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multiplefandomwritings · 1 year

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How to be a child

pairing: reader x the grid (platonically), Pierre Gasly x reader

warnings: swearing, description of injuries/bruises, throwing up, passing out, unconsciousness, mentioning of hospital, mentioning of crash, angst

summary: You were the mum of the grid, you always had been. Until it one day it all just gets too much, and you are in desperate need of support. Suddenly 19 boys collectively become your mum, and you need to once again learn how to be a child.

notes: i am so, sorry for the wait. life has been terrible for the me the past months, but here it finally is: part two! as a small compensation, it is very long, and i hope you will like it! feel free to leave comments and/or feedback. likes and reblogs are always appreciated! also, feel free to send in requests! you can find the first part here. a third part will follow at some point, so let me know if you want to be tagged 😊 also, a question for everyone on the taglist: Would you like to be tagged in all of my F1 work, or just in this one?

disclaimer: english is not my first language, so please excuse any mistakes 😊

word count: 8.1k

taglist: @cilliansgirl @tyna-19 @hc-dutch @honethatty12 @sheslikeacurse @rb-danny @hc-dutch @hiphopdancer101universe @teddyluvs @dan3avocado @stillbreathin @mellowturtleangellamp @mcmuppet @shqwqrma @alice07ea @ricsaigaslec @witchychicken @rockyhayzkid @sheluvsf1 @hiddleslovs @laurevdd @caosfanblr @dessxoxsworld @fryskje @stickygladitorbear @goldenharrysworld @mehrmonga @anon-1112 @abcdefghijklmopqrstuvwxyzz @yunoguns @jaydenhateslife @itsandreaca @tsukishimawhore @formula-hamilton @cfjkdyihjkdd @whodis-26 @basicallyherondale @wtrmlnsgr94

“Shut up, you dumbass!”, whisper-yells a voice that sounds like Charles to you. “Or do you want the nurse to realize that we are way more people in here than allowed?” Several people shush at the same time, and you are utterly confused. You slowly open your eyes and catch sight of almost the whole grid cramped into the room. They are bickering with each other, and you cannot help but smile. “Hey guys!”, you croak out and your voice sounds hoarse. Immediately, they all stop talking and look at you. Pierre is the first to move and rushes over to your bed to take a hold of your hand.

“Finally, mon ange!”, he breathes out and you could’ve sworn that you can see tears welling up in his eyes. “What happened?”, you ask, still very much confused. You try to sit up, and immediately Max and Daniel rush to your side to assist you in your undertaking. When you are propped up, you look at your friends, who are standing around the bed – a hospital bed as you have realized by now. Pierre gently strokes your hand, and Lewis raises his voice to tell you what had happened.

After your collapsed in Pierre´s arms, and your friends and colleagues form a wall to shield you, Pierre gently picks you up and carries you out of the public eye and into Lando´s room. Everyone is close to panic, no one really knowing what had prompted you to pass out. The doctors, alerted by someone, rush in, and examine you. They cannot really find any reason, apart from the injuries in your face. They suspect that it might be something severe, so the whole grid is close to losing their mind. You are than a friend to most, rather part of their family. The called ambulance takes you with them, Pierre riding in the back with you.

When you arrive at the hospital, the doctors take you away from Pierre to examine you thoroughly, determined to find out what is wrong with you. It takes an hour, one more, and another. By now, the hallway of the floor you are on is filled with the other drivers. Everyone wanted to be there for you when you wake up. With every minute, the boys get more nervous, grow more worried. After four hours, the doctor comes out.

“We stabilized her. We assume that she suffered an acute exhaustion attack, caused by a lack of sleep and too much stress paired with a concussion. We expect her to sleep for a few days, but she was lucky. It could have been way worse. She will need to rest as much as possible once she wakes up to ensure that neither her brain nor her heart will suffer from long term consequences.”

The drivers are all shocked. You are still so young, and now this. They realise, all for themselves, that maybe they had demanded too much of you for too long. Guilt threatened to eat up them, more with every day you didn’t wake up for. Until three later, on a Wednesday, you finally wake up again.

You are quiet for a few minutes. Just when you are about to say something, the door opens and a nurse steps in. When she sees all the drivers, she rushes them out - all except one. Pierre doesn’t leave your side. He sits with you when the doctor comes in and tells you that you were lucky. He makes it very clear that you must take time for yourself to make sure that you would not suffer lasting effects. You nod, trying to understand everything he says.

“Would you mind leaving me alone for a minute, please?”, you ask. The doctor nods, while Pierre stays by your side. “You too, Pierre.” He looks at you, shocked for a minute, offended even. “Don’t send me away, y/n. You seem like you need someone with you right now.” “Just give me a fucking minute alone, Pierre!”, you snap at him, and he gets up and leaves without another word. You know that wasn’t fair, but your whole world just turned upside down. You will apologize later.

You clench your hands to fists; you feel like you are going to lose your shit. The feelings threaten to drown you, you are barely able to keep yourself over the water. You need to get out of here – you want to be everywhere but here. You lift yourself out of bed, determination flooding your system. When you stand up, you grind your teeth. Your whole body is almost shaking because just the act of getting up was so exhausting. You feel so very small, weak, and fragile. You take two, three slow steps, holding onto the hospital bed with every step. When you reach the end of the bed, you back another step forward, but without holding onto something, your body gives in. You crash to the ground; your body hits the floor with a loud thud.

Immediately, the door opens and Pierre storms in. He sees on you sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, head buried in your hands. He rushes over to you and takes you in his arms. “I am so afraid, Pierre!”, you sob into his shoulder as he holds you. His heart breaks right there and then. You cry for what feels like hours, and when you are done, Pierre helps you onto the bed again. The doctors had allowed for you to leave the hospital in Brazil to be taken care of by your personal doctor in Monaco. However, much comes with that – your transport must be organized, you have to talk to the team, and all of that.

You are starting to panic, you feel so exhausted still, you have no idea how you would be able to manage all of that. “You don’t need to worry, ange. We are scheduled to fly out tonight in the private jet, everything around the transport is organized. Only Max, Daniel, Lando and I will join so that you can rest as much as possible. We will have to leave for the weekend, but I will promise you that we will be back as soon as possible.” You nod, overwhelmed that they cared so much for you. After one last check up, the doctor wishes you all the best and discharges you.

They provide you with a wheelchair because you are still weakened and every bone in your body hurts – even the ones you didn’t know you had. Pierre pushes you out of the hospital and towards the parking lot, where you can spot Daniel standing between an unfamiliar car. Usually, all of you drove fast and sporty cars, but this was a car you expected to see in a suburban neighbourhood where everyone had at least three kids.

“Nice ride!”, you say, and your voice is still hoarse. You are pretty sure that you look like shit, but the boys do not let on. They don’t look at you with pity and you are beyond grateful for that. “Thanks, we had to improvise a bit!” Daniel walks over to you and pulls you out of the wheelchair with ease, lifting you into his arms bridal style. He carries you over to the car, careful to not hurt you. However, his limb coordination when it comes to carrying people apparently isn’t the best. You close your eyes when you see the car door frame coming closer, but instead of bumping into the hard metal, your head is met with a soft surface. You open your eyes and see Lando smiling at you. The boy had put his hand over the door frame, softening the impact. Your eyes almost start to water at the sweet gesture.

Once you are seated, Pierre climbs into the back with you and helps you to put your seatbelt on before he settles himself in. Lando sits in the back as well. Max is the passenger princess. Daniel is starting the car, and you watch Max still without his seatbelt on. Before, you can say something, Pierre turns to Max. “Put your fucking seatbelt on!”, he says and a small smile appears on your face. You don’t really catch more of the chatting, as just the way to the car exhausted you completely and you opt for some sleep. Pierre´s shoulder functions as your cushion, and it is quite comfortable, at least for this purpose. Already almost in slumber you only subconsciously realize that someone puts a blanket over you. You snuggle closer into Pierre and fall into a deep and dreamless slumber.

You wake when someone unbuckles your seatbelt. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you!”, Pierre apologizes, but you wave it off. “I think I have slept enough the past days”, you joke half-heartedly, and he gives you a tiny smile. Only now in this close proximity, you can see the dark bags under his eyes, the worry on his face. He looks five years older, beard unshaved, little stubbles growing in a disorganized way. “I am sorry for causing you so much worry”, you whisper barely audible, but he hears you, like he always does. He shakes his head. “Mon ange, no. None of this is your fault, if anything, it is ours.” You are just about to ask what he means when Daniel interrupts the two of you.

“We should get going!”, he says, and Pierre helps you out of the car. He carries you the last few meters to the jet, and places you down on one of the seats. Before you can engage in a conversation with him, Lando joins you on the seat next to you and slams a big bag on the table. “Y/n, I hope you are hungry!” You focus your attention on him and just now realize how hungry you are. “Starving, actually!” Lando smacks his lips and starts unpacking the bag. “Well, in that case, good for you, because I come prepared!” There is everything you could ask for – snacks, fruits, sandwiches. You decide to start with an apple, which Lando insists on cutting into small pieces for you. “Lando!”, you laugh, “I am not a child!” He grins. “Well, y/n, you need care and nursing and love now, so we all have decided to you are no longer our mum, you are now our child!” You flip him off playfully and continue to eat your apple pieces quietly while Lando talks your ear off, which you honestly do not mind. It distracts you from all the negative thoughts.

After a few hours, Daniel, Lando and Max are asleep. You are quite awake on the other hand and the soft shine of a display coming from Pierre´s seat indicates that he as well is awake. You carefully walk over to him, holding onto the seats. It takes all of your strength to make the few meters, but you manage and fall into the seat next to the Frenchman. He looks up from his phone and gifts you a smile. “Hey”, you say softly, “You okay?” Pierre shakes his head but continues to smile. “You are unbelievable, y/n! You are the one that was in the hospital the last days, not me.” “I can still worry about you guys though, no?”, you grin crookedly, but Pierre is still very serious. “Of course, but the important thing now is that you need to get better, and to do that, you need to learn to say no, and you need to learn to listen to yourself.” You want to interrupt him, but he doesn’t let you. “But most importantly, we – me and the others – need to learn to get our own shit together, and not always bother you!”

You can feel that he is a bit angry, so you gently place your hand on his biceps. “Pierre, you never bothered me. It was just a bit too much the past weeks! Everything will be fine, in fact, everything is fine.” Pierre shakes his head at you, you can feel that he is still upset. “No, nothing is fine. The last days were absolutely horrible, y/n. I was so afraid; I don’t think I have ever been this afraid. I couldn’t sleep because I was afraid that I would wake up and someone was going to tell me that you died. It was a nightmare, I don’t ever want to feel that again – so I am begging you, please take all the time you need to rest and heal. I cannot lose you.” You are a taken aback by his words. “I will, I promise!”, you say, and Pierre pulls you onto his lap and into a tight hug. He doesn’t let go for a while, and you don’t mind. It keeps you from falling apart.

You land a few hours later, you before you can protest, Lando lifts you out of your seat. “My turn!”, he laughs, and you decide to not pick a fight. “Yeah, it’s cool”, you say and playfully roll your eyes, “Just pick me up whenever.” Lando makes a sad face, and you can sense that he feels bad. “I am sorry”, he utters, “I should have at least asked if it was okay for me to pick you up!” You shake your head. “Don’t worry about it, its not like a have a choice. I can´t exactly walk away”, you joke. You know it is a bad joke, and maybe it was too early to joke about it. For a moment, it is quiet, but then Daniel lets out a little snort. He tries his best to keep in a laugh, but when Max looks at him, he cannot help himself and bursts out laughing. The Dutchman joins him, so do you, and in a matter of seconds, Pierre and Lando are laughing as well. It takes you a while to calm down, because all of you just really needed to laugh off the shock of the past days.

Lando carries you down and into the car. Charles had offered to pick you up and drive you to your apartment, joined by Pierre. “Hey Charles!”, you greet the man and move over to give him an uncomfortable hug over the middle console. He doesn’t seem to mind, however. “You don’t know how good it is to see you, y/n!” You smile at him after you pull away, and he starts the car as soon as Pierre has settled in as well. A bit later, you arrive by your apartment building. Pierre gets out the wheelchair, and helps you to climb in. It is still new for you, and you hope that you will get rid of it soon. It makes you feel utterly helpless, but just the few steps in the plane earlier were hard and exhausting. For a moment, the thought that you might never be able to race again crosses your mind, but you push it away violently. So far, you had achieved everything in your life that you had set your mind to, and you sure as hell will not let anything stop you now.

It feels good to be back in your own space. You exhale deeply and you immediately start to feel a bit better. The familiar surrounding eases your negative thoughts, and you find yourself calming down. “Alright”, says Charles, “I will get going and get the crutches from the doctor, and get groceries, then I will be back!” Before you can say something, he is out of the door. “The doctors in Brazil contacted your doctor here to consult and discuss next steps.” You nod, feeling slightly overwhelmed. Pierre tells you bit more about the topic, but you can’t really focus your attention. At some point, you let out a big yawn. Pierre chuckles. “Seems like someone is tired!” “Exhausted”, you tell him, and he gives you an understanding nod. “How about you take a nap?”, he offers. “Sounds super!”

He helps you into your room, where you quickly change into some shorts and a shirt. After you are done, Pierre enters the room with a glass of water in his hand. “I know that you like to keep a glass of water next to your bed, so I figured I would bring you one!” “How do you know?”, you question. He shrugs his shoulders. “You mentioned it one day…” “Thank you!” He smiles at you, puts the glass down and grabs the blanket. He throws it over you and gently tugs you in. “Sleep well, mon ange!”, he says but you are already sound asleep.

The next week is exhausting, more mentally than physically. You are able to leave the wheelchair rather quickly, but you still the need the crutches for support. Despite the fact that you weren’t really injured, at least not in the traditional sense, your body was still weak. You just cannot really rely on it right now, so the crutches are there to support and help you. You are just happy that you are out of the wheelchair and that you have a tiny bit of your independency back. What helps even more however, is the constant support of your friends. They cannot be with you right now, as there are still two more races for them to finish. Your doctor appointments keep you occupied, your family visits and helps you with whatever you need. Your friends call you, sometimes just to tell you minor things but it helps. You don’t feel isolated, and you cheer on them from your living room. Right now, it feels okay to not be on track – you feel like you are going to be okay.

The season ends in the end of November. Winter has Monaco in its grip, the first snow falls. Everything looks so pretty that you cannot really feel down. On top of that you love Christmas, and you keep yourself busy with present shopping, at least until you have to get ready to leave for England. It is a Tuesday, and you had just been at the doctor’s office. While your doctor is sure that you will fully recover, he also gives you a real perspective on things. The possibility is there that you can race next season, but the cost could potentially be high. He tells you to consider your options. Lando picks you up from this appointment and together you drive to the airport. The two of you were scheduled to fly to the McLaren headquarters for a week to discuss the next possible steps. The flight goes over quick, you are unusually quiet – and Lando just lets you be. He can sense that you need the time, so he gives it to you.

When you step out of the airport, Zak waits for there for you personally. The older man pulls you in a tight hug, it had been a while since he had seen you in person. “Good to see you, kid!”, he tells you with a fatherly tone in his voice. You grin at him, happy to see him. You climb into the car and Zak drives you to his home, to have dinner with his family. You quite enjoy it, but you feel yourself get tired after a while. Lando notices and decides to call a taxi for the both of you to drive to the hotel.

You share a suite, in case something was to happen during the night, but you sleep well. After a nice breakfast, you are getting picked up for the headquarters and inside you are feeling very nervous. You are good at hiding it, but you fiddle with your fingers. Lando takes one of your hands and gently squeezes it. Only now that you are not good on foot you realize how big the McLaren compound really is.

The core team meets in a room close to the entrance for your sake. They are all beyond happy to see you, everyone is relieved that you are on your feet again, at least partly. It is not many people, as you agreed with Zak to discuss the next steps in a small team before you met with everyone. After exchanging some courtesies, it is time for you to tell them of your decision. You take a deep breath and Lando once again squeezes your hand. No one knows what you are going to tell them, and you don’t really know how to tell them. You decide it is best to rip the band aid of fast.

“After consulting with my doctor yesterday, I think it is best if I resign for indeterminate time, until I am fully recovered.” The room is eerily quiet, everyone is a bit shocked. “While I could possibly sit myself into the car next season, I would not be able to give you guys the results you deserve. Trust me, this is not what I wanted, but if I race next season, the possibility of lasting health issues is very likely, and I do not believe that some half-assed results are worth that. I want to apologize –“ “Don’t!”, Zak interrupts you, “We have all developed a soft spot for you in our hearts, and we were all shocked when we heard what the doctors in Brazil said. Your health comes first. While we are deeply saddened about you resigning for indeterminate time, I believe I speak for all of us when I say that we would like to keep you around one way or the other.” You nod, tears welling up in your eyes. On the one side because they were so supportive, on the other side because you stating your resignation makes it a lot more real.

Now it is official – at least within your team – that you will not start next season. It feels a bit like your world is ending, your goals are out of your reach. You feel hopeless, and like you are – quite frankly – an absolute loser. Self-doubts threaten to eat you up, you want to curl up in a ball and just stop existing for a while. You spent the rest of the meeting lost in your thoughts, and the next days go by in a blur. You visit the headquarter many more times that week, talking to the team, discussing the best way to communicate your indeterminate resignation. You call Pierre a lot, telling him about everything. He deserves to know from you, so do all of your other friends. You cry a lot those days, Lando never quite leaving your side. He is there for you, so is everyone else. Yet you find yourself withdrawing yourself from almost everyone except Pierre. You call him daily, sometimes more than once. Many times, he has to listen to you softly sobbing into the phone, and it breaks his heart. But he never blames you, he always listens, he always comforts you.

After an exhausting week, there is only one more thing to do – film your resignation video. You cry during the video too, but you don’t mind – you love your fans, and they deserve to know the truth and witness your real feelings about your resignation. In the end, the video is 10 minutes long – you explain your reasons, you promise that you will be back. And you mean that. Somehow, you have found your fighting spirit once again. The video ends with a collage of your best moments in F1. A tribute to your achievements so far, but you are now certain there will be more eventually. You will put all the work in necessary so that you would heal properly, and that you would be able to sit in the car next year.

You fly back to Monaco alone – Lando would have come with you, but you told him to stay home with his family for a bit. He drove you to the airport and saw that you get to the plane just fine. When you land, Lewis and Valtteri are already there to welcome you back. They are kind and gentle and brotherly, and your soul heals a bit when they take you to lunch that day. They don’t make you feel like a loser anymore, they tell you that they are proud of you for making this hard decision. The three of you share things that you have never spoken about before, and it helps. The sun is shining on a white Monaco and your heart becomes full and hopeful. You are still weak and exhausted, and when they take you home you are more than ready to sleep, but it is different.

