Love, Lust, and Laundry in the Time of the Post-Apocalypse

by elrosa

Summary:

After escaping La Huerta, Taylor and Jake disappear into a quiet coastal town. Now there’s no jungle, no monsters and no psychopathic millionaires, just a leaky faucet, a half-painted wall, and two people trying to figure out what love looks like when the world isn’t ending. Spoiler: includes bad coffee, bruised knuckles, and kitchen counters used incorrectly.

Notes:

• For SaskiSkies.

Let’s be honest: Xth replay, and the canon endings still hurt too much. So I built (yet another) new one and pretend I don't know what apocalypse.

Canon? More of a guideline. Plot holes? So many the story should be called lace (it’s fine, lace is beautiful). Fan service? Absolutely. I’m the fan.

This is a non-linear collection of drabbles, short stories, misadventures, and post-island moments where Jake and Taylor are messy, horny, soft, occasionally competent, and always in love.

Now here’s what happened after the credits rolled.

Chapter 1: Exit Stage Left

Everything was chaotic by the time the La Huerta news reached the world. And in all that chaos, it was really easy to disappear. Almost too easy.

Jake had no home to return to—only too many ghosts, unfinished business, and a past he never wanted to dig up. Taylor... she could’ve stayed with the rest of the group. Gotten a name, history, a version of herself that made sense on paper. But when Jake said, “I can’t go back,” she just reached for his hand and held it like it was the only choice that ever made sense.

Aleister quietly offered them help. Whatever was left of his father’s empire was crumbling after the news of the ecological catastrophe, but the old money don’t disappear overnight. He passed her an envelope, and Taylor tucked it into her jacket. Guilt makes people generous, but she felt just as guilty to take it. She didn’t want to accept his generosity at first, but a clean start costs more than it should, and she vowed to pay him back. One day.

Estela handed over fake papers without saying a word. Diego cried and hugged them both so tightly she couldn’t breathe. Sean said something about not making it weird, but his handshake was firmer than necessary, and he didn’t let go for a full second longer than expected.

And then the two of them were gone.

They rented an apartment in a sleepy seaside town where no one asked too many questions. It had a tiny kitchen, balcony with chipped paint, and leaky faucet. But the bed didn’t creak, and there was warm light in the morning. They tried to paint the rooms. Jake tried and failed at coffee. They bought groceries, burned half of them, and found alternative uses for the counter instead. They laughed together, fought and then made up. Sometimes, Taylor caught Jake watching her from across the room like he still didn’t quite believe she was there. Life was good.

Until it started to itch.

Chapter 2: Rose by Any Other Name

Summary:

it should have been the first one in collection, but I didn’t come up with it until last week. So instead pretend it is ;)

It all started with a joke. Taylor said something funny, she couldn’t even recall what it was, and Jake howled louder than you’re supposed to in public. Nothing wrong with that, but it caught the eye of a passing police patrol. Just a quick trained glance, sensing a spark of trouble, but when their gazes locked, Taylor and Jake froze.

And now they were sitting by their kitchen table, each with a notebook in hand, trying to figure it all out.

“Let's keep our first names,” she said earlier. “Everyone knows them. Jobs, neighbors.”

But the last name…

Jake sighed. “We need a new last name. Something that won’t make us flinch every time we even breathe near the border.”

He wrote his full name on the top of the page. It still came automatically, even after all these years. Muscle memory.

Jacob Lucas McKenzie.

It was his last connection with his family. Written on his school report cards, first driving license, old dog tags he always kept close to his heart. He could still hear his mother yelling it from the porch, universal sign for you’re in trouble. It was a name given to him by people who raised him, celebrated his birthdays and milestones. He hadn't seen them for so long it felt like a completely different life. They believed he was guilty. They didn’t know his whole story.

They didn't know he still loved and missed them.

He hovered the pencil over his name, as if planning to cross it out. His fingers trembled. He couldn't bring himself to do it. It felt like erasing himself. Instead, he looked across the table.

Taylor was chewing the end of a pencil like a five year old lost in thoughts. She hadn’t written anything except her first name.

He blinked and gestured at the paper. “No last name?”

“No,” she blinked at him, more curious than embarrassed. “I never had one.”

He opened his mouth and closed it without saying anything. Of course she didn’t, he knew that. And yet… knowing wasn’t the same as seeing her write her whole identity in just six letters and leave the rest blank, like it didn’t matter. Like she didn't even miss it.

“If it were safe… I’d take yours,” she added quietly.

“It’s not…” Jake swallowed. Hard. “It’s not a lucky name.”

Taylor leaned to him and reached across the table. Her fingers wrapped gently around his wrist. “Yeah. But it’s yours.”

He closed his eyes for a second. That’s how he always hoped it would go—and now this too was something he had lost. It wasn’t just a family name, it was his whole identity, his history. It felt like walking away from a door he hadn’t accepted was locked forever.

“It feels like I’m losing them,” he whispered looking at the page. He didn’t need to explain more.

“Look at me.” She stared into his eyes. “You’re not losing your family. But you’re gaining ours.”

He lifted her hand to his lips, then rested her palm against his face. He shut his eyes, hoping that maybe if he kept still enough, the tremble wouldn’t give him away. Maybe she wouldn’t notice how much it cost him to let go of the only name he ever answered to.

Of course she noticed. Her thumb moved first, brushing over his cheek. Then she moved from her seat and wrapped her free arm around him. He leaned into the embrace, and she held him like something fragile—maybe because at that moment he was. But her hand was steady and real.

He opened his eyes and grabbed the pencil again. He couldn't cross out his name, but he drew a single line beneath it, like he tried to separate his past and his future. Then, below it, he wrote a new one. And when he looked up at her with question in his eyes, she just nodded—and wrote the same in her notebook.

 

Chapter 3: How Not to Paint a Wall

All they had was a can of paint and way too much optimism.

“It’s just a wall,” Taylor said, hands propped on her hips, and blew hair off her face. The messy bun she did earlier was already falling apart. “How hard can it be?”

“Famous last words,” Jake smirked, holding a paint tray in hand, his shirt already off.

They bought the paint at a discount store two towns over, a shade named Ocean Whisper by someone who only ever saw the ocean on marketing photos. The plan was simple: paint one room, make it theirs, feel like adults, maybe even earn enough smugness to justify having takeout afterwards. And for about ten minutes, it went really promising. Great, even. All edges were neatly taped, floor covered with foil, trays and rollers ready. Taylor even folded a pair of absolutely ridiculous paper hats and then laughed when Jake wore his backwards.

Then he bumped her hip reaching for the paint can. Accidentally. But she retaliated with a not-so-accidental swipe across his ribs. He flicked paint back, just a speck at first. She gasped like he’d just insulted her whole non-existing ancestry, and narrowed her eyes. Things escalated quickly. The roller got dropped. The brush ended up on the floor. At one point he ducked to dodge her aim and nearly knocked over the whole can. There was blue paint on her thigh, on his neck, on the inside of her wrist. None of it intentional.

Taylor lunged for a clean towel and missed, slipping on the foil and colliding into Jake. He fell back against the unfinished wall with a thud that knocked dust from the ceiling, and she landed on top of him, laughing too hard to breathe.

“We’re the worst homeowners,” she wheezed.

Jake mumbled, trying to sit up. “We don’t even own this place.”

“Exactly.”

Her breath slowed. He looked at her—grinning, shirt half off her shoulder, head still in his lap—and everything in him softened. She reached for his face and left a streak of blue on his jaw, but he didn't even blink, just pulled her closer. They kissed once, then again, and again, and again. The foil crinkled beneath them as he tugged her down with him, mouth still on hers.

Three walls were still white. But neither of them cared anymore.

 

Chapter 4: Between Potatoes and Soap

It was just a grocery list scrawled in Jake’s awful handwriting and taped to the fridge with a piece of duct tape. Taylor noticed it while digging for milk. Her eyes caught the paper and she squinted, trying to make sense of the scribbles.

Bread

Eggs

Soap

???atoes

Taylor

Just her name with no explanation and no item next to it, sitting there like it belonged between soap and whatever vegetable he forgot how to spell. Like she was a thing he needed.

It took her a second, maybe two. And then she remembered the granola bars—her favorites, ones that came in compostable wrappers and tasted like almonds (if you asked her) and sadness (if you asked him). She hadn’t asked for them. Hadn’t mentioned them, even. He remembered to get them anyway.

She stood in front of the fridge longer than necessary, the carton of milk forgotten in her hand. Then she folded the list, slowly and carefully, and tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans. She couldn’t really tell why.

The next morning, she slipped a note into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Are you secretly a doctor? Because only two kinds of people write like this: doctors and serial killers. Love you. Don't kill me. —T”

He found it halfway through the day and sent her a selfie with the post-it in hand, grinning like he won something. She sighed, smiled, and quietly decided to keep writing them. After everything they’ve been through, they deserved something that soft, even if it was a bit ridiculous.

Chapter 5: Height Treason

It was supposed to be a fancy night out. Jake carefully ironed his shirt, shaved and put on cologne. Hell, he even brushed back his hair the way she liked. He was really proud of himself—until she stepped out of the bedroom, and everything else vanished.

He stared. Blinked. Stared again. Picked up his jaw from the floor. Stared some more.

Taylor leaned on the door frame like she was posing for a fashion magazine. Hair up, shoulders bare, lips soft red—and those legs. The dress was black and simple, but her heels... not too tall, but just enough to make her legs go on forever. Just enough to make his pulse trip over itself.

