl around your wrist, gently lowering the can. His lips find yours, soft, insistent. Pineapple and raspberry, artificial and sweet, from your tongue onto his. He hums against your mouth, a quiet, come here, before pulling you in, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him easily, arms draped over his shoulders. The kiss deepens, slow at first, then desperate as heat pools in his stomach.
Hands mapping skin through your layers, fingertips pressing, still curious, eager after so long. Your chests rise and fall in sync when you pull away, trembling breath clouding together in the cool air. Blinking down at him, an expression he can’t read takes over your face. “You really like me?” you whisper. Your question clarifies the look on your face—expectant, waiting for an answer he’s scared to give.
As he sees it, there are only two ways for this to go—worst case: you laugh, cackle, call him insane for thinking he has a chance with you; best case: his confession doesn’t repulse you. Clearing his throat, he tries to calm the storm in his chest. “I do,” he says after too long, startling himself with his volume.
You don’t take off running for the hills, which he can only assume is a good thing. Instead, you smile. Cradling his face in your hands and kissing him. Then, movement. Slow shift of your hips back and forth against his—maddening. Press of chest to chest, hushed moans shared between you. A kind of tender desire that turns the cold night sweltering.
After too long, dazed and sleepy — fire extinguished — the two of you giggle, hand in hand, all the way upstairs. Brushing your teeth together in the en-suite, letting peppermint kisses turn warm and lazy as you pull Jake into the shower with you.
He pinkens in the heat, warm water slipping over your bodies in rivulets. Skin sliding over skin, pressed together. Steam curls, fogging the glass. Hands on your cheeks, holding your face to his—lips locked. Slow, lazy, taking his time. Trying his best to make the morning last forever like this. Kissing. Smiling. Your fingers card through his hair, tugging the wet strands, pulling groans from his mouth into yours.
Breathless, he pulls away, tucking his head against your neck. His arms fall around your waist, keeping you close. Noses along the sensitive skin there, inhaling your shower gel—syrupy sweet, so painfully you. He presses his lips together to keep from saying something stupid. Your touch is delicate, tender, on the back of his head, fingers curling around the overgrown locks at the nape of his neck.
It’s unfair to be going home so soon, the shortest trip of his life. Behind closed eyes, Jake can’t help picturing weeks here in the summer with you. Long days spent swimming in the lake. Short nights spent cuddling despite the heat. Sunscreen on hot skin. Aloe vera on burns. Tan lines and salt air. Summer. He’d be your boyfriend by then, right?
“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper.
He kisses your damp skin. “Just say the word and I’ll bring you back, baby.” His voice is low, muffled into the base of your neck. “In the summer, maybe? We can stay for ages if you want.”
Saying it out loud, this partial voicing of his thoughts for you to hear, summer feels much bigger than just a word, a season. Much bigger than anything he can imagine. An almost confession. A promise to you. To himself. He clears his throat, feeling exposed.
Your eyes are wide when he looks at you again, cupping his face in your palm, thumb stroking his cheek. You lean up, pressing your swollen lips to his. “Summer,” you repeat, smiling.
Jake doesn’t sleep, he’s not sure if he could if he tried. He’s laying there, flat on his back, your head warm and sleepy on his chest. His fingers move absently through your hair, slow and repetitive, more for him than for you. Your breathing is steady, relaxing him. A thought comes to mind—the sunrise. He shifts carefully, not wanting to wake you yet as he reaches for his phone. 05:47. Smoothing his palm over your shoulder, he whispers your name. You only hum in response, stirring.
“Come on,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I want to show you something.”
“The sun isn’t even up yet,” you grumble into his skin, eyes still shut.
“That’s the point.” His voice is gentle but insistent. Leaning in, he presses his lips to your temple. “It’ll be worth it, baby.”
You groan, rolling away from him, face in the pillow. “Fine.” And as if in protest of the early morning, you don’t say much else. You do let him help you into your jacket though, smiling as he zips it up and kisses your forehead.
Hand in hand, the two of you trudge slowly along the trail, footsteps soft in the grass. Saltwater and pine fill the air, seeming stronger in the waning dark. Finally, through the trees, the lake unfolds, a glassy mirror of the brightening sky above, day’s first light stretched thin over the horizon.
When you reach the rocks, you whisper, “Whoa.” Taking a seat next to Jake, pulling your knees to your chest and leaning into him when he wraps his arm around your shoulders.
The sky splits open above your heads, dawn unfurling in soft brushstrokes of pink and orange. A dreamlike shimmer in the water—silken ripples of gold rolling towards the shore, crashing against the dock. The hues grow deeper and more vibrant, shifting quickly before his eyes. For years, this sunrise has been his favourite view. But now, with you sitting in it, soft and golden, hair ruffled from sleep and the wind? Fuck—he couldn’t think of anything better if he tried.
Whispering, he asks, “Worth it?”
You turn to him, eyes soft, smiling. “Very.” You let a long beat of silence pass before asking. “How many hookups have you brought here, Jakey?” Your voice is soft, a little more than curious.
Breathless, Jake laughs, suddenly nervous as if there’s a right and a wrong answer. “Hookups aren’t really my thing,” he admits, shaking his head. “So, zero.”
Your brow lifts, sceptical, but you don’t press. Not immediately, anyway. You even let Jake turn back to the water, following his gaze when he nods towards the horizon, and mumbles, look. You let the colour bloom for so long he thinks you’ve dropped it.
You haven’t. “Are you lying to me?” you ask quietly.
“You of all people should know I wouldn’t even kiss someone, never mind hookup with them, if I wasn’t losing my mind over them.” The words slip out before he can stop them, before he can think better of it. If you’re overthinking what he said, you don’t show it.
He doesn’t have anything more to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all. But in his peripheral, you’re still watching him. There’s something in your eyes he can’t decipher. At least not correctly. It reads love. It reads you want him how he wants you, and it’s disarming.
A while passes before Jake is ready to speak, his voice coming out softer than he means for it to. “What’s up?”
“It’s—” You cut yourself off, looking around. Amused, hesitant somehow, as you laugh—soft, and content, and nervous, he thinks. “Your dad thinks we’re together, you know,” you tell him eventually.
Jake puts a lot of effort into keeping his eyes from rolling, knowing exactly what his dad is up to. The prospect of his dad acting as a wingman is both relieving and mortifying. He arches his brow. “Together how?”
You sniff, eyes on his. “He thinks you’re my boyfriend, and I didn’t correct him.”
For a second, he forgets how to breathe, heart hammering against his ribs. Brain scrambling to catch up with you and what you just said about not correcting him. A thousand questions threaten to spill out at once, but none of them make it past his lips. Why not? Do you want that? Do you want me? It would be easier, he’s sure, to say nothing and kiss you instead. But your eyes are still on his, steady, not giving anything away, and he has to ask, voice low, cautious. “Are you going to correct him?”
“Do I need to?” You sound so calm, so relaxed about it all that Jake’s skin heats under your gaze.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then no,” you say, smiling—small but certain, like you’ve made up your mind. Like you made up your mind long before this conversation. Your hand finds his cheek, thumb tracing his jaw. “I’m not going to correct him.”
And before he can reply, your lips are on his. Soft. Gentle. Everything he wants for the rest of his life.
