Sugar

by Akay19

Summary:

Bradley leans back. “You’re really gonna drag me into high society and pretend I’m your boyfriend.”

Jake smirks. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re gonna sell it better than anyone.”

Or: Bradley becomes Jake's sugar baby for a hot minute

Notes:

shoutout to marie (@/Iprefervillains) you're a sweetheart, this one's for ya!

Chapter 1: Wet Golden Retriever

8:27 PM.

Three minutes to closing.

Bradley rubs a hand over his face, fingers digging into the sharp line of his cheekbone. He’s tired. The kind of tired that sinks into your bones and makes even the act of standing feel like punishment. His back aches from leaning over the espresso machine all day, his feet are sore, and there’s a dull, rhythmic pounding at the base of his skull that’s been building since noon.

The shop is spotless. He made sure of it. Twice. Tables wiped down, trash taken out, chairs stacked. Machine cleaned and polished, register counted. His apron is folded on the counter, a silent declaration of war against the closing shift. He could walk out right now and no one would question it.

But Bradley Bradshaw doesn’t clock out early. Not ever.

Because if he starts letting little things slide—what’s next? Skipping class? Failing a final? Letting someone else be in charge of his life? No. He can’t afford that.

8:28.

Two minutes.

He leans against the counter and lets his eyes close for just a second, breathing through the exhaustion like it’s something he can outlast. The hum of the fridge is the only sound. For a heartbeat, it’s peaceful. It’s done.

He thinks about his bed—lumpy mattress, scratchy sheets—and for the first time all day, he lets himself want it.

The door swings open, and his stomach drops like a rock in cold water.

8:29.

Of course.

He opens his eyes, already bracing for a fight, but what he sees makes his breath catch in his throat.

There’s a man in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, and soaking wet. Like, dripping. Hair plastered to his forehead, shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin, water pooling beneath his boots.

Bradley stares.

There’s been no rain today. Not even clouds.

“…Hi?” he manages, voice hoarse.

The man startles like he didn’t expect anyone to be there. “Oh! Hi. Yeah, sorry—uh—can I use your phone?”

Bradley narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“I lost mine. Somewhere between a dumb decision and a worse one,” the man says, flashing a smile that’s all teeth and trouble. “I swear I’m not a psycho.”

Bradley doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile. He is so fucking tired he wants to cry.

But after a long beat, he reaches over and slides his phone across the counter. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks, man,” the guy says, already dialing. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Bradley watches him with his arms crossed, eyes tracking every nervous movement. The guy paces like a trapped cat—long legs, water squelching in his shoes, muttering under his breath until someone picks up.

“Javy. It’s me. Yeah, no, I’m not dead—” he grins as he says it, like this is a common occurrence—“I just need a ride. I’m at some coffee shop. Shield something?”

“Shield Coffee,” Bradley offers dryly.

The man snaps his fingers and points. “That’s it. Shield Coffee. Yeah, come get me. And please bring pants. Long story. Love you, too.”

He ends the call and hands the phone back. Their fingers brush.

It’s nothing and yet Bradley pulls back like the screen burned him. (He isn't big on physical touch, even if it's fingers brushing to his.)

“Mind if I wait inside?” the guy asks. “Promise I won’t steal anything. Don’t even have a wallet to pay for water.” He gestures to his soaked jeans with a sheepish grimace.

Bradley eyes the puddle forming beneath him. It’s not like he can mop it up again. The night’s already shot.

“Fine,” he mutters, grabbing a rag and tossing it toward the guy’s feet. “Stand on that.”

“Much appreciated,” the man says with a grin, obediently toeing the rag under his boots that looks stupidly expensive.

He leans back against the wall like he owns the place. Like it’s a bar in Texas and not a small café in the middle of Massachusetts.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he says. “Buy ten coffees. Repay the karma.”

Bradley snorts. “You can start by wiping up the flood you brought in.”

The man laughs—really laughs—and it’s… irritatingly nice. The kind of laugh that echoes even after it’s gone.

“I’m Jake, by the way.”

Bradley doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy staring at the man. 

“…Bradley,” he finally says.

Jake raises an eyebrow. “Just Bradley?”

Bradley rolls his eyes. “You want my social too?”

“Not unless you’re offering, cowboy.”

Something tightens in Bradley’s jaw. “Don’t call me that.”

Jake raises both hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough. You from around here?”

“No.”

Jake leans his head back against the wall, still grinning. “You’re really fun, you know that?”

Bradley doesn’t rise to the bait. He takes out his phone instead and fires off a quick text to Natasha.

some guy came in late. soaking wet. waiting for a ride. can’t leave yet.
also might strangle him. not sure.

He hits send and just stares at the screen, thumb hovering trying to avoid an eye contact so he doesn't have to keep up with the conversation.

“You allergic to conversation,” Jake says, “or just allergic to me?”

Bradley exhales through his nose. “It’s past closing. I have an exam tomorrow. And you’re standing in here dripping like a busted pipe.”

Jake gives a low whistle. “Brutal. You always this friendly, or is this just for me?”

Bradley doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

Jake steps closer—not threatening, just curious—and peers at him. “You a student?”

Bradley nods once.

Jake tilts his head. “Lemme guess. Political science?”

Bradley frowns. “Engineering.”

Jake grins. “Ah, numbers guy. Explains the precision. And the chronic frown.” He shifts his weight, looks at him a little too long, a little too close. “You got a boyfriend or girlfriend?”

Bradley blinks. “What?”

“Just wondering. The attitude, the cheekbones—feels like someone should be yelling at you to drink water and stop skipping meals.”

Bradley’s ears go hot. “If you’re flirting with me, you’re doing a really shit job.”

Jake chuckles. “Not flirting. Just stating facts. You look like the kind of guy who carries the weight of the world and still apologizes when it slips.”

That one hits too close. Bradley’s mouth opens, then shuts again. Who the fuck is this guy?

Before he can respond, headlights flash through the window. A black SUV pulls up.

Jake lights up like it’s Christmas. “There he is!”

He heads for the door but turns around at the last second. “Thanks again, Bradley. You’re a real gem under all that grump.”

Bradley follows him outside to lock up.

The man in the driver’s seat leans out. “You okay?”

Jake nods, grinning. “All good. Bradley here saved my life. He’s a national treasure.”

The guy—Javy, apparently—glances at Bradley. Their eyes meet. Javy nods once, respectful. “Thanks for helping him.”

Bradley nods back. His head is hurting badly and he can't handle another conversation.

Jake hops into the car and rolls the window down just long enough to blow a kiss. “Sweet dreams, cowboy.”

The SUV drives off.

Bradley stands there for a moment, wondering what the hell happened before he shakes his head and lights a cigarette with shaking fingers and a headache.

Natasha’s not there when he makes it home.

With Bob. Text me when you're home <3

He doesn’t. It's not the worst thing he's done.

He drops his bag on the floor, kicks off his shoes, and face-plants onto the bed. Doesn’t bother changing.

He’s asleep before he can think about the exam.

-

7:41 AM.

Bradley stares at his reflection in the mirror like it wronged him.

His eyes are bloodshot, the collar of his shirt is crooked, and he has a suspicious stain on his sleeve that might be toothpaste or dried milk—he doesn’t have the time or mental stability to find out.

He looks like a man who fought the devil in his dreams and lost.

He splashes water on his face. Again. Doesn’t help. The circles under his eyes are so dark they could apply for status as eclipse events.

He is still starring at his reflection and try to make himself look less dead. He doesn't quite succeed, but his phone chimes and his unkept mustache and messy hair is forgotten.

Natasha:

good luck today. you’ll kill it. also: did you end up murdering the guy?

no murder.
he vanished into the night after blowing me a kiss.

Natasha:

…i need so much more context than that.

He doesn’t respond. He has twenty minutes to make it to campus and find the damn exam class.

-

He slides into his seat with a minute to spare. His pen leaks. His textbook is in his bag but he doesn’t remember packing it. The lights are too bright, the AC too loud, and everything smells faintly like burned toast and regret.

The professor walks in. The exam starts.

And about seven minutes in, Bradley realizes with complete clarity that he might actually vomit.

His hands are steady, but the words on the page blur every few lines. He’s answering, mechanically, logically—but something inside him is untethered. Like he forgot to ground himself. Like the weirdness of the night before never really left.

He keeps hearing Jake’s voice in his head.

You always this friendly, or is this just for me?
You got a boyfriend?
Sweet dreams, cowboy.

He digs the heel of his hand into his thigh and forces himself to focus. Numbers. Graphs. Models. Externalities. Focus.

He finishes early. Not because he’s confident—because his brain has officially flatlined.

He hands it in and walks out without looking at anyone.

His legs take him halfway down the hall before his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Unknown Number:

hope your exam went okay.
also, I feel like I left chaos in your wake.
want to make it up to you?

Bradley freezes. Stares at the screen like it might explode.

He doesn’t reply.

Ten seconds later he receives another text:

Unknown Number:
it’s jake btw
i’m not like… a stalker
just got your number from Javy.

He types and deletes five different responses before settling on:

that’s mildly alarming

Jake:

but effective.
i’m two blocks away.
let me buy you breakfast? you look like someone who likes pancakes.

Bradley stares up at the ceiling and mutters, “Why me.”

But his feet are already moving.

Jake is sitting at an outdoor table at some diner that looks like it hasn’t changed since 1982. He’s wearing dry clothes now—a navy t-shirt that fits too well, and sunglasses perched on top of his head like he thinks he’s in a movie. What an asshole.

He stands when he sees Bradley. Stands, like they’re on a date or something.

“Cowboy,” he says, grinning. “You look like someone hit you with an exam and backed over your soul.”

Bradley raises an eyebrow. “You’re buying me food, not roasting me.”

“I’m a multitasker.” Jake gestures to the menu. “Order anything. I mean it.”

Bradley slides into the seat across from him. “Even the overpriced French toast?”

Jake presses a hand to his chest like he’s wounded. “You think I can’t afford $12.99 French toast?”

Bradley shrugs. “You were begging for phone access less than twelve hours ago.”

Jake smirks. “I am full of surprises." and winks. Bradley might actually strangle him if he wasn't too hungry and hell, he is not about to protest to some free food.

They order. Coffee arrives. Jake insists Bradley drinks all of it before saying anything else. He does with a frown.

And then, between bites of eggs and sharp glances, Jake starts talking. Bradley's starting to think the guy doesn't know how to shut up.

Jake tells him about getting caught in a broken sprinkler pipe while sneaking into an abandoned pool with Javy. About losing his phone while running from a raccoon. About how his life is “low-budget action movie meets romantic disaster.”