He took a breath, stunned by her appearance.

“Holy hell,” he finally managed to say.

Taylor gave him a slow once-over and an appreciative nod. “You clean up nice too.”

And then she stepped closer. He looked down at her shoes, then up at her face, and back down again. His smile faltered.

“…wait a second.”

Taylor tilted her head, faux-concerned, something smug and playful already twinkling in her eyes. “Problem, Top Gun?”

He squinted, trying to measure it in his head. “Are you—”

“Say it,” she challenged him, arms crossing under her chest. “I dare you.”

He hesitated, then sighed like a man facing a firing squad. “You’re taller than me.”

“Damn right I am,” she said, and her grin turned positively evil.

“Not by much,” he murmured. It was only an inch, if even that. At least he hoped it was.

“Still counts.”

Jake dragged a hand down his face. “You know there are laws against this sort of height treason.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She made an exaggerated bow and patted his cheek. “You’re just mad you lost the high ground.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You have no idea.”

He groaned. “You planned this!”

She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I’ve been planning this since the day you laughed at my running shoes.”

Jake made a wounded sound, then tugged her close by the waist. “I will take those off you.”

“You can try,” Taylor whispered in his ear, then pulled back with a smirk and turned toward the door. “Well? You coming, short king?”

He growled, but followed. He had no choice. Her legs looked unreal in those shoes.

***

As soon as they left the restaurant, he meant to drag her home and have his revenge. Or at least level the playing field by getting those damn heels off.

But when they got to the apartment, she shut the door behind them, leaned on it with that slow, deliberate smile—the kind that always meant he was about to lose something important, like dignity or blood pressure—and dropped her dress. Heels stayed.

Only the heels.

Jake forgot every clever retort he had lined up.

Taylor sauntered toward him, hips swaying with each step, taller by just an inch but somehow miles more dangerous. “Still mad?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“Didn’t think so.” She reached down—barely, just enough to remind him who is in charge—and pushed him gently onto the couch.

Jake fell without resistance. “This feels like a trap.”

Taylor straddled him, all heat and height and power, and leaned in close. “It is.”

“…God, I love you.”

“Good,” she said, biting his lip. “Now shut up and worship your queen.”

***

The next morning, he woke up still breathless. She was barefoot in the kitchen, wearing nothing but one of his shirts and the faint ghost of last night’s lipstick. He looked at the heels in the hallway and swore under his breath.

Taylor grinned over her mug. “Still mad at my heels?”

“Nope,” Jake said, rubbing his neck. “I think I might build a shrine instead.”

***

Later in the morning, he found her note tucked into his wallet. It smelled faintly like her perfume.

Still love you. Even if you need a step stool to kiss me now.

—T

He didn’t say anything, put it back where he found it, and went about the day like a man with a plan.

That same night, Taylor found a fancy envelope on her pillow. Her name was written on the front in his neatest attempt at cursive. Inside he scrawled just one line:

Height doesn’t matter when you’re flat on your back. Just saying.

—J

 

Chapter 6: Bitter and Disappointing

Every morning, Jake woke up first. Not because he meant to, but because years of adrenaline didn’t just fade with new softer sheets. The sun would barely be over the horizon, and he’d already be lying awake, motionless, eyes wide open. Taylor curled against him like a miracle he never dared to hope for, breathing soft and slow. He’d stare at her and think he’d give her the world if he could. Love and sunlight and a planet that never hurt her.

So far all he managed was terrible coffee.

He slipped out of bed in the morning and went to the kitchen. It was still almost dark outside, the floor was cold under his feet, and the hiss of their cheap coffee pot echoed loud in the silence. He fumbled through the motions like it might taste better if he just tried hard enough. It didn’t.

He brought her a chipped mug filled with the love potion to the brim, sat on the edge of the bed and watched her stretch, bare skin peeking out from under the blanket.

Taylor took one sip, froze, and gave him the most tragic look in the world. “Jake.”

“Mmm?”

“This is the worst coffee I’ve had in my life. And I tried the Raj hangover special.”

Jake smirked. “Well, I thought you liked your coffee like you like your men.”

“Bitter and disappointing?”

“Hot and inside you.”

Taylor choked on her sip, groaned and whacked him with a pillow. “You are disgusting.”

“Maybe, but you still love me.”

“I hate you.”

He leaned down and kissed her collarbone. “That’s not what you said last night.”

“Okay,” she muttered. “You’re banned from the kitchen. Forever.”

“That means you’re cooking.”

Taylor narrowed her eyes. “I take it back. Welcome to the culinary arts, chef.”

 

Chapter 7: Wild Things

The flowers stayed in a chipped mason jar by the window. Wild things, unruly and bright—just like the two of them. Taylor watered them exactly once, and they still refused to die. It made her smile.

She didn’t know, and Jake would never admit it, but he watered them when she wasn’t looking. Just a little here and there, every few days. No fuss, no calendar. He pretended it wasn’t anything special, but te way her face lit up when she passed that windowsill made something knot in his chest. So one day, without actually planning it, he came home with something clutched awkwardly behind his back.

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “What did you break?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Jake held out a mismatched bunch of flowers. Half of them crooked, a few wilted, all clearly not from any store.

She blinked. “You picked those.”

“Maybe.”

“They’re stolen.”

He shrugged. “Borrowed. From a fence line. They reminded me of you.”

Taylor stared at them. Little white, pink, and yellow blooms, wild and chaotic. There was even a sprig of something that looked and smelled suspiciously like rosemary. And her heart felt so full it almost hurt.

She took them gently. “They’re beautiful.”

Jake grinned. “So you love them?”

She kissed him before she could say yes.

Chapter 8: Blanket Statement

Jake had never shared a bed long-term before. Sure, he’d slept in beds with other people in it, but always briefly. Now, he spent every night with someone who turned his carefully tucked sheets into a war zone.

The first week, he learned that Taylor was a blanket thief. And it wasn’t just a subtle little tug. No—she rolled herself in like a burrito and dared him to try and take it back.

The second week, he learned she snored. Not always, thankfully. Just when she was too tired, or drank too much. He even recorded it once, but she refused to believe it was her.

By the third week, he realized she talked in her sleep. Mostly nonsense—she muttered something about turnips and deadlines. Other times it was suspiciously sassy. Once, she mumbled “Nice try, Top Gun,” and slapped him in the chest like she was arguing with him even in a dream.

And yet, despite his grumbling, Jake slept better with her than he ever had alone.

He had his habits too, of course. First, he always slept too warm. He would kick the covers off around midnight, then wake up freezing and try to steal them back—but by then, Taylor had already claimed the neglected blanket for her burrito, and he had to negotiate a hostage release.

He also had a tendency to drift toward her in his sleep. No matter how far apart they started, he always woke up curled around her. Sometimes with his face pressed to the curve of her back, one leg slung over her hip. Sometimes with his head on her chest and her hand in his hair. Or with her pulled half on top of him, his arms wrapped tight around like he was afraid she’d vanish if he let go. More than once, with her hair in his mouth.

He claimed it was only because she had stolen the blanket, and he needed the warmth. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Because even when the night was warm and by some miracle he still had the covers, his body still reached for her.

And last but not least, he always woke up first. It didn’t matter how late they went to bed—his eyes would blink open at the first light of dawn, and there she’d be. Hair wild, face soft, sprawled across the sheets like she owned the whole bed.

Every day, Jake looked at her like he’d been handed something rare. Something his. He wouldn’t have traded a second of it. Especially not when she fell asleep on his chest, muttering nonsense into his collarbone and sighing like she belonged there—because she did, even if she kept stealing the whole damn blanket. He could always buy a second one. But somehow, he never did.

Chapter 9: Rated R for Risotto

One Sunday afternoon, the kitchen counter disappeared under a bag full of groceries and stubborn optimism. Fresh vegetables, arborio rice, vegetable stock, and a suspiciously overpriced wedge of cheese Taylor insisted on because “We deserve nice things.”

It started quite romantic. Jake opened the wine, she chopped the garlic, he kissed her mid-sentence. The chopping board was chaos, and the recipe had only gone off the rails twice in the first two minutes. She stole a piece of cheese off the counter. He slapped her hand.

“Hands off the goods,” he growled.

“I thought you liked my hands on your goods.”

They exchanged a look that promised nothing innocent. Then she bent over to reach the ladle, his hands found her hips, and the recipe was forgotten. Clothes hit the floor. The counter got involved. No one stirred the pot.

Later, Taylor slumped back against the cabinets, breathing hard, with top bunched at her waist and damp hair sticking to the back of her neck.

Her stomach growled loud enough to echo.

Jake, still grinning like a man entirely too pleased with himself, leaned against the counter. “Hungry? I’ve got seconds.”

She blinked at him. “You don’t mean food.”

His grin widened. “Nope.”

And then he dropped to his knees.

Taylor groaned, head falling back against the cabinet. “This is so unfair.”

He paused with hands on her thighs. “What?”

“You get to eat and I’m still starving.”

Jake howled. “You’ll survive.”

Her fingers threaded into his hair. “Better make it worth the wait then.”

He really outdid himself this time. The risotto also went down in history, though maybe not exactly in the way they expected at the beginning. Thankfully, pizza place on the corner had a soft spot for culinary disasters. By the third failed dinner, they handed over a loyalty card, no questions asked.