By the time you make it back — boyfriend and girlfriend, hand in hand — Jake’s dad is sitting on the couch, curled around a cup of coffee and his book. He’s smiling, eyes gleaming as he makes a joke, something about the love bird catching the worm, and Jake is too happy to do anything but grin from ear to ear as you hide your face in his chest.
Upstairs, you share the shower, eager hands tracing dips and curves innocently until you leave with pruned fingers. Skincare, then moisturiser, then clothes. Stolen kisses whenever he has the chance. Jake’s dad is flipping pancakes at the stove when you get to the kitchen, forbidden bacon crackling beside him. Despite his best efforts, morning slips into afternoon with no regard for what he wants. Breakfast is eaten. Bags are packed. Your lips have been sufficiently kissed. It’s time to leave already.
The drive is fine, uneventful mostly, until his dad pulls into a rest stop. “Alright, everybody out. Stretch your legs, use the toilet if you need,” he says, cutting the engine.
You rush out of the car, yelling, one minute, over your shoulder as you run towards the building. Standing by the passenger door, Jake stretches his arms above his head, exhaling long and slow. Over the car’s roof, his dad clears his throat. “I’m sorry I haven’t done more for you—about your mum.” He hesitates, then says, quieter, “I love you, son. We both love you so much. I’m on your side, okay? You’re my only son, Jaeyun.”
Jake’s arms drop. He feels silly for having them up at all. Overwhelmed, he nods once, sniffing. “I love you, Dad.”
Smiling, his dad gets back into the car and Jake follows. Hardly a moment passes before he sees you through the windscreen, running back, so beautiful and all his—finally, actually his. Your eyes are sparkling when you open the door.
“They had these awesome keychains at the gift shop—look, Mr. Sim, it’s an angler!” You thrust the plush fish toward him, grinning like you caught it with your bare hands.
A chuckle, hand squishing it. Jake’s dad ruffles your hair, a gesture so familiar, so lived in, that Jake can’t shake the feeling that he’s dreaming. The fondness in his dad’s smile is overwhelming. “That’s great, sweetheart. I love it,” he says, voice thick with pride—again, like you caught the fish with your bare hands.
“It’s yours.”
“Oh, I can’t accept this.”
“Mr. Sim, it’s a keychain that cost me a pound, not real estate.” You hesitate, then add, quieter, “I actually got one for all of us. My father never took me on any kind of trip, so..”
At the mention of your father, Jake’s jaw tightens. His fist clenches in his lap, memories pressing in—too many nights spent comforting you over the phone, or sneaking out to do it in person. A quiet beat passes, stretched taut and straining at the edges, your words lingering, heavier than you probably meant them to be. Closing his fingers around the keychain, his dad clears his throat before he speaks, firm and sincere. “The three of us can go wherever you want, alright?”
You don’t say anything, but your nod is enough. And with a small smile at Jake, you hand him a matching angler, fingers brushing his. He can’t resist bringing your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles.
From the driver’s seat, a quiet exhale. “Now’s as good a time as any I suppose.” Jake’s dad reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out two keys. “Got these cut this morning. It’s ours, kid. Use it whenever you like.”
Jake feels the cool metal against his skin. Turning it over in his hand as his dad presses the second key into your palm. He can’t look away from it, silver catching the light. No big speech, no song and dance—just his dad extending a promise, sharing this part of him with Jake, and with you. The weight of his uncertainty melts away. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he glances at you, lips twitching up. Safe and familiar, solid and long lasting—the lake house. Yours. His. Ours. A future that doesn’t feel quite so far, or so unattainable anymore.
EPILOGUE
The lake house. Summer, finally. You’re sitting on the countertop while Jake makes breakfast—a view that has quickly become your favourite.
He reaches up into the cabinet, newly formed muscle shifting under tan skin. Shoulders solid and broad, the visual representation of all the strength he’s been using on you—picking you up and tossing you around like it’s nothing. His hair is still messy from bed, longer than ever and curling around his ears. Plaid pyjama pants sitting low, showing off the love bites staining his hips in pretty blooms of red and purple.
Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair. “I know how to scramble an egg,” he says, so long after your comment, you’d forgotten you said anything at all. His voice is low, thick with sleep even though you’ve been up for a while now—he’s definitely playing it up, but you like it too much to complain.
“I know you do, Jakey. I just—”
He interrupts you with a kiss, faint peppermint clinging to his lips as he mumbles, “I want to cook for you. Will you let me do that, darling? Please?”
Darling. Your heart does a flip, abrupt and ungraceful. “Fine,” you concede, twirling his hair with your fingers. “But I’m making dinner.”
Jake groans, resting his forehead on your shoulder. “Right, because I’m an idiot sandwich, and you’re Little Miss Gordon Ramsay.”
“Mm.” You smile. “Exactly.”
Nodding, he tips his chin up towards yours until your lips brush. “Yes, Chef,” he says, and it makes you laugh too much to keep on kissing him. But he tries anyway, teeth bumping as you share giggles. Eventually, he gives up, pressing his forehead to yours, hand on your waist. “Going to miss having this place to ourselves.”
You can’t even remember the last time you spent so long away from Jimin, and as much as you’re looking forward to seeing her — and Sunghoon — again, you’d be lying if you said you won’t miss being alone too, and the freedom of walking around the house in varying degrees of undress. A soft smile pulls at your lips. “It’s only one weekend, baby—Hoon has his placement to get back to,” you say, a voice of reason even though you feel the same.
Two weeks. Two whole perfect weeks with Jake—entire days spent out by the lake. Swimming or reading Emily Henry while he tries to fish. Big hands smoothing sunscreen over your back, plump lips pressing kisses to your tan lines. The press of solid muscle on soft flesh, sweat-slicked skin on sweat-slicked skin.
Jake’s lips curl into a grin, wide, boyish. So handsome—unbelievably so. “A lot can happen in one weekend.”
Unfortunately, he raises a good point, but you won’t admit that for him to hear. A lot can happen in one weekend—it did. But it wasn’t the time frame, it was the lake. You’ve deduced it has magical properties. An ability to make days slip into each other, to draw large feelings out before you can properly think them through. Yesterday, while Jake tied your bikini back up — deft fingers slick with the sunscreen he’d just rubbed on your back — you told him that you want this, with him, for the rest of your life. The words tumbled out of you, tugged from your brain by the lake. And so, like any mature twenty-year-old girl would, you promptly rolled off of the dock and into the water, refusing to emerge until it hurt to hold your breath. Jake only smiled when you came back up seconds later, pushed your hair from your face and kissed you. Told you that he wanted it too.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, big brown eyes staring deep into yours.
“My boyfriend.” It’s a word that still makes your stomach flutter, that hasn’t lost its novelty even after three months.
“Your boyfriend,” Jake repeats, nodding along. “Mm, handsome guy, I’ve heard. He’s super lucky.”
Heat floods your cheeks, and you can’t help but look away, biting back a smile. “Easily distracted too,” you point out. “He’s burning my breakfast.”
With wide eyes, he glances over his shoulder, a horrified look on his face. “Fuck,” he mutters, turning back to you. He doesn’t move though, only leaning in to kiss you again. His soft lips on yours, unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world.