“You sound like a liability.” Bradley says while finishing his plate.

“I am. But I’m cute about it.”

They sit in silence for a few beats after that. It’s not awkward, exactly. Just… fucking weird.

Bradley studies Jake’s face, the slope of his jaw, the easy sprawl of his posture. The way he stirs his coffee with his spoon even though he hasn’t added anything to it.

And then Jake looks up and says, quietly, “You’re interesting, you know. All gruff and silent like you’re hoping no one notices you—but you kind of make it impossible.”

Bradley swallows hard. “You don’t even know me.”

Jake leans forward just slightly. “Not yet.”

Bradley makes a weird face, "Dude, you're so fucking weird."

"Dude?" Jake asks and he starts laughing. "What are you, fifteen?"

Bradley rolls his eyes. "Look thanks for the breakfast, not that it was needed but I appreciate it. We're equal now. Happy?"

"Very," Jake says and his eyes are full of mischief.

"I'm gonna leave now," Bradley says. 

"You do that." Jake answers with a sweet smile.

What a fucking weirdo, Bradley thinks and sighs, gets out of the diner and lights up a cigarette.

-

Bradley’s in the engineering lab. It’s 9:23 PM. He’s covered in graphite, his laptop is running simulations that keep crashing, and his partner has just bailed with a “sorry dude, family dinner, you got this right?”

He realizes thirty minutes in that, he does, in fact, not got this.

What the fuck is he even studying? He's about to get his fourth coffee when his phone vibrates. He frowns, Natasha is out with Bob and Tony, they're all at Steve's place getting high. 

Jake:

Bradley,

You’re going to think I’m insane (which, fair), but I have a tiny problem.
My family is hosting a charity gala this weekend.
And another one next week. And a wedding after that. And a press thing.

Long story short: everyone keeps asking if I’m bringing someone. And I made the mistake of joking about having a boyfriend.

Which brings me to you.

Before you panic: I’m not asking you to date me. Just… show up. With me. Stand around looking bored and hot and like someone who'd kick a guy for talking about yachts too long.

You’ll be paid. Of course. 

Please say yes. I’m desperate. I’m already being emailed about menu options for “you and your partner.”

Think of it like engineering fieldwork. With canapés. Let me know. Please. I’m begging.

Bradley reads it three times.

Then a fourth.

Then, in the silence of the lab, he says aloud to absolutely no one, “He’s out of his fucking mind.”

Three hours later, he is home lying in bed, still thinking about it. The worst part is… it’s not even the craziest thing that’s happened to him this week. A very wet, very flirty stranger broke into his coffee shop three days ago. That stranger now texting him about high-society galas like it’s a casual Tuesday.

Jake comes from stupid money—Bradley figured that out the second he name-dropped a family yacht like it was normal. He wears expensive cologne and carries himself like he’s never had to ask twice for anything. And now he wants to hire Bradley to be his date?

Bradley, who is so broke he buys off-brand cereal and calls it budgeting.

He doesn’t even own a suit. He’s got a button-down from freshman year career fair season. That’s it.

He has only worn a suite twice in his life, the first one for his mother's funereal and he still gets migraine when he thinks too much about it, the second one had been for Ice and Maverick's wedding which...well Bradley doesn't even think about it.

His phone buzzes again and he wonders if he should just block the guy forever.

Jake: 

okay i know that text was a lot
but i am desperate
and you have this whole “I hate being looked at” vibe that high society will eat up
like mystery but hot

also i’ll double your rate if you come to the stupid gala friday
you’d just have to nod, sip champagne, and make people uncomfortable with your face

Bradley groans into his pillow but answers anyway.

dude I think you're super weird

why me?

Jake:

you're interesting and look like you don't buy anyone's bullshit

what's the rate?

Jake:

2K for the night. i pay for everything. including wardrobe. and therapy afterwards :D

 

Bradley stares at the screen.

$2,000

To stand beside Jake for a few hours. Pretend to be his boyfriend. Wear a nice suit. Look mysterious. Possibly commit tax fraud by accident.

He desperately needs money sure, but he just thought he'd take extra shift at the coffee shop or do some tutoring but finals week is next week and he could actually take off time to study. Rent would be paid for the next two months and Natasha could also take some time off to study her exams. It sounds like a wet dream but fuck him if it's not weird.

He stares at the ceiling. 

“Jesus Christ.”

i want dinner. first.
before any of this. i want you to explain it to my face.
if you’re weird, i walk.

Jake:

fair. I promise you won't regret it.

I already do.

-

The restaurant is too nice.

Bradley realizes this the second he turns the corner and sees the glass façade glowing golden under the streetlights, with uniformed valets and expensive laughter drifting from the patio. There's a sommelier. There’s probably gold in the flatware.

He should’ve known.

Jake had sent a location — just coordinates and the word “casual, I swear”—but Jake’s version of casual apparently involves valet parking and a waiting list that has its own waiting list.

Bradley, for his part, is wearing a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt, board shorts, and sneakers that saw a chemical spill in the engineering lab last week.

He feels like a cartoon character in a painting.

But he’s here. For the money. For the explanation. For whatever the hell this is.

Inside, the air conditioning hits like a polite slap. Everything smells like truffle oil and caviar. There’s a wall of wine bottles behind the host’s podium, backlit like a shrine.

Jake is already seated.

And of course — of course — he looks like he walked out of a Ralph Lauren editorial. White button-down rolled at the sleeves, crisp navy chinos, a subtle watch that probably cost more than Bradley’s rent. His hair is styled like he accidentally woke up perfect. There’s a navy blazer draped over the chair next to him and a glass of wine in his hand. Not even red wine. Rosé. Of course.

Bradley walks over. 

Jake spots him and his eyes light up. Not just a polite smile — he looks genuinely delighted, like Bradley’s presence just solved a problem he hadn’t known how to fix.

“Bradley!” Jake grins, standing—and oh god, he even moves like he’s used to being watched. He leans in like he’s about to clap him on the shoulder, then pauses. Looks down at the shirt. The shorts. The sneakers. He doesn’t laugh. But his mouth quirks.

“I said casual,” he says. “You really understood the assignment.”

Bradley shrugs, deadpan. “I own exactly one button-down and it smells like engine oil.”

Jake snorts, waves him into the chair across from him, and sits back down like he belongs here. Because he does.

Bradley does not.

“Alright,” he mutters, glancing at the gleaming wine glass in front of him. “We’re here. Talk.”

Jake blinks. “You don’t wanna order first?”

Bradley gives him a look that could level small cities. “Start talking, Jake.”

Jake raises his hands like okay, okay. Then he leans in, resting his arms on the table, suddenly just a little less suave. Still wearing a blazer that probably has a name, but there's a thread of something real under it now—nerves, maybe.

“Okay. So. You know how I said I needed someone to come with me to a few family things?”

Bradley nods slowly.

“Well, my mom — she’s the type who thinks appearances are everything. Ever since I moved back to the city, she’s been trying to set me up with every heir, debutante, and bored crypto baby on the Upper East Side. I tried to shut it down by saying I was already seeing someone.” He winces. “And then… I doubled down. Like an idiot. Told her I’d bring him to the Seresin Foundation gala this weekend. And then to the wedding in Maine. And then to the damn yacht auction.”

Bradley raises an eyebrow. “Yacht. Auction.”

Jake sighs. “Yeah. It’s a thing. I hate it.”

Bradley crosses his arms. “So you decided the best solution was… hiring a stranger.”

Jake spreads his hands, as if presenting the logical conclusion of a very reasonable argument. “Yes. Because you don’t care about any of this. You’re not trying to impress my family. You’re not trying to network. You’ll call out the bullshit. Or ignore it entirely.”

“I’m also a broke double major with a thesis and six unpaid group projects,” Bradley says, still skeptical. “Why not hire a model?”

Jake shrugs. “Because a model doesn’t know what it’s like to be cornered by my aunt Cecily while she’s drinking Veuve and talking about her sixth divorce. And because they’d play the part too well. I need someone who doesn’t fit so I can just easily use the 'he wasn't from our world, mama it was never going to work' card.” He pauses. “Besides. I like the way you look at me like you’d rather throw me out a window.”

Bradley stares at him.

Jake’s smile is crooked. Charming. Probably practiced. But he’s not entirely joking.

There’s a long silence. The hum of silverware on porcelain, low music, someone ordering oysters behind them.

Bradley exhales slowly, drumming his fingers against the edge of the table. “How much again?”

Jake straightens. “Two thousand per event and more if needed. I’ll cover wardrobe. Flights. Rooms. All of it. You just have to show up, wear something nice, stand next to me, and nod like you’ve heard my father’s jokes before.”

Bradley stares at him.

“You’re serious.”

“I am very serious,” Jake says. “And very desperate. Please. My mother already RSVP’d with both our names.”

“You are a lunatic.”

Jake grins. “Takes one to answer my texts.”

Bradley rubs a hand over his face. He’s exhausted. He’s broke. He has a midterm Monday and a simulation that hasn’t run properly in four days.

But two thousand dollars.

Per event.

And if Jake is annoying? At least he’s paying.

Bradley sighs. Long and heavy. What the fuck is even his life? 

“One event,” he says. “I’ll try it once. If your family sucks, I’m out.”

Jake beams like he just won a lottery. “Deal.”

“Also I want to pick the suit.”

“Done.”

“And you never speak to me in public on campus.”

“Absolutely.”

Bradley leans back. “You’re really gonna drag me into high society and pretend I’m your boyfriend.”

Jake smirks. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re gonna sell it better than anyone.”

Bradley groans and orders a steak. If he’s gonna do this, he might as well eat something expensive while he feels his dignity slipping away.

Chapter 2: Caviar

Bradley is wedged into the corner of the ratty green couch like he’s trying to merge with the wall. There's a half-empty beer bottle on the floor by his foot, the faint smell of weed curling through the air, and the god-awful sound of Tony serenading Steve with a love ballad off-key.

It’s a Thursday. Finals are in a week. None of this should be happening.

But here they are: seven people crammed into a two-bedroom apartment with cracked tiles, a suspicious leak in the ceiling, and a couch so old it makes ominous creaking noises when more than two people sit on it.

And of course, the conversation has circled back—yet again—to Jake .

“Wait. Wait. Back up.” Natasha’s eyes are glassy, and she’s pointing a tortilla chip at him like it’s a dagger. “He offered two grand for a night?”

Bradley sighs through his nose and resists the urge to fling himself out the window. “I’m not repeating this again.”