The next week is a busy week once again. You visit your doctor and your personal trainer a lot, discussing measures to help you healing, and setting up a slow training program that would help keep you in shape, while not overburdening your body. You still call Pierre every day to talk to him. He is with his family in France for Christmas, and he has invited you to join him. You tell him you will once you feel better. He understands, like he always does. He makes you laugh with his joke, and he tells you he misses you. You miss him, and when he drops one of his compliments, it is somehow different now. Your cheeks heat up sometimes, and your heart skips a beat.

Christmas is nice, and special. You are home, and for once you have nothing to do – no real training, only little exercises. No media duties, and you enjoy the time with your family. After New Year’s, you travel back to home to Monaco to rest and heal. The boys are all there for you – for whatever you need. They ask you how you are all the time, and they help you where they can. It is the little things, really, and one day you feel particularly bad about it. You cannot really give them anything back at the moment, and you feel like you are using them. You wake up with those feelings that they, and to distract yourself from them, you go on Instagram. Scrolling through your feed, you occasionally send them funny videos. It was the least you could do. After an hour or so, you lift yourself out of the bed, finally. You are very hungry, and you think about ordering something, when suddenly your doorbell rings. You need some time to reach it, walking slowly with your crutches, and when you open it, Daniel stands there in front of you. “You send me the first Reel on Instagram like one hour ago, so I figured you are hungry by now. I brought groceries and I am here to cook for you!” “I… You shouldn’t have!”, you try to argue, but Daniel already moves past you and into your kitchen. You follow him slowly.

When you see that he is already collecting dishes to prepare breakfast, you just sigh. He picks up the defeated sound and perks up, smiling at you. His face falls when he sees the way you look at him, like you are almost crying. “Hey hon, what´s up?”, he asks you. “I just… I feel so bad about all of this. I feel like I am using all of you, and like I am not giving anything back!” Daniel shakes is head violently, and he comes over to pull you in a hug. You almost disappear in it, and he draws soothing circles on your back. “Y/n, don’t ever say or think something like that again. You have almost given your life for us, and this is what friends are here for. We help each other when we can – sometimes one or the other does give a bit more. It equals out in the end. Besides, you still listen to all of us rambling, and you still give the best advice!” He pulls away and a tiny smile is on your face now. He ruffles your hair and before you can protest, he is back in the kitchen. “Now, go rest your ass on the couch, mate!”, he says, and you cannot help but laugh when you limp over to the living room.

Breakfast is nice, and Daniel makes you laugh with his stupid jokes. It is good to feel like this. You know that right now was the easy part – your friends are here, and they all have time for you. But you are afraid of what is coming after the winter break – when they are all gone, and you won’t be able to be with them doing the things you love the most. It will most likely break your heart, but you try not to think about it, at least not now.

It is a few weeks later, the next season will start soon. You have picked up training again, very slowly. It mainly consisted off walking on the treadmill, holding onto the sides. A few easy exercises that keep your body mobile and flexible and your muscles occupied. Spring is blooming in Monaco; the first sun is shining. Everything is going well. Well, almost everything. Right now, you are beyond embarrassed.

You had felt better today, so you had taken the taxi down to your favourite park to enjoy some time there. It had been late afternoon already, you had walked around a bit and sat down in a small restaurant to eat dinner. Now, it is later than expected, it was dark, getting colder by the minute, and you are beyond exhausted. Furthermore, the crippling feeling in your legs leaves you to panic, which is why you – against all rationality – do not call a taxi. Instead, you call Max, who picks up almost immediately. “Can you pick me up, Maxie?”, you choke out, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “Send me your location!”, he says, and you can hear that he already picks up his keys. You nod, even though he cannot see that, and send him your location with shaky fingers. Max is there just ten minutes later to collect you. As soon as you see him, the tears really start to flow. He wraps his arms around you, his sweatshirt is collecting your tears, and he whispers encouragements while he gently strokes your hair. After a few minutes, you calm down and he helps you to his car.

He holds open the passenger door for you, and you climb in, almost falling because your legs are giving out under you. But Max is there, he catches you, and helps you. He closes the door behind you and gets in on his side. “You okay?”, he asks. You nod, using the sleeves of your sweatshirt to wipe away the leftovers of your tears. Max starts the car and drives through the dark streets of Monaco. You don’t know where he is going until he stops at the drive through of a Fast-Food restaurant. “I figured the occasion called for ice cream or a milkshake”, he tells you when you he sees your questioning expression. A tiny smile creeps onto your face. Max orders you a milkshake and gives it to you. You hold it in two hands like a child and Max cannot help but laugh. You pout a little, but ultimately smile when he takes a picture of you holding the cup in your hand.

He drives you to your place and helps you up to your apartment. Reaching the door, he stops for a moment and thinks. “Would you like some company tonight?” For a moment you think about telling him to go home, because you don’t want to trouble him any further. But being alone tonight sounds terrible, so you push down the unnecessary feeling of guilt and nod. He steps into the apartment with you and helps you take of your jacket. Together, the two of you settle in on the couch and put on a movie. You feel your eyes get heavy, but before you can tell Max that he might as well go home as you are about to fall asleep, you slip into slumber.

The next morning, you wake up in your bed. You stretch and roll over to your phone. A text from Max. “Don’t get scared when you wake up, I am sleeping on the couch.” You smile to yourself and get up. Max is still asleep, so you climb into the shower. Once you are done and dressed, you make your way into the kitchen to make breakfast. Already in the hallway, you hear voices. You are confused – you know that Max is here, but who else? Stepping into the kitchen, your eyes fall on Pierre. Immediately, a big smile appears on your face. “Pierre!”, you exclaim happily and his face lights up once his eyes fall on you. He rushed over and wraps you in a tight hug. What you don’t see is the wiggling eyebrows Max aims at Pierre. Pierre just rolls his eyes and then closes them to take in your scent for a moment. Soon after, you break the hug, but Pierre stays close, his arm loosely wrapped around your hips.

Max excuses himself shortly after, as he has an appointment. You bit him goodbye, and when the door falls close, you turn around to Pierre. “Why are you here already?”, you ask him, and he flashes you a cheeky grin. “Not happy to see me?” You shake your head but laugh. “I am more than happy to see you, Pierre! I was just thought you would arrive in two days.” “Well,”, he says and wraps you in another hug, “I really wanted to see you!” You are happy that your face is buried in his chest because a blush creeps on your cheeks.

Pierre pulls back a little and looks at you. “Are you feeling better today?”, he asks with genuine concern. You nod, “Yeah, thanks to Max. He picked me up last night and stayed over to make sure I was okay.” “Max told me what happened. Please, ange, you need to be careful. I know it is hard to be confined in this space and not being as independent as you used to be, but you need to watch out for your health.” You sigh, but nod. “I know. I am just really tired off this, and I want to experience things again. I am afraid that I won’t ever be able to get into the car again…” Pierre nods understandingly. “I get that. But the more you rest and listen to your body, the sooner you will be fully healed.” “Yeah, you are right. I –“, you want to say something more, but suddenly, your stomach growls.

Pierre laughs and you grin, a bit embarrassed. “I think you need some food!”, Pierre says. “Yeah, I am starving!” The two of you make your way into the kitchen and just now you see the huge bouquet of flowers on your kitchen counter. “Wow, these are beautiful”, you exclaim, “Thank you Pierre!” He smiles and waves it off. “It´s nothing”, he says, but for you, it is everything. Pierre pulls out one of your pans, and as you are about to help him, he shoots you a glare. You lift your hands up in mock defence and make your way into the living room. You get your laptop from the couch and sit down on the dining table, as you have some things to finish up. Just because you were not a driver anymore, that didn’t mean that you had nothing to do. Especially now that the winter break slowly came to an end – you had agreed with McLaren that you would be involved in their Social Media activity. It had been Lando´s idea, and you are really grateful for it.

While you couldn’t start on the grid next season, you also didn’t want to entirely leave the F1 world. You are not yet sure if that is a good decision, to be involved but not driving, but you would have to wait and see. Pierre joins you a bit later with some breakfast, and you are beyond happy to finally have him with you again. The two of you will spend some time in Monaco together, before the new season started.

You make the most out of that time. Some days you just sleep in, you in your bed and Pierre in the guest bedroom, and then you would have a long breakfast, you would take a little walk, talked with the fans. He helps you with your exercises, he is a gentle trainer, yet he inspires you to go a tiny, tiny step forward every day. He massages your muscles when they are tired, he applies the lotion your doctor prescribed you. He takes you out for lunch or dinner, he goes shopping with you if that is what you desire. He finds the best clothes for you, you feel pretty in them, you feel worth it in them. He makes you feel safe and protected and if you knew better you would say that he makes you feel loved, but you don’t talk about that. Right now, it is not the time for it, and you both just enjoy what you have for now. The lingering touches, the way the two of you gravitated towards each other. He takes good care of you, and he never gives you the feeling of being a burden, even if you need help with silly little things. Like when your arms and hands are so tired that you cannot take off your own socks. He never makes you feel like you have to be embarrassed about any of those things and it helps.

The break ends soon after these great moments and you hold up quite well. Saying goodbye to Pierre is hard, and you cry. He holds you and presses a kiss on your forehead and tell you that you can always call him. But it will be different, there will be the time difference and he will be busy, and you will be not. He still makes sure to call you whenever, and it works good somehow. Maybe it is because summer comes to Monaco and your friends visit you whenever you can. You train, you take it easy, you rest, and you heal. Soon enough, you are able to go for jogs again, your training becomes longer and harder and you seem to be on the right way. By the summer break, you feel stronger already, and life is rather normal again. You still feel exhausted some days and you are not where you used to be. But you were okay with that.

The sun lifts your mood up, even on the days you don’t manage to run very far. You still go out these days, just go get the kilometres down, to keep your body moving. Summer break comes, and with that the boys are back in town. They spend most of their free time with you, and you are beyond grateful for that. It means the world to you, that they come and visit. Pierre spends a lot of time in Monaco with you as well. You take it easy, enjoying the time together. Just like over winter break, he takes you out a lot. You go and see museums, concerts, whatever there is to do. Some days are exciting, others are slow and relaxing. You take naps on the day bed on your balcony, enjoying the warm summer sun. Your head often rests on Pierre´s lap, or you are cuddled up in his arms during those naps. Still, you don’t talk about it, it is all very natural, your relationship growing stronger every minute you spend together. However, labelling it is not your priority right now, it is still your healing journey.

The two of you also spend lot of time together with the other drivers. Like today for example. Currently, you are laying in the warm sun on the deck of Charles yacht. The boys are bickering about something, while you are reading. You had just left the harbour a few minutes ago, and the boys already distracted you from your book. You cannot help but smile though, you had missed this. It was almost like you were still part of the driver line-up, and you feel relieved that nothing has really changed. They are all still the same adorable dorks they used to be. Some time later, Charles stops the yacht in the middle of the sea. By now you are sweating and very warm, so you are the first person to take the leap of the deck into the ocean.

It is not really a problem; you feel good today. The guys follow soon after, and you start to joke around, splash each other with water, dunking each other under. You have so much fun that you don’t really listen to your body. You splash and dunk and swim around. Pierre watches you closely, like he always does. When you climb up the ladder, he is relieved that you choose to take a break, so he follows. You, however, have other plans. You are about to get ready to jump off the boat another time, when Pierre stops you. “You sure about that, do you not rather want to take a break?” You grin at him with the objective to calm him down. “I feel fine, Pierre!” He nods. “Just be careful, okay?” “Of course!”

You feel your mistake when you start to run to jump off the deck. Your legs are suddenly very, very heavy. You cannot stop anymore however, and before you realize, you are in the air. The force of impact on the surface of the water knocks the breath out of your lungs, your entire body suddenly feels heavy – almost too heavy for you to swim towards the surface. It takes you long to emerge from the water, too long. The others realize when you don’t come up immediately. Charles starts to swim towards you. A splash rips you from your apathy and you swim towards the surface with heavy arms. You emerge coughing and one second later Pierre is right next to you. He helps you to hold yourself over water, and soon, Charles is by your side as well. You are embarrassed, but they don’t let on how scared they really were. Pierre helps you up the stairs and you sit down in one of the seating areas. Pierre brings you a towel and wraps you in it. When the towel is around you, he doesn’t let go. “I am sorry!”, you whisper, “I should have listened to you.” Pierre shakes his head. “Don’t worry, just don’t scare me like that again.” “I won´t!”, you promise and snuggle closer into Pierre. He holds you and you fall asleep soon after.

The rest of the summer break is spent similar. You hang out with Pierre and the guys, you go to France with Pierre, you visit your family, life is good. But then, the races start again, and fall comes to Monaco and with that the rain and the grey days. You are not able to go out of your apartment that much anymore, you are lacking energy and you feel like you are making steps back. Your training doesn’t go as smooch anymore, you feel like your comeback might be in jeopardy.

You are in a bad mood, there is no reason to sugar coat that. You are beyond miserable. The feeling that you will not return next season haunts you, and you are terrified of it. What if you will not manage to ever race again? You have never known something else; you have never learned something else. You feel like you are drowning, and your saving comes in form of a particular Frenchman. He knows that you had been able to go on runs again and that you did harder workouts again, he knows that you were on a way to get better. When your best friend calls him and tells him that you spent most of your days inside now not doing much, he doesn’t believe it at first.

He does, however, when you open the door and look like you haven’t changed out of your sweatpants in a week. You look messy, eyes puffy and tired features. He is scared to see you like this, so hopeless and so… He doesn’t know how to describe it, but you look so little, so tiny. You weren’t the tallest, but usually you carried yourself like you were the tallest in any room. Now, you are hunched over. For a moment he thinks you are going to close the door in his face, but you don’t. “Put your clothes on, we are going for a run!”, he tells you. You don’t protest verbally, but your attitude shows him enough. He doesn’t flinch though. He drags you out of the apartment – you still haven’t said a word. He takes your hand when you arrive downstairs, and he pulls you with him. A little “Pierre, I can´t!” leaves your mouth, but he pretends that he doesn’t hear it. And, after the first meters, you seem to shake off the paralysis that had a tight grip on you the past week.

Your breath is steady, and you are keeping up well with him. It starts to rain, the trail becomes wet, and you slip at some point. You fall, and this little happening seems to make you fall apart. You stay on the ground, and you don’t grab Pierre´s hand when he reaches out. At first, he doesn’t realize but then he sees that you are crying, and he doesn’t care about his outfit – he drops to his knees next to you and hugs you. You want to turn away from him, you feel so fucking weak and pathetic, and he sees you in that state. It embarrasses you; it makes you angry. You want to push him away, you struggle a bit against his grip, but Pierre doesn't let go of you.

“Why am I so weak?”, you cry softly in his shirt, but Pierre hears you. “You are not weak, mon ange”, he whispers. He pulls you a bit closer, like he is afraid that the rain will wash and carry you away. “You are the strongest person I know. I know that life is hard at the moment, and I cannot imagine how you are feeling. But you will get there, I know that!” “I feel like I am the absolute worst version of myself right now, and I just don’t see myself driving next year, but… But that´s all I have ever known, it´s all I have ever wanted!” Pierre still holds you close. The rain is coming down harder now, and you are getting soaked to the skin. You don’t care, it doesn’t matter to you. “If I know anything, I know that you will come back stronger next than ever next year!” “Why do you keep on believing in me, Pierre?”

“You might see yourself as the worst version of yourself right now, but I think you are the strongest, the fiercest version of yourself right now.” For a moment, Pierre falls silent. He takes a deep breathe before he whispers the words into your ear, as if he is afraid that they will be washed away by the rain when he speaks up or speaks them further away from you. “And I believe in you because it is the only thing that keeps me sane. I cannot even begin to think about the fact that you might not ever race again, because it would affect my life in so many ways. It might be selfish, but I would not get to see you as much anymore, and the thought of that is terrible to me. I want to be able to come out of the garage and walk over to hug you. I want to hear your laugh sound all over the paddock because someone cracked a joke. And, most importantly, I believe in you because I am completely and helplessly in love with you.”

You need a moment to take that information in, understanding what he just told you. “You don’t need to say anything, I –“, you stop him by pulling out of his hug and taking your face in both of your hands. The position is not really comfortable, but you don´t care. You press your cold lips against his and kiss him. He kisses you back, and you can feel his warmth seeping into your bones. The rain is still coming down hard, but all you can feel is Pierre's arms around you, and it feels like you have found a lifeline, like you have a new purpose to fight and return stronger than before.

#formula one x reader #f1 x you #f1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fic #charles leclerc #lewis hamilton #sergio checo pérez #pierre gasly x y/n #pierre gasly fluff #pierre gasly x reader #pierre gasly imagine #max verstappen x reader #valtteri bottas #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris

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itspyon · 6 months

Text

how to adapt into dtblr culture for twitter refugees

so you've decided to move here from twitter. welcome and congratulations. this post is basically a big warning that goes THIS ISN'T TWITTER, DON'T BEHAVE LIKE IT IS, LEAVE THAT AT THE DOOR

i'll be teaching you two things, how the site works, and how to adapt your behavior to tumblr ( and really, normal human being ) culture. believe me, it's not that hard and it will actually feel very productive

let's start with the basics and frequent questions

your username can be anything, don't stress about it

your picture can be anything. a lot of us don't even have dteam related stuff up on our profile

your display name doesn't have to be your name. nobody is going to see it when you post, only usernames are visible

check your settings. do it. get familiar with them. turning on and off asks, turning anon off, turning submissions off. click on your blog, go to blog settings, check things there, go to account, your muted things will be there, go to dashboard and customize that. use your settings !!!

yes, pinned posts are fairly important and they tend to be pretty extensive. name age what you post about ( a lot of people here are multifandom !), just don't overshare ( no locations no trigger lists i beg you ). they also usually have a breakdown of your tags at the end

tags

it's a whole thing. some are actually useful. some are just passive commentary

the tags you put on posts ( both when you made the post and when you're reblogging something ) are both global and hosted on your profile. it's why you'll see things like "nameofperson art" rather than just "art". using just "art" will put you in the promoted tag, in this case

you can use spaces on your tags

usually you will tag what type of post you're making ( art, text post, ask post ), and then the contents keep in mind this is how people often mute things, some people tag the current situation, people use and mute ship tags. but this is also how people find things, like the specific asks from one person to another, so "username ask" is commonly used, "irl person ( dream, dnf, etc )" is also seen a lot just watch how others tag things and copy them. nobody will get offended you took their tag formatting, most of us will appreciate properly tagged posts

you do tag when you reblog people. you use tags to comment on things. don't really use replies unless you're, saying thank you to someone or pointing out a spell mistake or asking to add an option to a poll, etc. we don't do replies, just rb your reply

quick reblog and like deets

post popularity is measured in "notes" which is the sum of replies, reblogs and likes. we don't really care much about numbers here and if you start getting crazy about it people will not like it. this is more of a talking and showing site

you can reblog without tags, feel free to

you can hide your likes. you can and should like as many things as you want. they don't alter any algorithm, since there's none. a like is a "i saw this post" notification to the poster

actually posting

people talk a lot. a fucking lot, and it's something you will have to get used to, because it's very different from twitter

there are no qrts. callouts are looked down upon. breathe. if you don't like something MUTE IT DON'T POST ABOUT IT, because no one is going to listen to any callouts. you will have to learn to live with the fact people like things you don't. this will, with time, make you feel very free

the bulk of posting here is asks, as you might notice soon. asks are fun and encouraged. just don't name drop if you're talking about drama please ?

don't be scared to send asks off anon, this is how people will find you and get to know you really. people are also more likely to reply to you

block bait anons. yes you can block anons. yes it will block every blog they make

culture time

i've said this. tumblr is unserious. drama here is approached very differently and with several less layers of panic. you will see death threats. you will see slurs ( said in non derogatory ways ). you will see jokes about serious topics. you will see people say "i didn't like this" and nobody will care

tumblr is a community of individualism. you will like your own things within the thing we share we like. you might not like dream's music, you might not find irl streams entertaining, as long as you're fucking normal about it ? nobody will care and you're free to express your opinions. people will even come ask you about it and just have a chat. we're here for the same content to some degree

tumblr is also a bunch of people who understand they like another bunch of people. that none of the streamers have stopped being human. so you might see people defend things that, maybe, you'd not have thought to defend before. maybe you're even uncomfortable seeing them defending it. this is something you will experience a lot, and you'll learn to properly deal with it as time passes

because again. no one does callouts here unless it is extremely bad. no one cares if you don't really like them. and they also accept people might and will not like them. and that is fine. and that doesn't make either person horrible. you're just different people. and you don't even have to interact

you want to make friends ? ask people things, compliment people's work, genuinely attempt to make conversation. this is not an impersonal website the way twitter is. people don't care about your opinions because they care about you, and you are more than what you don't like

the more positive and jokey and interactive you are the more people will talk to you. there's no "hitting the algorithm", there's no "engagement", it's just people talking to people. so don't be a neg posting bot, and be a person

you will learn to be less miserable. you learn to stop giving a shit and just do what makes you happy. they cannot get you here. there's no qrts. the few antis you'll find can be blocked and you'll never have to directly interact with one. don't be mean to the people in your own community, even if you disagree

again, you are more than what you don't like. learn to be what you like instead. and leave the dooming at the door

#pyon long post #if you have any questions feel free to ask #i will be happy to attach them with a reblog

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writefightandflightclub · 4 months

Text

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter One (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?