Admittedly, you’d let him kiss you like this forever if it weren’t for the smell of burnt egg — and burgeoning fire hazard — drifting between you. You pull away, shoving his shoulder with a laugh. “Go, Jake.”
“They’re already burnt.” He shrugs, unconcerned, as a lopsided grin spreads over his lips. “I’ll eat them.” With that, he returns to the stove, turning off the burner and flipping the charred eggs onto a plate.
Outside, you sit at the wooden table Jake built when you first arrived. You’d made an offhand comment, said it might be nice to have breakfast out on the deck, and he went off in search of scrap wood. He was successful, putting together a neat little table for the two of you to eat at—your initials and his etched into the grain, housed in a wonky love heart that gives you butterflies every time you see it. The sun warms your shoulders through one of his t-shirts, your legs crossed in your seat, and his palm heavy on your knee. You can’t look away from him. You don’t want to. There’s something about Jake, this way. The patch of raw skin on the bridge of his nose, scattered freckles dusting the centre of his face, faint band of pale skin where his sunglasses have been living recently. Jake. Your Jake. Leaning in, you press a kiss to his soft lips—your local heaven.
© zreamy (2025), all rights reserved. do not repost, translate, or plagiarise my work. do let me know your thoughts !
extra note: happy zreamy blog birth omgggg my first fic nothing to lose came out two years ago today (apr 3 2023) and i can finally say i've written at least one fic for each member 🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️ thank u sm to everyone for being so lovely, it means a lot !!! all my love, zo xoxo
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not feeling well tbh
#the uni offers a tutorium where you simulate of the oral exam to practice but you do it in groups#so instead of you and the examiners it's you and the tutors and five other students watching you :l#plus i started my period today and have cramps and my cough is still bad enough that i can't rlly speak for longer than ten minutes#honestly don't know if i can make it through 40 minutes of simulation... like physically. my throat might just give out#oh and additionally because i was sick i haven't reviewed anything at all in the last two weeks#so. worst case scenario basically#god i hope im better for the actual exam in two weeks#i have to be#emma talks
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haha the url i wanted to change to actually isn't available haha
#random emma things#how is every ncuti url taken ffs#stop hoarding urls#gotta be a better way to find out if a url is taken or not instead of just finding out when trying to save the change#i really spent two hours on a gif to have to redo it#hoping the second option on the poll is okay#if not i cry#i swear someone is watching me and taking urls i want off me
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the power play (part two)
pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader
rating mature 18+
summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.
< prev
“There’s no way I just heard you right,” Lyla says. You look at your best friend through your phone screen, her mouth agape.
A moment ago, she called to invite you to her dorm room to watch movies. That sounds much better than the nerve-wracking plans you’ve already set for tonight.
“You did,” you laugh.
“You’re going to party,” she repeats, “with Rafe.”
“Yup,” you say. You set your phone down on your bed as you rifle through your closet. You’re already dressed, but you need to do something to expel your nervous energy.
You agreed to put on this farce yesterday. Now that you said it out loud, it’s setting in that you’re really going through with this.
“Back up,” she says over the phone behind you. “How did this happen?”
“We’ve gotten to know each other over tutoring. He asked me out. I said yes.”
“You actually like him like that?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow,” she replies.
You try to ignore the guilt that’s sitting on your shoulders. You’ve never lied to her, to anyone, like this.
But while she is your best friend, the bond she has with her twin brother is untouchable. You doubt she’d keep the truth of what you’re doing from Beck.
You settle back on your bed, picking up your phone.
“Well, I hope you have fun,” Lyla says with a chuckle, clearly surprised by your behavior. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
“Thanks,” you say meekly. You’ve never been on a real date. You’re not sure how convincing you’ll be on a pretend one.
A text notification appears, making your stomach turn with nerves.
It’s Rafe.
There in ten minutes.
════════
You haven’t stopped talking since you got in his car.
Rafe glances over at you when he stops at a red light, a minute away from the student house at the edge of campus.
“We have to be believable, right?” you ramble on, growing uneasier the more you think about it. “Wait, will this look bad if anyone in the tutoring program finds out I’m dating you? It’s not like they ever said we can’t see the people we tutor, but if–”
“We can call this off,” Rafe interrupts. If you’re going to be a nervous mess, he’d rather not do this at all.
You cross your arms, staring ahead at the traffic light. It turns green.
“No. I just want to be prepared,” you say. “You’re sure he won’t be there?”
Rafe drives forward. He’d told you that most of the guys on the hockey team show up to these parties, but Beck usually skips out.
You’re hopeful he attends, but it may be better to ease into this before having to worry about convincing Beck just yet. Rafe is certain his ex will be there and you feel less pressure at the thought of having to trick one person instead of two.
“Pretty sure,” Rafe replies.
He doesn’t get why some athletes are so high-strung about partying. He parties every weekend and his game is just as solid.
It worked so well with Emma. He liked that she chased fun and had a careless approach to life that made him feel like if he spent enough time with her, he could, too.
“Okay,” you heavily sigh. “We’ll only have one person to fool, then.”
“Don’t take it so seriously, alright?” he says. “It’s just a party. We’ll show up, look like a couple, and leave.”
You nod, trying to picture how you should act tonight. You’ll hold Rafe’s hand. You’ll hug him. You’ll pretend like he’s charming, like he’s someone you can’t stop thinking about, instead of the cold person you know him to be.
“No kissing,” you say hurriedly. You’re not about to waste your first kiss on Rafe Cameron.
He snorts a laugh.
“Not a problem,” he says.
════════
The house is humid and crowded and loud. The bass is so heavy that you can’t make out the lyrics.
You’d thought touching Rafe would only be for show, but as he pushes through the foyer, you cup the inside of his elbow, using him as an anchor.
He greets a few guys once he gets to the living room. Some are familiar, hockey players you’ve seen before.
Rafe introduces you. By the way you’re clinging onto him as you greet his friends, he can tell you’re still on edge, but hiding it behind a big smile.
He leans down to speak close to your ear, and you realize since you’d only ever sat together before, you’d never noticed just how much he towers over you.
“I’m getting a beer,” Rafe says. “Do you drink?”
“Not usually,” you reply. “But I’ll take one.”
════════
On Rafe’s way back to you, he sees her. Emma’s in the crowd, smiling and dancing.
He still doesn’t get how she could throw it all away. They had so much fun together. He forgot about all the bad shit when he was with her. And then, all of a sudden, it was over.
He returns to find you chatting with Isaac, the team’s goalie. You thank Rafe for the drink, taking a sip and doing an awful job at hiding how much you hate the taste, and pull him into the conversation.
“Did you know he’s a music major?” you say, pointing to Isaac.
“Yeah,” Rafe says stiffly, still reeling from seeing his ex. “We’ve known each other for two years.”
“It’s so cool,” you say, unbothered by Rafe’s prickliness. “What kind of music are you most interested in?”
You continue to chat with Isaac, who’s clearly happy to be on the subject. Your nerves are stable now that you’re distracted by a genuine conversation.
Once there’s a lull, you turn to Rafe, clinking your beer against his, feeling like yourself again.
“Kind of late to cheers you now, but cheers,” you say.
“Do you talk everyone’s ear off?” he asks.