“Oh, you are ,” Bob says from his perch on the floor, cross-legged like a smug librarian. “Because when a wet golden retriever in human form struts into your café, flirts with you while dripping on your floor, and then offers you money to fake-date him at a charity gala, you do not get to pretend this is normal.”

Ruben snorts. “This is some Netflix Original behavior, bro.”

Bradley glares at them. “First of all, he’s not a golden retriever. He’s a very annoying, very rich gremlin who thinks ‘casual attire’ means wearing shoes that cost more than my tuition.”

Natasha leans dramatically against the couch arm, a joint balanced between two fingers. “Second of all, you totally said yes.”

“I said yes to one event,” Bradley grumbles. “One. For rent money. And also because our electric bill came with a warning this time.”

“Oh my god,” Tony howls. “You’re somebody’s sugar baby. I’m so proud.”

Bradley opens his mouth to argue—but there is truly no comeback for that. He takes a slow, withering sip from his beer instead.

“You’re gonna have to hold his hand in public,” Tony adds with a wicked grin. “Maybe even, like, gaze lovingly into his eyes.”

“Touching is extra,” Bradley mutters. “I already told him that.”

Natasha cackles so hard she nearly drops the joint. “Oh my god, you made a boundary sheet? You’re such a prude. I love you so much.”

Bradley doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Wait,” Steve says suddenly, eyes narrowing like he’s discovered a plot twist. “Does this mean you’re going to have to wear a suit?”

A horrified silence falls.

“Oh no,” Bob breathes. “You’re gonna look hot.”

“Tragic,” Natasha deadpans. “Can’t believe we’ll have to witness it.”

“You people are insufferable,” Bradley says flatly, but he’s already texting the landlord a partial rent payment and mentally counting how many Advils he can legally take before tomorrow.

“You know,” Natasha says after a beat, voice softer, “you could’ve asked me for help.”

“I know,” Bradley says. And he does. He always does. But he also knows Natasha’s bank account looks like a dying plant—shriveled and full of warning signs.

She nudges his foot gently. “Ride or die, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “You’ll die of laughter when this gala explodes and I get thrown out for using the wrong fork.”

“I’ll die proud,” she replies, grinning.

Bradley stares at the ceiling. Somewhere between the chipped plaster and the faint hum of a Bob Marley playlist, he wonders what fresh hell he’s signed up for.

-

 

The day itself passes in a blur of lecture notes, lukewarm coffee, and the hum of campus printers that sound like they’re screaming for help. Bradley survives two classes, a lab that smells like melted plastic, and a group project meeting where someone genuinely suggests making the entire presentation a rap.

He doesn’t have the energy to fight it.

By the time he gets home, Natasha’s already set up the living room like a war room—hair products, lint rollers, and three different deodorants spread across the coffee table.

He barely makes it to the fridge before his phone buzzes.

Jake

okay I sent you six options
don’t yell at me they’re just suggestions
don’t pick the gray one unless you want to look like a sexy undertaker

Bradley groans and unlocks his phone.

Six pictures. All suits. Three navy, one black, one a deep forest green, and—God help him—one white. The white one has shoulder detailing . It looks like something a Bond villain would wear on a yacht.

He ignores all of them and texts back.

already picked one. simple. dark blue. no frills. no satin lapels.
no shoulder wings.

Jake

lame but okay.
i told them. it’ll be delivered by 8.
also. don’t forget to moisturize. you’re gonna be under chandelier lighting

Bradley stares at that sentence for a full thirty seconds.

what the fuck is chandelier lighting

Jake

hot. 
like me.

remind me to fake a car accident on the way there

Jake

i’ll make sure the ambulance has champagne

Bradley tosses his phone onto the couch and opens the fridge. There’s half a Red Bull and a single Kraft cheese slice left. He closes the fridge.

At 7:58, someone knocks.

“Package for Mr. Bradshaw,” a voice calls.

Natasha, barefoot and holding a beer, nearly trips over the hallway rug in her excitement. “Oh my God. It’s here. It’s happening.”

Bradley opens the door to find a very calm, very judgmental-looking man in a pressed uniform holding a garment bag with the kind of care usually reserved for newborns and eggs.

He signs something. The guy bows. Bows.

The door shuts. Natasha is already on him.

-

Bradley loves his best friend. He loves his best friend but he thinks he may kill Natasha tonight.

Bradley is shirtless. Natasha is wielding a lint roller like a weapon. Bob is steaming the jacket. Ruben is playing a motivational playlist that consists entirely of Beyoncé, and Mickey is trying to trim Bradley’s eyebrows with terrifying focus.

“Do not stab me in the face,” Bradley warns.

“You’ll thank me when you’re on Page Six,” Mickey mutters.

“Why is that sleeve wrinkle shaped like Texas?” Natasha snaps, yanking the steamer from Bob.

“Because I went to public school,” Bob says calmly.

“Okay but like—” Tony flops down on the couch, scrolling through Jake’s Instagram. “Why is this guy hot? Like unfairly hot. If I didn’t know he was real, I’d assume he was AI-generated to ruin lives.”

Bradley, buttoning the dress shirt, mutters, “He’s not that hot.”

Five heads snap to meet his eyes.

“Liar,” Natasha says instantly.

“Bold lie,” Steve adds.

“Unnecessary lie,” Bob says, shaking his head.

Bradley glares at all of them. “I hate each of you.”

“Yeah, but you look good doing it,” Ruben says, handing him a glass of water like he’s a runway model and not a very tired college student in borrowed cologne.

The suit fits. Too well. Like someone took his measurements with a sniper scope. The navy is sharp, almost black under the kitchen light, the stitching clean and subtle, the shoulders perfect. Bradley stares at himself in the mirror and feels the distant, surreal sensation of recognizing his own reflection.

“I look like I have health insurance,” he mutters.

“You look like a problem,” Natasha corrects.

He adjusts the cufflinks—who the hell wears cufflinks—and exhales.

Phone buzzes again.

Jake

outside in 10. don’t panic. just smile and look hot.
(they’ll assume we met at a charity boxing match)

if you ever say the phrase ‘charity boxing match’ again i walk

He pockets the phone and sighs. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

The group follows him to the door like proud soccer moms sending their kid to prom.

“Call if you need rescuing,” Natasha says, smoothing his lapel with dramatic care. “Bob has bail money.”

“Don’t let anyone named Tripp or Preston speak to you,” Mickey adds.

“Don’t punch a senator,” Steve says.

“Unless he deserves it,” Ruben says.

Bradley steps out into the cool night air, suit crisp, hair neat, stomach doing slow somersaults.

Bradley takes exactly two steps toward the car before it starts.

“BRADLEY!”

He closes his eyes. Considers sprinting into traffic.

Upstairs, the apartment window is flung open, and there’s Mickey’s head sticking out like a dog spotting a squirrel.

“IS THAT HIM?” Mickey yells. “IS THAT THE GUY? HE’S HOT. YOU LIAR.”

Bradley turns around slowly. “Go inside.”

But it’s too late. Natasha is hanging halfway out the window beside Mickey, waving with both hands like she’s air-traffic control.

“HI JAKE!” she shouts gleefully. “BRING HIM BACK BY NINE, OKAY? HE HAS A MIDTERM MONDAY.”

Jake, still leaning against the car in a tux that should be illegal, looks delighted . He waves back like they’re old friends. “I’ll have him home before curfew!”

“WE MEAN IT,” Bob calls, popping into view behind Natasha. “NOT A MINUTE LATE.”

“WE HAVE A BASEBALL BAT,” Steve adds helpfully.

“AND FRIENDSHIP BRACELETS,” Tony yells. “WE CONTAIN MULTITUDES.”

Bradley wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.

Jake, unfazed, cups his hands around his mouth like he’s calling to lifeguards across a pool. “I'LL BE GOOD.”

Ruben leans out just far enough to shout, “GET THE GOOD CHAMPAGNE, MONEYBOY!”

“I will!” Jake calls back. “Only the best for my fake boyfriend!”

Bradley shoves him toward the car with a growl. “Get in the car.”

Jake opens the door for him (because he is an asshole) with a grin so bright it should require a permit. “Your friends are amazing.”

“They’re idiots,” Bradley mutters, ducking into the passenger seat like it’s a crime scene. “And I’m changing my name.”

Jake slides in beside him, still smiling. “Too late, cowboy. They already engraved it on the friendship bracelet.”

Bradley groans and drags a hand over his face as the car pulls away, his friends howling behind them like it’s prom night.

The second the door shuts behind him, Bradley feels it, the air-conditioning is soft and quiet, the leather seats feel like sin, and the ambient lights inside the car are this subtle golden glow that probably has a stupid name like sunset champagne.

It smells like expensive leather and some kind of cologne that was definitely tested on yachts, not animals.

Jake’s already lounging in the backseat like he was born there—one leg crossed casually, suit perfectly fitted, not a wrinkle in sight. He’s scrolling through his phone like nothing about this is weird. Like they aren’t heading to a society gala where Bradley is being paid to pretend to be his boyfriend.

Bradley, in comparison, is sitting rigid, like the seat might eject him if he leans back too hard.

Jake glances over and grins. “You made it. And you look like you’re about to commit a felony.”

Bradley doesn’t even look at him. “Still considering it.”

“Be gentle. I wore cologne for you.”

“You wore that cologne because it cost $300 not because it smells good.”

Jake pretends to be wounded. “Did you just say I smell? It smells like bergamot and masculine mystique.”

“It smells like a stockbroker who’s been sued twice.”

Jake laughs loudly. “See? This is why I picked you. You keep me humble.”

“I’m here because you offered two grand and I’m one ramen pack away from selling plasma.”

“Romantic,” Jake says with a wink. “The foundation of every great love story.”

There’s a beat of silence, broken only by the hum of the car and the muted city outside.

Jake straightens a little. “Okay. So. Game plan.”

Bradley sighs. “You don’t already have one?”

Jake waves a hand. “I have… vibes . You’re the one who insisted we not ‘wing it like dumbasses.’ So fine. Let’s do the fake dating rundown.” He leans in slightly. “How long have we been dating?”

“Three weeks,” Bradley says immediately.

Jake blinks. “Wrong. Four months. I already told my mom that.”

Bradley’s eyes narrow. “Four months? You told your mother we’ve been fake dating for four months and this is the first time I’m hearing about it?”

“She asked why I wasn’t bringing you to her birthday party. I panicked.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Jake grins, pleased. “You’re already swearing like a real boyfriend. Adorable.”