Genres: a LOT of angst, some smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings here. Please note this series is NSFW / 18+ and minors or ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written. Posting schedule is here.

Author’s note: (If you read the original one-shot this slightly amended chapter will already be familiar to you, so I'm sorry for the initial lack of surprises. I promise though - there are many surprises from here!) Some of you may remember that this all started as an angsty smutty one shot, way back in 2020. Let’s just say, some of you really liked that story (thank you!) and a “part 2” was requested so that I could “fix” things for these two idiots (affectionate). Well, I guess part 2 took a while, because now it’s four years later, and I have written 87,000 words (ish). Oops. So, as you might infer through the accidental novel length spew, this series means rather a lot to me. It’s the longest piece of writing I have ever seen through to completion, and so, whilst it’s definitely not perfect, I am pretty proud of it! I hope with all of my little orange heart that you enjoy it, and if you do, any RBs, comments - or anything at all really - would mean the world. These two have lived in my head for four years and I will miss them, but I'm so excited to finally share them with you all! Honestly, I could say lots more, but for now I'll leave you with one more thought, which sums up this whole experience quite frankly: the characters made me do it.

Finally, I have to thank you all, lovely pocket friends, for being so supportive and encouraging the whole way. It means so much to me! Especially, I GOTTA thank the fabulous @astroboots, who has hyped this project from literally before the beginning and been so encouraging, and @foxilayde, who is an incredible cheerleader for all my hare-brained endeavours. ILY!

Word count: 9.7k for this part (it’s broken down into 3 sections, if you prefer to read in stints!).

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to the taglist if you are 18+ (or removed!). Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

You love your squad. You really do. However, if you are being honest, it can be tough being treated as “one of the boys”. You know it’s a good thing that they don’t treat you any differently - but sometimes, you have to admit you want to be seen as a woman first and a soldier second. Especially on evenings like this when testosterone and drinks are flowing freely. Evenings when you have an ache in between your thighs that, in your case, calls out for a man. Okay - calls out for Santiago “Pope” Garcia, to be specific.

“I hope you can handle something stiff going down your throat,” you announce crudely to the group, arriving to whoops of appreciation as you slide the tray of hard liquor and beers on to the lofty bar table.

The squad is celebrating a successful bust, and the relief and revelry in the air after the months-long operation is palpable.

“Cheers to that!” Frankie winks with a dumbass grin, rubbing his palms together with glee. “You’re a saviour – Pope’s taking far too long.”

Will helpfully conveys the shots and beers around the table, glasses and bottles clinking and jovial smiles rippling through the group as a direct result. Ready for a cold one, you bring the rim of your beer to your lips for an immediate swig, condensation pooling on your fingers and making you realise how close the air is in this buzzing but dingy place.

“Bottoms-up, boys,” Tom directs as he passes you a shot, earning a good-natured side-eye from you. “And bottoms-eth up-eth, Mi’ Lady,” he adds, along with a regal hand wave to match his faux Olde English tone.

“To busts!” you ‘cheers’, clinking your glasses in the centre of the table. The innuendo earns a throaty, gruff chuckle from Frankie who bumps shoulders with you, inviting you to share in the camaraderie. You give-in with a broad smile, unable -as ever- to resist Frankie’s tittering.

“Oh, hang on,” Frankie says, flitting quickly to a now unoccupied bar stool at an adjacent table (seats are in short supply tonight) and dragging it over to you.

“This for me, Catfish? How gallant.”

He grins. He knows you hate gallant. “It’s actually for Pope and his creaky knees… but you may as well make use of it while he’s pre-occupied,” Frankie chortles. You sit gratefully, your decision to wear heels after months in your beloved combat boots feeling like a definite mistake.

Speaking of mistakes...

“You fucking seeing this?” Tom asks, nodding his head over towards your squad mate, apparently simultaneously in awe of and amused by his current interaction at the bar; the very reason the drinks had been failing to materialise.

Twisting on your perch, you follow his gaze towards Santiago, eyes boring into the back of his head and his wash of grizzled curls. Involuntarily, your eyes trail over his form, the midnight blue button-down taut over his muscled shoulders as he casually props himself against the bar, jeans snug over that impossibly shapely rump. He has the barmaid rapt, eating out of his hand, all batting eyelashes and tongue slack in her mouth. Abandoned, a tray of shots sits unnoticed in front of Santiago as he lingers in conversation with her. All you can do is watch as, next, she leans over the bar brazenly, letting her thick, dark mane cascade across her ample, showcased cleavage. You can’t see Santiago’s expression as he -respectfully, you’re sure- admires her, but you can imagine it.

Occasionally, you are on the receiving end of those expressions too.

Unfortunately, Santiago has a raw talent for making… connections. Besides off-shore bank managers and corrupt lawyers, that also inevitably extends to hook-ups. He is never short of distractions. Or, apparently, you never can hold his attention for long. When you do, though? When he does notice you, he makes you feel like you are the only woman in the world, his focus so intent and unrelenting you feel like he is viewing you through a sniper scope. Like the attention might end you.

You bristle thinking about his selective interest, the dull ache between your legs intensifying.

“Never mind that deserter. Let’s celebrate without him,” you encourage to a ripple of agreement. You toss your shot back in-time with the boys and screw-up your face, shuddering in response as the spirit burns down your throat. You stick your tongue out with a “bleuch” as the aftertaste lingers.

However, your distraction doesn’t work for long, as your comrades seem determined to continue gossiping about the object of your desire.

“How does he do it?” Tom asks in disbelief, with more than a side of jealousy. He’d always given off the vibe of envying Santiago, you’d thought. “We’re all good-looking guys, man. But that little shit’s rolling in it.”

“I don’t know what it is. He’s not even tall,” Will snickers, knowing that Santiago hates being teased about his height.

Frankie interjects. “MaybeFrankie interjects. “Maybe it’s the big dick energy.”

No comment.

You’ve certainly never had any complaints about his stature. He is large enough to feel sturdy and surrounding, and small enough that you can take control of him when the mood strikes you. Oh, and you’ve certainly never had any qualms about his big dick energy… or his big dick for that matter.

Frankie chuckles again at the good-natured teasing and bumps you with his elbow. You are grateful for his easy, infectious laughter, acting like an umbrella against the moody, Santiago-shaped storm cloud which threatens above your head.

“For real though,” Tom interjects, leaning forward over the table as if he’s sharing classified intel. “Has he been getting frisky with the informant again?” His eyes travel around the table, meeting each squad member’s gaze in turn. “I feel like he’s definitely got something going on there too. Tell me I’m seeing things.”

“Luci?” Will asks, then whistles in surprise at Tom’s accusation, his brows converging. You’re not sure if he’s surprised by Santiago’s potentially compromising choices, or impressed by his unparalleled ability to pull. “That sly dog.” Perhaps it’s a little of both.

You tense. Santiago getting involved with an informant. A beautiful informant. Sounds entirely plausible, although Santiago has neglected to tell you if it is true. Besides building connections, another skillset of Santiago’s is his uncanny aptitude for mixing business with pleasure. Realistically, he can do whatever the hell he wants with whomever he wants - it is no business of yours - but, in truth, you are tired. Tired of being the one he only picks up when he has no-one else. Tired of going unnoticed the rest of the time.

“Actually,” Frankie leans forward to drop this juicy titbit of gossip into the conversation. “Luci broke it off. Requested a new contact.” He taps the side of his nose as if to indicate that he has his sources too, trying to drum up some air of mystery. “Coincidence? I think not,” he adds, tipping his head towards the continued scene at the bar.

You stiffen then in cold realisation. That’s why. That’s why he was noticing you earlier tonight. It wasn’t that he finally saw you. It wasn’t you in this dress. It wasn’t you. Yet again, he’d simply run out of distractions.

“Huh,” Tom says, looking a little too pleased with Santiago’s misfortune, swilling the dregs of his beer around absent-mindedly. “Well. He doesn’t seem devastated. It took him all of two minutes to get back on the horse.”

“Come on. You know Santi famously doesn’t get attached,” you snipe, partially serving the sentiment up as a reminder to yourself.

Santiago does have a... reputation. Honestly, you have no problem with that. There is no shame in having casual sex, after all. So long as it is safe and consensual, what does it matter? You’ve even acted as Santi’s “wing-woman” on a number of occasions. It had never been a problem; that is… it hadn’t been a problem until he started having casual sex with you.

Santiago is loyal almost to a fault in many other areas of his life. He is abundantly loyal to you, and there is no doubt in your mind that Santiago sees you as a friend first. As a soldier second. You know he respects you deeply for your sharp-mind, your humour, your straight-talking, and your lethality in equal measure. And, you also know that Santiago desires you. Or, at least, he does when it suits him. When he is paying attention. These various roles never seem to converge, though. As a friend? You and Santiago go way back. As a soldier? You’ve been on his squad longer than anyone has, since decades before you all went freelance. As a lover, though? Well, that is new. And he can’t seem to reconcile this new role with the rest of the ways he knows you.

Yes. Sure. Sometimes, Santiago desires the soft parts of you. Sees you as something other than a friend or a soldier. But you wish he would notice all of you, all at once. He sees you in fragments, like shrapnel. You wish he would piece things together. You wish he would notice you consistently. Not only when you’ve been out in the field too long, spending days bunched into hot and confined spaces, too close for comfort. Not only when hails of bullets send him reeling, searching for any kind of foothold on feeling alive. Still, over and over, you let him. You let him dip you back, with urgency - on to a mattress or a roll-mat or simply down on to the jungle floor - to thrust himself into you.

Santiago “Pope” Garcia is the man you crave. He gives it to you good. He makes you feel like a woman. Of course, there is no one particular way to be or to feel like a woman. There are infinite ways. For you though, very specifically, it is simple. It feels like Santiago desiring the soft parts of you which lay secreted under your tactical gear and your tough façade. It feels like him kissing you, soft lips and abrasive stubble. Strong hands and that muscled body writhing in a mess of breath and flesh. In those moments, you are a soldier least of all. Free of any mission, you become unadulterated; reckless abandon. You cease to be clipped and tactical, precise and lethal, and instead you become a soft, fluid thing beneath him.

Every time you arrive back in the city though, distractions abound. Santiago apparently ceases to desire you. Notice you. You had wrongly believed that tonight felt different. Something about the cool but heady night air. The way he was looking at you in this dress during your walk to the bar to meet the rest of the group. The way his hand lingered on your back as he guided you over to the table. But it mustn’t have been so. It must have been wishful thinking, that’s all.

You’ve done an increasing amount of wishful thinking, lately, it seems.

Too much.

You sigh deeply. You don’t even realise you have zoned out from the group’s banter until Santiago arrives back with the tray of drinks -and no doubt one more phone number in his contacts- by which point, you are riled up enough to grab the shot of tequila right off the tray and down it without thinking, salt and lime be damned.

“Woah, cariño. Feeling spirited tonight? Not wanna wait for the rest of us?” His smile is broad and easy and annoying as hell and suddenly you are adrift.

“Nah, I’m done waiting, Santi,” you bite. He doesn’t catch the double-meaning in your words, because of course he doesn’t. Why would he?

Your skin flushes with instant heat as a result of his presence- definitely a recently acquired response. And so, you hastily dismiss your leather jacket, revealing a strappy, red, form-fitting dress beneath. Your appearance even earns a low whistle and murmur of approval from your buddies.

“Someone’s gonna get lucky in that cute little number,” Frankie says pointedly, even as he’s staring curiously at Santiago staring at you. Maybe he’s on to you two.

You smile, happy -as ever- to take a little flattery. Plus, you do find it hilarious to watch these guys squirm when they remember that you do, in fact, have a body concealed underneath all your tactical gear.

“Well I won’t get lucky if you chumps keep staring down every man who looks at me,” you complain, already having clocked the defensive perimeter which has formed around you, simply from the way they have positioned themselves.

The squad are protective of you, unnecessarily, and you simultaneously chide and love them for it.

“Big men protec’, chiquita,” Frankie teases, puffing out his biceps and chest like a gorilla. He says it knowing fine well you could take out any one of them if you wanted.

You hear the warm rumble of Santiago’s laugh next to you too, chiming in time with yours, his body closer than you’d realised as he dishes the remaining shots out. “Please!” he scoffs, casually slinging his arm around the back of your bar stool, the shot primed in his other hand. “You know damn well she doesn’t need protection!”

“She’s gonna need protection when she gets laid,” Will quips, causing Tom to almost snort beer out of his nose in amusement and Frankie to high-five him from across the table. You would scold him but you’re laughing too, even as you roll your eyes good-naturedly at their ‘bro’ humour.

You drop your head towards Santiago as the others continue snickering like a pack of hyenas, the alcohol clearly having gone to their heads already. That’s what they get for drinking on empty stomachs. You and Santiago’d had the foresight to hit up a first rate food truck on the route across town, like sensible people.

“Dance with me, Pope?” you ask, giving him a subtle yet seductive bat of your eyes.

“For the love of God, Pope. Leave some women for the rest of us,” Tom pleads -partially in jest, you’re sure- as Santiago curtly nods, not knowing quite what you’re up to but taking your hand anyway.

“Ok. I hear you. Let’s ditch these losers,” Santiago joshes, smiling as he gets a predictable rise out of his squad.

It isn’t so unusual for you two to dance together when you visit bars, so it doesn’t earn too much suspicion from the group (plus, you’re military - you two have been pretty damn good at hiding your hook-ups, covering your tracks). Dancing with you might undo the careful ground-work Santiago had laid with the barmaid just a moment ago, however. Even so, Santiago opts to follow you into the sweaty throng of people on the floor all the same, your fingers loosely twined with his as you lead him. You find a relatively private spot, away from the prying eyes of the squad, and come to a standstill.

You turn into Santiago at the last available moment, meaning he ends up disconcertingly close. Almost chest-to-chest with you.

“Put your hands on me,” you command, a little more throaty than intended. You sling your arms around his shoulders, fingertips brushing at the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck. Santiago hesitates, but following a search of your eyes he plants his hands firmly onto the small of your back. You instantly feel the broadness and the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your dress. Those lethal hands. The hands that have pulled triggers and grenade clips. Choked the life out of assailants. Those lethal hands that have traced gently down your back as you laid bare beside him, killing you softly.

You let his hands rove over your body, wherever he wants to put them. Apparently, he wants to put them everywhere he can, like it’s a compulsion to touch you. He trails his hands up and down your back, ghosts them over the globes of your ass, snakes them down to the lip of your dress where his fingertips brush against your bare thighs, tacky with heat. And, after wandering, his hands come to rest low-slung on your hips, exactly where he likes to grab you when he thrusts into you. He gives you a subtle squeeze there, and the feel of him floods back to you. You are reminded of the way, when you’re with him, your own lethal hands are finally occupied by something other than battle. Of the times when you relinquish any preoccupation with victory, in favour of reaching perfect surrender. The times when your heart throbbing in your throat feels like safety instead of danger.

His hands on you feel... natural. You move together symbiotically. Your bodies are always, easily in sync. On the battlefield, on the dance floor, in the bedroom. Always moving as a team. After so long side-by-side, it would be hard to exist in a manner to the contrary. It would be hard to exist without him at all.

Will be hard.

You let Santiago press against you as you sway together on the darkened dancefloor, gyrating and slinking your hips in time with the music. You feel him half-harden against you and his grip on your hips tightens, a feeble but gruff sound involuntarily escaping his lips and causing a coil to tighten in the pit of you.

You think Santiago looks into your eyes meaningfully then. With something deep and unspeakable. Though that must simply be the wishful thinking you’ve become so practised at, and so, you immediately dismiss the thought, even as you nestle your mouth closer to his ear in order to speak. As your breath fans over the corded column of his neck you could swear he engorges further. And, the ache between your legs becomes almost unbearable at the spike of his cologne in your nostrils, his familiar scent curling within you.

Santiago doesn’t smell like spice or musk or woodsmoke. Not to you. To you he smells like memories and possibilities - a heady paradox. Like your past and future. His scent inspires a quickening within you. Something under your skin is spurred into motion, tending toward collision. Yet at the same time, his scent curls in you and feels like… a stilling too. Like someone entirely arrived at a place so familiar that they forget ever having arrived at all and can’t imagine leaving.

You dismiss it. You try. You fracture the moment. You must, before you collide.

“I hear you’ve had some informant woes? I hope to God we got the intel.” You feel him tense instantly against you.

“Uh-huh. I got it.” Santiago‘s not really listening. Instead, he’s dropping his eyes to your body pressed up against his own, the heels of his hands now kneading into your hips. “You look good.” His voice is a husk in the shell of your ear as he leans into you, ensuring he can be heard over the music.

“Good for Luci, breaking it off though.” You dismiss his compliment, barely able to obscure the animosity in your tone despite all attempts to sound casual.