“I try to,” you reply with a grin, handing him your drink. “And now I need to go to the bathroom.”
════════
As you walk through the hallway to head back downstairs, a shelf crammed with books catches your eye. Unable to curb your curiosity, you wander into the bedroom to inspect the colorful spines.
You realize you lost track of time when a harsh voice interrupts your reading of a book’s back cover.
“You serious?” you hear behind you.
You turn to see Rafe at the door, two beers in his hands. You must have been gone so long that he had to come look for you.
“Oops,” you giggle. You cross the room, taking your drink back. “Thanks. I just wanted to check out the collection.”
“I didn’t bring you here to read,” he says sharply.
“Jeez,” you say, brows furrowing. Emma had said he was mean. She wasn’t kidding. “Why are you being grumpier than usual?”
Rafe exhales a sigh, but it’s not frustrated like usual. It’s wobbly. Almost sad.
“She’s here,” he murmurs.
Your heart sinks. She’s here. And you left him alone.
You beckon him into the room, shutting the door to avoid anyone overhearing. The music is muffled now, your senses mildly blurred from the alcohol.
“I didn’t mean to get distracted,” you say softly.
You gaze up at him to see that the hard, angry exterior you’ve grown accustomed to is gone. Right now, there’s a glimpse of softness, of genuine heartbreak.
You realize you only really heard Emma’s perspective on the relationship. You hardly know Rafe’s.
“She really did a number on you, huh?” you ask.
He only looks to the side, quiet and tense. You point to the desk by the window.
“Let’s sit,” you say.
“We don’t have to get into it,” he groans.
You settle on the desk’s surface.
“I should have some background information, don’t you think?” you say. “Humor me. I’m a decent listener. Way better at talking, but...”
You smile. Rafe is sure he’ll never understand how someone can be this damn perky.
Once he can tell you’re not letting it go, he shifts to sit on the chair, looking up at you through slitted eyes.
“How long were you together?” you ask.
“Few months.”
It's a little less impossible to picture Rafe as a boyfriend now that you see his guard down by half an inch. He must not open up all that much. You assume that’s why the breakup is hitting him so hard.
“Did you meet here at school?”
“Yeah.” He thinks back to when he’d sparked a conversation with Emma the first weekend of his sophomore year. “Things were good, but then she…”
He stops talking. He’s being pathetic. The night she ended things has been on a loop in his head. They were both drunk, at a party just like this one, arguing like they always did, when she said she was done with it, with everything.
That was a month and a half ago and he’s still a wreck.
He can’t help it. He’s always felt like a bottomless pit of a person, and Emma helped fill the void, made him feel like he was worth something.
Now that what she gave him is gone, he’s back to emptiness. To the constant reminders of how unlovable he is.
You stare at him. It’s obvious in the pain behind his stare, the tightness of clenched fists, that she broke his heart.
“Was it unexpected?” you ask.
He nods.
“Did you talk to her downstairs?”
“No,” he says. He pinches the bridge of his nose, pain radiating in his core. “This whole thing is stupid.”
“It’s not,” you say. “And as your tutor, I have to tell you that stupid is a bad word.”
He flashes you an unimpressed glare. The tables have turned between you, dropping you into the role of the one who needs to be confident and reassuring.
“It’ll be fine,” you say, your tone lighthearted. “You just have to look like you’re having fun with your new girlfriend, who you’re completely infatuated with and who you would never yell at for innocently reading the back cover of a book.”
Rafe looks towards the bookshelf he found you standing next to, guilt pinching his chest. He’s always hated it about himself, how he snaps first and thinks later.
“Any chance you saw Beck?” you ask.
“No.”
“Okay,” you say. You chug the rest of your beer and wince once the bottle is empty. “That was gross. Let’s go.”
════════
It takes a few minutes to catch Emma’s eye from across the noisy, inebriated crowd.
You’re standing in the corner of the living room facing Rafe, your arms on his shoulders like he instructed you to do. Once her gaze is on you, you cock your head.
“She’s looking,” you say.
The combination of witnessing Rafe’s heartbreak and drinking the bitter alcohol has loosened up your nerves. The man standing across from you may be rough around the edges, but he has a heart. And he gave it to someone who shattered it.
While you might not know much about their failed relationship, seeing his pain up close is enough to make you want to help.
You step a little closer, the room’s heat pressing on your skin.
“Did you start Pride and Prejudice yet?” you ask.
Rafe’s eyes sweep over your face, his big hands settling on your hips.
“Don’t tutor me right now.”
“We’re supposed to be flirting, so we have to talk about something,” you reply. “It’s a really good book. A love story if you’re into that.”
He grimaces.
“Well, it explores other themes, too.”
You notice Emma’s still looking right at you, and this time, Gabby is standing beside her and staring daggers, too.
“Hey, is it possible to get drunk off of one beer?” you ramble. “Or is it just placebo?”
“Get closer,” he tells you impatiently.
“Right.”
You slide your hands around the back of his neck and pull him down into a hug, his cheek pressed on yours, the aroma of crisp aftershave drifting over you.
“I should limit myself to half a beer next time,” you say in his ear, faking a smile.
“Lightweight,” he replies.
You act like you’re scanning the room, as if you’re meeting Emma’s eyes by chance, and when you see her cold stare, you squeeze him tighter.
“She looks really mad,” you tell him.
Rafe smirks, his chest grazing yours. It feels good knowing he still has an effect on his ex. If she was really over him like she said she is, she wouldn’t care. This is the taste of power he needed.
He slides his hands to the small of your back, languidly dragging up the curve of your spine.
If he was a guy you like, if he was Beck, you’d be a nervous mess right now. But this is methodical and calculated. It’s easy to flirt with someone when it’s fake. There’s nothing on the line.
In the corner of your eye, Emma whispers something to Gabby and they disappear into the crowd. You pull back and slowly slip your hands off of Rafe’s shoulders to pat his chest.
“She left and she wasn’t happy,” you say. “You’re welcome.”
════════
When you think about last Friday, it’s like you’re recalling a story you heard about someone else, because it can’t possibly have been you.
One drink had you completely uninhibited. You’ve never been so close to a man before, and there you were, holding Rafe against you, murmuring in his ear, acting like two mutually interested people at a party, when in reality, you’re both always at least a little annoyed with each other.
As you sit in the study room, waiting for him to arrive for your tutoring session, you’re unsure if it’ll be awkward to look him in the eye after all that happened between you.
“Hey,” Rafe coolly says when he comes in.
“Hey,” you reply.
“Beck asked about you.”
You perk up, completely distracted from whatever you were just feeling.
“What?”
Rafe settles in his usual spot, a satisfied smile pulling at his lips, clearly proud of himself for thinking of this ruse in the first place.
“The other day at practice,” he says. He pulls out his laptop. “He asked me if you and me are hanging out.”
“And?”
“I said yeah, but it’s all fake.” He gives you an impatient shrug. “What do you think I said?”
“Ha ha,” you say flatly. “His sister’s my best friend. He must’ve heard about us from her.”
You were convincing when Lyla asked you about how your date went the next day, telling her that you had a great time with Rafe. She’s still surprised at the mismatched pair, but she’s trying to be supportive.
Rafe notices the subtle frown on your face as you pull his laptop forward.
“Did he say anything else?” you ask.