Bradley mutters something that sounds like, I should’ve just started an OnlyFans.

Jake pulls out his phone, opens his notes app. “Okay, let’s align on the details before you start insulting billionaires to their faces.”

Bradley snorts. “I make no promises.”

Jake scrolls. “Met at a gallery opening. You thought I was shallow. I thought you were broody and hot. We argued about modernism. You stormed off. I chased you into the rain.”

Bradley turns to look at him, incredulous. “Absolutely not.”

Jake shrugs. “What’s your version then?”

“We met at my café. You spilled coffee on yourself. I didn’t care. You were annoying. You kept coming back anyway. I said yes to a date just so you’d stop talking.”

Jake makes a thoughtful face. “Mmm. So enemies to lovers. I can work with that.”

Bradley rolls his eyes. “It’s not lovers. It’s capitalism.”

Jake smirks. “And yet here you are. In a very sexy suit. Getting paid to look like you might tolerate me.”

Another beat of silence. Jake’s tone softens—still amused, but quieter. “Hey. You nervous?”

Bradley stares out the window for a long second. “I’m a broke-ass engineering student with a borderline caffeine addiction and a nervous system held together by stubbornness and bad choices. I’m walking into a room full of hedge fund babies and trust fund demons pretending to be your lovely boyfriend. Me? Nervous? Of course not.”

Jake’s smile fades slightly—not entirely gone, just tempered. He taps his fingers on his knee. “You’ll be fine. They’re like sharks—shiny and easily distracted. I’ll handle them.”

“You better,” Bradley mutters. “Because the second someone says the word ‘yacht’ at me, I’m faking a seizure.”

“Make it a sexy one,” Jake says cheerfully. “Add some mystery.”

Bradley glares. “We need a safe word.”

Jake grins. “Ooh. Okay. I vote for limoncello.”

“Too fun. It needs to be something real.”

Jake nods solemnly. “What about caviar?”

“Perfect. If I say caviar three times in a row, you start a fire and we leave.”

“Deal.”

Bradley glances at him sideways. “And don’t do that thing where you touch me all casually in front of people unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Jake gasps. “No arm around the back of your chair? No gentle fingers on your waist? No longing glances while we share a flute of champagne?”

Bradley deadpans, “If you touch my waist, I will scream and knock over a centerpiece.”

Jake laughs—loud and delighted. “God, I’m so glad I hired you.”

The car slows. Outside, camera flashes are popping like mini lightning bolts.

Jake straightens his blazer, smoothing the front with practiced ease. “Alright. Showtime. Ready to lie your ass off for rich people?”

Bradley exhales, face blank. “I do that every time I apply for a scholarship. Let’s go.”

The car door swings open like the gateway to some parallel universe where elegance smothers reality in a velvet embrace. The first thing Bradley’s eyes snag on is a woman in a gown that flows like liquid emerald, her heels clicking sharp against the marble, as she casually leads a miniature horse—yes, a mini horse—across a carpet so plush it probably costs more than Bradley’s entire rent this semester. The horse trots like it owns the place, nostrils flaring in mild disdain at the throng of onlookers.

Before Bradley can process if this is real life or some bizarre fever dream, a blizzard of camera flashes explodes around Jake.

Flash. Flash. Jake! Over here! Flash.

Jake’s smile is everything a seasoned social shark’s smile can be—smooth, practiced, a little too perfect. He extends a hand back, graceful and wraps his fingers around Bradley’s wrist like he’s claiming his prize.

Bradley shoots him a look sharp enough to cut glass. Really, dude?

Jake’s whisper is silk wrapped in teasing danger. “Just pretend I’m paying you in exposure.”

Bradley’s retort is barely audible, “You are paying me.”

“Exactly. So sell it, baby.”

With a resigned eye-roll, Bradley lets himself be led up the sweeping steps. The doormen nod to Jake like he is royalty, their crisp tuxedos immaculate, badges gleaming, smiles almost robotic.

Inside, the air is a thick mix of champagne bubbles, expensive perfume, and the faint tang of assholes—like the whole place breathes secrets wrapped in silk. A towering floral sculpture—this one shaped like a swan—dominates the lobby, as if the bird-themed décor is a subtle family obsession. Bradley thinks, Seriously, these guys might own a private aviary.

There's melody so classical and unnecessarily dramatic it feels like the soundtrack to someone’s existential crisis (his, it's his). Overhead, chandeliers drip crystal like frozen waterfalls—each sparkling prism promising to cost more than the entire student loan debt Bradley is currently drowning in.

“I hate everything,” Bradley mutters, his voice a low growl.

Jake grins, “Tell your face.”

Bradley snaps, “This is my pleasant face.”

Jake eyes him like he’s assessing the threat level of a particularly sassy cat. “Your ‘pleasant face’ looks like you’re planning a coup.”

“I might be,” Bradley replies, deadpan.

They barely take ten steps into the ballroom before a predator swoops in.

“Jakey!”

A woman in an emerald-green gown emerges from the crowd like a force of nature—mid-fifties, stunning, and radiating the kind of energy that suggests she devours souls for breakfast. Her gaze sharpens on Bradley like a jeweler inspecting a diamond for flaws.

Jake visibly stiffens.

“Mother,” he breathes.

Bradley arches an eyebrow. Oh. This should be good.

“Is this him?” she asks, voice clipped, eyes already scrutinizing Bradley like he’s an accessory at a fashion show. “The boyfriend?”

Bradley doesn’t flinch. He extends a hand with the confidence of a man who’s survived worse first impressions. “Bradley Bradshaw, ma’am. Pleasure.”

Her handshake is a delicate frostbite—light, cool, and judging.

“And what is it you do, Bradley?”

“I’m a double major in mechanical and aerospace engineering,” he says smoothly, “Senior year.”

Her eyes flick to Jake with a hint of disdain. “A student?”

Jake braces, smile tight. “He’s brilliant.”

She snorts. “He’s broke.” Then, deadpan, “Jake, honestly—”

“Mother,” Jake cuts in, sharper now, “don’t.”

Bradley clears his throat, shooting Jake a look that says, Let me handle this. “It’s fine. I’m broke. But I also love your son not for his money but for his dimples. So I think I’ve earned dessert.”

The woman blinks. Then, unexpectedly, a laugh—sharp, sudden, and tinged with something almost terrifying—escapes her. “Well, at least you’re not boring.”

She pats Jake’s arm and walks away, already hunting the room for someone with a fatter wallet.

Jake exhales like he just diffused a bomb.

Bradley quirks a brow. “That’s your mom?”

Jake shrugs helplessly. “She’s been like that forever.”

A waiter appears with a silver tray of champagne flutes. Bradley grabs one with the desperate hunger of a man trying to dull his existential financial crisis.

The room swirls with people: socialites dripping in diamonds, minor celebrities shimmering under the chandelier light, old-money aristocrats flaunting tans that might as well be painted on, and more than a few poodles in designer collars prancing beneath the tables. Everyone eyes Jake like he’s a crowned prince, and everyone eyes Bradley like he’s the hottest new accessory in the season’s lineup.

Bradley masters a neutral face, nodding here, sipping there, letting Jake’s hand rest casually at the small of his back without flinching. Mostly.

At one point, Jake leans in,  “You’re doing great.”

Bradley simply sips longer, hiding the fact that his heart is doing some kind of dance routine inside his chest.

They edge toward a quieter corner by the indoor fountain—yes, indoor —where water trickles like a secret.

“I need a cigarette and a lobotomy,” Bradley mutters.

Jake chuckles. “Don’t tempt me. We’re only halfway.”

Bradley surveys the room, calculating. “Who do I have to fake smile at to earn the rest of the two grand?”

Jake grins like he’s just dealt a winning hand. “That would be my aunt Cecily. She collects failed marriages and diamonds.”

“Perfect.”

Jake steps closer, voice dropping. “Also—you're killing it. Everyone’s talking. You look untouchable. Mysterious. Like I found you drinking espresso in Paris and you ghosted me three times before saying yes.”

Bradley snorts. “More like you stalked and paid me two grand to lie.”

Jake shrugs. “Potato, potato.”

They stand there, almost touching—close enough for rumors but far enough to keep secrets.

The strings hum in the background, the laughter fades to a gentle murmur.

Jake glances sideways. “You okay?”

Bradley glances back. “Ask me again after dessert.”

Jake smiles. “Noted.” his eyes focus on someone behind Bradley and he exhales slowly. “Okay, my dad is coming. Bradley don’t fuck this up, I’m begging.”

Bradley didn’t answer. Instead, his fingers curled around Jake’s hand, a bold, silent claim that made Jake’s eyes widen as if Bradley had done something absurd, and really, with everything happening this has to be the less absurd thing. The crowd around them seemed to blur into oblivion as Bradley gently pulled him to face the looming figure of Jake’s father.

“Jacob,” the elder’s voice cut through the air—sharp, authoritative—his gaze flickering to their hands before locking onto Jake’s expression, like a general assessing the battlefield.

Jake’s jaw clenched, stiff as ice. “Father,” he replied, his tone a careful mix of respect and disbelief. What the actual hell?  Even Ice had more warmth when greeting his soldiers.

Jacob Sr.’s gaze slid from Jake to Bradley.  Game on, asshole.

Bradley didn’t flinch. With a steady breath, he extended his free hand. “Sir, it’s an honor,” he said smoothly, voice calm but laced with a challenge of its own.

The handshake was firm—too firm, actually, like a test of strength rather than a greeting. But Bradley survived worse grips in engineering labs.

“You’ve made quite the impression,” Jacob Sr. said, a faint, grudging nod accompanying the words.

Bradley’s lips curved into a polite smirk. “I do try.”

Jake’s voice broke through the charged silence, softer but definitive. “Dad, this is Bradley—my boyfriend.”

Jacob Sr.’s grip tightened around Bradley’s hand—just a fraction, just enough to assert dominance. Bradley didn’t blink. He’d survived worse.

“Bradley,” Jacob Sr. repeated, as if testing the name for structural flaws. “Jake’s mentioned you.”

Jake’s fingers twitched against Bradley’s, a silent plea: Don’t take the bait.

Bradley smiled, all polite edges. “Only good things, I hope.”

Jacob Sr.’s laugh was a dry crackle, like kindling refusing to catch. “He said you were interesting . A rare compliment from my son.” His gaze flicked to their joined hands, then back to Bradley’s face. “Though I suppose ‘interesting’ covers a multitude of sins.”

Jake stiffened. “Dad—”

Bradley cut in, smooth as the champagne sliding down his throat earlier. “Sin’s a strong word, sir. I prefer resourceful .” He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Like the time I jury-rigged Jake’s Porsche with a paperclip and a prayer.”