He snaps back from you an inch or so, enough to look you directly in the eyes. You think that maybe, he looks almost disappointed. “Jealous?” he probes, ticking-up one eyebrow.

He knows you far too well. Yet, despite his on-the-mark observation, the question makes you feel called-out and so, your next tack becomes unnecessarily cruel. Vengeful almost. “He’s getting there.”

“What?” Santiago asks in evident confusion, his hands slipping back-up to the neutral area of your back as the mood slips away too.

“The tall drink of water at 9 ‘o’ clock. Guy who’s been eyeing me all night. Doesn’t he look like he wants his hands on me instead of yours?” You know that you sound cruel, and petty, and the words feel bitter, like salt and lime in your mouth. You’ve said them all the same though. It’s already done.

Santiago’s jaw clenches, eyes flicking subtly over as he rotates you to get a better look at your target.

“He does,” he states, with a thin attempt at neutrality, his neck roped with tension as his eyes skim over the other man.

“Great. Then thanks for the dance, Wingman. You’re relieved.”

Santiago puffs out air, his jaw clenching and eyes darkening.

You tick an eyebrow up at him. “What’s wrong? You jealous, Santiago?”

Then, you saunter towards the bar, where the other man is stood. He very blatantly gives you the once over, evidently liking what he sees. You lean in with a flirty smile, letting the image of an aggrieved Santiago dissolve into the throng of people as you allow yourself to be entirely distracted.

You are done waiting.

You want to be noticed, and this handsome man in front of you is certainly providing you with his undivided attention.

***

Later, Santiago watches you prepare to leave with the other man, disgruntled and forlorn. He’s watched you all night via snatched glances through the crowd. Watched the man laugh at your jokes, watched him work up the courage to brush your arm. He watched you eventually move in for the kiss, your eyes turning hungry as you pulled away, teeth biting down on that delicious, pillowy lip of yours.

The bar having quietened down a little by now, Santiago sits in a booth opposite Tom and Frankie, Will having found his own company for the remainder of the night as well. Santiago’s head is propped on his elbow, a half-empty beer nestled in his other hand. His buddies’ eyes needle him as you toss a casual salute over to the table, your hook-up leading you out by the hand and your eyes shining gleefully.

“What?” Santiago hisses defensively, as Frankie continues to stare knowingly at him from the opposite side of the table.

Frankie’s head simply shakes in amusement. “Nothing. Only… when in the hell are you gonna figure out it’s her you really want, huh?”

“She’s just a friend,” Santiago bristles, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, hunching in on himself.

“And a fuck-buddy,” Tom ventures.

Santiago looks down, taking a masking swig of his beer. “You know about that?”

“Didn’t until just now. But thanks a bunch for confirming,” Tom replies in a self-satisfied tone, earning a chuckle and a bump on the shoulder from Frankie.

“Well… fuck.” Santiago sighs, his face becoming pinched.

“I already knew,” Frankie states. “Christ. You’re loud enough, man. Hard to keep the secret that you’re nailing one of the squad when we’re camped out in, like, 3ft of jungle.”

Santiago absent-mindedly picks at the label on his bottle with his thumb. “Don’t talk about it like that, man. It’s not… Fuck.”

Frankie just looks across at him in sympathy, Santiago’s reaction revealing more than he probably cared to about the true extent of his predicament.

You’d risen through the ranks together. You’d been through a lot. Everyone on the squad knew Santiago was your ride or die and you his. You had each other’s backs. Had tended each other’s bullet wounds for Christ’s sake. Your friendship and the trust between you both -on the battlefield and off it- was deep and unshakeable.

“And you don’t want more than that?” Tom probes.

Despite being indoors, Santiago picks up his baseball cap from the seat and pulls it down over his eyes then, in an attempt to shield himself from this line of questioning.

“What ‘else’ is there? There’s not much time for romance in between a hail of bullets.”

“Maybe.” Tom tips his head, contemplatively. “But you’re not getting any younger, Pope. How many years do your Goddamn knees have left in them?” He lets that one simmer for a moment, before nodding pointedly towards the door through which you had retreated. “You could do a lot worse, you know.”

“She could do a lot better,” Frankie interjects, earning a snigger from Tom and causing Santiago to huff, expression turning surly. Frankie holds his hands up defensively then. “Look, you do you, man. I’m just saying... I’m sure you’re having a great time getting your dick wet all over the continent… but if you don’t step up soon? You might regret it.”

Santiago whips his eyes towards his buddy, gaze interrogative and piercing. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing in particular,” Frankie shrugs, searching Santiago’s eyes with equal vigour. Santiago drops his gaze first, feeling exposed.

Frankie kicks his buddy gently under the table. “Come on, hermano. Use your words. Share your feelings.”

Frankie’s words may sound mildly taunting, as ever, but Santiago recognises the invitation to open up is genuine. He purses his lips, brows knitting together as he resists it, picking through his choice of words carefully before he allows them out of his mouth. He massages his palm over his roughened jaw and it rasps like sandpaper. “I don’t even know if she wants more.”

“Are you kidding me, man?” Tom responds in amusement. “The guy who can get information out of a freakin’ stone, make any informant sing, ‘doesn’t know’ if she wants more? That’s what’s stopping you? A fucking intel issue?”

Frankie titters again, narrowing his eyes at Santiago and trying to figure him out. “He’s scared,” the man accuses, before his tone softens involuntarily. “That it?”

Santiago takes an idle swig of his beer, polishing off the dregs before shrugging his jacket on, jaw twitching in irritation.

“Oh shit, he’s moping! He’s moping now. Can’t handle the truth,” Tom mocks.

“Come on, Santiago,” Frankie reasons. “We just want things to work out for you. You two are a good match- any chump can see that. Heh. Except maybe you.”

Santiago doesn’t respond. Instead, he simply continues his silent preparations to leave, stuffing his wallet and keys into his jean pockets.

“Plus- there are a bunch of reasons we’d like you off the market,” Tom teases. “More women for the rest of us. Golden opportunity to tease you for being so whipped.” Tom flashes a shit-eating grin up at his friend.

Nodding gently, lips twisted in a pout and refusing to rise to it, Santiago tips his head towards his squad members. “Gentlemen,” he offers by way of farewell, before starting towards the door.

“Want me to walk you home safe, chiquito?” Frankie calls.

“I’m not going home.” Santiago turns and gives the two men an affectionate middle finger before beelining toward the exit.

“You’re not going over to her right now, are you? Pope? Santiago? That’s not what we... She’s gonna be pissed, man. Think this through!” Tom shouts after him, but it’s futile. Santiago has already swept out into the night, leaving Tom and Frankie to exchange helpless glances.

There is a beat.

Then: “I bet the bastard gets laid as well,” Frankie snorts.

“Right?” Tom hums softly in agreement. “If anyone can turn up to a girl’s apartment while she’s banging another guy and still end up getting down? It’s that little shit, no word of a lie.”

There is a moment of silence as the pair sip their drinks and contemplate what Santiago has, precisely, which causes women to become so enamoured with him.

“Maybe it’s his ass?” Tom offers, finally.

Frankie clicks his fingers. “Ah. You’re probably right. That ass won’t quit.”

Meanwhile, Santiago steps out into the fresh air, the slight bite of it taking the edge off his alcohol buzz.

His thoughts are overwhelmed with you. Have been overwhelmed with you. In truth, Santiago is finding it harder and harder to keep this up. Especially whenever it is just the two of you, he finds it harder and harder to resist you.

It is typically easier in the city, where there are plenty of distractions. He is grateful for it - other people he can tangle with to take his mind off of you. In the city, it is easier to push that side of you out of his mind and to fall back into the clear-cut ways. The way it used to be before the lines had become blurred. Easier to compartmentalise his feelings for you. A friend first. A soldier second. A lover, only intermittently.

Santiago was determined not to let everything bleed into one, because once those barriers, those delineations fell, he was convinced he would never be able to rebuild them.

Most of all, he was convinced he wouldn’t want to.

The thing is... the “distractions”? They never really worked for long. You are the only woman for him, in truth. And for all it might be crazy, he is headed towards your apartment right now to find out if you feel the same way. To find out if you want more. To find out if you see him as more than a friend and a soldier and a lover, or if you see him completely, and all at once.

To find out if he is everything to you, like you are to him.

***

There is a loud rap on your door and it tears you, regretfully, from the tangle of limbs you are in. When the knock becomes more insistent, you apologise to the man blissed out beneath you and extricate yourself from his embrace, hastily cloaking yourself in a sheet and traipsing through your temporary apartment – home for the time being. Adrenalin piqued, you peer through the spyhole, relief flooding you when you see who it is.

“Santi? What the fuck?” you ask, opening the door to him and pressing the sheet to you with your remaining hand.

“Hi,” he says casually, the brim of his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes.

“I’m in the middle of something,” you bite, emphatically. “What in the hell do you want?” you hiss at him, keeping your volume low.

“You,” he says plainly.

Santiago looks you over; your flushed face, plumped lips and blatant post-orgasm glow. His jaw visibly clenches.

“What?!” you exclaim in confusion.

“I want you.”

You tear his blasted hat off to examine his eyes for sincerity, pushing it into his chest all bunched-up. He hastily stuffs it in his jacket pocket. Eyes narrowed, you appraise him a moment longer, clicking your tongue in disbelief at the nerve this man has before abruptly closing the door on him.

“Bye, Santi.”

“Wait!” he pleads, jamming his foot in the door and muscling through.

“What in the hell are you doing?!” you hiss again, backing-up and almost tripping over your sheet, which Santiago now has his mucky boots all over.

By this time, your hook-up for the night has heard the commotion and blustered through the dark apartment -in the nude- to ward off your supposed intruder. Your companion is bigger, sure, but he certainly shouldn’t mess with Santiago. He wouldn’t fare well at all.

You raise your hand to diffuse the situation. “It’s ok, he’s a friend. Sometimes,” you add with a tilt of your head.

Your companion’s face flashes with recognition as Santiago emerges from out of the shadows. “Oh. It’s you, from the bar. Here I was thinking we’d gotten rid of you already.”

Santiago simply glowers with bubbling aggravation at the man, who has the cheek to just stand there with his fucking schlong out, entirely undeterred. Santiago puffs his chest out, making himself larger.

“Please.” Santiago addresses you, tearing his eyes away from the man. “Can we talk?”

You sigh, unable to believe that you’re being stupid enough to agree to his demands. You turn back to the man you were enjoying being on top of until a moment ago. “Can you give us five minutes? I’m so sorry. I’ll be back.”

“Well - she might not be back,” Santiago suggests, and you glare at him, irritated.

The man looks between you and Santiago in disbelief before addressing you only. “Sure,” he says with a languid, sultry smile, ignoring Santiago entirely. “I’m willing to wait if we get to continue the fun we were having.”

“Oh he’s a cheeky fuck,” Santiago grates, his whole body tense, and you quickly grab his elbow to bundle him into the kitchen before he can do any further damage.

“You’re the cheeky fuck, Santiago.” Apparently that’s your type. You vaguely wonder why you keep subjecting yourself to this, but you certainly don’t wish to pull on that thread too hard. Not right now.

As you release his elbow, Santiago comes to face you in the narrow slip of a kitchen.

“Well? What in the hell are you doing here?” you rage whisper at him, folding your arms across yourself and tapping your foot impatiently on the tiled floor.

Santiago simply squares up to you, his expression formidable, unphased. His dark eyes trail over you again, snagging on the places where the sheet drapes over the contours of you. You are suddenly uncomfortably aware of how naked you are beneath it. “Told you. I want you.”

Normally, those words were enough. But not any longer. You scoff. “I know all about how you want me, Pope. Half-heartedly. You want me when it suits you. When you can’t have me. When there’s no-one else around for you to want.”

It is his turn to scoff now. “Casual is what you wanted. You gonna throw that back in my face now?”

You sigh, tiredly, refusing to get embroiled in this. This is all meaningless. He can twist things and make excuses all he likes, but Santiago is a man of action. If he wanted you? Really wanted you? He wouldn’t let a Goddamn technicality stand in the way.

You don’t have the energy for excuses. For this conversation. You’ve waited too long for Santiago to even realise there is anything worth talking about. So, instead of fighting back, you let it go.

“I’m done, Santi. I’m out.”

Your words feel like a relief to you, after bottling this up since you came to the decision. The relief extends through your body as you sag backward to lean up against the cold fridge door, that too relieving on your hot, sheening skin.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Santi dismisses your assertion instantly. He tended towards tunnel vision about some things. Just because he didn’t want out, he tended to assume that was true for everyone else. He was a connector, an enabler, and these factors combined meant the squad had stayed together a long time; far longer than it ever should have, like this time. He’d pulled his “retired” buddies back in, yet again.

“I’m for real, Santi,” you say in a small voice. “It’s already done.”

A veil of shock then betrayal passes over his face as the truth of your words sinks in. He takes a step back from you, as if he’s been sucker punched in the gut. His brows knit together and he looks down at the floor. “When?”

“Three weeks.” You figure you may as well rip the band-aid off in one go.

He turns his mouth down at the corners and slowly nods his head, doing an admirable job of containing whatever it is he is feeling, for the moment, while he gathers his intelligence. Mission above emotion, as ever. Santiago looks at the world through a scope sometimes, and he often forgets about the big picture. It always surprises you how a man so perceptive and attentive to detail -when he chooses to apply it- could fail to notice something right under his nose.

“Where?”

“Home. Desk-job, by the ocean. Private firm and a nice salary too. What’s not to love?” You add the extra information in an effort to detract from the thing you least wanted to face. Home is far. Far from him.

“Fuck,” Santiago breathes, finally looking up at you. “Because of me?”

You bristle again. “You arrogant piece of....” you sigh heavily, biting your lip and reminding yourself it isn’t worth it to grow aggravated. Plus, there’s a kernel of truth in his question, after all. You gather yourself before speaking again. “I stayed so long because of you, Santi. But I’m leaving for me. I’m tired of waiting.” Maybe he’ll notice you when you’re gone, you think. Maybe he’ll want you then.

“You can’t go. Someone with your skillset will be impossible to replace at short notice. How the hell am I supposed to keep the operation afloat without you?”

You shake your head softly, smiling in disbelief, his response confirming so many of your reasons behind going. Always focussed on the mission.

“Frankie’s looking into someone, actually. He knows a guy. He’s not as good as me, of course, but-”

“-You told Frankie?!” You can hear in his voice that the revelation hurts him. He has always been your confidant. But hey, things change, even if Santiago never does.

“Yeah, well,” you say thinly, through your teeth. “There’s plenty you don’t tell me, Santi.” You look at him pointedly. “Besides, I think you’ll manage. You always seem to find someone to meet your… needs. Don’t you?”

Santiago brings one arm up beside your head, leaning against the fridge with his palm, his dark eyes turbulent and boring into yours. “You’re the one who’s got some guy in there. What do you want from me, huh?”

He crowds you, but you can’t bring yourself to push him back. Instead, you languish more readily up against the fridge door, your grip on your sheet becoming less and less sure.

“Oh! That’s your fucking grand gesture? You came here to ask me what the hell I want from you?” Your passions rise, heart thrumming in your chest. You try and tell yourself it’s entirely from anger and nothing at all to do with his proximity. That it’s certainly not because of that look he’s giving you.

Speaking of proximity, Santiago’s now close enough to smell the other man’s scent on you. He’s leaning into you, breath ragged and desire clouding his eyes, even as you still bear the signs of being ravaged by another between your legs. Or perhaps… because of it.

Even as you stand here, like this, signs of another lover temporarily strewn over your person, it’s ludicrous to think another could claim you. You belong to Santiago. It’s Santiago who is indelibly written onto your body, the map of scars telling the story and you and him. The scar on your shoulder from a bullet wound, the scar on your calf from an off-road collision, the marks all over you serve as a reminder of the times Santiago has been there for you. Pressed his lethal hands to you to keep your lifeforce from ebbing away. He is your ride or die, and your body knows it.

Equally, as he stands there fully clothed, you know that his body similarly hosts a constellation of scars from all your shared moments; in the field, on missions, over continents. One of you could not hope to be read -to be understood- without the other. Your bodies would forever move through the world as a team, as a pair, even if you left his side.

You were each the key to cartographing each other’s lives. To imagine that the hickey on your neck or the slick between your legs could begin to compare to the way Santiago had marked you as his was almost comical.

“You really need a grand gesture to know I care about you?” You know what he’s asking. Is running into a hail of bullets for you not enough? Hasn’t he proven himself to you time and time again?

“Santi. I don’t doubt you care about me. I could never. I just… I don’t feel like you know yet what you want from me. And I can’t wait anymore for you to make up your mind.” You shrug. “I don’t know. I just feel like… like sometimes you don’t even see me because I’ve always been right in front of you.”

Santiago looks at you, pained, expression weighted, as if he can’t find the words to tell the story of you. But your bodies are not stories. They are maps, and maps are to be understood through being travelled. That’s why, when his hand slips to you shoulder to slowly trace the scar there, it makes sense. It is understood without words as his fingers journey over your skin, a varied terrain of memories flashing through Santiago’s eyes. His touch retracing years in only moments.

“I see you,” he insists, his voice a husk, his calloused fingertips trailing over your smooth, delicate skin. Making you feel weak. Making you want to become a soft, fluid thing beneath him. Oh, he’s looking at you now. There’s that attention that feels like it might end you. You commune wordlessly, breath quickening, that pulse of desire tending toward collision, the stillness of having arrived home as he touches you.

“I see you,” he purrs, his hand moving to your sheet, gently tugging it away from your grasp and giving you ample opportunity to protest. But you don’t. You don’t protest. You are symbiotic with him. You move as a team, and you can’t help but want to merge. Maybe that’s why you let him tug the sheet from your grasp, fabric pooling at your feet. Maybe it’s the ache between your legs. Maybe it’s because you know he gives it to you good.

Santiago exposes you completely to him, eyes then hands hungrily trailing down over your contours. His fingers grip your hips firmly as his mouth sinks into your neck, his hot breath fanning over you as he speaks.

“I see you, baby.”

Your arms are still pinned to your sides as you pretend that somehow you can resist your urges, despite being naked and needy and oh so ready in front of him.

“Fuck you, Santiago,” you breathe, voice trembling, and you know exactly what he’s doing as his lips and his teeth snag angrily over your skin. Reclaiming you. Marking you as his. And instead of pushing him away, you pull him closer to you. Instead of recoiling you arch your body against him, breasts pushing up against him, the cold metal of his chain harsh against your skin. The sturdy mass and heat of him beneath his clothes only highlighting how exposed and vulnerable you feel, your desire entirely on display like a flare in the dark.

His mouth has already ravaged your neck, your collarbone, his stubble abrasive against you, leaving a pleasant burn in its wake. His cologne is the only scent enveloping you now. Then, his hands rove over you, everywhere, like he’d wished they could in the bar, your skin still cloying, tacky with sweat. He paws at every bit of you as if to reinstate his claim on you. Your breasts, your ass, your hips, your thighs. He isn’t gentle. His hands showing their strength in a way they haven’t with you before now. He tongues your salty skin and the way his mouth punishes you is bitter like lime, foreshadowing his words.