Chapter 10: One Stray at a Time

Jake woke up alone. Which wasn’t just unusual, it was simply wrong. Taylor was always waking up later, wrapped in a blanket and his arms. Always asking for five more minutes and refusing to let him leave the bed. He liked it that way. He liked her that way.

But today the sheets were cold and there was no soft breathing beside him. No pointy elbow stuck between his ribs. Just emptiness, like she’d vanished. And for half a second, panic hit him like a punch to the chest. For half a second he thought—she left. No note. No goodbye. Just vanished, like everything else in his life eventually did.

Then he heard a sound. Soft clinking of a dish sliding across tile. He found her in the kitchen, sitting on the floor and feeding scraps of chicken to a cat. A very dirty, very fat, and very smug stray cat.

Jake blinked. “What the hell is that?”

Taylor didn’t even look up. “Behave. We have a guest for breakfast.”

“You’re feeding it our leftovers?”

“He was hungry.”

“So am I.”

“I’ll make you something else.”

Jake rubbed his eyes, still half-convinced he was dreaming. “You scared the shit out of me. You’re never up first. I was worried something happened.”

“Sorry. I had company.”

The cat meowed, visibly offended at the empty dish, as if it was paying the grocery bill.

Jake crossed his arms. “Are you planning to adopt every stray you find?”

Taylor didn’t answer right away. She scratched the cat under his chin, then glanced at Jake with a smile that was far too soft for the time of morning. “Hey, I’ve only done that once so far.”

Jake stared at the animal, who slowly blinked back like it knew too much. “Well, I hope you’re happy. It probably has fleas.”

Taylor didn’t miss a beat. “No you don’t. Or you lose bed privileges.”

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it and looked at her. Because of course she wasn’t talking about the damn cat.

He scrambled to sit down beside her on the floor. He tried to joke like he always did, but it felt like something was stuck in his throat and the words came out quieter than he expected. “I'm not leaving your bed. Fleas or not.”

The cat made a noise that could have been an agreement, or maybe just a demand for more chicken—it’s always hard to tell with cats. And Jake just slid closer, wrapping his arms around his wife and pretending that he wasn’t undone by the way she always, always said so much without saying much at all.

Chapter 11: Held Together

Summary:

Darker one today, so if you're looking for fluff please skip ❤️

Taylor woke up to a summer storm raging outside. Rain rattled at the windows, wind howled—but she was safe and warm inside. She reached across the bed to snuggle to her husband.

Her hand landed on a cold and empty space.

She didn't panic, at least not at first. The storm probably woke him up too, and he went to their kitchen to grab a drink—he did that on some nights when memories came back too hard. But when she stood up, the apartment was quiet and empty, and Jake wasn't there.

She found him curled on the couch. His fingers gripped the blanket too tight, almost like he was holding a lifeline. The night was hot, but he was shivering and his hair was damp with sweat. At first, she thought he might be sick—maybe had a fever—but when she moved closer, her heart twisted.

His eyes were open, but he wasn’t really there. Every muscle in his body was so tense she feared he might snap in two before she could reach him.

“Jake,” she whispered and crouched beside him, but didn’t touch him. Not yet. She’d learned the hard way how can he react when he was like this.

She waited, one hand braced on the floor. Her breath caught in her throat. Damn, she hated this. Hated how familiar it felt. How many nights like this had there been? How many more were waiting?

“Jake,” she said again, barely a breath. “I’m here.”

He blinked, then exhaled like he was coming back from underwater. The muscles in his face twitched. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” she said, gently brushing hair off his forehead. “You okay?”

He looked away. “No. Not really.”

She didn’t push. Just stayed kneeling, her hand resting on his knee, feeling how tight he was. Jake looked at her, and the pain in his eyes made her chest ache.

“Go back to sleep,” he said. “No point both of us being wrecked tomorrow.”

She didn’t move. “Come to bed.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Then I’ll stay here.”

“No,” he said, too fast. “Tay. Don’t… don’t see me like this.”

She kissed his cheek and stood up. For a moment, he thought she was leaving like he asked her to, but then she grabbed the end of the blanket and tugged.

“Move over,” she ordered, and when he hesitated, she added softly, “Let me hold you.”

Jake stared at her.

“I mean it. Scoot.”

So he did.

She climbed onto the couch behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him to her chest. He didn’t protest. Just exhaled shakily and sank into her like a man surrendering to gravity. Her nose buried in the crook of his neck, her hand rested flat over his heart. She held him like that until he stopped shaking. Neither of them said it, but they both knew the words for it. Safety. Love.

From that night on, she insisted on being the big spoon. He let her.

Chapter 12: Soap Opera

The dishes had reached critical mass. Jake grinned and crossed his arms as he admired his masterpiece: a tower of mugs, sauce-streaked plates, and a spoon stained with something no longer identifiable.

Then he added a note on top, stuck to a dirty mug:

I thought about doing the dishes. Then I thought about doing you. Guess which won.
—J

He left it there and flopped on the couch with the smug satisfaction of a man who’d chosen his battles poorly, but at least made it funny.

Taylor didn’t reply right away. Instead, she decided to let him stew and wonder if he went too far (he didn’t, she burst out laughing when she read it), or if she was planning revenge (she was, of course).

By evening, the mountain of dishes remained in the sink, but his note was replaced with a new one, written in her tidy, elegant handwriting.

This sink is the only thing getting wet tonight unless it’s empty by 8.
—T

Jake read it twice. By 7:43, he was in full penitence mode—sleeves rolled, jaw set, scrubbing like the future of his sex life depended on it. Which, he suspected, it absolutely did.

At 8:01, Taylor walked into a kitchen and stopped mid-step. She looked around and breathed in the cleaner-smelling air. Spotless. A soft, satisfied smile tugged at her lips: Princess was finally pleased with her realm.

Jake stood off to the side. He sighed like a man who’d just passed the ultimate trial.

She found his reply where the sponge used to be:

The kitchen is cleaner than my conscience. Please change your mind?
—J

He discovered her final note the next morning, tucked under the coffee pot.

Now that you know it turns me on when you do the chores, I hope you’ll do them more often.
—T

He read it three times before pouring himself coffee, then made a mental note to vacuum the living room today.

Just in case.

Chapter 13: Flaky Promises

It was supposed to be a calm morning. Just a walk by the sea to see the sunrise, and later some coffee, maybe even a pastry if the stars aligned and Jake didn’t grumble about carbs.

Well, the stars were on her side today. Taylor leaned back in her chair, licked the chocolate off her finger, and started to innocently eye the croissant on his plate when she noticed a movement at a table a couple of rows away.

A young man stood up, fumbled in his pocket, then tried to kneel and bumped his head on a table. His partner gasped, hands covering his mouth, eyes already wet.

“Ooh,” she smiled an encouraging grin at the couple.

“Ugh,” Jake winced. “Please tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

She kicked him under the table. “Shut up. It’s sweet.”

“It’s a public proposal.” He gestured at the man, who was now holding the ring in both hands. “And he just quoted The Notebook. Seriously?”

“I thought you liked that movie?”

“Yeah, the rain scene, not the plot.” He shrugged when she stared daggers at him. “The wet shirt gets me every time.”

This earned him another carefully calculated kick in the shin. Taylor’s hand started to slowly creep towards his plate, but he grabbed it before she could steal his portion.

“Your hands… so cold,” he murmured.

“My hands are not… Oh.”

She realized he was not talking about now—he mentally traveled to the night where he proposed himself. In a cabin covered by snow, by the fireplace. No audience, no big speech. Just crackling firewood and the two of them.

“You were scared I’d say no,” she said gently.

Jake’s thumb brushed over her knuckles.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Terrified.”

“But I said yes.”

“Yes. To the stars and back, yes! ” He mimicked her voice, adding a dramatic hand flourish, but his eyes remained soft.

“And remember what you said after that?”

“I love you so much, Taylor,” he said in low voice, kissing her knuckles. “I’ll do everything I can to give you the life you deserve.”

She smiled and cupped his cheek with her hand. The sea whispered in the background, wind tugged at their hair. The proposal behind them ended in cheers and clapping, but they didn’t even blink.

Until Taylor looked down. At the croissant.

Jake sighed. “Take it before I change my mind.”

She stole it with all the grace of a seasoned thief. “Thanks, Top Gun.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

“To the stars and back?” she asked, mouth full of flaky dough.

“To the stars and back.”

Chapter 14: A Year and a Day Later

Summary:

After the engagement comes the wedding, of course ;)

“Don’t laugh,” Jake said, holding out a pink ribbon with a grin. “But I ironed it.”

Taylor stepped closer and smiled back. Her fingers gently adjusted his tie, then brushed an invisible speck off his waistcoat.

“I guess this means we’re ready?” She asked and looped her arm with his.

They’d picked the location two weeks ago when they found it on a hike—a clearing in the forest, close enough to the coast that you could see the sea between trees, with an old tree, tall and majestic in the middle. It wasn’t as big as Elyystel—they knew they would never find another one like it—but when they looked at it, it brought back the memories of their handfasting day.

And now, a year and a day later, they were back there with a carefully ironed ribbon, rolled blanket, and a picnic basket in hand, dressed for the occasion.

Jake smoothed out the blanket on the grass. She wandered a few steps away, holding a string of fairy lights, and gestured towards the tree.

“I think I’m going to need a hand with these. I can’t reach the branch.”

“Gotcha,” he said, already standing behind her. His strong hands circled her waist and lifted her up.