“No.”
“He’s asked his sister and you about me,” you say, “but he won’t talk to me himself. If he wants to check in on me, he should. I mean, I’ll definitely lie and say I’ve been doing great, but still.”
You try to shake away the thought. You hate how much you still care, how much his years of flirting with you just for everything to end the way it did have hurt you.
“Have you heard from Emma?” you ask.
Sorrow seeps into you when Rafe’s eyes lose their brightness. You shouldn’t have asked.
“She’s trying to act like she doesn’t care,” you try to console him. “You’ll have the last laugh.”
You swiftly change the subject, finding the file he was supposed to fill with a first draft. There’s hardly anything. You suck your teeth with a disappointed tsk.
“Rafe,” you say. “You need to come here with more written down.”
“What the hell am I supposed to write about a love story?” he grumbles.
“I already told you there are other themes in this book,” you reiterate. ��Let’s go through them.”
════════
The next evening, you’re leaving the library after a study session when your phone vibrates with a text. It’s Rafe, letting you know that the team is celebrating a win at an off-campus bar and that you should come.
Imagining yourself walking into the bar and seeing Beck and acting the same way you did at that party feels impossible. A little part of you is worried last weekend’s display was a lucky fluke.
You reply to him as you walk deeper into the cool spring night: I have readings to do.
When ur done then?
You stare down at your screen, uncertain and nervous. It was easy when you had Emma to fool. You were confident she’d have some sort of reaction, seeing that it was her ex-boyfriend you were cuddling up to.
But Beck might not even care. And that’d hurt.
You eventually come to the conclusion that it’s worth a try. Beck damaged your pride. You want to undo some of that damage. And you didn’t start this just to back out.
You text Rafe: I’ll call you when I get there.
════════
Half an hour later, your name flashes on Rafe’s phone. He stands from his place at the table, all other seats taken up by teammates and girlfriends, and he makes his way to the entrance of the bar.
Even though you’re just someone he’s pretending to be into, it feels good to have a person come to a party just for him again. Emma used to always tag along for these things, back when she was the constant in his life.
“Hey,” he answers your call.
“Meet me at the front,” you say on the other end. Rafe finds you at the door, your arms crossed, your lips pulled into an awkward smile.
“I didn’t want to come in alone,” you explain. He puts his phone back in his pocket, eyes travelling over you in confusion. Why are you back to being nervous?
“Loosen up,” he says.
“I’m trying,” you breathe.
“Just follow my lead,” he says. “Act like you don’t care that he’s here.”
Rafe offers you his hand and you take it, feeling his slightly calloused palm against yours. You keep your gaze on the floor as he takes you into the loud bar.
He doesn’t give you a chance to think. He gets to his seat and pulls you onto his lap. You try your best to act like this is something you’ve done before.
You drape your arm around his shoulders, looking down at him, finding a sense of reassurance in his striking blue eyes as his lap warms the underside of your thighs.
“Casually sitting on your lap,” you mumble. “This is normal for us. Totally normal. Who needs a chair? Not me.”
Most of the group is in lively conversation. Some people don’t even notice your arrival. But Beck does.
You offer him a small smile from across the table, the sight of him making your stomach flutter. He nods in greeting, unreadable.
Rafe’s hand rests on the side of your bare thigh, fingers splayed over your cool skin, right where your skirt ends.
“You’re cold,” he says, loud enough over the music, quiet enough that only you can hear him.
His muscles start to tighten as his thumb brushes over the swell of your thigh.
It’s instinct. He can’t control that he’s getting worked up. He has a pretty girl on his lap. It’d be weird if his body didn’t have some sort of reaction.
“Yeah. It’s cold out,” you reply.
“How’d you get here?” he asks accusingly.
“I walked.”
“Walked?” he repeats. “By yourself?”
“Campus security can only escort me through school property,” you say. “I was on my own for like, two minutes.”
“Don’t do that again,” he says, quieter now. “I’d never let my girl walk alone at night.”
You tilt your head, frustration bubbling up inside you.
“Let?” you echo, brows furrowed.
He stares at you with hard eyes, forcing himself to push past the irritation of what you’re implying — that he’s controlling. He heard it from Emma before. She never understood that he was trying to protect her.
You’re supposed to be happy to see each other, not arguing. And he needs to get you back for pissing off his ex the other night. And it’s a good idea to get his hand off of your leg for his own sake.
His touch is featherlight when he cups your cheek. Your eyes soften with appreciation. He’s putting on this show for you, forcing your tense conversation to look sweet, and it makes you a bit more relaxed.
His ex is nowhere to be found, but he’s being affectionate with you, holding up his part of the deal. You can only hope this is working on Beck. You’d spent years seeing him with girls; he’d never seen you with a guy.
“I would’ve picked you up,” Rafe says stiffly, his tone mismatching his gesture. “If you were my girlfriend, I wouldn’t be cool with knowing something could happen to you. You said we have to be believable, yeah?”
You study him under the dimmed, warm lights, your heart racing from feeling Beck’s presence at the other side of the table.
“So, it’s like you… feel responsible for my safety or something?” you ask.
The stress digging in Rafe’s shoulders fades into a relief he wasn’t expecting. It’s uncommon for him to feel understood. He felt it at times with his ex, but she hardly ever tried to see his side, calling him too much.
As if he needed the reminder. He knows he’s too much.
“Yeah,” he replies.
“I’ll tell you to come get me next time.”
He lowers his hand, resting it on your leg again. This time, though, he makes sure to only be touching your clothes, making no contact with your skin.
“How was the game?” you ask.
“We always beat Hatfield,” Rafe says.
“How many penalties did you get?”
“I don’t count.”
“I wouldn’t, either,” you say. “You’re in the sin bin a lot.”
Rafe’s lips curl into a smile that tells you he agrees, but that he also won’t change a thing.
“How’d you know that?”
“I came to a lot of games last semester.”
“You should probably start coming to them again,” he says.
He’s right. If this were real, you’d be coming to the rink to cheer your boyfriend on.
“It’s kind of hard for me,” you admit.
Rafe grimaces in the impatient way he always does, wearing that look that implies whatever you just said is silly. You lick your lips nervously, leaning even closer to him to explain.
“I used to go to all of his games,” you say, hushed. “All through high school, too. Sitting behind the home bench just reminds me of all the time I wasted thinking he liked me, too.”
You pull back. Rafe stares at you for a moment. Despite your differences, you really have been hurt the same way. You both saw a future with someone who gave you a glimmer of hope just to shut you down.
He doesn’t usually care enough to make someone feel better. Right now is different.
“Then sit behind the sin bin,” he says. “Count my penalties for me.”
You laugh. And when you notice Beck’s eyes on you, it feels really good.
You think back to what Rafe said, to act like you don’t care. You notice Isaac a few seats away and greet him with a hello and a smile, then meet Beck’s gaze.
“How was the game?” you say casually from across the table.
“Good,” Beck answers. “It’s cool to play with Marcus again.”
“Oh, right,” you say. Marcus was a mutual friend in high school who now plays for Hatfield, a college a town away. “Did you get to talk to him?”
“Not really,” Beck replies. “What’s up with you? It’s been a while.”