“Did he make you come?” he asks into your neck, his hand slipping between your legs and finding you wet and welcoming. “Did he?”

“Yes,” you breathe, his voice commanding enough that you want to answer. Your face contorting as if in pain as Santiago continues to grind two girthy fingers over your folds. Your companion had made you wet, but nothing like this. All he’s doing is feeling you, coating himself, and Santiago has you drenched already; you can feel it slick against your inner thighs as you tremble under the weight of yourself, suddenly so heavy with lust that you can barely stand.

Your arms wind around his neck to steady yourself and he pins you between him and the fridge, your fingers inching up through the buzzed hair at his neck, nails trailing over his scalp and up into his grizzled curls as you finally become molten against him. Your hands fist in his hair and you tug his head up towards your lips, earning a grunt from him as pain needles across his scalp. The sound is growled into your mouth as his snarled kiss crashes against yours.

He’s frustrated, and he’s jealous, and he wants to show you that you’re his. What’s more, you want him to show you. Oh, how you want him to.

You shudder against the sudden blunt pressure of two of Santiago’s fingers at your entrance, your need urgent and a tightness building so immediately in your core. He pushes himself more firmly up against you, pinning you between his taut body and the fridge. His tongue ravages your mouth and your pleas for him to touch you become incoherent sounds that you work into him in return. His kiss is rough, his teeth scathing you, lips on yours in a crush, stubble grating at your chin and cheeks as he opens himself up as if to devour you. Then, he sucks your bottom lip in between his own and clamps his teeth down until you howl against the sting of it, bucking your body against the pain as you cry into his mouth.

With the bucking of your hips, you grind yourself against his hand, and Santiago barely needs to move as you willingly spear yourself on his fingers. He leaves you wanting though, allowing you just an inch of him when he has so much more to give. Already, the ridges of him against you are providing divine friction, his fingers curling and scissoring inside you, but he leaves you begging for more. Begging him to plunge himself all the way in.

“Did you think about me when you took him? Did you use him and wish it was me between your legs?” Santiago’s voice is like gravel in the shell of your ear, and his words curl into the depths of you. With them, he thrusts his fingers angrily into your heat, driving himself in all the way to the knuckle. Your eyes practically roll back into your head as he thrusts harshly and asks you again, even more insistent. “Did you?”

“Yes,” you admit, in a broken voice, tugging him closer to you, crushing your lips onto the column of his neck, tugging the collar of his shirt aside until you can bite down into the meat of his shoulder, stifling your moans there as his pace intensifies. His fingers are curling relentlessly towards your sweet spot and your walls are already fluttering against him. The heel of his hand is rocking against your excruciatingly sensitive clit, applying steady rolls of pressure as his fingers delve into you. His watch strap digs into your pubic bone but for some reason it only adds to the heightened sensations coursing through you.

“Do I make you feel good? Do I make you feel better with my fingers than he could with his whole body, huh?”

His words practically make you sob into him. It’s dirtier than you’ve ever heard him talk. It’s more intimate and further from friendship than anything you’ve done with him so far. Yes, you’ve fucked but this… this is something else. This is you admitting you are entirely his. This feels simultaneously more like battle and more like surrender than it ever has. And you wholly surrender.

You moan. You moan out loud despite the fact you shouldn’t. Despite the fact there’s still another man in the apartment who you had underneath you only moments ago.

“Are you gonna come on my fingers – show me who you belong to?”

You agree. You agree wholeheartedly.

Santiago pulls back just to watch you. To see the pleasure play over your face, both the overabundance of it and dearth of it as every touch satisfies yet has you craving more. You see a prideful glow in his eyes that he has you this wrecked, mewling and writhing on him as he adds a third finger into your wetness and pumps himself hard in and out of you.

“Fuck,” he intones, his voice hollowed-out. “You’re fucking drenched. Wettest I’ve ever felt.” God. You can hear how wet you are.

In dire need of some relief himself, Santiago presses his clothed, hardened length against your hip as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you. Even through the substantial fabric of his jeans you can feel the thick, hard promise of him as he begins to grind himself against you, low and guttural moans escaping his sweet lips. The fact that he’s so fucking desperate for you, that you have made him hot enough to get off from only this has a knot tightening in the pit of you as you watch him start to unravel alongside you.

“Fuck, Santi,” you moan into the air, not even caring that there’s someone else in the apartment. Past caring about anything at all except your need for him to keep touching you, his fingers filling you up so well.

“That’s it, baby. Say my name, say you’re mine.”

Santiago is still grinding his clothed length against you, even as his fingers overflow with your essence. He dips his head into the crook of your neck and the growl he emits fans over your skin. Makes it sound as if he’s about to lose it too, simply from this. His spare hand dips down to collect one of your breasts and he lifts your nipple into his mouth, sucking and tonguing and biting the peak of you, squeezing you -not gently- as you topple towards your end.

He continues to grind against you, and the thought of him exploding in his pants for you tips you over the edge, his name tumbling from your lips over and over as you flutter and clench around his fingers. The feeling spreading outward through your body like an explosion, leaving you levelled, a resounding buzz reaching all the way to your extremities and whiting out your vision like a flashbang. Your fingers tangle in Santiago’s curls as you spasm against him, his fingers eking every last drop of pleasure from you - as though he knows his way around you better than anyone could.

At the feel and sound and sight of you coming undone, his hardened length grinds on you with renewed vigour, a wracked and disbelieving moan stuttering through him as he loses it without you having laid a finger on him. His body becomes stiff against you as he pulses his seed out beneath his clothes. Something about him being so lost in desire for you that he’d make a mess of himself like that has you clenching with deep, generous aftershocks, adrift with the thought of his hardened length pearling with his warm release.

Santiago’s head settles into the crook of your neck as you both come down together, even as his fingers continue to lazily pulse in and out of you - just to feel you. Your arms lovingly cradle his head, fingers tangling in his curls, your lips finding their way to his hairline to plant gentle kisses there. Your Santiago. In your arms.

You stay there a moment until your jagged breathing and thrumming heart settle, enjoying him languorously touching you. With a shiver of contentment, he withdraws from your heat, wrapping his unsullied hand around your waist to pull you closer.

For a moment, everything is in soft focus, like the break of day before an alarm. You close your eyes against his touch and breathe him in as he whispers lovingly into your neck, planting light kisses where a moment ago his puckered lips left angry bruises.

“Fuck. I love you. I love you. I adore you. I need you.”

When you don’t respond though, Santiago stills against you, lifting his head to look you dead in the eyes. He finds them tearing in the corners.

Your voice begins weakly. “You love me, Santi. But do you want a life with me? A life outside of the mission, outside of all of this?”

He brushes his thumb softly over your jawline. “I know I haven’t been all in. But I swear it to you, baby... you’re my end game. It’s just, we’re not there yet. We’re too deep in this shit. If we can get one more of Lorea’s deputies then maybe-”

“-Sure,” you say sadly, the word heavy and the intimacy of the moments prior dissipating quickly. You know fine well what “one more” means. You dip to collect your sheet from the floor and tighten it around yourself, using the motion in a vague attempt to distract both Santiago and yourself from the tears threatening more violently in your eyes now.

The footsteps you hear approaching the kitchen are a further welcome distraction, and you surreptitiously clean off Santiago’s hand on the already soiled sheet before your first companion of the evening (now fully clothed) pops his head around the doorframe.

“I’m just gonna leave,” he interjects awkwardly, and your cheeks flush in humiliation. You’re sure one day, far into the future, this may be a funny story you tell, but, right now? It feels more than a little mortifying.

“I’m so sorry. I…” You reach for a more robust apology but come up with nothing, far too aware that Santiago’s eyes continue to needle you. What are you going to do? Tell him it was fun? And so, since you opt to leave it hanging, your companion simply pumps his eyebrows once before striding smoothly out of your apartment. You jump slightly as you hear the door slamming shut behind him, evidently feeling a little on edge despite being wrung out so recently by bliss.

Your eyes linger on the doorframe a little too long, staring at nothing except the now vacated space. You’re not ready to turn your attention back to Santiago quite yet, and you’re much less ready to deal with what will follow.

It turns out, you don’t even have to look back at him, because your cowardice says it all for you. Instead, a small voice escapes him.

“You’re still gonna go, aren’t you?”

You look at him then, and you see a sadness blooming in his eyes which is so heart-breaking that you're half-glad when tears gather in your own, blurring-out the sight of him. His pain always was too much for you to look at.

Your gladness is short-lived however, as your own tears begin to spill out of you. You wipe the deluge away with the heel of your hand, but the tears are coming quicker than you can mop them up. Your chest shakes as you speak your next words.

“I love you, Santi. Believe me. I love you. But it’s always ‘just one more’.” One more woman. One more mission. One more way to break your heart. “You’re living like... like you can get to the end of the line and wish for one more fucking chance.”

“Don’t go. Please,” he pleads, moving close to you and wrapping his arms around you. His broad, warm hands at your back. “Please. I’m putting it on the line here. I want you. I love you.”

You smile thinly at him. You know he’s trying and God, you love him too. But this? For you, it’s too little, too late. For him, you guess you’re asking for too much, too soon. He’s not ready to leave this life. He’s not even ready to imagine leaving it. But, oh boy, you are. You are.

You sniffle and take a deep, steadying breath, giving it everything you have to stay firm, despite every fibre in you telling you to surrender. To just stay with him. It would be too easy to do.

“It’s a hard out, Santi.”

He senses the finality of your words and nods slowly, his eyes shining with tears, his whole face becoming taut with emotion. His silence is prolonged as he draws in ragged breaths. His hands slip away from your back and the moment slips away with them. You miss the warmth of them instantly.

“Okay,” he says in a small, curt voice. “Okay.”

He about turns, precise and efficient, swivelling towards the door and tracking along the hallway leading out of your apartment.

“Santi, wait!” you call, traipsing along after him, slowed by the material bundling at your feet. “Santiago Garcia, don’t you dare leave it like this,” you plead. “Not after everything.”

He turns his head back towards you as he swings open your front door. His eyes are cold, face set as he looks at you, his voice monotone. “I’m not the one leaving.”

An anger and a sadness erupt in you at the coldness, the cruelness of his words, and, apparently, not even the sight of the fresh batch of tears spilling down your cheeks can slow his retreat from your apartment.

Santiago “Pope” Garcia turns and swiftly walks out without looking back, leaving the door swinging violently on its hinges. The fucking nerve of this man.

You start after him; but he’s already making his way down the stairwell and you’re in no position to chase him. Your pain boiling over you yell, voice creaking under the weight of your emotion.

“I hope your fucking knees give out on the way down, you asshole.”

Your cruel, cheap words carry down the stairwell, yet an echo is all the response you get. Santiago is gone. He didn’t stop for a second.

He doesn’t know how to stop.

He’s mission over emotion. Near-death over living. He’s seemingly in this until it kills him, but you can’t be in it anymore. You have always been his ride or die, but now is the time for you to live, even if that means you can no longer be side-by-side with him.

He is the other half of you and no matter where you are to go, your bodies will move through the world as a team, one unable to be read without the other. Santiago is written all over you, and nothing can change that.

Besides, you know if he really wants to, he can always come find you. He has a map for loving you, if he would ever follow the route it was trying to take him. But he’s not there yet.

He just has one more mission to go.

And then the next.

And the next.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago garcia x reader #triple frontier #oscar isaac

226 notes · View notes

sunderlust · 2 years

Text

you left me no choice but to stay here forever (right where you left me)

masterlist

pairing: jake ‘hangman’ seresin x reader (hotshot journalist!reader)

synopsis: you and jake have been best friends for years and eventually he becomes the love of your life - which makes it that much harder to cope when he starts pulling away with no explanation (based off right where you left me by miss tswift)

wc: 14k (yoo I think I actually may'd)

warnings: angst with a happy ending, explicit language, pining, supposedly unrequited love, kinda sad feels, reader wearing heels.

A shoutout to gretagerwigsmuse and @seasonsbloom - I wouldn't have gotten through this fic period, let alone begun writing in the first place without them. Please check out their writing, send them a sweet message or two <3

AGE SIXTEEN (pages turn and stick to each other)

This is not a date.

On a crisp Wednesday in October - well, as crisp as it can get in Texas - you find yourself sitting across from your high school’s running back in a greasy booth at your town’s renowned pizza parlor. And even though he’s objectively the hottest guy in your grade - not to mention the fact that he’s kind, well-liked amongst your peers, almost too charming for his own good - there’s no way you would ever go on a date with Jake Seresin.

For that matter, you’re not even friends. The only reason he’s even here is because you managed to pique his interest with the promise of a free meal in exchange for an interview for the school newspaper. So even though he held the door open for you and let you choose the side of the booth to sit in and even insisted on getting your favorite pizza toppings, you’re not going to let it distract you from doing your job.

You had been invited to join the school newspaper team in August, but you had yet to write a story featured in the paper. By some stroke of luck, Newsteam President Joe thought you were ready to handle your own solo project: a profile on one of your school’s football players. And while you aren’t exactly thrilled to interview Westwood High School’s star running back you’re determined to deliver a moving, heart wrenching piece about #25 and the trials and tribulations of high school football that’ll have Joe reaching for tissues.

No one needs to know that you’ve never even been to a football game in your life.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” you tell Jake briskly after your waitress walks away after passing you your drinks. You pull out the giant legal notepad you stole from your dad’s study and your favorite ten color shuttle pen, then push down the lever for dark blue ink - for your more serious projects.

The boy in front of you nods once, stretching both arms out on either side of him to rest on the back of the booth, eyes darting around. “Sure.”

“So...” you start, then trail off, eyes scanning the list of questions you’d meticulously drafted the night before. You decide to start from the very beginning: “What can you remember about the first time you played with a football?” you ask, and Jake shrugs his shoulders.

“Blood,” he says simply, and you wrinkle your nose.

“What? Blood?”

“Yeah. I was six. My dad was trying to teach me how to catch the ball, and ma kept telling him to use the foam ones but he said they didn’t spiral as well. Ended up pelting a pigskin at me and clocked me right on the nose. I can still feel a bump here,” you briefly look up from rapidly transcribing to watch him idly rub the bridge of his nose with his index finger.

You nod, scrawling down the details, mentally planning out how you could possibly fit this into an article and thinking of potential titles. Child gets pelted with a football and vows revenge. Becomes Westlake’s Star RB. Pathetic.

“So you’ve been playing since you were six?” you try to establish a timeline. “Ten years?”

“No. I joined a youth league when I was nine,” Jake corrects. He doesn’t elaborate.

You sigh, tapping your pen on your legal pad idly, then another question catches your eye. “What do you enjoy most about football?” you flip over to a clean page and smooth it out, not missing the flash of incredulity on Jake’s face.

“You kidding? No offense, but these questions suck,” he snickers, and your shoulders sag as you flip back to scan your messy notes. “Do you even want to be doing this little interview?”

“Do you?” you throw back, angrily, nervously clicking your pen as you try and figure out how you’re going to salvage this meeting, reaching into the crevices of your mind to craft a less sucky, more thought-provoking question.

The one thing you know about conducting an interview is asking the right question, one that will unleash your subject to go off on their own path and tell their story the way they want to. This way, you find that you get the most details, the most honest perspective. And so far, all you had from Jake was a stupid story about a childhood injury doesn’t lend itself to writing a tear-jerking profile.

Jake’s smirk doesn’t waver and after a few moments of silence, he relents. “I was promised free pizza. What’s in it for you?”

You sigh and rest your head back against the worn pleather of the booth seat, squeeze your eyes shut, tighten your grip on your pen as you deliberate his question. “Will you answer my questions if I tell you?”

“If they’re better questions, yeah.”

You shoot him a quick glare, then let out a resigned sigh and click your pen, setting it down on top of your scribbled notes. “First off, I hate football. Never even seen a game.”

“Seriously?” Jake says and folds his arms together to lean in closer over the sticky tabletop. “We live in Texas. You’ve never even watched a game on TV?”

You shrug ambivalently. “No, it never really caught my interest. I mean, what’s there to watch? Someone screams out a bunch of numbers and then you all just charge at each other to wrestle for five seconds while a stupidly shaped ball gets tossed around? And don’t even get me started on your weird scoring system-”

“- It makes sense if you actually commit to watching it!” Jake defends hotly, crossing his arms over his chest and looking like he’s trying his hardest to fight a pout. “Why’d they even put you on this article? Doesn’t seem like you give a damn about writing football.”

“I don’t,” you agree, sitting up straight and daring to look him straight in the eye. At this point, you don’t care how little you know about the stupid sport - you just want Jake to answer your questions so that you can go home and cobble together something, anything to show Joe that you can handle writing your own opinion pieces. “But Joe said if I write a great profile, he’ll print my story about the cafeteria workers.”

Jake pauses, mentally chews your words. “Seems like he set you up, then, darling,” - your surprise at the sweet name is overtaken by the harsh reality check - “Seeing as he asked you to interview me when you’ve never even been to a game.”

A wave of clarity washes over you. You didn’t think about it that way - that Joe might have intentionally put you on this project just to watch you struggle, so he could easily shut down your other ideas. You deflate, shrinking into yourself, and your solemn expression suddenly has Jake shaking his head and trying to backpedal.

“Look - hey. I’m sorry. I’m sure... Maybe he’s just testing you to see if you can write things out of your element. Isn’t that the mark of a good newspaper... writer?”

It kind of makes sense, but the first reason hurts more, resonates with you, and opens the door for self-doubt to stride right in. With how hard you had to fight tooth and nail to even be offered a spot on the school news team, it’s easy to imagine they didn’t want to make things easy for you. Suddenly, you find yourself questioning your writing ability, wondering if you’re really cut out for this. You shrug. “Yeah, maybe.”

Jake purses his lips, drumming his fingers again on the tabletop. “What’s the story with the cafeteria workers?”

At this, you perk up slightly, straightening your back and halting your anxious pen tapping. “There’s just been lots of wages being cut, some layoffs early this year and now they’re being asked to work overtime and the supervisors keep changing the schedule around and giving them such a hard time for wanting to take time off. I think they let someone go because they wouldn’t come in when they had the flu. Can you believe that? Someone was literally sick and didn’t go to work in a kitchen where they could easily infect the whole school. And Sandra - you know Sandra the cashier? She told me they’re all planning to walk out in two weeks, which I think is really admirable - but honestly, I think they need someone to talk about their complaints y’know? Let their voices be heard?”

You stop, finally realizing that you’d been rambling for the better half of a minute about a topic the star running back probably couldn’t care less about. But to your surprise, he’s listening intently, nodding encouragingly, looking contemplative. It’s weird - you’re not used to people being interested in what you have to say.

It’s nice.

“Sounds like you’re a lot more keyed up about this story than stupid football,” he finally says with a half smile, and you push down the warm feeling it ignites.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat and shift uncomfortably, bashfully. “It’s just... It’s what I want to do. Write about real people and real events. Give the silenced a voice. Which I know, it sounds kind of cheesy and idealistic and quixotic - but I don’t care. I just want to make a difference. Maybe win a Pulitzer Prize, I don’t know.”