Taylor hooked the lights on a branch, then flipped the switch. Soft golden light flickered, held for a second, then dimmed again.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Jake muttered, set her down, and gave the battery pack a solid whack. The lights came back to life, shining even brighter this time.

They looked at each other and didn’t need to say anything. One glance, his hand brushing hers, her breath catching just a little, and that was it.

Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out the ribbon first, smoothing it between his fingers. Then he reached again and retrieved a crumpled piece of paper.

“I, uh…” Jake cleared his throat and didn’t look at her right away. “I wrote something this time. Real vows. Figured you deserve something better than last year’s ‘I’m a total mess but I love you’ manifesto.”

“I did love it, you know?” She smiled and caressed his cheek. “It was very… you.”

He looked at her suspiciously, unsure if she was joking—but no, she looked serious. He unfolded the paper, glanced down, and immediately looked sideways, blinking hard and pretending he wasn’t getting all teary-eyed.

“Wanna wing it again?” She whispered with a gleam in her eye, and he just nodded.

They both moved at once, hands meeting in the middle, wrapping the ribbon around them clumsily but gently. Somehow, they managed to tie the knot on their first try.

Taylor took a breath, looked down at their hands, then back up at him.

“Last year, I told you I’d take whatever path you choose. That we’d lead each other. I meant it. And I still mean it.

“I loved you then,” she added, “when I didn’t know if we had a future. And I love you more now because we made one.”

Her voice wavered a little.

“I didn’t know then how many wrong turns we would take. How many times we’d have to stop to catch our breath. And how that would still be okay.”

She smiled and blinked away the tears.

“I still want to walk with you, even if the road is hard. Even when we don’t have a map, and you refuse to ask for directions.”

He chuckled. She squeezed his hand.

“So, it’s just the same promise but said better. I’ll keep leading when you can’t. I’ll follow your lead when I can’t. And I will not give up on us. Not ever.”

Jake let out a breath so deep it sounded like he held it since the island.

“I guess it’s my turn now,” he murmured. “Though, uh, it’s a hard act to follow.”

She waited, eyes soft, and he glanced up at the sky like he needed permission.

“I meant to start with something about how I used to think I wasn’t built for this. The… life part. Not running the minute something got too real.”

He paused, laughing quietly to himself, shaking his head.

“And then there’s you. Staying when I didn’t think I deserved it. Loving me when I forgot how to love myself.”

His voice cracked on that last word, but he powered through.

“You made me want to build something. Even if I still don’t know how to use half the tools.”

Taylor let out a soft laugh. He gave her a watery smile.

“So I forgot the fancy lines,” he said. “But I vow to keep trying. To stay. To show up. To be yours in every way that matters.”

He looked down at their hands, still bound by that ribbon.

“And if this thing ever comes undone,” he added, “I’ll tie it back again. As many times as it takes.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. He looked at her as if she were a miracle. She looked at him like she still couldn’t believe he let her keep loving him.

She leaned just a little, her hand tangled in his hair. He met her halfway, his hand wrapped around her waist.

The kiss was slow and steady, full of all the things they didn’t have words for. When they pulled apart, the lights overhead flickered again but held.

Just like them.

Chapter 15: In Whiskey Veritas

Like most of their best and worst ideas, the game started with a free evening, boredom, and a bottle of whiskey.

Jake was sprawled on the couch, cradling the bottle to his chest. Taylor tried not to melt into a puddle on the floor below. The fan was doing it's best, but the summer was winning. Most of their clothes disappeared somewhere between rounds two and five, back when the bottle was still more full than empty, and the dares were more playful than dangerous.

“Take off your shirt,” she demanded early on, chin propped on her hand. “I know you’d be disappointed if I didn’t ask, so let’s get it over with.”

“Your turn. Shorts,” he said in the next round without blinking. She tossed them at his face, but he managed to dodge. Barely.

They didn’t keep score, but Jake insisted he was winning. Taylor insisted he was delusional, but still passed him the bottle. When it was her turn, she picked a truth instead. Mostly because she didn’t want to be dared into something that required effort or verticality.

“Half full or half empty?” He asked and eyed the bottle as if it were a crystal ball.

She squinted. “Half empty, I think.”

Jake sighed dramatically. “Tragic.”

She tossed him a water bottle without looking. It hit him in the stomach with a satisfying thud.

Jake groaned. “Assault. In my own home. From my own wife.”

“Time to hydrate. I don’t want you to pass out before the fun part.” She stretched, reached blindly for the whiskey bottle, then nodded toward him. “Your turn.”

“Dare.”

Taylor considered her options. She had a few ideas—some flirty, some stupid, some funny—but the scales were already tipping towards chaos.

“Call Zahra,” she said sweetly, sliding him her phone. The number was already pulled up. “Tell her something nice.”

“…about what?”

“Whatever you want,” she shrugged. “Her haircut. Or code. Moral superiority?”

He swallowed hard and pressed the green icon. Zahra picked up after the first ring.

“’Sup?”

“Hey. It’s me,” Jake said solemnly. “I just wanted to say the code you wrote last week was really… functional.”

The line went quiet, but he could feel the contempt radiating from the speaker.

“Jake?”

He could almost hear Zahra raising an eyebrow.

“Jake, if you’re being held hostage cough twice.”

He almost did. But instead, he dug his own grave even deeper. “…And that… infinite... recursion? That was something else.”

“Recursion is not supposed to be infinite,” she snapped. “Nobody wants endless loops. Are you drunk?”

“…No.”

“Is Taylor there?”

“Yes.”

“Tell her you’re both blocked.”

And with that, she hung up.

Jake stared at the phone, then passed it back like it burned. Taylor was already wheezing into a pillow.

By the time the bottle was two-thirds gone, they stopped pretending it was only for fun.

She asked what he thought about when he couldn’t sleep. He asked if there was ever a moment she wanted to leave and didn’t. She dared him to say something honest without looking away or turning it into a joke.

And then he dared her: “Tell me something you never told anyone.”

Taylor didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. The fan spun lazily above them, or maybe the whole room did.

“I know you don’t like when I talk about this,” she said finally. “I know it’s strange. Hard to understand. But you asked. And I think I need to say it out loud.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight.

“I get so mad sometimes, you know? At the world. At whatever… gave me life.”

She closed her eyes, but the room kept spinning. It must have been the whiskey. Probably took over the talking, too.

“Sometimes I wish I remembered being little. I see a kid learning how to ride a bike, and I think it’s not fair. I want to remember learning that. Scraping my knee. Going to a sleepover. I want to know if I was afraid of the dark and who I wanted to be when I grow up.”

Her mouth twisted slightly. “No one ever packed me a lunchbox. No one taught me how to braid my hair. I’m just this new character added to a show halfway through the season with just three lines of backstory.”

She sighed.

“And it’s not that I’m not grateful. I am. I got more than I could ask for. But sometimes it really hits me how much I didn’t get. I know who I am, but how did I get there? It feels like I’ve been robbed of everything that makes me, well, me. And sometimes I think, maybe if I had that kind of  before like you all do, I would have been someone else?”

She didn’t open her eyes, but felt him shift on the couch, and then he was next to her on the floor. His hand found hers, fingers lacing without hesitation.

“But you know what?” she said. “There’s one thing I don’t regret.”

She turned her head, smiled, opened her eyes—and found him already looking at her.

“If I’d had all that, I might’ve had a first kiss that sucked. I might’ve had my heart broken. I might’ve loved someone else first.”

She reached up and pressed her palm to his cheek.

“But I didn’t. I didn’t love anyone until you.”

Her voice broke, but she kept smiling.

“And I’m really glad you were my first,” she whispered. “You make it all worth it.”

Chapter 16: Closet Drama

Taylor stood knee-deep in a mountain of old clothes, most of them suspiciously Jake-shaped. She held up a stained t-shirt with faded logo. “I thought we agreed we’re getting rid of stuff we don’t wear anymore.”

Jake protested. “I wear this!”

“You wore it to fix the car, and it still has oil stains.”

He looked seriously offended. “That’s battle damage. This shirt has seen things.”

“Mhm, and now it should see the inside of a dumpster.”

Jake folded it solemnly and put it back to his drawer. “It’s a veteran, show some respect.”

Taylor rolled her eyes and reached for another item. She pulled out a pair of worn shorts with frayed hem, soft from too many washes. Her fingers brushes the denim.

“Oh wow. I didn’t know I still had them.”

Jake nearly choked. “Do not throw those out! You don’t throw out a piece of history, Princess.”

Taylor gave him a look. “History?”

“I had a lot of sleepless nights over your ass in those shorts,” he sighed, eyes gleaming like he’d just remembered every detail, “before I was allowed to get them off.”

“I slept with you five days after we met.”

Jake leaned back with an unrepentant smirk. “And it was a very long five days.”

She sighed. “You didn’t even like me at first.”

“I liked your legs. And your attitude.”

Taylor snorted and tossed the shorts at him. He caught them with one hand and pressed them to his chest in mock reverence. “These deserve to be framed.”

Taylor rolled her eyes again, but softer this time. She sat beside him, nudging his leg. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Hey,” he nudged back. “You kept them.”

She didn’t answer that, just leaned into his shoulder. The donate pile didn’t grow much after that, but the shorts mysteriously migrated to his side of the closet.

Chapter 17: Braiding Rights

“I need to make a decision fast, or he’s going to spend our entire week’s budget on snacks,” Taylor sighed to herself, looking at the two bottles in her hands. The last time she saw her husband, he’d added two types of chips, a bottle of chili sauce, and three chocolate bars to the cart—none of which were on their list, unlike, say, eggs, bell peppers, or garlic.