It’s irritating to hear him say that, as if the distance between you wasn’t all because of him. You used to talk to Beck all the time, until he unexpectedly drove you away.
You shrug, hoping you don’t give away how hurt you’ve been.
“Not much,” you say. You look at Rafe, willing yourself to flirt with another man in front of the one who broke your heart. “This one guy I’m tutoring has been taking up all my time.”
“Sounds rough,” Rafe says.
“Yeah,” you play along, “but I’m very patient.”
“You are,” Beck says. “I wouldn’t have survived last semester if it weren’t for you.”
You force another smile, meeting Beck’s gaze again. You don’t like the reminder of all the time you spent helping him with school, pining for him, hoping he pined for you, too.
Rafe looks between you and Beck as you continue to chat. There’s an obvious history between you two, a tone that only old friends could have, but the exchange is stiff.
It’s clear, at least to him, that there’s something you two aren’t talking about.
════════
Once the night ends, you get into Rafe’s car. He turns the key, the engine roaring to life.
“That was great,” you murmur sarcastically as you put on your seatbelt. You meant it to come out as a joke, but your voice has a strain to it.
It would’ve been amazing if Beck stared like Emma did the other night, but he didn’t. You feel rejected all over again.
“I think he knows us both well enough to know we can’t really like each other like that,” you say. You watch the bar’s neon sign blink in the passenger side mirror as you try to ground yourself. “Oh, well. We tried.”
Rafe highly doubts he caught on. There’s no world where you’d two be a couple — you’re irritatingly chatty and wear your heart on your sleeve, the complete opposite of Rafe and what he looks for in a girl — but while Beck kept a cool facade, his glances at you weren’t skeptical. And they weren’t platonic, either.
He puts the car in drive, anxiety gnawing at him as he pulls out of the parking lot. It sounds like you’re about to call it quits all because of a false assumption.
“He fell for it,” Rafe mutters. “And he was jealous. You’re crazy if you think he wasn’t.”
You were hoping that Beck would be convinced that you’re fine after what happened between you. That maybe he’d regret the way he handled things. But you never thought he’d actually be jealous. Why would he be if he never liked you in the first place?
“Then I guess I’m crazy,” you tell him, “because to me, he didn’t seem to care at all.”
Rafe scratches his jaw, exasperated.
“You ever think that maybe he’s just not transparent like you are?” he says after a beat.
You look at his profile, the passing streetlights washing over the planes of his face.
“Transparent?” you echo. “So, I… gave us away?”
“That’s not what I mean,” Rafe says gruffly. “You’re convincing with my help, but without it, you’re damn easy to read. He’s not as obvious as you. If you looked hard enough, though, you could tell that he really didn’t like that you were sitting on my lap.”
You stare ahead at the darkened street. From your first tutoring session with Rafe, he had you figured out. You mentioned Beck and he caught on to whatever gave you away.
You’ve been able to pretend you’ve been fine, that your heart has been kept intact. Rafe is the only one who saw through it, from the moment he sat down next to you in that study room. He has a knack for reading people.
“How do you do that?” you ask, studying his features once more.
“What?”
“I’m not easy to read,” you say. “Nobody else has picked up on how upset I’ve been over him. Not even my best friend. But you called me out right away. How are you so good at seeing through people?”
Rafe’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. It’s a loaded question.
He spent his childhood hyperware of what unhappiness looks like in people, desperately clinging onto his dad’s fickle approval since he can remember. It never left his system. It turned him into a man trained in recognizing the slightest change in someone’s mood.
He could even sense when Emma was falling out of love with him. She said he was paranoid when he called her out on it, but he knew he was right.
After you spend your life starving for approval, wanting someone to see every side of you and decide that you’re worth loving, it’s second nature to make note of the signs that they’re writing you off. And to lose control when you beg them not to.
He swallows hard. You simply mentioned how observant he is and his mind is spinning now. You stripped back a layer, peeling at a part of him he pretends doesn’t exist.
It’s another thing about you that he’d never want in a real girlfriend. You’re doing what you did the other night when you asked about his ex. You’re prying.
“Just am,” he finally replies.
The tension is nipping at his bones, the memories flooding back with no mercy. Emma never dug at him like this. It’s part of why he liked her so much. She didn’t make him look at these sides of himself.
“Riveting,” you say, rolling your head to the side to look out the window. “Well, you don’t need to try to make me feel better, okay? You can give it to me straight that he doesn’t like me like that.”
“Did you register anything I just said?” he scoffs.
“Now you know how I feel when I’m tutoring you,” you joke, unaffected by his brashness like usual.
“He asked me about you the first chance he got, remember? And he was awkward as hell tonight. He cares. He’s just the type that’s desperate for everyone to think he’s a good guy, so when he’s jealous, he tries to hide it.”
You mull over his words. You’ve only ever thought the world of Beck, until he abruptly distanced himself from you and made you almost certain that he’d been conciously leading you on for years.
To think of him as someone preoccupied with being liked feels accurate. He always keeps the peace, possibly in an effort for approval.
The idea that he did feel something for you, that he does, is a dangerous type of hope you’re well acquainted with. It makes you feel better that someone else sees what you’d seen for years.
Rafe’s words, albeit curt, bring you relief. Beck must feel something that he never wanted to act on. And he might want to act on it now.
“I guess I’m just so used to overthinking about him,” you admit. “Thanks.”
Rafe is silent. Irritated. Tense. You didn’t want to believe all that Emma had told you that night at the rink, but most things check out. He’s moodier than you could’ve expected.
“You okay?” you ask.
He’s doing it again. He’s hardly offering any insight on what he’s thinking, shutting you out. Your dynamic feels unbalanced now, considering how much you’ve told him.
Rafe comes to a stop in front of your building. He’d do anything but admit why he’s so good at reading people. It’s a burden, a reminder of the desperation that’s lived in him ever since he was a child.
“We’re here,” he states flatly.
You unbuckle your seatbelt. Despite everything, you don’t have it in you to be angry at him. Not after he helped you so much. Not after he tried to console you in his own abrupt way.
“Rafe?”
“What?”
You stare at him until he gives in and looks at you, wearing yet another grimace.
“I’m not technically going through a breakup, but if anyone kind of gets what you’re going through right now, it’s me,” you tell him. “I vent to you a lot. It’s cool if you want to vent to me, too. This is all an act, but it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. That’s all. Thanks for the ride.”
You step out of the car and shut the door, leaving Rafe with the disquieting realization that if he’s going to keep doing this with you, he’ll have to accept the fact that you probably won’t stop prying.
next >
author’s note it’s not a fic by me if rafe doesn’t have daddy issues…
if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘
#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe cameron x you#rafe cameron and you#rafe cameron and reader#rafe cameron and y/n#rafe cameron fic#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron fanfic
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MAG Avatar Fuckability Tier List
It’s here. You’re welcome. Avatars are ranked most fuckable (S Tier) to least fuckable (F Tier). They are also ranked within their respective tiers. In true Robert Smirke style, I will not be accepting criticism. Fight me.
S Tier
Have special traits that actively contribute to the sexual experience.
Daisy Tonner (Hunt) - excellent strength and stamina. Essentially has a werewolf form, and we all know how hot Tumblr gets for werewolves. Deserves the #1 spot.