Jake choked on air.

Jacob Sr.’s eyebrow arched. “His Porsche ?”

“It was a minor ignition issue,” Jake hissed, shooting Bradley a look that screamed traitor .

Bradley shrugged, unrepentant. “It got him home.”

A beat of silence. Then, unexpectedly, Jacob Sr. snorted. “Resourceful indeed.” He released Bradley’s hand and turned to Jake, voice lowering. “Your mother wants you at her table. The Van der Woodsen boy is here, and she’s decided you two should ‘reconnect.’”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “I’m occupied .”

Jacob Sr.’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Not for long.” With a nod to Bradley—part dismissal, part challenge—he melted into the crowd.

Jake exhaled like he’d been sucker-punched. “Paperclip and a prayer? Really?”

Bradley smirked. “You said lean into the ‘enemies to lovers’ backstory.”

“I didn’t mean sabotage my inheritance.” Jake raked a hand through his hair, it curled rebelliously over his forehead. “Now my dad’s going to have the car inspected. And by inspected , I mean burned to ashes.”

Bradley studied him—the tension in his shoulders, the way his thumb worried at his cufflink. This wasn’t just about the car. Or the gala. Or even the lie.

He stepped closer, voice dropping. “Why’d you really bring me here, Jake?”

Jake’s laugh was dry. “Two grand, remember?”

“Bullshit.” Bradley held his gaze. “You could’ve hired an actor. Someone who knows how to fake-smile at yacht talk.”

The string quartet swelled around them, a crescendo of violins and unspoken things. Jake opened his mouth—to deflect, to lie—when a shrill voice cut through the music.

“ Jacob Seresin! ”

A woman in a black dress was walking towards them, her smile sharp enough to slice diamonds. “Introduce me to your mystery man.”

Jake’s mask snapped back into place. “Aunt Cecily,” he said, all charm, “meet Bradley.”

Cecily’s gaze raked Bradley up and down. “Oh, darling. You’re tragically handsome. Are you sure you’re not in pictures?”

Bradley deadpanned, “Only mugshots.”

Jake’s elbow jabbed his ribs. Cecily cackled. “I like him.” She looped her arm through Bradley’s, steering him toward a gaggle of pearl-clutching socialites. “Come, let’s horrify the old bats.”

As Bradley was dragged away, he threw a glare over his shoulder. You owe me , it said.

Jake’s answering grin was equal parts apology and triumph.

The second Aunt Cecily dragged Bradley into the lion’s den of Seresin relatives, Jake braced for disaster.

He expected Bradley to freeze. Or scowl. Or say something brutally honest that would make Great-Aunt Margaret clutch her pearls so hard they’d turn to dust.

What he didn’t expect?

Bradley Bradshaw, engineering student and certified grump, becoming the most sought-after guest at the gala.

Aunt Cecily—a woman who’d once made a senator cry at a charity auction—looped her arm through Bradley’s like he was her new favorite accessory. “This one,” she announced to the room, “has a mustache.”

Bradley, who had been mid-sip of champagne, nearly choked. “Uh. Thanks?”

“Oh, don’t be modest,” Cecily scoffed. She turned to her sisters—three women who looked like they’d been carved from marble and spite. “Look at him. Real bone structure. Not like these other boys.”

Jake watched, stunned, as Bradley somehow leaned into it .

“Well,” Bradley said, scratching his jaw like he was considering it, “I did get these from my dad. Along with his terrible taste in music and a solid 60% of my issues.”

The aunts smiled. One of them—Aunt Margot, who hadn’t smiled since 1997—actually smiled.

Jake’s mouth fell open.

Bradley, meanwhile, had somehow been handed a tiny plate of canapés by a starry-eyed waiter. He held it out to the aunts. “Ladies first.”

Margot took one, eyes gleaming. “You’re interesting.”

Bradley smirked. “You have no idea.”

Jake’s knees almost gave out, it got way worse (better?) when Uncle Richard showed up.

Uncle Richard—a man who’d built his fortune on oil and intimidation—stepped into Bradley’s path like a brick wall in a tailored suit. “So. You’re the engineer.”

Jake tensed. 

Bradley just nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

“What do you do with that?” Richard demanded.

Bradley shrugged. “Mostly try to stop things from exploding. Sometimes fail. It’s a whole thing.”

Richard blinked. Then—impossibly—he grinned. “You built anything I’d know?”

Bradley scratched his chin. “You ever been on a plane?”

“Obviously.”

“Then yeah,” Bradley said, deadpan. “I helped make sure the wings don’t fall off.”

Richard barked a laugh so loud it made a passing waiter flinch. “Christ, Jake,” he said, clapping Bradley on the shoulder. “Where’d you find this one?”

Jake, who was currently reevaluating every life choice that led him here, mumbled, “Coffee shop.”

Bradley shot him a look. “Shield Coffee,” he corrected, like it mattered.

Richard was already steering Bradley toward the open bar. “Kid, you’re telling me about jet engines.”

Jake was left standing alone, blinking like a man who just got hit by a very charming tornado in a tux. Had he hallucinated the last ten minutes? Possibly. He’d definitely forgotten how to breathe.

And then it got worse. So much worse.

Across the room, through a blur of champagne flutes and overdressed strangers, Jake spotted him.

Alex.

Fucking. Alex.

The ex. The walking red flag in Gucci loafers. The same guy who once called Jake “sensible” with the kind of smile usually reserved for misbehaving toddlers—and then ghosted mid-party after Jake dared to express a feeling.

Jake felt his stomach plunge.

Even worse? Alex was grinning. Not at him. At Bradley.

Oh, hell no.

Jake practically sprinted toward Bradley and Richard, all polite society abandoned.

“Can I steal him for a sec?” he asked, a little too breathless.

Richard laughed mid-anecdote, “Only if you bring him back. Your boy’s a gem.”

Jake forced a smile—somewhere between thank you and I want to crawl into the floor —and clutched Bradley’s arm like a lifeline.

“Okay. Remember how I said I needed you to fake date me for my parents?”

Bradley looked at him, deadpan. “Jake. That’s literally why I’m here.”

“Right, well,” Jake muttered, dragging him away, “small detail I may have forgotten. I have a terrible ex. He’s here. And he’s—oh god—he’s coming this way.”

Bradley barely had time to blink before he spotted the guy.

“Let me guess,” he said, voice dipped in judgment, “that’s the ex?”

“Please don’t say it out loud,” Jake whispered. “It makes it real.”

And then—like a demon summoned by emotional trauma—Alex appeared, all smug smiles and cologne that probably had a name like Entitlement No. 5 .

“Jake,” he said, warm as snake oil. “Wow. Long time. How’ve you been?”

He didn’t even glance at Bradley. Rude. Was two thousand dollars really enough?

“Hi, Alex,” Jake replied coolly. “I’ve been well. And you?”

“You know how it is,” Alex said, eyes finally flicking to Bradley. “And you are?”

Bradley turned to him with a slow, devil smile that practically glowed in weaponized Southern charm.

“I’m Bradley. Jake’s boyfriend,” he said. “And you are…?”

Alex blinked, clearly thrown. “Boyfriend?” he repeated, grin twitching. “I’m Alex. Jake must’ve told you about me.”

Bradley didn’t even blink. “Actually, no,” he said, voice sweet. “We don’t really waste time talking about irrelevant people.”

Take that, fucker.

Alex just grinned wider, “What a charmer you are Bradley.”

“Wish I could say the same about you,” Bradley muttered. “Babe can you help me get some champagne?” He turned to Jake and took his hand. 

Jake nodded once, smiled weirdly at Alex. 

“I’ve been so sore since last night babe, you really—” Bradley paused, smirking and looking at Alex. “Oops sorry, you know how it is.” and winked.

“Did you just—oh my god,” Jake laughed as they left a confused Alex behind. “Bradley Bradshaw, you’re the fucking best fake boyfriend ever.”

“I prefer validation in cash,” he said dryly as Jake continued laughing loudly.

A few hours passed in a haze of fake smiles, fake love, and real alcohol. Bradley nodded and smiled like a well-oiled politician, Jake spun increasingly deranged versions of their love story like a pathological Hallmark screenwriter, and somewhere between the third flute of champagne and the sixth “oh my god, you two are so cute together,” it finally— finally —ended.

Bradley collapsed into the car like a soldier returning from battle, already yanking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves like he’d survived war.
“Thank God ,” he exhaled. “If I had to hear one more rich person say the word bespoke , I was gonna start a class war.”

Jake grinned, entirely too pleased with himself. “This might’ve been the funniest night of my life.”

Bradley gave him a long, slow look. “You are deeply unwell.”

Jake shrugged like he couldn’t hear the red flags over the sound of his own delusion. “I had fun. Didn’t you?”

Bradley was quiet for a beat. “Watching Alex’s face implode was extremely satisfying.”

“He’s a dick,” Jake muttered, unbothered.

“Then why’d you date him?”

Jake leaned back like he was about to launch into a TED Talk on poor life choices. “His family does business with mine. It seemed… strategic.”

Bradley stared. “Strategic,” he repeated flatly. “You’re miserable.”

Jake beamed. “But I’m cute.” He smiled wide, dimples showing like a self-defense mechanism.

Bradley rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t eject from his skull. “Debatable.”

By the time they reached Bradley’s apartment, he felt like he could breathe again. The night had left him emotionally dehydrated and physically allergic to the ultra-wealthy.

Jake handed him a discreet envelope. “Thanks for tonight.”

Bradley took it like a mobster accepting hush money. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

As he stepped out of the car, Jake called after him, “Goodnight, cowboy!”

Bradley turned without missing a beat. “Try not to drown in champagne and daddy’s expectations, golden boy!”

He shut the door before Jake could respond.

Jesus Christ.

He was tired. Like spiritual-level tired.

All he wanted was to crawl into his sad, lumpy bed and sleep until he forgot how to spell “gala.”

What he didn’t want—what he absolutely wasn’t emotionally prepared for—was to walk into his apartment and find his idiot friends sitting cross-legged on the floor like a cult meeting.

“How was it?”

“Did you guys fuck?”

“Was there caviar?”

“Did you see Beyoncé?”

“Be honest, is Jake packing?”

Bradley stood in the doorway, blinking. He considered his options.

Door. Window. Fire escape. 

He groaned and let his forehead thunk gently against the door.