All because she couldn’t pick a damn hair conditioner. She blamed the companies for that.

One label said, “for dull and lifeless hair.” The other “frizzy and difficult”. Taylor found it rude. Why couldn’t there be just one bottle that said, “your hair is not a disaster,” instead of insulting it and making her choose between volume, shine, and hydration, like it wasn’t possible to struggle with all three at once? She shrugged and decided to just pick whatever scent she liked best. Coconut or avocado? Banana or mango? Rosemary or… bubblegum? She sneezed. Okay, the scent-based strategy was also a failure.

The cart squeaked behind her. When she glanced up, she noticed Jake riding it like a very bored teenager. He shot her a big grin full of mischief.

“Help me out,” she sighed, raising both hands. “Coconut or banana?”

Jake hopped off the cart and leaned on it. “For eating? Both. For your hair? Neither.”

“Excuse me?”

He grabbed both bottles, scanned the ingredient list, and put them back with a shudder. “Coconut will dry you out. Banana has enough silicones to double as a car grease. And both smell like a plastic fruit salad.”

Taylor blinked. “Since when are you a hair care expert?”

“Since I stopped getting buzz cuts and started living in humid climates,” he said, running a hand through his hair and flipping it like a smug shampoo commercial model. “Do you think this shine happened by accident?”

“And you never thought to mention this?” She narrowed her eyes. “This is the secret you keep?”

Jake raised both hands like he was being wrongfully accused. “I know you. Offering advice without being asked? That’s how men die. No thank you.” He reached past her and grabbed a plain tub that probably hadn’t seen a marketing team in its life. “Try this one. Argan oil and protein. No silicones, no fake scent, very hydrating. It smells awful, but your hair will thank me.”

“I’m gonna regret this,” she sighed, tossed the tub into the cart, and then pointed at the snacks. “You’re putting half of those back, by the way. We’re not college students but two semi-functional adults.”

“No promises.”

Back at the apartment, Taylor disappeared into the shower with the new conditioner and came back fifteen minutes later with hair still damp, shoulders wrapped in a towel, and hairbrush in hand. She hovered near the couch for a while, then leaned on the armrest. Jake looked up from his phone.

“So,” he said with his signature smirk. “Ready to admit defeat, Princess?”

“Defeat?” She sniffed, wrinkling her nose. “I smell like a wet dog.”

“Uh-huh. Come here. I’ll comb it out. You’ll cry less.”

Taylor snorted, but sat cross-legged between his knees. “If you tug, I swear I’ll punch.”

“Relax. You’re in good hands.”

And she was. His fingers were slow and careful, steady in a way that made her suspicious. He was a little too good at this. She melted before she meant to, stroke by stroke, until her whole body let go.

“You want a braid?” he asked, almost offhand. “I’m running a full-service salon here.”

Taylor turned just enough to catch his eye. “No,” she said, half-laughing. “Not this one, too. Where did you even learn that?”

Jake paused just for a beat, lost in memories. His folks always worked long shifts, both of them. Nights, weekends, holidays. He was twelve, maybe thirteen, watching his sister while the TV hummed in the background. Rebecca would sit cross-legged in front of him on the carpet and hand him her pink brush. He hated it, but she’d always go quiet when he did it—unless he tugged too much—so he did it anyway, over and over, until his hands remembered.

And now—Taylor brought all of it back, sitting in the same position in the same comfortable silence. She once told him no one had ever braided her hair. God damn him if he couldn’t fix that.

“I grew up with a sister, remember?” he said eventually, his voice softening. “Rebecca. She loved it when I braided her hair. I absolutely hated it then. But I got good.”

Taylor couldn’t find the right words, so she just reached up and squeezed his knee lightly.

She never told she wanted it, but he braided her hair anyway. It came out a little uneven, a bit loose near the end, but he tied it off and let his fingers rest there for a second. He used to think it was a chore, another thing that got dumped on him when the grown-ups were gone. He hadn’t known what it would feel like to miss it. To wish he’d done it slower and held on longer.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her still-damp hair.

This time, he knew to love it before it was gone.

 

Chapter 18: Crease and Desist

Most of the chores in their place were up for negotiation—whoever got to it first, or whoever hated doing it less. But folding laundry was Jake’s since the beginning. Taylor tried to steal it from him exactly twice, but he gently took the pile from her hands, refolded it without a word, and never let go of it again.

The shirt he pulled from the sunlit rack was still warm. He smoothed it on a table and began the ritual: folded the bottom hem up, tucked the sleeves in, rolled it tight. His movements were practiced and precise, routine born long before this apartment, their shared life and even the cursed island.

Another shirt followed, then socks. Then his hoodie, the gray one she kept stealing when she claimed she was cold, but he suspected it had less to do with temperature and more with how much it smelled like him.

He folded as if someone was still watching. Because someone had, once. A sergeant with a raspy voice and no patience for creases. A bunkmate who’d laugh if you failed inspection. You didn’t sleep in a tent with three other guys living out of duffel bags and a rifle under your bedroll without folding everything small enough to disappear.

He didn’t have to do any of it now. Taylor didn’t care if the seams lined up. There was no need to fit his life into the smallest possible space anymore. But old habits are hard to kill—especially the ones that once kept you sane. There were weeks back then, filled with heat and dust and not enough sleep, when the only thing he had control over was how tightly he rolled his socks.

And now?

Now he folded the laundry on a kitchen table, next to her empty coffee cup, a half-eaten apple and a paperback with cracked spine laid upside down because she’d lost the bookmark again, and listened to her voice humming faintly through the wall as she talked to someone out on the balcony.

The next piece was a shirt she slept in—faded black cotton, soft and worn down just right. It was his favorite. Or it had been, before she’d thrown it in on high heat and killed it dead. He’d found her staring at it in horror like she’d committed a felony.

“I’m sorry about your shirt,” she sniffled, genuinely apologetic.

He’d laughed. She hadn’t, not at first, then claimed the shirt as penance. At some point, he stopped missing it and started missing her when she wasn’t in it.

He folded it slower and let his fingers linger on it for a moment. The balcony door clicked quietly, and a pair of warm arms wrapped around his waist, a feather-light kiss brushing his neck.

“Thank you,” Taylor said, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. “You know I’d be thrilled if you just rolled them into balls, right?”

He chuckled and shook his head. She'd never understand. His hands still remembered a life that hadn’t allowed for wrinkles, let alone softness. But he knew this one they were building together—full of teasing and laughter—did. And now every rolled shirt of hers was his way of saying I’m staying. I love you. I want to keep doing it forever.

Chapter 19: In Sickness, In Health, In Public Embarrassment

Notes:

This one's rated M for Mildly Indecent. You've been warned.

They never worked out together. They had different goals, different routines, and different philosophies. Jake followed the Navy's brutal training that was his second nature now. Taylor jogged and stretched like a cat, occasionally folding herself into shapes that were equally hot and terrifying.

The few times they tried working out at the same time at home ended with a completely different exercise. While they agreed that it counted as cardio, they’d also decided to not let their scheduled workout time overlap ever again.

But today, they somehow ended up going to the small neighborhood gym together. Jake told himself it would be fine. He would lift some weights, his wife would do her stretches in one corner, and he’d simply ignore the way her back arched when she did. And for a while, that’s exactly what happened. He didn’t look at her. Too much.

And then he made a mistake and went to the pull-up bar, one of the few decent pieces of equipment in the basement gym. He grabbed it, braced himself and pulled slow and steady, counting in his mind. One. Two. Three.

On the fourth attempt, he noticed Taylor staring at him like she was hungry and he was a snack. He closed his eyes. He loved that look, but it always got him in trouble, or in bedroom. Public gym wasn’t either. It was safer to close his eyes and not look back.

Five. Six. Seven.

“Hey,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. She was closer than he expected. “Do you remember the video I sent you?”

“No,” Jake replied without looking.

“The couple one. With the pull-up—”

“Nope.”

“—where she wrapped her legs around him and they did it together? I think we could do it too. And we’d look so much better.”

He opened his eyes and sighed, already knowing where this was going. “Princess, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because you need arm strength for that.”

She shrugged like it was nothing. “I have arm strength.”

“You can barely do one pull-up at home.”

“Yeah! That’s why I’ll let you do the heavy lifting,” she rolled her eyes, as if she was doing him a royal favor. “I’ll wrap my legs around you and push myself up. I have strong legs, you know?”

God help him, he knew. He also knew he’d regret it tomorrow, and probably for the rest of his (most likely very short) life.

She sensed his hesitation, but didn’t want to let go. “Jake, please. Just once?”

He sighed. His mind had already signed his own death certificate. “Okay. But just once.”

“Promise,” she grinned.

They stood face to face and her fingers curled next to his on the bar.

“Okay,” she whispered, and he felt her shift—her thighs tightening around his waist, one ankle hooking behind the other. “On three?”

Jake nodded, mostly because his mouth had stopped working.

“One,” she counted, like this was perfectly normal. “Two… Three.”

Her thighs flexed. He pulled up. It was clumsy, a little uncoordinated, but somehow it worked. He looked her straight in the eye, breathing hard, bar between them. And Taylor, flushed and beaming, said softly—

“Hello, handsome.”