His eyebrows furrow - maybe he doesn’t know what a Pulitzer is - but he nods thoughtfully. “I mean... Don’t really know what quixotic means, but I don’t think you’re being cheesy. Speaking of cheese, though...” his eyes flit over your shoulder.

Your waitress interrupts, setting down a large pizza with the toppings of Jake’s choice. He eagerly loads two slices onto his plate and continues his train of thought: “Tell you what: how about I give you a hand with the article? I’ll tell you what you need to know about football, at least.”

“You’d do that for me?” you ask, and you’re honestly shocked he didn’t just brush off your whole rant about your hopes and dreams, amazed that he’s even offered to help.

He shrugs and swallows the huge bite he’d taken. “‘Course - but in exchange, you’ll have to go to our games. You know, all my friends come to support me.”

You first open your mouth to object to having to watch football - then close it, sending him an incredulous look. “We’re friends?” you ask dumbly.

He shifts, looks the tiniest bit bashful, busies himself with the straw in his drink. “I mean... I’d like to be. Who knows, maybe you’ll be famous one day or you could help me with my English essays - ”

“- You want to be friends so I’ll cheer on you at games and tutor you for free?” you interrupt, narrowing your gaze.

But despite your tone being riddled with annoyance, despite the glare you’re now sending his way, Jake sends you an easy smile, serving himself another slice. “Nah, you just seem pretty cool.”

By another stroke of luck, you manage to pump out a puff piece about Jake Seresin - something along the lines of how the first time #25 threw a football was the moment he resolved to never back down after the first hit, to wipe the sweat and blood from his face and keep pushing forward. Joe is more than impressed with the quality of your work - almost surprised, you annoyedly observe - and agrees to run the profile for the following week’s issue, just in time for Westlake’s playoff game.

On Monday evening, you’re reviewing your interview notes with Sandra the Cashier at your kitchen table when suddenly, the landline rings. “Hello?” you answer, anticipating it to be one of your parents’ friends calling to gossip. The line is silent for a few moments, and you clear your throat to try again. “Anyone there?”

Suddenly, Jake’s laughter flows into your ear. “‘Never back down’?” he quotes through a wheeze, and you hold back a smile, this time letting yourself feel the butterflies that come alive in your stomach at the sound of his voice.

“You didn’t give me much to work with for your story!” you tell him with a small giggle. “So I managed to pull this together, and I’d say it’s a heart clencher - a tear jerker, even. Joe’s happy, at least.”

“He gonna let you write that other thing?”

“About the cafeteria workers? Working on it right now, actually,” you tell him, twirling the phone coil around your finger idly.

“Well darling,” Jake says and you feel your heart skip a beat at the sweet name, at the sound of mirth filling his voice, at the memory of his smiling eye crinkles that involuntarily flashes in your mind. “I’ll hold onto this profile, hang it in my gym locker. But let me know when they print that union thing. I’d like to hold onto a future Pyoo-litzer Prize winner’s first ever real story.”

“Pulitzer,” you correct him, and despite your writing hand hurting terribly from all the notes you’ve been scribbling and the slight twinge of a headache from your eyes straining, your heart feels full as ever as you chat with Jake - your new friend - into the late hours of the night.

AGE EIGHTEEN (wages earned and lessons learned)

Almost two years later, you find yourself seated across from Jake at your town’s fanciest Italian restaurant. It’s been a while since your waiter has checked in to take your meal orders, but his absence easily slips your mind as the two of you gossip while munching on garlicky breadsticks that are way chewier than you’d like.

After a lull in the conversation, you take a deep breath. “How’s your mom doing?” you carefully ask, taking a sip of your coke to avoid tacking on more words, to fight the urge to add more useless attempts at hopeful sentiments.

Jake shrugs, unbothered, nonchalant. “She’s holding up.”

You wait for him to elaborate, but he just drums his fingers on top of the white tablecloth impatiently, turning his head to glance behind him at the swinging door to the kitchen. “Have you... spoken to your dad?” you probe, and while Jake doesn’t react harshly like you expect, his hand momentarily freezes.

“No,” he finally says. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk to him.”

“Right,” you pause. “Do you think you ever will?”

Jake heaves out a sigh and turns back to face you, idly chewing at a hangnail. Your fingers twitch and you hold yourself back from reaching out to pull his hand away from his mouth. “There’s not much to say, really. They were married, and now they’re not.”

You nod slowly, taking another sip of your drink, briefly lamenting the fact that it’s now just melted ice with a dash of soda. “How are your sisters?”

Again, he shrugs. “Fine. I’m driving them around a whole lot. Kinsey won’t come out of her room, but that’s no different than usual. They won’t talk to him either.”

He’s silent, doesn’t seem to want to say much else, instead tries to play off his nervousness by taking another large gulp of his drink and shifting his eyes to watch the Cowboys game playing on the tiny TV behind the bar. But you can tell he’s gotten himself worked up by the way you can feel his foot tapping impatiently under the table, the way he presses his finger harder into his teeth, by virtue of knowing Jake so well.

So you change the subject. “Are we doing this every year now, then? A friendship anniversary?” you ask.

Jake visibly relaxes, almost looking grateful. The foot tapping stops, and he pulls his hand away from his mouth to sling an arm around the booth and send you a signature Jake Seresin smirk. “Of course - gotta celebrate the day you learned about football - ”

“- I swear, I’ll break your nose again with one later - ”

“With your aim? Please,” he scoffs, a goofy smile breaking the moment he makes eye contact with you.

You roll your eyes. “Plan B is always my fists. Anyway, how do you think we’ll even keep up every year while I’m at school and you’re at the Academy?”

“I’ll visit you at Columbia - and before you say it, shut up. You’re getting in, Miss Pulitzer. As for the Academy... Depends on whether I even apply.”

“Why wouldn’t you apply?” you ask, even though you’re sure you know the answer, ready to pour out words of affirmation, tell him that there’s no way they’d turn him down.

“Not sure if I’d get in,” - bingo, but he follows up with something that stuns you - “And I think I might want to stick around here for a bit. Take care of the family for a bit.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, exactly. Because you were prepared to jump into a supportive best friend mode: reassure him that he’s a shoo-in, remind him of his accomplishments, deliver your long-winded ramble of uplifting words that’ll make your mouth feel like you’re chewing cotton by the end of it. But that’s not what Jake needs right now.

“I don’t think your Ma would want you to do that, Jake,” you say quietly. “She wouldn’t want you to abandon your dreams just to take care of her.”

He stretches his arms back, rolls his neck out hard enough so that his joins sound like crackling rice krispies in the silence. “She’d never ask me to. But I don’t want her to have a hard time, make her shoulder the burden.”

“Knowing her, she wouldn’t want to unload anything onto you, Jake,” you tell him firmly, sitting up straight in an attempt to look more certain, strong. “You’ve wanted this for such a long time. Don’t let your dad ruin this for you - I know a part of you wants to stick it to him or something. But fuck that, Jake. If you put your dreams on hold, you’ll regret it. You have to do this for yourself.”

“Yeah... I guess,” he trails off, still sounding uncertain, but a little less subdued. His hand lifts up and he’s again gnawing at the raw skin on his fingers.

“You’ve really gotta stop biting your nails, Jake,” you tease, hoping it’ll relieve some of the tensions that somehow returned, and he rolls his eyes. “If you want to keep your mouth occupied -”

“- You offering? I tell you, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it -”

“Shut up,” you snipe, feeling the heat rush into your cheeks at the suggestion. You shake off your embarrassment. “How ‘bout chewing gum?”

“Hate gum,” Jake pouts. “Makes my jaw hurt.”

“You’re such a baby. Lollipops?”

“Charles would hate me,” he replies, and you internally roll your eyes at him calling his dentist by his first name. His sincere dedication to exceptional dental health and maintaining his teeth was sure to win him the best smile Senior superlative. “If your next suggestion is smoking -”

“- It’s not!” you glare. “How about toothpicks?”

“You want me to roll a sharp piece of wood in my mouth? Sounds delightful,” he drawls sarcastically, and you scoff, turning your eyes to look up at the ceiling.

“Better than sticking your fingers in your mouth all the damn time. What are you, two?”

“I’m a ten, thank you very much.”

“You’re insufferable,” you groan out, fighting back the urge to smile. “You won’t stay a ten if you rip your fingers apart though, Jake. You should give it a try. They have flavored toothpicks, too.”

He ponders this with narrowed eyes, pulls his hand away from his mouth to lay it flat on top of the table to examine his cuticles carefully. “Think they have cinnamon?”

“Probably. Would keep your mouth fresh too.”

“Oh, the ladies are gonna love that,” he laughs, smiling so big now that his eyes crinkle and it feels like someone’s opened a window in this dim restaurant, pushed the sun higher in the sky and bathed your whole body in sunlight. You laugh along with him, rest your elbows on the table to prop your head up and just look at him, appreciate him as a boy who offered to help you within the first hour of knowing you, a man who’s willing to give up his aspirations to care for the people he loves. Your best friend who stopped giving you butterflies a long time ago and now brings you a feeling of comfort, of warmth. Of home.

Suddenly, Jake reaches across the table, palm facing up. You eye it carefully, slowly sliding your hand into his. “You good?”

“Thanks for putting up with me for two years,” he tells you seriously. And you shake your head with a smile, can sense the emotions well up in your eyes, feel your heart beating faster.

“Of course,” you breathe out. “Thanks for always supporting me.”

“Always,” he parrots back. “Anything for a future Pew-litzer Winner.”

You huff out a wet laugh, and the two of you just sit there across from each other, smiling like idiots until finally, with your vision slightly blurred and your hand still squeezing his across the table, you glance around for your waitress who has yet to make an appearance. “You wanna just... go get some pizza?”

“God, yes,” Jake agrees, immediately moving to stand up. “Think we can find some toothpicks on the way?”

AGE TWENTY-THREE (she’s still 23, inside her fantasy, how it was supposed to be)

The October after you graduate from Columbia and Jake’s graduated from the Academy, you visit him in Pensacola in a bar that’s packed to the brim with patrons in Navy-issued khakis. You find yourself in a booth across from Jake, snacking on greasy bar eats and nursing some shitty beers.

“Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your date, Hangman?” a dark-skinned, intimidatingly handsome man in uniform leans against your table and looks down at you with a grin that could rival a hyena’s. You glance over at Jake, who rolls his eyes.

“Coyote,” Jake says admonishingly, flips a toothpick between his teeth, but goes on to introduce you. “This is my best friend from back home.”

You wave awkwardly, pondering where his callsign may have come from - unless that was his birth name, in which you’d love to have a quick interview with his parents. Coyote raises his eyebrows and slides into the booth next to Jake, subsequently pushing him closer to the wall and rests both elbows on the table. “So you’re Jake’s friend? With all the articles?”

You whip your head to look at Jake, who’s bearing a sheepish grin with his cheeks getting slightly pinker. His hand raises up to rub the back of his neck. “It’s nothing -”

“- You should’ve seen him during basic - had all these things pinned up on his wall, always reading your letters at breakfast with a puppy dog face. Honestly thought you were his sweetheart or something- Ow!”

Coyote’s rubbing his side where Jake elbowed him harshly, cheeks still red and teeth furiously gnashing down on the toothpick. Underneath the table, you can feel Jake’s leg start bouncing, and you shift your foot forward to lightly brush his, tap the side of his tenderly. He halts his movements.

“He’s just a great friend,” you clarify, beaming at Jake, who seems slightly less tense with his jaw unclenched. “Anyways, is Coyote your callsign?” your curiosity gets the better of you, and you figure it might be a good chance to get the spotlight off Jake.

“Sure is. Name’s Javy,” he smirks at you, then jerks a hand over at Jake. “Has he told you his sign?”

“Yeah, Hangman. Which is stupid, because he honestly sucks at the game -”

“- I don’t,” Jake hotly defends, sits up in his seat and crooks an accusatory finger in your direction. “You’re the one that does weird ass long words. No one’s gonna guess - what was it? Gerrymandering?”

Coyote attempts to stifle a laugh, but you let a giggle bubble right out of you. “I like to use it as a learning opportunity.”

“Here’s a word for you: buzzkill.” Jake retorts, and you scoff, holding back a smile, about to snark back when you feel your phone vibrate from your purse.

“One second,” you pull out your Blackberry, glancing over the email from your coworker at The Washington Times and tapping out a brief response.

“Hey sweetheart,” you hear Jake say and your heart skips a beat, a smile forming at the familiar name as you press send on your message. Your surging warmth is immediately extinguished as you look up from your phone and see that Jake’s not speaking to you at all, not even looking your way. Instead, he’s shifted his entire body to face a gorgeous woman who’s stopped by your booth and is currently looking at him with a sweet smile.

“Still on for Friday night?” she asks, and you envy how cool she sounds saying it, like there’s no doubt in her mind that Jake will say yes, against your better wishes.

“Of course, wouldn’t miss it,” he replies easily, the dimple on his cheek popping out, deflating you further.

She flashes a quick smile at you as well - no malice or threat in it whatsoever - and you wonder if it’s that obvious that you and Jake are friends, that you’re not on a date even though you’d both been seated in this booth for the better half of an hour.

Maybe she thinks you’re just here with Javy, who’s been watching the whole interaction with a smirk, eyes laser focused on you trying your hardest to keep your expression neutral. “You’re going out with Imani? What happened to Priya?” Coyote asks after the girl walks away, his pointed look at you unwavering.

Jake shrugs. “She knew I didn't want anything serious. So does Imani. It’s just drinks and dinner and you know... whatever comes next.”

They both share a chuckle and your heart clenches painfully. You’re no prude - you’re all in support of people having casual sex, and you’re glad Jake is forthcoming with these girls. He’s not breaking their hearts, and they seem content to just have one night with him and be done with it.

There’s just the tiniest whisper of anxiety that wonders if there’s something wrong with you for rarely engaging in hookup culture, for not feeling comfortable enough to have meaningless flings. The one time you took a step out of your comfort zone and hooked up with a stranger, your walk of shame felt like a daze - inside, you were empty, despondent. A part of you envies Imani and the mysterious Priya for being able to cast aside their emotions so easily, fall into bed with a stranger, step out the next morning without feeling like they’re missing a part of themself.

The little green monster in you also flares up at the realization that they’ll know Jake in a more intimate way than you ever will - in a way that you’ve only dreamt about a handful of times. Give or take. You’re not sure when you started seeing him in a different light, as more than a friend, more like the person you’d want to get old with and celebrate milestones besides the anniversary of you becoming friends - but it happened slowly, suddenly, then all at once. And now, your feelings just sit with you, tethering you to the impossible dream of knowing Jake as so much more.

All this to say, you can’t be angry with Jake or any of these women. It’s not a crime for him to want to sleep around. You just wish you had the courage to tell him it’s not entirely victimless.

“There’s quite a few girls back home who’d be shattered to hear this,” you tease instead, ignoring the way your stomach is dropping low, the way your appetizer is slowly creeping up your esophagus.

Jake rolls his eyes. “Always been a heartbreaker, darlin’, it’s an occupational hazard.” he tells you and you agree mentally, idly picking at the basket of cold fries on the table. “You’ll always be my number one girl, though.”

Ah, and the dream lives on.

AGE TWENTY-SIX (time went on for everybody else, she won't know it)

“Happy tenth anniversary to a spectacular, intelligent, absolutely phenomenal woman,” Jake toasts, grinning across from you at Malatesta Trattoria in West Village. Jake had insisted on treating you in celebration of your new job at The New York Times - did the research and made reservations all on his own, took time off and everything.

“Happy friendship anniversary to a guy who still forgets to pack his toothbrush,” you snicker, and laugh even harder when his look of pride quickly turns into a mock glare.

It’s been a full year since you physically saw him at your last anniversary dinner - Jake had been away on a longer assignment in Lemoore, and you’d been busy churning out inflammatory political op-eds for The Washington Times and applying to jobs in the Big Apple. The two of you called pretty regularly, but this was officially the longest the two of you had gone without seeing each other.

You thought it’d feel awkward, like you’d have to fumble to find your footing with him the same way you have to figure out how to balance when you put on roller skates, but it’s easy. The moment you stepped outside of your building to meet him, he’d rushed to lift you in a giant bear hug, like no time apart had even passed. And the whole night, the two of you chat about anything and everything- he fills you in on his assignment and about something he’s gunning for called Top Gun, and you tell him about an upcoming project covering creative renewal in Beirut - you both nod along as best as you can while the other speaks.

After your plates are empty and cleared out and you both have determined that you’re too full for dessert (although, the ice cream calling your name at your apartment might have you singing a different tune later), you both stand up to exit the restaurant.

The wine you had with dinner has loosened up your movements - typically, you have to move through the city streets with big strides and purpose - like you’ve got somewhere to be and you’re already ten minutes late. But with Jake, there’s no timetable, no place you have to hurry to reach. Right now, the only thing on your agenda is to stand next to Jake in the middle of the sidewalk outside of this fancy restaurant and appreciate the moments you have with him.

And figure out how the hell you’re getting home.

“You wanna call a cab?” Jake asks you with an arm wrapped around your waist to steady your swaying form, and you balk at the thought of having to pay a hefty fee just to sit still in a car and try to keep your spinning head from making you throw up. God, your tolerance has become abysmal.

“We can just take the F train back to my place. If you’re okay walking?” you reply fuzzily, looking up at him with a messy grin. Jake’s sweet expression catches you off guard - hazel green eyes locked on you, his sweet smile etching a dimple deeper into his cheek, like Michaelangelo himself carved it. Your breath hitches in your throat, and you become all too aware of the feeling of his hand squeezing your hip, the warmth of his forearm around your lower back, the way his chest is just barely brushing your shoulder and yet still manages to heat you up from head to toe.

And you know he’s only trying to keep you upright, probably just trying to gauge your level of drunkenness and assess whether you’re good to make the thirty minute walk plus subway ride to your home. But he doesn’t know that it’s not the three glasses of wine you had at dinner that’s intoxicated you this much, that’s made your mind feel lighter than air and your heart ten times fuller. It’s all Jake - Jake - who’s looking at you like you’re the only thing on his mind, the only person in the world, the only one who matters.

“Are you fine with that?” he asks, and the softness written in his features reminds you of all the times you’ve looked at Jake and found a new favorite thing to fall in love with.

The very first time you looked at him - really looked at him - you fixated on the way his dimple poked out while you regaled him with a story about how you exacted revenge on your friend’s two-timing ex by pouring your entire yogurt cup on top of his head. The way he threw his head back with his eyes squinted shut and hands clapping together made you feel more enamored with him than ever, had you scraping the back of your mind for more stupid jokes to make him laugh that hard.

Another time, you remember looking right at his nose and thinking about how much you wanted to plant a sweet kiss on the tip, found yourself wondering how it would feel pressed against your neck as you both drifted off for the night, and how the sound of his soft breathing beside you would be the most comforting, reassuring sound to fall asleep to.