Notes:

this was supposed to be posted Wednesday —internship decided to fuck me sideways so here you go :p
I share collages and reblog dumb shit on tumblr, come say hi! @/akay19
+ as you guys know english is not my first language and i try to write very simply what I imagine, i google like twenty times synonyms of the words I use, so if anyone ever want to help me write or give their opinion or idk some help it would be much appreciated! come yell with me abt these idiots on tumblr

Chapter 3: Wings

Bradley’s been staring at the same equation for twenty-three minutes and fourteen seconds. He knows, because there’s a tiny clock on the lab computer counting down to his mental collapse like it’s New Year’s Eve.

The lab smells like burnt plastic and sweat. His simulation keeps crashing. Someone in the back is watching The Fast and the Furious without headphones (it’s Tony, because he’s an asshole), and every time Vin Diesel yells about family, Bradley considers throwing himself out the second-story window. It wouldn't kill him. Just... mildly concuss him into a coma nap. Ideal, honestly.

He’s surrounded by three Red Bulls, two granola wrappers, and one calculator that keeps giving him the wrong values unless he swears at it first. Which he does. Often. Loudly.

“I haven’t blinked in an hour,” he mutters.

Across the table, Natasha doesn’t look up from her book. “You look like a cryptid who escaped a government lab.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly. “Love the support.”

“I’m supporting you emotionally,” she replies, dragging a highlighter across a paragraph. “You need to eat. Or sleep. Or blink. Something that humans do.”

“I have a final tomorrow.”

“Yes. But what you currently have is what Bob clinically refers to as ‘dumb bitch syndrome.’”

“I heard that,” Bob calls from a beanbag chair in the corner, surrounded by wires, snacks, and what may or may not be a makeshift bomb. “Also I rewired the vending machine. Everything is free now.”

Ruben, sitting backwards on a chair like a substitute teacher with a criminal record, points dramatically. “That’s what friendship looks like, Bradshaw. Mutual academic sabotage.”

“I hope all of you get an F,” Bradley mutters.

His phone vibrates. He ignores it.

It vibrates again.

And again.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, finally flipping it over. There are four texts from a number that is very much saved in his phone under the contact name “Jake.” He hates his life.

Jake

how’s my favorite fake boyfriend

you’re the only fake boyfriend i have don’t worry

i mean i only had real ones before. anyways what’s up?

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

studying

 

always such a talker

goodluck :/

 

thanks

 

as you sweetly asked 

i’m driving around i’m bored

can i come :D 

 

no

 

are you in campus

 

no

 

home?

 

no

 

you wound me. 

 

you’re insufferable

 

:p 

campus right?

 

yeah

 

see you in ten 

 

what? no

dude were you around waiting for me to confirm where I was

 

no?

 

A few minutes pass and Bradley is praying to whoever is listening that Jake won’t actually show  up. The prayers are once again unanswered because true to his words, ten minutes later, he hears a loud engine before seeing him. 

Bradley blinks. Then slowly turns his head toward the glass door. Outside the lab window—like a goddamn romcom villain—Jake Seresin is standing with two iced coffees and a smug expression that should be illegal on school property.

Natasha leans over. “You’re gonna want to fix your face before he sees that look of sheer betrayal.”

Bradley’s already standing. “I told him not to talk to me on campus.”

Ruben’s mouth is full of gummy worms. “You also told him at the café that you didn’t want to see him again and now you’re dating a rich idiot.”

“I’m not dating anyone,” Bradley says, way too fast.

Bob shrugs, “Not with that attitude.”

Bradley flips them all off and exits the lab, shoulders squared like he’s walking into battle.

Bradley opens the lab door like he’s disarming a bomb. Slowly. Carefully. Face neutral, jaw tight, posture rigid enough to qualify as medically concerning.

Jake, in contrast, is the picture of breezy intrusion, sunglasses perched in his hair, holding two iced coffees like offerings to the gods of finals week. His grin is wide. Irresponsibly white. Possibly enchanted.

“Bradley,” Jake says warmly, holding out one of the coffees. “You look like you’ve seen the abyss. I brought caffeine.”

Bradley doesn’t take the cup. Just glares at him. “We had a deal.”

Jake tilts his head. “You said no talking on campus. I’m not talking. I’m gifting.”

“You sent four texts and showed up in person.”

“That’s called love,” Jake deadpans, then immediately follows it up with, “Fake love. Obviously. Contractual affection. Caffeine-based diplomacy.”

Bradley snatches the coffee with a mutter, “You’re exhausting.”

Jake beams like Bradley just confessed undying devotion. “You’re welcome.”

Behind him, someone walks past and glances at them curiously. Probably trying to figure out why this clearly rich guy is hanging around the lab building like he owns the power grid.

Jake leans in slightly. “So. What’s the verdict? Am I forgiven? Do I get a gold star? A sticker? A kiss?”

Bradley glares. “You’re going to get hit.”

Jake clutches his heart. “With love?”

“With a wrench.”

Jake hums. “Kinky.”

Bradley closes his eyes for two full seconds, sips the coffee, and prays for divine intervention.

Then Jake, annoyingly unbothered, plops onto the bench just outside the lab, legs crossed, sipping his own drink like they’re on a picnic and not sitting next to a building that smells like melted wires.

“So,” he says. “What are you working on?”

Bradley considers lying. But Jake’s looking at him like he actually cares, and somehow that’s worse.

“Fluid dynamics. Turbulence models.” He shrugs. “Jet propulsion.”

Jake blinks. “Wow.”

“Don’t say ‘hot.’”

Jake laughs. “I was gonna say ‘terrifying,’ but okay, hot.”

Bradley shakes his head and looks away, but his mouth twitches—just barely.

“Hey. Do you want to come to a birthday party with me on Sunday?”

Bradley looks back slowly. “...Like, a gala?”

Jake shakes his head. “My friend John’s kid. He’s turning six. It’s gonna be plane-themed. Probably chaos. There’s a real plane. You’ll love it.”

Bradley squints at him. “You want me to crash a toddler’s party?”

“You’re not crashing,” Jake says, unfazed. “You’re my date.”

Bradley sips his coffee and contemplates every choice that led him to this moment, for the twelfth time under forty eight hours, it’s a record even for him. “You said only important events and yacht auctions.” he mocks.

Jake shrugs. “This one doesn’t count. It’s not a gala. It’s just cake and toddlers with frosting in their ears.”

“And a whole plane?”

“It’s very small. Mostly decorative. Mostly.”

Bradley sighs. “I have another final on Thursday.”

Jake leans in, smile softening just slightly. “It’s after your exam, come for an hour. I’ll even drive.”

Bradley mutters, “I’m going to regret this.”

Jake grins, triumphant. “That’s the spirit.”

-

Bradley finishes his final at 11:43 AM. Walks out of the auditorium like a man freshly exorcised. His brain is a crumpled soup can. His spine feels like it’s being sued by gravity. He wants to sleep for four years and legally change his name to Nap. But—

He promised Jake.

Sort of.

Loosely. With conditions. Fine, he mostly agreed while high on simulated jet propulsion and coffee-induced heart palpitations. Also, even if it’s a birthday party of an actual six-year-old, it’s still paid.

Jake had sent four outfit options this morning—each more ridiculous than the last. There was a pastel button-down with matching shorts (“for cohesion!”), a blazer with tiny planes embroidered on the lapels, and one absolutely criminal shirt.

i’m wearing what i want
you don’t get a say
this is my post-final brain. fear it.

Jake:

your body, your choice it’s 2025!!!

So now, it’s 12:12 PM, and Bradley is standing in front of the mirror in his apartment, buttoning up an aggressively loud Hawaiian shirt patterned entirely with vintage airplanes. It used to be his dad’s. It smells faintly like old cologne and summer. He’s never worn it out before. He has a small smile when he looks at the shirt, he wets his lips and plays with the dog tags around his neck, he presses a gentle on them and shows them inside of his shirt. He had gotten his earring out for the gala but he guesses he can keep it for today. He quickly decides on the classical silver small hoop.

Natasha peeks in, sees him, and gasps like she’s witnessing the fall of Rome. “You’re leaning into the bit.”

Bradley adjusts the collar. “I’m making it worse.”

She looks genuinely touched for a second (she knows he never wears this shirt) then ruffles his hair. “This is what love looks like.”

“It’s not love. It’s two grand.”

“Whatever you say,” Natasha kisses his cheek and winks at him.

Bradley takes a deep breath and looks at his reflection one more time. Jesus. He looks exactly like his dad.

(To Nick with the shirt on, to Maverick with his dog tags and to Ice with his expression. Has he ever been  himself?)

Jake picks him up with a flash red sport car and Bradley fights very little against the urge to roll his eyes.

“Is that…” Jake blinks. “Is that a plane-themed Hawaiian shirt?”

Bradley slouches into the seat. “Shut up.”

Jake is grinning so hard it might split his face. “I’m not judging. I’m just—this is better than anything I imagined. You look like a hot Air Force museum docent.”

“Again. Shut up.”

“I’m gonna cry,” Jake says, wiping fake tears. “You’re perfect.”

Bradley glares, but the edges of his mouth betray him. Just a twitch. Barely there. But Jake sees it. Of course he does. His grin gets wider.

They drive mostly in silence and stop in front of a mansion. Not a house. A mansion . Bradley got into a fight for the last cookie yesterday night with Steve. Jesus. There’s a moment where he is hit by memories, he used to celebrate his birthdays like this too, obviously Ice and Mav did not have a mansion but it was still a very big, beautiful house. He used to have tons of shit for his birthday.

Big backyards. String lights. Bright cakes. A pile of wrapped presents as tall as he was. Ice lighting the grill, Maverick building a cardboard spaceship in the yard. There were never fountains or staff in white gloves, but it still felt huge. Safe. Over-the-top in the way love sometimes is.

He hasn’t answered a “Happy birthday, son” text since he turned eighteen.

The ache settles in his chest like dust. Familiar. Heavy.

He doesn’t say anything. Just unbuckles his seatbelt and pushes the door open 

Jake joins him on the sidewalk, takes his hand like it’s normal . “Bradley,” he says, like it’s an inside joke, “this is a birthday party . People are supposed to be happy.”

Then, after a beat, he lets go, walks around to the back of the car, and pops the trunk.

Bradley squints. “What the hell did you buy the kid? A pony?”

Jake reappears with a comically oversized gift box wrapped in orange foil and ribbon that looks like it was professionally curled by a magician.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jake says breezily. “He already has a pony. It’s a tiny Hermès horse plush.”

Bradley stares. “You bought a six-year-old designer toy horse?”

Jake shrugs, grinning. “I didn’t want to repeat gifts.”