Jake blinked. His brain short-circuited. It was exactly what she said last Tuesday when he came back home from work, and the position was very vividly mirroring something they had done right after that against the hallway wall.

Clothes were not involved.

His hands trembled on the bar when he remembered the exact sound she made when he pressed her back to the wall. Her voice, wrecked and laughing and telling him not to stop—

He slowly lowered them back to the ground. A part of him had died, and it wasn’t the arms.

“We did it,” she said with a grin, looking at him like he’d just helped her win Olympic gold. She had no idea what she did to him. “Did you feel that? We actually did it!”

He opened his mouth and closed it back, trying not to relive the sensation of her thighs on his hips, him pushing—stop. Don’t think about it. Don’t, his brain pleaded. Not here, in the gym.

Taylor didn’t seem to notice the way his jaw locked tight and his ragged breath. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looked up at the bar again. “That was teamwork. Real, actual, successful teamwork. I think next time—”

“No,” Jake said, a little too fast.

“Next time,” she continued, completely unbothered, “we go for more reps. Like, a full set. But now, I think we need to stretch and cool down.”

“I need ten minutes,” Jake groaned, hiding his face in a towel. “And a cold shower.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “We’ll try again at home.”

He groaned again. One of these days she’d be the death of him. But at least he’d die a happy man.

Chapter 20: Domestic Panic

Summary:

in which they gain sentience and rebel against the narrative

For once, the Saturday morning started perfectly quiet. No chaos, just a pot of soup simmering on the stove. It was the real kind, with fresh vegetables and homemade stock base, based on a recipe Taylor shamelessly stole from the YouTube cooking channel Raj started a few months ago. He promised that nobody can screw it up. “Is this a dare?” she commented and laughed, but took his words to the heart. She tried a spoonful and blinked in surprise. It tasted delicious. Maybe there was a chance for her cooking, after all? She should definitely thank him.

There were cookies in the oven, peanut butter coffee ones, their favorite because you couldn’t really tell if the bitterness came from the coffee powder or the burned edges. When the timer beeped, she took out a tray full of perfect golden-brown cookies that would have made Quinn proud, and didn’t even burn her hand.

She turned, still holding the baking sheet, and caught Jake’s eye across the hallway. He just finished folding the towels and was now reaching for the vacuum. For full five seconds, they kept staring at each other in horror, both thinking the same thing: the day was too perfect. And they never had perfect.

Fresh laundry fluttered on the balcony. Floors were swept. Counters wiped down. Trash taken out.

Taylor thought of the shared calendar she’d made him download last month so they could plan around their work schedules. It was color-coded. And had reminders.

Jake thought of the almost-fight they almost-had last Tuesday, when she’d grumbled about the dishes he left in the sink, again, and instead of getting snippy or defensive, he just said he was too tired and forgot about them. And maybe the dishes could wait one more day? She’d made him promise and didn’t bite his head off. They’d watched a movie and cuddled on the couch instead.

Progress.

Why did it feel so threatening, then…?

“We got domesticated,” Taylor whispered, as if admitting it loud might summon a demon or a toddler or both.

Jake dropped the vacuum cord. “We’ve been compromised. I didn’t swear even once all morning.”

“I cooked two dishes today and didn’t burn anything.”

“I feel like an actual adult,” Jake said, eyes wide with disbelief. “A taxpayer.”

Then he lunged for the cookies and shoved one into his mouth. It nearly collapsed in his fingers and probably burned his tongue, but he didn’t flinch.

“I’m having dessert before dinner,” he huffed, mouth still full.

Taylor grabbed the salt but stopped herself before dumping more into the soup. It was, after all, the first good thing they’d cooked this week. So instead, she dropped the dish sponge on the floor and kicked it under the fridge with a satisfied grunt.

“I think we need to go and break something,” Jake said, licking the crumbs off his fingers. “Like… I don’t know, a plate or a few rules. Everything is going so well it’s suspicious.”

Taylor poured two bowls of the soup and didn’t care that it dripped on the counter. Then she shoved the entire steaming pot into the fridge, in an attempt to restore the usual chaos.

“You’re not supposed to put hot things in the fridge,” Jake protested weakly.

“I know,” she said firmly, slamming the door shut. “That’s the whole point. You said something about breaking rules?”

They ended up sitting on the kitchen floor, backs against the cabinets, laughing and slurping the soup straight from the bowls. It looked stupid. But it felt right.

“It feels like an opening to a horror movie,” Taylor muttered under her breath and wiped her mouth on his shirt. “Everything starts perfectly, and then, bam, everyone’s dead. We must stop it. Quick.”

“Emergency road trip?” Jake offered and stood up, suddenly energized. “No plan, no adult supervision?”

“Only if we end up sleeping in the hammock like we did on our honeymoon,” she grinned in response, grabbing his hand and pulling herself up. “Go. Find our bags. I’ll grab the keys. And the cookies.”

They shoved the bags and a few blankets into the trunk, then slammed the doors. They didn’t even check the weather, on purpose. Jake propped his elbow on the open window. One hand held the wheel, the other rested on her thigh. Taylor’s hair tangled in the wind. The radio crackled with static and cut in and out, but they didn’t care—made up lyrics and sang anyway, off-key and loud and happy. The towns they passed all blurred into one. Gas stations, cafes, tourist shops. They didn’t even think of stopping.

Until they passed a sun-faded old dock with an equally old shop, and a graveyard of forgotten boats behind it. Jake’s hand twitched. Out of nowhere, he felt homesick—not for the place they’d left this morning, but the one he hadn’t seen in years. He turned from the main road before he could even understand why.

“I need to stretch my legs,” he said when Taylor shot him a suspicious look, but the glint in his eye said treasure hunt.

He walked past the old boats until he stopped by the one that called him. It wasn’t pretty. The hull sagged to the left, all the windows were cracked, and the paint peeled off long time ago. It definitely wasn’t seaworthy. Even calling her a boat felt generous. But something about the shape reminded him of his childhood by the slow southern river.

And now, Jake felt like he’d found a treasure.

Taylor caught up to him a second later, noticed the grin spreading on his face, and groaned. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Jake, she’s already sinking and we’re still on land.”

“She’s perfect.”

Taylor squinted. “We’re gonna die on that thing.”

Jake slung an arm over her shoulders. “And what a way to go.”

They paid cash. No names. No questions. The old man running the place chuckled as he handed over the keys. “Are you two newlyweds or fugitives?”

Jake didn’t even blink, just kept grinning. “Why not both?”

Chapter 21: Fix Me Like One of Your French Boats

If there was a moment where the audience was supposed to yell “don’t do it”, they never heard it. Or if they did, they chose to ignore it.

Jake kept saying it wasn’t love at first sight, but Taylor knew he was lying. Falling in love fast and hard seemed very on brand for her husband, and she was actually grateful it was just an old boat this time. Not that he would as much as look at someone else, or that she would let him—but still, some things were worth keeping an eye on.

Maybe that was why she was now scraping off the peeling paint in nothing but a pair of shorts and a top, pretending she didn’t see him staring. Even when her only competition was the old guy who owned the place.

Jake was supposed to be checking the engine, but didn’t move since he collapsed on the deck and declared a hydration break an hour ago.

“Shouldn’t you be hydrated enough by now?” She asked, not looking at him at all.

“Nope. Still thirsty.”

She didn’t even dignify that with a response.

“Relax, darlin’. The guy said we have a month before he starts charging us rent.”

“Do you think it will be enough to fix it?”

“Depends what you mean by fix.”

“I don’t know.” She flicked the scraper across the deck and climbed up beside him. “Float? Sail? Not sink in first five minutes? You’re the expert, you tell me.”

He huffed and rolled onto his stomach, one arm tucked beneath his chin, the other reaching out to her.

“Well,” he said, and his fingers began tracing slow, absentminded circles on her thigh, “the engine isn’t in bad shape. Needs flushing, new filter, oil change, maybe new plugs and a belt if we’re unlucky.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” she purred and giggled when he dropped his head to her lap with a dramatic groan.

He mumbled something intelligible into her skin, then turned just enough to keep talking.

“Deck has a few soft spots. I marked them with tape so you don’t fall. Hull is ugly, but solid. Once you’re done scraping, it will need sanding, patching and at least two coats of paint. Windows…” he sighed and gestured towards them helplessly.

She nodded and scratched his head. That part needed no explanation. “That’s all? Or is there anything else?”

“Nothing that can’t wait,” he said, then grimaced. “Okay, maybe the wiring. I’ll pick up a fire extinguisher.”

She snorted. “So we might sink and catch fire?”

“Only if we’re lucky.”

“Grab some duct tape while you’re at it,” she muttered, already reaching for the scraper. “Think a month’ll be enough?”

“Depends if you’re planning to distract me like that again,” he murmured, dragging his lips along her thigh. “If yes, no chance in hell.”

“Good thing we have two, then,” she laughed. “I talked to the owner before he closed. Might have bribed him with a few smiles and a cookie.”

“Mm. Plenty of time for distractions, then.”

She sighed, pushed him gently off her lap ignoring the wounded noise he made and went back to scraping.

Two months. Heavens help her. They’d need every minute.

(She’d always been the rational one.)

Notes:

I dedicate this chapter to K, a longtime fan of restoration videos, who I convinced to show me a few about boats, and who will now be inevitably disappointed that it wasn’t the beginning of a shared hobby.

I’m sorry. Maybe one day we’ll get a boat too.

Chapter 22: Seas the Day

The boat floated.