This time, you’re completely mesmerized by the way the streetlights hit the flecks of green in his eyes, the way his pupils look slightly dilated, the way his gaze darts down for a split second to your lips and right back up to meet your heated look. If you weren’t drunk you’d fall right into the moment, lean right in and press your mouth to his like you’ve always wanted to, let his perfectly brilliant teeth clash with yours. Maybe see for yourself if you can taste cinnamon on his tongue.

But you are incredibly drunk right now, and that’s no way to kiss him for the first time. So you pull your head back ever so slightly. “I think I just need to walk off the alcohol for a bit,” you shoot him a sloppy grin, still managing to lose yourself in those fucking beautiful eyes.

Jake’s talking, murmuring something low in your ear. “You sure? Those shoes look like they hurt.”

You look down at your heels - and yeah, they’re fucking painful. These past few minutes of Jake’s inebriating presence has given you the briefest reprieve from the sharp pains shooting up your calves. You’re desperate to take them off - but you can’t recall when your last tetanus shot was. And even if you were up-to-date, no one could convince you that it’s safe to walk barefoot in the streets of New York. “No, I’ll make it. Need to walk off the wine.”

“You wanna wear my shoes?” Jake offers and you scoff.

“You wanna walk barefoot? What, do you think they sanitize and mop the sidewalks every night?”

“I’m wearing socks!” he defends and you roll your eyes.

“Still gross. Besides, you know what they say about guys with big feet?”

Jake’s eyebrows furrow, looks momentarily stunned as his eyes dart to his shoes, then return to your face. “Big dick?”

“Big shoes,” you deadpan. “And if I take one step in your big clown shoes, I’m faceplanting right on the sidewalk. You want that to happen? ”

“Clown shoes?” he repeats to himself quietly with an amused smile, then shakes his head, finally relenting. “Fine. But if you get tired, I’m not carrying you.”

“I’ll make it,” you insist.

“Jake?” you say thirty minutes later after traversing up the subway stairs, stopping for a moment to bend down and massage your ankles. Jake stops, shifts the paper bag with leftovers from one hand to the other and places his free hand on your back. He looks down at you with concern.

“Yeah?”

You pause for a moment, wondering if he’d turn you down, deliberating if you even feel comfortable asking him for a piggyback ride for the five minute walk back to your apartment. But the aching toe cramp that you’re trying and failing to stretch out drowns out your insecurities, silences your fear that he wouldn’t be able to manage. You remind yourself that he’s been bragging about his new squat record for weeks now, anyway. “Can you carry me on your back? Please?”

A sigh. Then, “Sure darlin’. Hop on.”

You wordlessly reach to take the leftovers from him and he turns away from you, couches down low enough to let you clamber onto him. With an arm secured under each leg, he extends to his full height and lifts you up onto his back.

“Alright?” he rumbles, and you nod wordlessly, wrap your arms around his neck and hook your chin over his shoulder. Your eyes flutter shut, and you breathe in his familiar cologne, some Tom Ford scent you’d gifted him a few Christmases ago. It grounds you, keeps your head from spinning even more as you relish the feeling of your ankles not supporting your whole body weight.

You feel the alcohol hit for a second wave, completely demolishing your self-control, unleashing your thoughts to race limitlessly, to see no bounds. At this point, your head is close to mush, your limbs feel like they weigh twice as much, and you think you’ll never let yourself drink rosé again. But you’re certain of one thing. “I think you might be the love of my life,” you murmur sleepily.

Silence. Jake doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t even say it back. So maybe you were too quiet, or perhaps you completely imagined saying it at all.

Because it’s unlike Jake to let you have the last word.

AGE TWENTY-EIGHT (I'm sure that you’ve got a wife out there, kids and Christmas, but I'm unaware)

“Have you ever thought about this?” Jake asks you, leaning back against his chair as he watches the happy couple swaying in the middle of the dance floor to an Ed Sheeran song - not your personal choice, but the rest of the onlookers seem to be incredibly moved by it. This year, your friendship anniversary coincides with your old roommate’s wedding, and after much pleading (and the promise of an open bar), Jake agreed to fly out to be your plus-one.

It surprised you how much you had to beg for him to come. At first, he had been hesitant, imploring you to attend the wedding instead of meeting him for your usual dinner. You didn’t hesitate to dismiss that idea - it’s been twelve years of celebrating, and there’s no way you’re stopping now. Not when it already feels like Jake’s been pulling back for the past year or so: calling less often, answering texts hours after you sent them, sometimes not even replying to your articles with anything aside from a little thumbs-up emoji.

At this point, it feels like this anniversary is all that’s tethering him to you.

“Have I ever thought about my wedding?” you ponder. “Yeah, sometimes. Don’t think I’d ever spring for something as big as this, but -”

“- No, no,” he interrupts, “you wouldn’t want to make a big fuss of it all, not a crazy big party and definitely not a five hundred person guest list. ‘Course I know that about you.” Jake smiles and shifts forward, leaning in close; you can just barely smell the sandalwood and vanilla musk of his cologne. He seems relaxed, finally looks content to be here - though you’re sure that’s all thanks to the top-shelf whiskey he’s imbibing. “I meant marriage, commitment, settling down. You think you’d ever want to do that?”

You purse your lips, gaze still locked on the newly wedded couple, appreciating the matching expressions of adoration written on their faces as they twirl around their guests. “Of course. Just haven’t found the right person who’s ready to do that with me.”

He scoffs. “What, like you’re struggling to find someone? You know, from the minute I walked into this banquet hall with you, I’ve counted maybe five death glares from interested parties.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you did,” you snort, tilting your glass up vertically to catch the last few drops of champagne.

“Sweetheart, I’d never lie to you. In fact, I think the redhead over by the bar is still sending daggers my way. And she’s hot, so I’m kind of turned on by it,” Jake adds seriously, and you roll your eyes. “Come on! I thought you were going to give Tinder a shot earlier this year?”

You snort again, this time feeling a little more jaded. “I did give it a shot. And all I found was guys holding up fish and finance bros asking for my snap. I don’t even have a Snapchat, Jake. What happened to just getting people’s numbers and having a normal conversation?”

“It’s a new era, all this online dating stuff,” he replies, crossing one ankle over his knee and interlacing his hands over his abdomen. “But I see your point, maybe Tinder isn’t the best place to find your forever partner.”

“Don’t know why I even bothered,” you remark and look over at him, momentarily allowing yourself to appreciate the way his tux fits over him. “Maybe if we’re both still single by the time we’re forty, we get hitched,” you muse, only half joking.

He chokes on his whiskey, coughing loudly with the liquor singing his throat. “Yeah, right!” Jake finally manages out with a laugh and teary eyes, and it feels like someone’s poured a bucket of ice water on you, wakes you up from the lighthearted banter you lost yourself in.

“Okay,” you narrow your eyes, heart dropping at the rejection. “Don’t sound too eager. I’m not down on one knee here or anything.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He swirls around the remaining amber sea in his drink, slightly mesmerized by the mini whirlpool. “You know me though. Never settling down.”

You know you should take the sign to drop the conversation, but his quick refusal and blasé tone rubs you the wrong way. “Why? Because of your parents?” you hedge, leaning in to get a better look at his face, which has slightly hardened in the dim glow of the bulb lights strung across the venue. The extra bubbly you’ve consumed pushes you to question him, to finally figure out why he’s so resistant to letting himself be loved. “I know you’re scared you’ll end up making the same mistakes as your dad, but you know you’re not like him. Not in any way.”

He grits out your name warningly, arching a brow and gripping his glass tight. You run the risk of it shattering if you keep pushing. But that’s the least of your worries; right now, you’re blind with hurt. How can he just dismiss you like it’s nothing? How can he close himself off so easily?

“Typical Jake Seresin, you know?” you cut him off hotly, trying with all your might to keep your voice even through the haze of champagne. “Always so ready to let your daddy issues ruin your chances at happiness.”

He glares at you, knocks back the rest of his drink without even grimacing, doesn’t meet your gaze. Crunches the ice bitterly. “Get off your high horse, sweetheart,” he finally says roughly. “Stop pretending like you know me.”

You scoff, still not backing down. “You think after over ten years of friendship, I don’t know you at all?”

Another shrug. His leg starts bouncing incessantly. “People change, darlin’. You certainly have.”

You draw back, feeling like he just slapped you in the face. “What d’you mean by that?” you ask a little quieter, with a slight waver, still audible over Ed Sheeran’s ballad. Where’s he going with this?

He groans again, turns to look at you, but you don’t quite recognize the expression on his face. It’s menacing, hardened, darker than the amber liquid in his cup. “We do our separate things, sweetheart. We call a couple times a year and meet up on the same weekend to do the same dinner and yeah, that’s nice. It’s great. But that doesn’t mean you know me as well as you think you do. Quit grilling me - I’m not just a sad story for you to write about.”

His words punch you in the gut, sock you in the ear, send blood coursing angrily through your veins. Part of you wants to tell him off, unleash your fury, make a scene in the middle of this reception hall. Another part of you wants to storm off and leave him behind, but you’re not sure if you want to face the reality that he might not follow, might not chase after you with apologies and promises to soothe the burn from his words.

Slightly misty-eyed, you fight to reel your emotions back in, not wanting to draw attention to the two of you or make Jake feel like you’re guilting him. It feels an awful lot like using thimbles to catch roof leaks. Your strength comes back to you in slow, even waves: your heart returns to its normal pattern, your chest no longer heaves for air.

“You can’t say things like that, Jake,” you tell him, your voice surprisingly steady, rock solid. “You’re my best friend, and you can’t speak to me that way.”

His jaw ticks, his expression remains unchanged. “Sure, right. Sorry.”

The easy dismissal brings your anger back in a rush, yet gives you time to think about your next words carefully. “You’re such an ass, Jake,” you bite out, and maintain decorum, calmly push your chair back to stand up, send him a glare with all the furiosity you can muster before making a bee-line for the exit without looking back to see if he’s following suit.

You dodge fellow wedding attendees, snatching champagne from a waiter with a platter before knocking it back and setting the empty flute back down and continuing to make your way to the exit. Over Ed Sheeran’s second ballad, you can hear Jake quietly calling out your name, his footsteps right behind you.

As you burst through the doors, into the crisp outside air, you teeter for a few steps in your heels before leaning against a pillar, trying to contain your emotions, lest you say something silly or embarrassing or humiliating.

“Would you just wait? Would you let me talk?” Jake’s hot on your heels as he steps over the threshold.

“You’ve said plenty,” you throw back.

“Come on, darlin’, I didn’t mean it like that,” Jake says behind you, closer now.

“I think you made it very clear,” you grind out, turning on your heel and looking him straight in the eye. “You can’t smooth-talk your way out of this, Seresin. That might work on everyone else, but it’s not doing jack shit on me!”

He throws his hands up in the air, shakes his head. You eye how his fingers are twitching, how he’s chewing the inside of his cheek. “What do you want me to say? I’m just saying we’re not the same people we used to be -”

“- That’s fine!” you gesticulate dramatically, too overwhelmed with frustration to let your hands remain still. “But you don’t have to be an ass about it! You don’t have to minimize our friendship like this! God, Jake, what has it been? Twelve years? Twelve years of loving you, supporting you, celebrating anniversaries -” You cut yourself off, realizing what just bubbled forth from of your mouth.

Jake’s expression stays ablaze, but his spine stiffens, hands twitch twice before he clenches them, digging his nails into his palms harshly. You meet his heavy gaze, mouth slightly agape, mind running a million miles a second until it starts to decelerate, slows down gradually, then stops on one thought, one single thought alone.

“I love you, Jake,” you say. Like you’re stating a fact, common knowledge for everyone and their mother. The sky is blue, the world isn’t flat, and you’re in love with Jake Seresin.

He inhales, shaking his head, and looking down at the ground.

You falter, furrow your eyebrows, wonder if maybe he didn’t hear you. “I love you, Jake,” you repeat, this time a little louder, taking a step forward, closer to him. “I’m in love with you.”

Jake looks up, his face contorted into a look of pain, eyes void of its usual light. Inhales sharply. “I know.”

You falter. “You know?“ the words feel like marbles rolling out; you can almost hear the tiny plinks as they hit the ground.

“Yeah.”

”…How long?”

He swallows. “Since New York.”

You’re transported back in that moment, a montage of scenes from your tenth anniversary flashing through your mind like you’re in a cinema. You remember the night’s end in a haze: his warm body next to yours as you stumbled to the subway, you gripping onto his arm tightly with every lurch of the train, Jake carrying you on your back and you saying -

“Oh.” You shrink back, and the realization he’s held onto this for two years hits you like a truck. Jake is silent, hands now shoved into his pockets as he awaits your next few words. “And... you have nothing else to say to that?”

Jake lets out a pained groan. “Listen, darlin’, don’t get me wrong. I... care about you so damn much, but I can’t feel for you the way you want me to. We wouldn’t work.”

His words make you freeze and your anxiety screams out ‘I told you so!’ in a manner that echoes thunderously throughout your brain. This unrequited love is something you’ve always expected, always prepared yourself for, yet you never gave it much further thought to safeguard your heart.

You’re rapidly accelerating through the stages of grief - next, your anger comes back to you. First, in small rivulets that trickle down your spine - then as a rush of agony that feels an awful lot like the crash at the bottom of a waterfall. Your eyes burn with the tears you refuse to let fall, your palms already stinging from how hard you’ve dug your manicure into them - but is it fair for you to be mad at him? For not loving you the way you desperately want him to?

For the longest time, a small, tiny part of you hoped Jake would come around, decide to knock on your door, knock you back with a signature bear hug. That he’ll swear to be there always, love you the way you love him.

After tonight, you reflect, it seems like that might never happen. And quickly, you surmise that you’d rather have one part of him than nothing at all. So as you finally reach the stage of acceptance, you vow to treasure every moment of friendship with Jake Seresin.

“I understand,” you tell him, feeling like you’re miles away. “It’s okay.”

“You sure?” His eyes still rake over you with concern.

“Positive.” You do your best to plaster on the most reassuring smile you can.

“Sweetheart -”

“- Can we just talk about this later?” you interrupt, feeling defeated and embarrassed all rolled into one. There most certainly is more to the conversation - but all you want to do is prolong it for longer, preserve the fantasy in your mind that you can Jake are alright, that the past few minutes never happened.

He closes his mouth, nods, pushes his hands deeper into his pockets.

From inside, the music suddenly changes - still a slow ballad, but this time it’s Al Green, Let’s Stay Together. “I believe you stipulated that I had to dance to at least one song,” Jake holds out a hand, looking at you almost hopefully. As if the last few minutes hadn’t completely shattered your heart and sent the pieces flying away with the wind.

“Ah,” you say, feeling a wave of exhaustion overcome you. “You go on ahead. Think I just need some more air.”

Internally, your heart is deflating, sending slight tremors throughout your body. But you can’t have Jake know that, can’t have him feel even worse about this, won’t have him feeling an ounce of guilt for something so out of his control.

Despite your best efforts to hold it all in, a small tear escapes and slides down your cheek as soon as Jake’s back turns, and you feel like you might have kicked a pebble that’s about to precipitate an avalanche.

---

Jake calls you up a few days after, initially sounding like he just wants to check in until his tone takes on a more somber note, and your heart drops to your stomach. “Listen, I know we had a little bit of a heated... discussion at the wedding. And I just need you to know I really, really, appreciate you. And I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want, but I just want to make sure we can still stay friends.”

“Yeah, of course -” you stop yourself from readily agreeing, pause to reevaluate how you really want to take this moving forward.

Jake is the love of your life. That much is certain. And you’re not sure how willing you are to push aside your feelings, pretend your confession never even happened, just to go on with the guise that you guys are simply friends. Just friends. Holding off on love in hopes that he’ll come around.

If you’re being completely truthful, a part of you does feel empty without a person by your side, without a companion to walk through life with, without a partner to share all the moments of joy and despair and everything in between with. You’ve tried dating throughout the years - agreed to so many blind dates, worked up the courage to ask guys at the bar out. And somehow, you always run into the same problem.

They’re not Jake.

And it’s not like they’re not as funny as him, or as charismatic or charming or sweet as him. It’s not the fact that they gave you spearmint kisses when you’ve always craved cinnamon. It’s the harsh truth that no matter what, they always feel threatened by your passion for your job and your drive to succeed. Always find problems with you jetting across the world for different projects, and patronize you for saying you wanted to make a difference with your stories.

One Tinder date even mocked you for aspiring to win a Pulitzer - you’d promptly excused yourself to the bathroom and never came back, instead ending your night with a long phone call from Jake, who was six hours ahead at the time but more than happy to console you.

Jake’s always encouraged you, from the very first day at the pizza parlor to now. And the more guys you took a chance on dating, the less hopeful you felt about finding a future with someone as kind, as wonderful, as unwaveringly supportive as Jake.

Maybe it’s time to let go of the pipe dream.

“Actually, no. I don’t think I can move forward as just friends,” you rush out, and admittedly, it feels like you’re ripping off a bandaid but the sting feels more like an ache. “And don’t get me wrong - your friendship means the world to me. Even if you think we’re different people now. But it feels like nothing’s changed for me, Jake. I think for years, I’ve been holding onto the hope that you’ll come around and feel the same way. But after this past weekend... I think I need some space. Just so I can get over you, if you’re not changing your mind anytime soon.”

Jake’s silent on the other end of the line - the only indication that he hasn’t dropped off is the sounds of cars rushing on the other side. A part of you hopes he’ll take the bait you cast with your final sentence, that at the very least, he’ll consider reconsidering. You don’t think you’ll get that lucky.

“If that’s what you want.”

“It’s not,” you quickly reassure him while blinking away tears, feeling numb. “And I don’t want to be cliche and tell you it’s what I need, Jake - because believe me, sometimes it feels like I need you like I need a Pilot G2 pen or the sun. But I can’t live like this. I can’t settle for just having part of you because that’ll be agonizing for me.”

Silence on the other end. “I hope you understand,” you quietly add.

“I do, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” his voice is void of emotion. You try not to think too hard about it, try to transport yourself back to a better moment when he was right there in front of you with every feeling written on his tanned, chiseled face.

Deep inhale. “Bye, Jake.”

AGE TWENTY-NINE (I cause no harm, mind my business, if our love died young, I can’t bear witness)

These gentrified tapas places are a menace to society. You shift uncomfortably on the cold, sad metal excuse for a barstool. This restaurant is noisy - glasses clinking together, patrongs cheers-ing to various occasions, champagne bottles popping open. Yet, the sound of the entrance dinging open is the only thing that makes you perk up, has you involuntarily glancing up hopefully in an attempt to manifest a familiar handsome pilot walking across the threshold to join you on your anniversary. But to your disappointment, it’s only a bunch of drunk bankers stumbling out.