Jared Hopworth (Flesh) - will mold his body into whatever shape you want. May also mold your body into whatever shape you want. Can help with your dysphoria, might steal your bones.
Annabelle Cane (Web) - if you’re into bondage. Webs that are never too tight or too loose, and that can move on their own.
Tom Han (Flesh) - an avatar of the Flesh absolutely knows his way around a body. Also an incredible cook. He will make you dinner first, just don’t ask what’s in it.
Jude Perry (Desolation) - perfect temperature control, and hard into sadism. She will ruin your life, but the sex will be fantastic.
Breekon & Hope (Stranger) - two for the price of one, but they are so in sync that you’ll never feel the awkwardness of a threesome. Also, they’re blue collar workers. Very hot.
Michael Crewe (Vast) - imagine sex in freefall, like an eagle. I’ve never tried it but it sounds thrilling. Nobody but the two of you in a vast, empty sky.
A Tier
S Tier with drawbacks, or excellent options without being exceptional.
The Distortion (Spiral) - everyone wants to talk about "mind-breaking sex" but nobody wants to deal with the consequences. You’re gonna have a hell of a migraine.
The Coffin (Buried) - some people like to be crushed under the weight of their partner. Very clingy.
Emma Harvey (Web) - excited to experiment in the bedroom. May bring other Avatars over. Does not understand the concept of safe words.
Simon Fairchild (Vast) - old but still spry and flexible. No drawbacks, but doesn’t make S Tier because the Magnusverse has more to offer.
Martin Blackwood (Lonely) - a good listener. Will take your needs to heart. The human version of a cheetah’s emotional support golden retriever. Not exceptional, but dependable.
Manuela Dominguez (Dark) - sex with the lights off. Intelligent and bold, likes to take charge. Not extremely distinguishing.
B Tier
Mostly good options with some less-than-ideal traits.
Alfred Grifter (Slaughter) - an old man who's still got it, and a musician to boot. Don't let him choose a playlist to "set the mood." The mood is murder.
Elias Bouchard (Eye) - besides being subjectively hot he really doesn’t have anything going for him. Short temper. You do not want this man's pipe.
Julia Montauk (Hunt) - intense, but maybe you’re into that sort of thing. Will break up with you just to get you back. Daddy issues.
Jonathan Sims (Eye) - knows what you want in bed, and is good at getting you to open up. A little too anxious to be a really good lover.
Oliver Banks (End) - attractive, sure, but distant, like trying to fuck a statue. Doesn’t help that he can see when you are going to die.
Hezekiah Wakely (Buried) - expert at putting you to bed afterwards, but the sex itself? There are better options.
C Tier
Mostly bad options with redeeming qualities.
Gertrude Robinson (Eye) - constantly checking you out for weaknesses. Will not make eye contact.
Trevor Herbert (Hunt) - canonically grimy, though some people are into that. Body of a 70 year old marathon runner.
Dexter Banks (Web) - your classic film boyfriend who'd rather watch Das Boot than actually get busy. At least he's not transphobic.
Benoit Macon (Corruption) - are you open to threesomes with his beetle wife? How do you feel about becoming a rotten log full of termites?
Samson Stiller (Eye) - plenty of circuits for you to short out. Refuses to log out of Omegle.
Nathaniel Thorp (End) - likes games, but won't let you win. Too bony for good cuddling.
Gabriel (Spiral) - you’ll feel like putty in his hands. You’ll also develop a phobia of doors and fingerprints.
D Tier
Will give you a bad experience, or just boring.
Jonah Magnus (Eye) - prefers to watch. Dusty.
Agnes Montague (Desolation) - doesn’t want to hurt you, but literally cannot touch you without giving you third-degree burns.
Angela (Flesh) - very possible you would wake up the next morning without genitals.
The Piper (Slaughter) - hard to find a private spot in the middle of a war zone. Unfuckable due to bagpipes.
Not!Them (Stranger) - disconcerting, especially since the person you think you’re having sex with is actually dead. Emotionally distant.
Maxwell Rayner (Dark) - feels like he is going to crumble to dust. Insists on doing it with the lights off. Doesn’t know any interesting positions (he is from the 1700s).
F+ Tier
Just for Jane Prentiss (Corruption) because some of you are into that shit.
F Tier
Active health risks.
Nikola Orsinov (Stranger) - maybe some of you want to fuck a mannequin, but this one is actively homicidal. May also steal your skin.
Mary Keay (End) - gross as fuck, will kill you horribly, and the sex isn’t even very good.
Sarah Baldwin (Stranger) - by all accounts, taxidermied animals are nasty to cuddle with.
Monster Pig (Flesh) - no! What? No!
Raymond Fielding (Web) - has no friends. Will fill you with spiders. Also a devout Catholic. One of those has to be a deal-breaker.
Peter Lukas (Lonely) - does not want to be there. Likely has never been more intimate than being on first-name basis in the workplace.
John Amherst (Corruption) - girl the rot
#tma tier list#the magnus archives#tma#robert smirke#the buried#the corruption#the dark#the desolation#the end#the eye#the flesh#the hunt#the lonely#the slaughter#the spiral#the stranger#the vast#the web
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୨୧ my shirt, your shirt, our shirt, whatever ; pb5
➪ summary: paige gets back to connecticut from the national championship, making her way to you without a second thought. and when she sees you (trying) to order a shirt, she scolds you saying you could have hers
➪ warnings: none... i don't think (i mean there is an allusion to paige crying but that's it) not proofread in the slightest
➪ word count: 0.6k
➪ emma's notes: me? writing two fics in two days? who am i? anyway, this wasn't the fic i was originally going to write, or the mid-sized!reader one i had in mind but i couldn't help it. ana sent me the ask and i just had to write it. HUSKIES ARE NATTY CHAMPS!!!! i'm so unbelievably proud and happy for them, words can't describe how i'm feeling. anyway... i hope you guys enjoy the fic :)
© wondrluv ; do not copy, repost, or translate my work and designs on any other website or here
It was late when Paige knocked on your door, exhausted to the brim but her lips were still pulled up into that wide smile of hers that made you giggle at just the thought of it.
You had woken up from the sound, stumbling over to open it and immediately matching her grin, pulling her into a hug, “You did it.”
Paige couldn’t help but smile wider at your soft words, dropping her belongings and wrapping her arms around your torso, grip tight as ever. She buried her head in your shoulder and you could feel the fabric of your shirt dampen, your hand coming up to run through her hair to calm her.
“I’m so proud of you, you did amazing, not just tonight. The whole year, the past five years. I couldn’t be any prouder, P.”
She stayed silent for moments after your small speech, relishing the fact that she was in your arms and you were in hers. This was her safe space, you were her safe space. Winning the championship felt great, but celebrating it with you felt even better.
When she finally pulled away, her hands cupped your cheeks, bringing you into a kiss, grinning at the small gasp you let out. Your hands slipped to her hips, resting comfortably against them, gripping her sweatshirt.
Her forehead rested against yours, staring at you with the happiest expression you had ever seen on her face, causing you to replicate it on yours.
“I’m so happy.”
“I can tell. Congratulations, champion.” You flicked the brim of her hat, it flying off from the force, exposing her messy hair and glasses. “Don’t you look adorable.”