Bradley sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not even gonna comment.”

Jake just chuckles and gestures toward the front steps. “C’mon. Let’s go watch a bunch of toddlers fight over frosting.”

The moment they step inside, the temperature drops by ten degrees and the wealth level increases by ten commas.

Bradley doesn't even know where to look first—maybe the gleaming chandelier overhead with enough crystals to qualify as a threat to aviation. Maybe the gold-trimmed banister winding up the grand staircase like it’s auditioning for a palace. Maybe the party planner with a clipboard and a Bluetooth headset whispering “We need more clouds in the frosting, Rodrigo, this is aviation-themed ”. Someone with gloves take their gift from them and place it next to a mountain of gifts.

Everything smells like citrus candles and money. A server offers them mimosas before they’ve even hit the main room. Mimosas. At a child’s birthday party.

Bradley stares at the glass for a second too long before shaking his head. “I don’t drink before noon.”

Jake: “It’s 12:52.”

Bradley takes the mimosa.

“Your fake boyfriend posture is excellent. Very ‘tense but photogenic.’”

“Bite me.”

Jake beams. “Maybe later.”

They round a corner and—

Jesus Christ. That’s a real plane.

Not a toy. Not a bouncy castle designed to look like a plane. No. A full, glinting, freshly polished aircraft parked in the backyard like it’s just stopping by for cake.

Bradley stops walking. “You said it was decorative.”

Jake shrugs, casual. “It’s not currently in flight.”

“I’m going to fake a nosebleed and get out of here.”

But before he can retreat into the hydrangeas, the sound of tiny sneakered feet slapping tile cuts through the room like a missile.

“UNCLE JAKE!”

A blur of curls and chaos hurtles into view. Jake doesn’t hesitate—just drops into a crouch, arms open, and catches the kid mid-air like he’s done it a thousand times. There’s a practiced grace to it, like muscle memory.

“Hey, JJ!” Jake grins. “Happy birthday, buddy. You ready to make six look good?”

JJ nods fiercely, then wiggles around and stares at Bradley like he’s a new flavor of candy.

Jake straightens, still holding the kid against his hip like it’s nothing. “JJ, this is Bradley. He’s the one I told you about. Remember? The guy who makes jets go vroom.”

JJ squints. Then, eyes lighting up, “You like planes too?”

Bradley blinks. “Yeah. Learned to fly one before I had my driver’s license.” It slips out before he can stop himself and immediately regrets it.

JJ gasps like he just met a superhero. “ No way. ”

Jake chokes. “You what ?”

Bradley’s eyes flick to him, then back to JJ. “I wanted to be a pilot.”

JJ giggles and immediately grabs at Bradley’s shirt. “That’s why you’re wearing this! It’s like a pilot shirt!”

“It used to belong to my dad,” Bradley corrects, gently extracting the fabric from the toddler’s sticky fingers. “But yeah. Kinda.”

Jake looks at him for a long second—soft and curious—but doesn’t push.

They spend the next twenty minutes trailing JJ through the various child-sized circles of mayhem. At some point, a magician attempts to juggle cupcakes. Someone’s dog is wearing a captain’s hat. Bradley gets offered a plastic wing pin by a kid named Olivia and accepts it with the gravitas of a decorated war hero.

Jake, meanwhile, is in full domestic stealth mode—scooping up kids, tying party hats, helping with juice boxes like a man possessed by the ghost of an incredibly hot kindergarten teacher.

It’s… infuriating.

Because he’s good at it .

Not in a performative way. Not like he’s trying to impress anyone. Just in this quiet, natural, maddeningly sincere way that makes Bradley’s heart feel something dumb.

And then it happens.

They’re in the living room, where a cake the size of a small nation waits beneath a chandelier shaped like clouds. The adults gather behind phones. The kids scream. The candles are lit. Someone starts a shaky rendition of Happy Birthday.

JJ is placed right in front of the cake. He looks around—giddy, pink-cheeked, sugar-high—when he yells, “I want Uncle Jake to blow the candles with me!”

There’s a collective, adoring awwww . Phones snap. Parents murmur about how sweet it is. Jake freezes, clearly surprised. But JJ’s tugging on his sleeve with the determined strength of a small dictator.

“Please, Uncle Jake? With me?”

Jake laughs softly. “Yeah, okay, buddy. Let’s do it.”

Bradley watches them lean over together, Jake counting dramatically to three while JJ squeezes his eyes shut and blows like his lungs are trying to win an Olympic event.

Click.

Bradley takes a picture without thinking. Reflexive. The moment is too absurd not to.

Jake and JJ, mid-laugh, faces lit up by candlelight. It looks… real. Like something off a Hallmark card, if Hallmark had more tax evasion and better jawlines.

Bradley pulls out his phone and sends the photo to the group chat.

Bradley: look at this traitor

Jake is charming a six-year-old help

The responses come fast.

Natasha: YOU’RE GONNA MARRY HIM

Tony: he’s a threat to national stability

Bob: you’re smiling aren’t you, asshole?

Steve: admit it. it’s cute.

Ruben: this is character development. proud of you, b

Bradley glares at the screen.

Bradley: average moment. not cute. medium at best.

He looks up again. Jake is handing JJ over to his mom with a kiss on the head and a whispered promise of “gift later,” then walking back toward Bradley with that same stupid smile.

“Got enough pictures for your smear campaign?” Jake asks.

Bradley pockets his phone. “I was gonna sell them to the tabloids. Title it ‘Tech Billionaire Caught Loving Children, Cancelled for Softness.’ ”

Jake bumps their shoulders. “You love it.”

“I don’t,” Bradley lies, sipping his mimosa again. “I just think you peaked at balloon animal duty and it’s all downhill from here.”

Jake winks. “You’re gonna cry when I let you in the cockpit.”

Bradley raises a brow. “I already have a pilot’s license.”

Jake pauses. “Wait. Seriously? I thought you were saying this to make JJ like  you.”

Bradley smirks. “You invited the wrong fake boyfriend, Seresin.”

Jake looks at him like he’s seeing something new. “Nah,” he says quietly. “Pretty sure I got it exactly right.”

Bradley looks away. The fake pin on his shirt is crooked. He adjusts it.

“I’m leaving in twenty minutes,” he mumbles.

Jake nods. “I’ll drive you.”

Somehow, today doesn’t feel like a performance.

It feels like a memory. 

And God help him, that might be worse.

-

“Here you go,” Jake says as he stops the car. “Thank you for today.”

“It was funnier than the gala,” Bradley says as he unbuckles his seatbelt, “JJ’s a good kid. I can’t wait for him to turn into a rich toxic boy.”

“Ouch.”

“No offense.”

“All taken,” Jake answers with a smile.

Bradley gets out of the car and he realizes that he doesn’t have his keys, fuck. All his friends are either at work or studying and he’s fucking hungry, all he had was mimosa and cake all day. 

Jake looks at him, confused, “All good?”

“I forgot my keys,” he thinks for a moment and decides, fuck it,”You free?”

“Yeah,” Jake says immediately, “What’s up?”

“I’m hungry. Wanna go eat something?”

“Of course,” Jake nods, “I have this place—”

“Nope,” Bradley says immediately,”We’re having real food, none of that three fork and four glasses shit. Come on, park the car, it’s a five minute walk.”

The place is called Fury’s Burgers, which Jake reads aloud like he’s discovering a new branch of philosophy.

Bradley’s already ten steps ahead, pushing open the door with the kind of confidence that only comes from being a regular somewhere that doesn’t own a mop. The bell above the door rings out like it’s been smoking two packs a day since the '70s.

There’s neon signage that says better than sex , a mural of a flying cheeseburger riding a lightning bolt, and someone’s grandma knitting behind the counter while a VHS tape of Con Air plays on an old TV in the corner. The air smells like God’s cholesterol-soaked handshake.

Jake hesitates in the doorway like a vampire uninvited.

Bradley just glances over his shoulder. “You’re burning calories standing there. Sit down.”

Jake moves cautiously, like the floor might be sticky (it is), and perches on a booth bench that squeaks ominously beneath his designer pants. His expression is halfway between fascination and horror.

“Okay,” he says. “So either I’m about to be murdered... or this is the best burger in the country.”

“Yes,” Bradley replies simply, already waving at someone behind the counter. “Tony! Two of the usual, please!”

From the back, a voice yells, “You want your fries demonic or divine?”

Bradley glances at Jake. “Demonic.”

Jake blinks. “What—”

Bradley cuts him off. “Spicy. Really spicy. Trust me.”

A man emerges from the kitchen wearing a grease-streaked apron and breaks into a grin.

This, apparently, is Tony.

He smiles at Jake. “Nice to officially meet the fake boyfriend.”

Jake, startled, “I—uh—”

“Yes,” Bradley says easily, smirking at Jake’s flinch. “Fake. Don’t worry, Tony knows.”

Tony just shrugs. “I don’t judge. We actually have a bet going on with  you two.”

Jake’s eyes widened, “Oh you’re the one who yelled me about the friendship bracelets!”

Tony smirks and shows his right wrist,”Stick around and I’ll make you one.”

“Get lost, fucker,” Bradley says as he rolls his eyes. Tony winks at Jake and flips off Bradley before disappearing into the kitchen.

Jake is looking around like he’s landed on another planet. “You come here often?”

“Once a week,” Bradley says, lounging back. “More during finals.”

“I thought the gala was surreal,” Jake murmurs. “But this… this is performance art.”

Bradley takes a sip of his Coke, slurping obnoxiously. “You’ll thank me in ten minutes.”

Exactly nine minutes and thirty-six seconds later, Tony arrives with two massive burgers that defy architectural logic and a basket of fries so red with spice they look mildly haunted.

Jake stares at his plate. “This is unholy.”

Bradley’s already biting into his. “Good. That means it’s working.”

Jake picks up the burger like it might detonate. Then—carefully, skeptically—he takes a bite.

The silence that follows is spiritual.

Bradley watches, smug. “Yeah?”

Jake blinks. Chews. Swallows.

Then, slowly he says, “I’ve had Wagyu beef flown in from Kyoto. I’ve eaten a sandwich that cost more than my high school car. I once went to a tasting menu that had a theme . But this—this is the best burger I’ve ever had in my life.”

Bradley lifts his Coke in a mock-toast. “To greasy miracles.”

Jake clinks his glass against it. “To culinary whiplash.”

They eat in surprisingly comfortable silence. The restaurant hums around them with old speakers playing a scratchy blues track and a toddler somewhere yelling about ketchup like it’s a civil rights issue.