In the past year, you’ve found a number of ways to distract yourself from the pain of not having your best friend. As per Dr. Richard’s advice from your first therapy session, you tried your hardest to find comfort in solitude: catching films in the theater alone, wandering through new art exhibitions by your lonesome; you even attended a wine tasting in Brooklyn and ended up passing the time with a group of ladies who encompassed very similar energy to the Sex and the City Quartet (and you ended up getting some solid reassuring advice after you lamented your complicated friendship - Samantha’s carbon copy was all too ready to shit on Jake by the end of your tale).

All in all, you’re content to be scoping out this restaurant solo, trying their featured cocktails and appetizers and people watching. You’re trying your best to convince yourself that you’re okay being where you are right now. The only thought that puts a damper on your night, sets your pride back a little is the realization that this might be the first October thirteenth you’ve spent alone in thirteen years. It shakes to your core, makes you flag down a bartender for a whiskey neat, but you calm down, take a deep breath, and let it out.

Jake’s a different man, not the boy who sat in front of you in your beloved pizza shop with a crinkly-eyed smile, telling you “you’re just a cool person.”

In the same way, you’re most certainly a different girl than the one who sat in front of him with a ten-color shuttle pen and bright eyes, one who was just grateful he’d seen a companion in you to begin with.

You’re a strong, self-assured, career-driven woman now. You’ve been featured on a variety of articles ranging from the devastating 2016 US Presidential Election, to a Buzzfeed Guest Feature on what your favorite ink color said about you, to discussing culture and conflict in the Middle East. While Jake’s support from the very beginning was part of what motivated you, what spurred you on, you are the one who did all the hard work. You are powerful, driven, intelligent, sophisticated.

You’re also drunk, and dialing a number you know by heart.

“The number you have dialed is not available. Please leave a message or...”

After the beep, you steel yourself. “Hey, Jake,” you clear your throat, gripping your phone tightly in your palm and taking a deep breath. “I, uh... Just wanted to wish you a happy anniversary. Think it’s the first one I’ve spent without you in a while.”

You pause, look around at the tapas bar as you try to gather your thoughts, wistfully eye the empty barstool next to you.

“I know I said I needed some time before. And I’m glad you honored that - truly, from the bottom of my heart. Even though a part of me wanted you to change your mind and chose me over not having me. Does that make any sense?”

Your eyes catch on the bartender who’s cleaning glasses with a towel a few feet away from you, catch him shaking his head slightly.

“Do you mind?”you snap, and he at least has the decency to look a little embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping. Quickly, he flashes you an apologetic smile before comically pretending to hear a patron calling out their order and dashing across the bar.

You snort, shaking your head. “Sorry. Some asshole was just... Never mind. You would’ve hated this place, Jake. I mean, aside from nosy people, it’s got overpriced drinks with Edison lights hanging from the ceiling. And there’s no jukebox - they’re just playing top 40s hits over and over again. Like, this is the third time I’m hearing Shape of You and I got here less than an hour ago.”

Again, you pause, feeling embarrassed at your incessant rambling. Debate whether to blab about what’s been plaguing your mind since you woke up this morning. “Sometimes I wish I never said anything and that we could’ve just stayed friends. I just don’t think that would’ve been fair to me - because I meant what I said, Jake. I’m in love with you. Even if we’re different people - I would’ve loved getting to know every version of you.”

It feels like a breakthrough, saying the words out loud, realizing that things truly are going to be more different than they used to be. And for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re perpetually mourning a friendship, you don’t feel waves of anxiety that try to convince you that you conflated your friendship to mean more. You can breathe easily.

“I think I’ve realized that the person I am today is all a conglomeration, a constellation of every interaction I’ve had with other people. And for the most part, I am who I am because of our friendship, because of your presence in my life. So a part of me is finding it hard to let go of that and move on without you being so ingrained in me. But I’m trying. I’m going to therapy, at least,” you smile optimistically, wiping away the first tear you’ve let yourself shed today.

“So rest assured, I’ll be okay without you, Seresin. In case you were worried. But no matter what, this day will always remain special to me. You’ll always be special to me.”

AGE THIRTY (and it’s been so long, but if you ever think you got it wrong, I’m right where you left me)

You don’t realize it’s the day of your anniversary until you catch a glimpse of the date on your phone, realize why you felt like you were missing something the entire day. At first, it sends a wave of anxiety over you, makes your stomach swoop like you missed the last step on the staircase.

But as best as you can, you remind yourself that taking on this special day alone is part of your healing process, that sometimes we create our own heartbreak through expectation, and that it’s just a matter of managing your hopes, assuaging your guilt, honoring your friendship by yourself for the second year in a row.

It’s taken time, but you’ve made your peace with the fact that Jake won’t be playing as active a role in your future as you’d hoped. Maybe you two can just be the type of friends who send each other Christmas cards and call on your birthdays. Years later, maybe you’ll finally settle down and find someone who will support you just as well as Jake did, who will treat you kindly and see you as more than a friend to hold hands with from time to time and look at your lips sometimes and give you piggyback rides when you’re too drunk. If you have kids, maybe you’ll have Jake over to meet your family, oblige him to regale them with tales of your friendship, send gift cards for their birthdays and talk about his time in the Navy - if they’re interested in hearing about Uncle Jake’s career path.

That’s all. You settle for keeping him in your footnotes, for cherishing the memory of who he used to be.

Even if you’ll always be in love with Jake, that doesn’t mean you have to wither away waiting for him.

In the middle of catching up on some editing and shooting out some emails from the comfort of your plush couch, your phone rings with a familiar name proudly displayed at the top. Immediately, you narrow your eyes, wondering if he’s remembered or if it’s some weird fluke that he’s calling you on today of all days.

“Hello?” you answer cautiously.

“Hey, darlin’,” you hear Jake’s easy tone flow through the speakers, and despite all the growth you’ve endured, despite all the lessons you’ve etched into your heart, your brain turns to mush.

“Hi Jake,” you force out, feeling as nervous as you did that day you interviewed him at the pizza place. At times like this, you wish you had your old landline from back in the day so you could coil the cord around your fingers idly, distract your nerves momentarily from the fact that this is the first time you’ve heard his voice in two years. “How’ve you been?”

“I’m alright,” His voice is stilted, slightly muffled. Sounds just as easy as you remembered it, “Just... Remembered what today was.”

“It’s Saturday.” The quip rolls off your tongue before you can think any better of it - and you cringe inwardly at how rude you must have sounded. “I’m sorry, that was...”

But Jake’s chuckling on the other end, a delightfully warm sound, one that pulls a surge of pride from deep within your chest. “Yeah. You're not wrong.”

And just as quickly, it fades into the awkward silence - the kind you never used to have with Jake. Mentally, you flow through all the happenings in this past year, think about where his Ma told you he’d been last.

“How’s San Diego?” - “Can you buzz me up?” you both speak at the same time, and his answer makes you freeze, makes time suspend for a few seconds as if you’re floating outside of your own body.

“I’m outside your building, I think. Unless your Ma sent me the wrong address, which admittedly, I’d deserve but - "

“- You’re in New York?” you ask, still in shock, finally feeling in control of your muscles and limbs and words. Hurriedly, you scramble off your couch and swipe up your empty tea mug, then rush to your kitchen to deposit it unceremoniously into your sink.

You hear the sound of a car horn beeping on the street echoing both in real time and on the line, further sending your heart into a frenzy. “Yeah - you do live off 65th, right? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to just pop in like this - ”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you breathe out, making your way to your front door with your phone still sandwiched between your ear and your hand. “I just... Wasn’t expecting company.”

He snorts on the other end. “S’not like the Queen of England is coming. It’s just me.”

“Somehow, I think that’s worse,” you muse, leaning against your hallway wall and hovering your finger over the button to let him in. If hearing his voice has put you this much on edge, you can’t imagine what it’ll do to you if you see him in person.

“Maybe so,” Jake agrees, and you can practically hear the forlorn smile in his voice. “Mind letting me up, though? Just wanted to talk. In person.”

The reality of the situation crashes down on you - that Jake’s practically been AWOL for the past few years, that your friendship has felt one-sided and exhausting to try and keep up with, that you spent your last anniversary alone and sobbing into your cellphone So a part of you wants to turn him down, hustle him out of your safe space - but your heart pounds rapidly with its demands for answers, your brain implores you to hear him out.

Without a second thought, you push the button and hear the resounding buzz on Jake’s side, followed by a “See you soon, sweetheart.” The line clicks.

Mind going a million miles a second, you turn to glance at your reflection in the hall mirror that you’ve procrastinated hanging up for months now. You level a determined look at yourself, brush some crumbs off your sweatshirt and smooth some flyaways before pushing your shoulders back, standing up tall and proud in an attempt to exude confidence.

Three heavy knocks sounding out at the door immediately makes your look turn panicked, sending you stumbling over your feet as you reach to grab the doorknob and pull it open to reveal Jake Seresin standing in your narrow apartment hallway.

Not even five seconds have passed and you’re already annoyed with him. He’s still mind numbingly handsome: tall as ever, blonde hair still infuriatingly shiny and soft, green eyes catching the dim evening light, glimmering back at you like gemstones. It makes your stomach swoop, brings the butterflies fluttering back into your chest from where you’d banished them.

Asshole.

“Hey,” he greets, quirks up a corner of his mouth into a half smile that would normally have you swooning if you weren’t already frozen.

“Hi, Jake,” you manage out, eyes raking over his figure just to convince your mind that he’s really there, actually standing just a few feet in front of you. Shaking away the doubts, you step to the side, gesture for him to enter your apartment.

It’s not the sound of his footsteps that convince you, nor is it the brief brush of his arm as he sidles into your narrow apartment hallway or the unreal sight of how he fills up the space and how his shoulders stretch from wall to wall. It’s the familiar heavy scent that hits you - tobacco and vanilla - which makes your cheeks flush, your heart skips a beat.

He’s really here.

Gathering your wits, you follow him into your cramped living room, grateful that you’d done some vacuuming and tidying up that morning in an effort to banish all the anxieties and ruminations that come with this special day. “Feel free to sit anywhere,” you find your voice, snatch up an oversized throw to make some room on the couch.

He nods, turns around to assess your space thoughtfully before settling himself into the cushions.“I got your voicemail,” he tells you. “From last year.”

Oh. It suddenly feels bitter, leaves a sour taste in your mouth. “You didn’t call back?” you hedge, immediately going on the defense. Instead of sitting down next to him, you elect to slide into the armchair furthest away from him, an attempt to shield yourself from him. An attempt to avoid making the same mistake twice.

“I was going away on assignment the next morning,” Jake explains quietly, patiently. He meets your disbelieving look with somber eyes. It only slightly alleviates the pressure building in your chest. “And... honestly, I didn’t want to worry you. It was one of those missions. The kind I wasn’t sure I would come back from - like, where they’re telling us to call home and lay down all the cards.”

You pause for a moment, absorb his words and feel a twinge of hurt upon the realization that you weren’t kept in the loop, that you never even knew you stood a chance at losing him. Before the emotions can rattle you too much and send you spiraling with anxious thoughts and what ifs, he explains further..

“I thought I would spare you the details, spare you from having to prepare to lose me. I was okay with that decision up until the moment one of my engines failed and my jet was going down - and the one thing that flashed through my mind was that I wouldn’t get to talk to you again, or see you, or how when you win your Pulitzer you wouldn’t be able to call me to tell me the news or how I wouldn’t be able to hang up the print of your winning piece next to your union one,” his voice is shaking slightly, and you know if you even attempted to reply your words would quiver just as much. In this moment, you’re trembling with your hands folded over your eyes to hide the tears brimming.

It’s a mix of sadness and anger and disappointment and you try your best to hold off on the tornado, but it rips your soul to shreds the more you realize the gravity of the situation. “You’re fucking kidding me,” you grit out, pressing your lips together to barricade the sobs. Your hands are tightly wrapped around a throw pillow, squeezing and kneading out your frustration on it. You can barely stand to look at him. “Took you a near death experience to call me? You think I haven’t already put myself through the fucking wringer after feeling so guilty for cutting you off just because you were too scared to love me? And you almost died?”

“I’m sorry,” Jake repeats, at least sounding sincerely apologetic.

“I appreciate that, Jake,” you reply bitterly, then defeatedly toss the pillow to the side. “When did you even get back?”

His jaw tenses slightly and he sighs, and you immediately feel triumphant for successfully frustrating him, as petty as it sounds. “Few months back. And I’m sorry for not calling you. I wanted to as soon as I got back, but I wanted to say all this face to face. And it took some time for me to figure out my shit, but I’m here now, if you’ll hear me out?”

All you can do is nod, purse your lips and let him say his piece - there’s no pressure to forgive him or fall into his arms.

“I think you were right,” Jake continues seriously. You dig your nails into your palms anxiously. Under any other circumstance, you would have loved hearing those words from anyone else. Not now. Not Jake. “You were right to call me out when you said I was letting the fear of becoming my dad hold me back from chasing what I want.”

As your anger slightly dissipates, you think back to that moment - about how those were just a few of the words you wish you could snatch up out of your past and make them disappear. Your breath hitches. “I was a bit harsh - "

“- But you were right,” he interrupts. “And I think that’s another reason why I shut down, because you know me so well. After all these years, I think you know me better than I know myself.”

You nod, not sure what exactly to say to that. It’s not like you can explain to him that you were so incredibly taken by him, that you held onto his every word and agonized over interaction in hopes of really getting to know your best friend.

Jake goes on: “And you have to know that my dad broke Ma’s heart like it was nothing. Married for twenty years, dated for five years, friends for another ten years. Even after you add all that up, it’s still not enough to keep them together. He still went for the first temp who waltzed into his office, still fucked with both of them for months on end. If my parents couldn’t keep it together, how could anyone else?”

You’re stunned, frozen in shock before you manage to gather your strength, pick up your thoughts and hurl them right back at him. Screw this defeatist attitude he’s picked up. “You have to understand that’s the nature of some relationships, Jake. Sometimes they’re not meant to last forever, sometimes people change - "

You halt, feel a wave of déjà vu. The words on the tip of your tongue sound eerily familiar to something that’s replayed in your mind for the past two years, and a couple puzzle pieces start to fit together. “Is this why you were spouting all of this bullshit at the wedding? About us changing?”

Suddenly, he launches up from the couch, walks two steps across the room and pivots on his heel to walk the two steps back in an attempt to furiously pace. He groans out exasperatedly, rakes a hand through his stupid perfect blond hair. “I mean... Yeah. It made sense at the time,” he admits. Briefly, you wonder when his nervous tics changed in the past few years, when did he switch from bouncing his legs under tables to wearing a path into carpets?

People change indeed. In more ways than one.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you tell him matter-of-factly, and there’s no sugar-coating your words anymore. He makes a sound, as if he’s about to feign offense, but you power through. “People change all the fucking time, Jake. How the hell are we supposed to grow and become better versions of ourselves if we stay stagnant? Where’s the fucking story in that?”

You huff out a laugh, don’t even wait for him to reply before continuing on a rant. He’s stopped pacing now, is looking at you, but you’ve sprung up to your full height to look at him straight on, deliver your words as firmly as you can.

“People change, Jake, especially when they’re in relationships - it’s a matter of adapting, supporting them and loving your partner through it. And like, let’s be clear: I’ve changed a lot, too. Physically and emotionally - but I’m okay with it because I realize it’s made me become someone my sixteen year old self would be stoked to meet. And not just because I live in the city or because I have, like, two Montblanc pens - but because I’m working on these stories and they fly me out wherever to interview people, and I know I haven’t sent my stuff to you in a while, didn’t think you’d still want to read it - ”

“- I’ve kept up,” Jake interrupts. You stop in your tracks, tilt your head to the side as you process this. “I wanted to read them.”

“You have?” you ask dubiously, doubtfully. Hopefully.

“‘Course,” he affirms, sends you a reassuring smile and stands up straighter, takes a step forward. “I mean, not while I was overseas, I read up when I got back. I really liked that one about the Obamas’ portraits. Thought that was pretty cool. But the one about the grassroots movements for peace in Afghanistan got me thinking. Like, obviously I was assigned there for a while, but didn’t really consider other things happening there - Actually, I had some questions for you, but we can talk about it later...”

“Oh. Sure.” You’re slightly shocked at the confession, at the small vision that flashes through your mind of Jake typing your name into Google and catching up on your stories, determinedly following your career even during the most unstable moment in your friendship. It sparks hope in you, sends a wave of hope crashing down on you forcefully. “Wow. I didn’t think you… That means the world to me, Jake.”

He’s quiet for a moment, excitement reverting back to a somber contemplative expression. “I understand what you’re saying about change,” he says hesitantly, rocks back on his heels. “And I think I’m starting to understand what you meant in your voicemail about the... conglomeration stuff. Loving every version of me. Because I really feel the same way about you.”

It’s ambiguous, a little mysterious, his words a little stilted and broken, and you replay his words over and over to try and dig up the meaning behind them. But he’s taking another step towards you - if you reach out, you can certainly reach up and run your finger across the small bump in his nose from that football all those years ago. Hold his cheek in your hand like you've always wanted to.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he’s saying, and it makes your heart thud a million miles a minute, makes you want to pinch yourself. “I can’t remember it for the life of me. But I think about the moment I realized it - when you said it to me four years ago. And I regret not saying anything back every fucking day.”

Your heart stumbles, crushes up against the front of your ribcage as it tries to peek out at the man you’ve loved since you were seventeen. “Oh, Jake,” your response rolls out along with two tears down your cheeks.“ It’s okay - “

The scent of vanilla tobacco hits you first, then his chest as he pulls you into a giant bear hug that envelops you in a warmth that could put both the sun and Texas bonfires to shame. Your face is pressed into his jacket and he’s talking, saying something that you don’t really register until you tilt your head up and dig your chin into his firm chest.

“I’m in love with you, sweetheart,” the words burst forth. His hand’s resting gently on the small of your back - the warmth of his palm radiates comforting heat through your body that only multiplies as he pulls you into him. You stabilize your hands on his shoulders, crane your neck to look up at him and map out every part of his face - from the small lines in his forehead to the slope of his nose to the slight redness in his cheeks. “It’s okay if it’s too late, if you’ve moved on. I just don’t want to lose you again, don’t want to risk not talking to you, can’t - ”

“Of course I’m in love with you, stupid man,” the words come to you as easily as breathing does. The smile that spreads across his face brings back your favorite eye crinkles, carves a dimple into the corner of his mouth, makes it feel like you’re bathing in sunlight. And Jake wastes no time, doesn’t even hesitate before he’s breathing out a question and you're nodding tearfully and then he's cupping both of your cheeks gently and surging forward to press his lips to yours.

Jake tastes like cinnamon, just as you’ve always suspected. Aside from that, nothing about the way you love Jake is predictable. Nothing is ever steady, nothing is ever expected. Every moment with him brings forth a new set of revelations that drives you crazy, tears you to pieces. And somehow, it’s all incredibly worth it, worth the brief heartbreak, worth the years of hoping and waiting for him to join you. Because in the end, he made it. In this moment, it feels like everything is just right.

#hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #hangman imagine #jake seresin imagine #tgm fanfic #mine

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