It shouldn’t have been so surprising, considering all the hours they spent fixing it—but still, they both held their breath the moment it touched water. Their fingers laced together, bracing for the inevitable.

Which never came.

Jake patted the railing like a proud parent and glanced at his wife, already beaming. Well. Taylor had to admit the boat somehow looked much better on sea than it ever did on land, but it didn’t mean she trusted it completely. The whole thing was kept together with love, their joint refusal to give up, and occasional duct tape. She folded her arms and kept glancing at her watch to see how long it would take for the boat to go down.

Minutes passed, and the boat stubbornly remained very much above water.

“Don’t even think of saying it,” she warned, hand raised, just as Jake’s mouth started to open. Deep down she knew it was already too late. He’d be insufferably smug even if he kept the I told you so to himself.

Jake just grinned in response and hopped on board. The boat tilted under his weight. Taylor jumped back to the safety of the dock, and he laughed.

Well, that was new. She used to charge headfirst into danger, action before thoughts. It used to be monsters, mercenaries, an active volcano, and superpower-granting crystals. Now, apparently, a potentially leaking boat was too much.

She once told Jake that marriage made him soft. Time to check the mirror.

Maybe it was a good sign, though? On La Huerta, no matter how scary the situation was, they had to push the fear away and keep fighting. Now, she had the luxury to stay afraid of something. To live, and not just survive.

She exhaled slowly and smiled at her thoughts. No. Living was not a bad thing at all. She looked up—and their eyes met.

Jake was still smiling, but didn’t tease her. “Do you trust me?” he asked instead, reaching out his hand, and she hesitated only a second before taking it.

“A little,” she admitted. “But I trust us a lot.”

“Good,” he nodded and his fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Taylor crossed over without flinching, even when the boat wobbled under her feet. And if her grip on his hand was too tight, he never said anything. She dropped on a bench in the back, conveniently having life jackets within reach. Fears aside, the rational part of her brain insisted it’s not paranoia, just a safety measure. And she always took pride in her rational side.

Jake flipped the switches, the engine coughed once or twice, and came to life.

“Ready for the maiden voyage?” He glanced over his shoulder.

Taylor adjusted her grip on the rail and looked around. “Maiden?” She snorted. “Have you looked at this boat? She’s no maiden.”

“What?”

“I’m thinking more of a... black widow.” She turned to him with that mischievous grin he knew too well. “She’s already lost three husbands to the deep, and you know who’s next in line?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe. But last time I checked, it’s my husband we’re talking about.”

Jake just laughed, carefree and way too smug, and cast off the line tethering them to the dock. The expression on his face caught her off guard—pure joy, unguarded in a way that made him look impossibly young. Almost like the teenager she’d never met. She wondered, not for the first time, what he was like before the weight of everything he’d been through settled on his shoulders. Would she have liked that version of him, or did she need this one instead?

She leaned on the bench, stretching out her legs in front of her like this was any other Saturday and not a holy shit, we’re really doing this moment. She was genuinely impressed. Not that she’d admit it out loud.

The boat was a crazy idea. Jake promised a quick patch job, easy to do after work and on the weekends. But one month turned into two, then another, and another, because he watched yet another tutorial or read a forum thread, and had to apply the new theories in practice.

The boatyard owner, bored old man with a sweet tooth, said nothing when they apologized for yet another delay, and waved her off when she offered cash. Last week, when they finally asked him for help with moving the boat into water, he just patted her arm and said “Don’t die, sweetheart. I’ll miss you.” She wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be comforting or frightening. Or if he’d really miss her, or just the cookies and company.

The dock behind them got smaller, and at some point Taylor realized her grip on the rail loosened. The water was calm, and her husband looked too good at the helm, wind tugging at his hair and lifting the hem of his shirt.

She watched him adjust something, confident and sure, and felt a familiar flutter. He’d always been good with his hands, whether it was flying or fixing things or...

“Hey,” she called over the engine noise. “Think you could teach me how to do that?”

Jake glanced back, eyebrows raised. “You want a turn?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I can drive.”

He shuddered at the image. She wasn’t a bad driver, she was just… overconfident. Which could have absolutely been something she caught from him when he taught her to drive. But it was like looking into a mirror and realizing the reflection doesn’t look great. He didn’t like it a single bit.

“It’s not exactly like driving a car, Princess,” he let out a resigned sigh. The battle was already lost. When she looked at him like that, with wide eyes and soft smile, he just didn’t know how to say no. To her credit, she always saved that power for special requests—but she was very well aware of having it.

“Teach me, then,” she asked, already sliding in front of him, fingers hovering over the steering wheel.

Jake rested his chin on her shoulder, warm from the sun. His hands closed over hers on the wheel, ready to take over if she got them in trouble.

“Okay. Be gentle. See the difference for yourself.”

She tried, bless her heart. The boat still lurched to the left, then immediately to the right.

“She’s not listening!” Taylor whined.

“She is. You’re just not speaking her language yet.” He adjusted her grip, thumbs brushing over her knuckles. “Like this. Better?”

He didn’t need to see her face to know she was grinning—he could feel it in the way she straightened up, pleased with herself. God, how he loved seeing her like this. Confident. Happy. It made him want to turn her around and kiss her senseless. He nudged her neck with his nose instead. Kissing can wait until they’re at least anchored somewhere.

“What about this thing?” she asked, nodding toward the throttle.

“Throttle.”

“What does it do?”

“Makes us go faster.” His breath was warm against her ear. “Also makes it easier to crash into things. So… maybe not yet.”

Taylor gave a solemn nod. “Okay. I’m not touching it yet then.”

She leaned into him, close enough he could smell the salt in her hair and feel the warmth of her skin. He cleared his throat, hoping it might do something about the fact that his pulse was racing.

“I think I’ve got it now,” she said, steering carefully.

“Mm.” Jake adjusted her grip again, barely a nudge. “Sure you do. You’re a natural.”

She didn’t notice. Or maybe she pretended not to, already imagining herself a captain who’d conquered the seas. He let her enjoy the moment. His hands stayed right on hers—steady, certain, doing most of the work.

“How far can we go with the fuel we have?” She asked, and he could hear the shift in her voice—less nervous, more curious.

“Far enough to get lost.”

“Perfect.”

Her hands stayed on the wheel. The water stretched out ahead, calm and endless, and for once she wasn’t calculating how fast they could get to shore if something went wrong. Maybe she was finally starting to trust the boat. Or maybe it was just him. Not that she’d admit either out loud. Especially not when she could already hear the smugness in his voice if she did.

“Let’s get lost then.”

 

Chapter 23: Seasoned with Love

It was a perfect summer day, with nothing but blue sky above and calm ocean ahead. They didn’t really have a plan beyond their usual let’s get lost together—or at least Jake didn’t. He started getting a bit suspicious when Taylor kept loading bag after bag onto the boat, then casually asked about the tide chart. Before today he didn’t think she even knew what a tide chart was, let alone that she cared about it.

But the moment she slipped out of her dress and asked him to help put the sunscreen on her back, he forgot all his suspicions. He forgot how to think, to be honest. Her bikini was always a criminally efficient distraction.

When he finished, she let out a happy, content sigh, gave him one quick kiss—on the cheek, the audacity!—and said something about enjoying the sun, then walked to the bow, spread out a towel and laid down on it, stretching out her legs. From his place at the helm, he could barely see her besides an occasional glimpse of her ankle. It was pure torture straight out of a regency romance novel.

He was just about to ask if she’d maybe want to try steering the boat again, when she sat up and pointed her hand at a small cove hidden between two rocks. He recognized it—they passed it often enough, but the tide was always too high and the beach was barely a patch of wet sand, nothing worth stopping for. Now, when the water already started to fall, it looked like something straight out of a postcard.

He felt that Taylor was moving before he saw her. The boat swayed with her steps, then one arm wrapped around his waist.

“Let’s stop there. How close can you get us?” She asked.

“I thought I was the captain. You know, the guy giving the orders?”

“And I’m the captain’s wife,” she replied without missing a beat and snuggled closer to whisper in his ear. “He may give the orders to his crew, but I command him.”

Jake muttered something about mutiny, but his hands were already turning the wheel.

To his chagrin, she put on her dress and disappeared under the deck. He followed only to be handed a heavy cooler and even heavier and suspiciously clinking bag, while she grabbed just a rolled blanket and shooed him out.

“So, what’s your plan?” He asked, setting the cooler down with a groan. The tide was already falling fast. “We’d be stranded here for give or take six hours.”

“Yeah,” she grinned. “That’s what I hoped for.”

Taylor hopped of the boat and waddled through the shallows towards the cove, steadying a bundle on her head with one hand and holding the hem of her dress in the other. He followed with a sigh.

When she unrolled the blanket and laid out a small feast, Jake just stared in quiet disbelief. Usually, she just packed some leftovers and called it a day. But this was something else.

He must have forgotten something. But what? Everything they celebrated was at the beginning of the year. Her birthday on New Year’s—at least that’s what they settled on—his a month later, and their year-and-a-day anniversary somewhere in between.

So… what did he miss?

She uncorked a bottle of wine, filled two plastic cups, and handed him one with a smile. That’s when he decided to give up.

“Okay. You got me. I forgot.” He raised his hands. ”What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” she chuckled, tracing a finger along his jaw. “You told me once I’d have to wine and dine you. It took me a while, but I’m finally getting to it.”

“But we’re already married.”

“You complaining?”