She blushed at your teasing, her head immediately going back into the crook of your neck, hiding the redness. All you could do was laugh, dragging her inside and kicking her stuff in with your foot, shutting the door behind you.
You collapsed on the bed, watching as Paige changed into clothes that didn’t smell like sweat and the airport. You pulled out your phone, scrolling through Fanatics to buy yourself a shirt, you hadn’t been able to do it beforehand, too busy texting your congratulations to the team and talking with Paige.
She crawled into your bed behind you, her arms finding their place around your middle, pulling you flush against her and resting her forehead on your shoulder, “What’re you doing?”
“Just some shopping.” Your hand came up to scratch at her scalp, Paige sighing contently at your actions.
She lifted her head just enough to get a peak at your phone, eyes narrowing at all the apparel that had ‘National Champions Huskies’ written across them. She rolled her eyes, arms tightening around you, “If you wanted a shirt you could’ve just asked to wear mine.”
You turned around so you were facing her, poking her cheek softly, “That’s your shirt, P. I wanted my own.”
“Yeah, but you know how much I like it when you wear my shirts.” It was your turn to blush, your cheeks heating up as you stared at her. “As soon as I wash it, you’re wearing it, yeah?”
“Fine. But I’m still gonna get my own.”
She tutted softly, reaching for your phone and pulling it out of your grasp, “No. My shirt is your shirt, it’s our shirt.”
You let out a tiny scoff but were unable to keep the smile off your face, “Whatever.”
“C’mon, sleep time. I’m sleepy.”
You softened, nodding your head and allowing her to pull you closer, your head resting against her chest and her head resting against hers. You fell asleep quickly, the lingering sleepiness from before taking over you.
And just before she fell asleep, Paige ordered you a shirt of your own, one that matched hers because who was she not to get you what you wanted?
PART TWO ; PB5 MASTERLIST ; WBB MASTERLIST
TAGLIST ; NAVIGATION
#*。✩ ꒰ wondrluv's writing ꒱#⋆·˚ ༘ * ꒰ blurbs ꒱#⋆·˚ ༘ * ꒰ paige bueckers ꒱#paige bueckers#paige bueckers x reader#uconn#uconn wbb
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Simon Riley x Single Mom Reader, Part Six <3
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five
"We'll be fine, love."
"Are you sure? I can reschedule. Should I reschedule?"
"Not necessary."
"Simon ..."
"Sweetheart."
You sigh and nod, picking up the diaper bag by the door. Emma is on your hip -- six months old now, and her neck is finally working right. You needed to take her in for a check-up at the doctor's, but Charlie was having a particularly energetic morning, so Simon stepped in and offered to watch him for you.
It's his first time babysitting one of the kids on his own, and part of him is confident. He can lead men into war, he can watch a rambunctious four-year-old.
Another part of him though, a quieter, more anxious part that he tries to push down, is just a little worried. Things are going so well, and he wants to keep proving to you that what you have is good. That it's worth keeping.
"All right, Charlie," he says, firmly but not coldly, once you and Emma leave the house. "We've got to hold down the fort, you and me. Got it?"
"Aye aye, captain," Charlie says, giving a salute.
Simon chuckles -- the boy knows he's in the army at this point, but obviously not the ins and outs of it all.
"Not a captain yet, and you're not one of my men anyway. Simon'll do just fine."
It's a fun afternoon, more fun than he'd imagined it would be. He and Charlie make a blanket fort in the living room (his first time, but it turns out all right), then they make s'mores in the microwave (also his first time, and it's a little bit of disaster).
It's fun, but it's difficult in a strange, painful sort of way. Simon never got to be a kid, and he's never been around children. Emma is sweet, absolutely adorable, but she doesn't talk yet. Charlie, though, has a way of speaking that's so innocent and honest in a way he's never experienced. He's sweet too, and he's very certain that he'd die for either of them, but there's a learning curve with him, one he's so desperate to master.
At the heart of it all, Simon just wants to be good for you. For all of you. And he'll keep trying until he is.
When you come home, Emma fussy after her shots, Charlie is on a sugar high, zipping in and out of the blanket fort. You laugh, happy to see your son happy, and Simon takes Emma so you can talk to him.
"Did you have a good time?" you ask, a gentle hand on his shoulder to keep him in place for a moment."'
"Yeah, we always have fun," Charlie answers, grinning.
You swipe a bit of melted marshmallow off the corner of his mouth, smiling back down at the boy.
"You're kind of a mess though, huh? Want to go ahead and take your bath?"
He pouts, looking up at you with big eyes, and tells you that he wants to play a little longer. When he glances at Simon, the message seems clear -- he wants to keep playing with him.
"Not going anywhere, Charlie," Simon says quietly. "Why don't you listen to your mum though and get cleaned up now?"
The child smiles at his reassurance, and nods. Simon nods back, Emma still whining in his arms, and before he can process it, Charlie is hugging his leg.
"Love you, Daddy," he says, and then he's off.
Simon freezes for a moment, then looks at you. You offer him a tight smile, but something's off, and he can't quite place it.
"Never asked him to call me that."
"No, I know," you say quickly, shaking your head. "Of course not. It's just ... I don't know, he might be kind of confused? You've been around so much more than his actual father, he's probably ..."
You trail off, biting your lip, and he steps closer to you, the baby resting against his chest.
"What's got you so upset?" he asks softly. He wants to make it better, but he needs to know how.
"I just don't want you to think that I'm pushing it on him, I guess?" you answer, glancing up at him before looking back down. "I don't want to force that role on you at all. I know it's a lot."
He considers his words carefully, knowing how important they are, and finally he admits, "It is a lot."
Your head jerks up to look at him, and there's almost a fearful look in your eyes. With his free hand, he strokes your cheek lightly, keeping your eyes on him.
"But I wouldn't trade it for anything. You hear me? Being here with you, with them, it's ... more than I could have ever asked for. Much more than I deserve."
You let out a small, nervous breath. You're so expressive, and he's always so thankful for it, because in your eyes, he can see how much this matters to you. How you want to do all of this right, even if you're not exactly sure how to go about it.
Finally, you speak again, telling him, "I don't want you to feel like you need to be that though, you know? Be their dad. It's been, what, almost five months? Simon, that's ..."
"I'll be whatever you need, love. Always. I can promise you that."
And he means it, easily. He doesn't need the kids to call him dad, or a big conversation about his exact role in the family. What he needs, from now on, is to be able to take care of you, all three of you. Whatever that looks like, however it plays out, he's all in now.
He needs you to be all in too.
"Don't worry so much about me, all right?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not running away. I'm not leaving."
You laugh, a little broken, and say, "That's kind of a first for me."
His hand, still on your cheek, moves to the back of your neck, gently pulling you against him. He keeps Emma, who's settling now, tucked against one side of his chest and holds you against the other.
"I mean it. As long as you'll have me, I'm yours."
You look up at him, your arms going around his waist, smiling a little more genuinely now that he's got you like this.
"And what if I want to have you for a very long time?"
"Then that's exactly what you'll get."
PART SEVEN - PART EIGHT - PART NINE
#call of duty#call of duty ghost#simon riley#call of duty simon riley#simon ghost riley#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#cod ghost#cod simon riley#ghost x you#ghost x reader#daddy simon
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