Jake snorted and shook his head. “Absolutely not.” He snatched the plastic cup from her hand before she could change her mind.

She laughed, raised hers in a toast and tossed him a grape. It landed straight in his cup.

“Ooh. My drink just got fancy,” he muttered and winked at her.

They ate slowly, sitting side by side on the sun-warmed blanket. No rush and no reason to be anywhere else. The food was… not bad, honestly. But then, he would’ve happily eaten plain oatmeal off the floor if she’d cooked it for him. Her cooking always had that extra something—he couldn’t exactly name it. She insisted it’s love. So either that, or he was developing a taste for charcoal.

He reached for something that definitely wasn’t a part of their usual snack rotation, but looked vaguely familiar at the same time. Just a small bite first. It tasted like—

—like memories. His mom’s kitchen. Summer heat. Stupid inside jokes over the family table. The good parts, the ones he let himself keep.

Jake blinked hard, coughed once and poured himself more wine, hoping it would explain the sudden tears in his eyes.

“Spicy,” he said. “Way too spicy.”

Taylor answered without looking up. “Must be Raj’s fault. He told me how to cook it. You know he’s always heavy on the chilli.”

Jake nodded. Yeah. Definitely. Too much chilli. Absolutely not because she made him remember his childhood and the weird dishes his mom came up with when they had more month than paycheck. But when she shuffled closer and leaned her head against his shoulder, he knew she knew. He turned to look at her, and there was that smile, equal parts sheepish and hopeful. Damn, he was lucky.

He leaned in and kissed her.

There was no urgency in it—just a press of lips to hers, soft and warm, his hand cupping her cheek. The kind of kiss that meant thank you, I love you, I don’t know what to say so let me just kiss you instead. She melted into it like she knew exactly what he was saying and didn’t need to hear it out loud. By the time they pulled apart, she was still smiling. And he couldn’t look away.

“So,” she murmured. “Did I get it right?”

He didn’t answer right away, just kept staring.

“Will you cook it again?” he asked instead.

Taylor chuckled. “Sure. But you do the dishes.”

“Deal,” he said, and kissed her again, as if he tried to seal it.

By the time they finished, the sun had already dipped low and the tide started to turn again. Jake stretched, but his head remained in her lap. Somewhere in the distance, the boat bobbed up and down.

“We should head back,” he said, not sounding particularly convinced.

“We should,” she agreed, but her hand stayed in his hair. “Or… we could just pack up and stay here for the night.”

“We’ll end up underwater in thirty minutes, tops.”

“I meant on the boat. The weather’s nice. And we’ve never actually tested that mattress downstairs,” she added with a wink. “Oh, and… I’ve never really seen a shooting star.”

“Okay. Then we stay up long enough until you do,” he said, already reaching for the cooler.

By the time they climbed back and stashed the leftovers, the sky had gone from orange to pink and purple, then to indigo, and the first stars were starting to appear.

Jake sat down near the bow, back against the cabin wall, and she settled right there in his arms, still warm from the sun. Her head rested against his shoulder.

“Got your wish ready?” He murmured into her hair.

“Mm,” she nodded. “Do I tell it out loud?”

He considered lying for a moment, but ultimately decided against it.

“No, I don’t think so. But I wouldn’t mind having a head start.”

Above them, the sky darkened. And somewhere between one breath and the next, a streak of light crossed the dark.

She gasped. “There!”

When she turned to him with a smile, he didn’t ask if she said her wish. But he could bet it was the same as his.

 

(Much, much later that night they finally got around to testing the mattress. The test failed.
It wasn’t that great for sleeping, either.)

 

Chapter 24: Sunny with a Chance of Rain Check

Nobody who knew Jake McKenzie in any of his previous lives would call him a responsible man. Charming, adventurous, brave, reckless—yeah, that tracked. But responsible? Hell no.

He was very determined to change that. It was just the universe’s fault for not cooperating.

Like the time when he decided to fix the leaking faucet and accidentally ended up flooding the entire bathroom. Or when he forgot about his sunscreen and had to sleep on his stomach for a week. Or the time when he agreed to fly a bunch of college students to a tropical resort, and ended up with a Mount Everest of trauma, and a wife.

Okay, in the last case, the fate must have looked the other way, because he was quite happy. With the wife part. He could do without the trauma.

So today morning, when he decided to take Taylor for a romantic walk along the shore, he not only planned a scenic route, but also checked the weather forecast. Twice. The first time he opened the app, it showed a perfect sunny day, so he went back to their bedroom with a big cup of coffee, waited until the scent brought her back from her slumber, and delivered the invitation with a smug grin. She winced—not at his words, but at the coffee which never got better despite all his efforts—and then quickly agreed to his plans, probably already hoping to grab a cup of something better along their way.

Before they left, he checked the weather again. It was still fine, well, mostly. Instead of a sunny day, the forecast was now showing five percent chance of light rain. What’s five percent? he thought and shrugged. And light rain, too. That’s nothing.

At that point, it didn’t sound like tempting fate. But he should have known better. He wasn’t the universe’s favorite, after all. Even if he looked at the woman by his side and felt like he definitely was.

The day was perfect. She was perfect. The sky—

The sky cracked open. One second it was blue, not even a fluffy cloud in sight, the next it turned dark gray and just opened the floodgates. It couldn’t be further from the light rain his weather app promised. It was a torrential downpour. One big sheet of water that came from nowhere and left them soaked to the bone in seconds.

They were now huddled close under an awning of a shuttered shop, too small to give cover from the rain, or any privacy.

And God, he needed both at the moment.

Jake had many qualities, but restraint wasn’t one. Especially not when she was concerned. And right now, she was looking at him with her starry eyes, lips parted in a breathless laugh, cotton dress plastered to her skin, little droplets clinging to her lashes, her cheeks, her neck. Even a saint would feel tempted, let alone a sinner like him.

He pushed the wet strands off her face and stared right back at her. The rain wasn’t stopping, relentlessly pelting at his back, but he barely felt it.

One drop slid from her forehead to her nose, then lips, then over her jaw and neck to the collarbone to finally disappear between—Ah, to hell with it, he remembered thinking before his lips followed the same trail.

“Jake, we’re in public!” She warned him, swatting lightly at his arm and pushing him away without any conviction whatsoever.

“I know,” he whispered, burying his face on her shoulder. “I know.”

“If you wanted to see me soaked, we could have just used the shower,” she grumbled, but her voice was ringing with the bubbly laughter he loved.

“Don’t give me ideas.”

“Too late,” she turned towards him with a grin so big he wanted to kiss it off her face. Or take her home. Or take her right here—

Her hand slipped into his, fingers cold and wet, her thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“We should run,” she said, even as her body leaned closer. “Before you get even worse ideas.”

Shouldn’t have married a damn mind reader.

“Too late for that,” he murmured and kissed her again, slow and reckless and full of promises.

“Come on,” she tugged his hand, already moving. “Let’s race you home.”

And he did, fully aware he’d pay for it later, that it wasn’t a responsible thing to do—but the thing was, Jake McKenzie was never a responsible man, no matter how hard he tried.

Chapter 25: McKenzie’s Man-Flu

As it turns out, running around the town in the rain like a lovesick idiot has consequences. Jake caught a cold. It wasn’t anything serious, but it was enough to turn him into a man-flu-struck, blanket-wrapped disaster. Taylor wasn’t unsympathetic at first. She made chicken soup, brought him tissues, carefully tucked the blankets around him and fluffed his pillows with only minor commentary.

But by day two, his requests had escalated.

“Princess,” Jake croaked from under three blankets, “I need hot lemon tea. With lots of honey. And a slice of orange. And ginger.”

Taylor, halfway through wiping down the kitchen counter, paused. “What?”

“I’m very delicate right now. Need more tea.” Jake sneezed.

She grumbled, but still made the tea, adding an extra orange slice. Then she also handled him a hot water bottle and a new box of tissues, this time with dinosaurs (”in case your tragic man-flu is progressing into extinction”).

Jake groaned like she’d stabbed him. “You’re cruel.”

That afternoon, he asked her to read the subtitles aloud because his eyes were “tired.” She threatened to strangle him with a pillow. Then she fluffed it and slid it under his head with an exaggerated sigh.

“Anything else, your Highness?”

He peeked out from under the covers. “My tea got cold. Can you reheat it? I don’t think I can make the walk.”

Taylor just stared.

“…Okay, maybe just another blanket?”

By the evening, he’d asked for three different soups (and only finished one), a second pillow “for symmetry,” and at least two morale-boosting kisses. Which she gave. Begrudgingly. Kind of. While complaining loudly the entire time.

And still, she picked up his tissues, replaced the damp cloth she put on his forehead, refilled his tea, and sat next to him on the couch, brushing her fingers through his hair like she didn’t even notice she was doing it.

That night, Jake was curled in bed with his head in her lap, blanket up to his ears and fingers tracing lazy circles on her knee. His sniffles, vanished. His fever, gone. The sparkle in his eyes, suspiciously bright for a man dying in his prime.

Taylor finally set the book aside. “You feel better, don’t you?”

He winced and faked a cough. Shit. She caught him. “Maybe a little?”

“You could’ve just said you wanted me to fuss over you, you know.”

Jake grinned, eyes still closed. “Wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”

“I knew it,” she muttered, threading her fingers through his hair. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

And because she didn’t move and her hand stayed exactly where it was, he knew he could probably milk it for at least one more day. Maybe even two, if he coughed just right.

 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Survivors AU