Bradley leans back, fries in one hand, looking completely at ease for the first time in what feels like days.

Jake watches him for a second longer than necessary. Then says, softly, “Thanks for this.”

Bradley shrugs. “Consider it payment for today.”

“You’re supposed to get paid, not pay me in transcendent burger experiences.”

Bradley doesn’t reply right away. He just steals one of Jake’s fries and tosses it into his mouth. 

“So Bradley Bradshaw,” Jake starts after taking a bite from his burger, “Explain how the fuck you learned to fly.”

I had no other choice. It was more about falling.

“My dad was a pilot,” Bradley says easily, he has no issue with telling his parents are dead, he has more issues with the ones alive, “He died in training when I was five. Always wanted to become one.”

“I’m sorry,” Jake says and the worst, he looks sad. 

“It was a long time ago.”

“And your mom?”

“Died when I was thirteen,” he sips his drink,”Cancer.”

“Jesus.”

“We don’t get along,” Bradley deadpans.

Jake looks at him for longer than necessary, “It’s very remarkable, you accomplished all of this all alone.”

It wasn’t always like that.

“I haven’t accomplished shit.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jake frowns, “You’re an engineering student and I won’t even go into the double degree thing. You're working your ass off to become someone and—”

“I also go to galas to get paid.”

“Besides the point,” Jake’s voice is stern. “You should be very proud of yourself.”

“Aww, you’re gonna make me cry,” Bradley mocks because his heart does a weird flip and what the fuck?

“You’re an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one,” Jake says as he throws at his face some fries.

Bradley, to everyone’s surprise, laughs loudly.

-

“Okay, call me psycho but your friend Tony looks like Tony Stark,” Jake says as they get out of the burger place.

“Because it’s him,” Bradley answers while lighting a cigarette.

“ What ?”

“We found him in the dumpster.”

“I have no idea if you’re fucking with me right now or not.”

“I’m not,” Bradley says as he exhales a smoke. “He got kicked out after coming out. I don’t know how but he was unconscious in front of our apartment next to the dumpster.”

“You guys are so fucking weird,” Jake pauses. “That’s horrible though. The Starks are filthy rich.”

“Yeah,” Bradley says, “Tony has four lawsuits and works in a burger shop with a full ride to MIT. Believe me he is freer than all of you.”

“All of us?”

“You, rich people.”

Jake doesn’t deny it, and Bradley wonders for a moment if Jake is free, truly himself.

“Hey,” he says as they stop in front of the car. “I have a surprise for you.”

“What?”

“Yeah come on,” Jake is clearly excited. “Finish smoking.”

“Are you going to kidnap me?”

“Yes Bradley and sell your two pack smoking lungs to the mafia,” He sighs. “Get in the fucking car.”

Bradley gets in the fucking car.

-

Jake doesn’t say where they’re going. Just hums along to some stupidly mellow song on the stereo and taps the steering wheel like he’s trying not to bounce with excitement. Bradley should probably be suspicious. But he’s full of god-tier burgers and slightly stunned by the softness of the day—so he lets it happen.

It’s only when they pull off the main road, past a half-rusted sign that says SERESIN — PRIVATE HANGARS, that something in Bradley tightens.

He knows that sound. That scent. That feeling —faint oil and concrete and sky. Hangars. Tarmac. Control towers in the distance blinking red like slow, mechanical heartbeats.

Jake parks beside a row of small planes like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“I figured,” Jake says, killing the engine, “you might want to try it again.”

Bradley doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. He forgets how to breathe.

“Flying,” Jake says, quieter now. “You said you used to.”

Bradley stares out the windshield.

He did . Used to. When he was younger—before it all burned.

Before the betrayal.

He still remembers the day they told him no. Not even a warning. Not even a conversation. Just a flat, sanitized line about how it wasn’t “a good idea” for him to apply to the Academy. We just wanna protect you, you’re not ready—

That was the lie that broke the sound barrier.

Because he would’ve given anything. For them. For that path. For what it meant. And they closed the door before he could knock.

He hasn’t flown since.

Not since the last time he took a joyride solo on his eighteenth birthday, engine roaring like it was trying to scream for him. He didn’t tell anyone. He just flew. Fast. Dangerous. Free. And then landed and walked away like he was never going back.

And he didn’t.

Until now.

He realizes Jake is still waiting.

Still watching him carefully, like one wrong word will crack him in two.

Bradley swallows the ache. Pushes the door open. Steps out.

The wind smells like jet fuel. He might cry.

Jake leads him to one of the planes—sleek, compact, two-seater, the kind of bird that feels fast even when it's parked.

“You serious?” Bradley asks, finally speaking.

Jake nods. “I’ll be co-pilot. You take her up.”

Bradley huffs. “You trust me with your rich-boy toys?”

Jake’s smile doesn’t waver. “I trust you with being my fake boyfriend. Figured the toy would follow.”

Bradley looks at him sharply, but Jake’s already walking to unlock the hangar. 

Inside the cockpit, everything is muscle memory.

The checklist. The click of harnesses. The flick of switches.

It all comes back in pulses—unfurling in his bones like a song he forgot he knew the lyrics to.

Jake sits beside him, quiet for once. No jokes. No winks. Just watching.

Bradley exhales.

And then—they're in the air.

The second the wheels leave the ground, his body remembers what his heart’s been trying to forget. This. This is what he was made for. This is what should have been his life.

The sky stretches endlessly in every direction. The sun kisses the wings. Below, the city is a watercolor blur. Up here, everything’s quieter. Smaller. Simpler.

His hands are steady on the yoke.

His heartbeat isn’t.

He glances at Jake, who’s looking at him with something quiet and reverent in his expression.

“You okay?” Jake asks, voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

Bradley nods. “Yeah.”

It’s a lie. And also the truth.

He doesn’t say, This is the first time I’ve flown since Ice and Mav decided I shouldn't. I could’ve been someone. If they’d just let me try. This feels like coming home, and I hate how much I missed it.

He just flies.

They stay up longer than they probably should. Loop around the coast. Watch the sun kiss the water. At one point, Jake leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes like he trusts Bradley with the sky itself.

Bradley doesn’t know what to do with that.

When they finally land, the wheels kiss the runway soft and clean. He shuts everything down with steady hands. He wants to throw up. His heart is a mess and he wants to scream, cry, call them and yell—

Orange and amber spill across the clouds like someone set the whole world on soft fire, and Jake is standing in the middle of it, bathed in sunset. His hair is gold. His eyes are greener than they should be. His smile is quiet, not the usual razzle-dazzle bullshit, but something gentle. Real.

And Bradley’s heart just—stops.

Jake is looking at him like this was all inevitable. Like the sky and the plane and the stupid burger place and the goddamn birthday party all led here. Like he knew this was coming and decided not to warn him.

He’s all dimples and patience and affection he doesn’t even try to hide, and something in Bradley short-circuits.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s beautiful.

Not just the way Bradley first clocked it—rich-boy hot, crisp-jawed, annoyingly perfect in the kind of way that comes with a trust fund and good hair. No.

Now he’s beautiful in that terrible, unbearable way. The kind that means something.

The kind that hurts.

Because Jake took him flying.

Because Jake saw something unspoken in him and didn’t ask for an explanation.

Because Jake looks at him like maybe—just maybe—he’s more than the scraps he’s been surviving on.

The orange light catches in the curve of his dimples and Bradley thinks, stupidly, I could paint this. I could ruin myself over this.

Oh.

Oh no.

Goodness, gracious.

Great balls of fire.

Notes:

oh no the dumbass is falling in love

Chapter 4: Paint me like one of your French girls

Notes:

TW : mention of suicide (nothing specific just a word about it)

HUGE thanks to @/redfurrycat for your help <3

“Yo, shithead!”

Bradley doesn’t even get a foot in the door before Tony yells across the apartment.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Bradley kicks the door shut behind him and mutters, “With your mom.”

“Rude,” Tony says, utterly unfazed. “And inaccurate. Last I heard she was in Monaco with her boytoy of the month.”

Bradley rolls his eyes and collapses onto the couch. Natasha’s already there with a pizza box balanced on her lap. She wordlessly hands him a slice.

“Had fun?” she asks.

Bradley shrugs. “It was alright.”

He takes a bite, chews for a moment. Doesn’t look up.

“He took me flying after,” he adds, way too casual.

The silence in the room goes heavy.

Bradley can feel four pairs of eyes turning toward him like the judgment of God.

“He what?” Bob asks gently, like Bradley’s about to admit to a felony.

Bradley sighs. “They have a bunch of planes. I mentioned I had a pilot’s license at the kid’s party. Jake took me up.”

“You mentioned,” Natasha says slowly, narrowing her eyes, “that you used to fly?”

Bradley winces. “Not like that. It just came out.”

A long pause. The kind that stretches too wide, where nobody quite knows what to do with it.

Bradley stares at his pizza crust like it might offer him a distraction or an escape route. It doesn't.

Then Steve, quiet as ever, says, “He gave you wings.”

Bradley’s jaw tightens. He blinks. Once. Twice.

He looks down at his lap.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “He gave me wings.”

No one says anything after that.

Bradley finishes his slice in silence.

He doesn’t look up.

He just thinks—green eyes, open sky, the throttle beneath his hands—and tries not to feel like he’s already halfway through the fall.

It’s not how you fall that matters, he thinks, Jake’s green eyes still in his mind. It’s how you land.

Bradley had always been good at crashing.

-

Nothing much happens for the next few days.

Everyone’s in study-til-you-drop mode. The apartment starts to smell like instant noodles and shared despair. Someone cries during a final. Natasha starts sleeping with a highlighter under her pillow because it “helps” her. Bob makes a shrine out of empty Red Bulls and labels it “finals god.”

Bradley gets through it like he always does—quiet, grumpy, efficient. He doesn’t mention Jake. Jake doesn’t call.

But he does text.

Jake
finals almost over
saturday dinner’s still on
don’t bail or I’ll sue

still happening
just send the details

Jake does not, in fact, send the details.

Instead, on Saturday afternoon he texts again.

Jake
small change of plans
my parents want to have dinner at my place
said they want to see us “in our natural habitat”
whatever that means
i’ll send a car for you

no need
I’ll take the subway

what color do you want

color of what

the car???

you’re so fucking weird
orange

you think you’re funny huh
orange lambo it is

i was JOKING

too late
see you soon

Bradley stares at his phone.

Then at himself in the mirror.

He’s wearing a white linen shirt and navy pants. One of the options Jake sent weeks ago. He kind of hates how good it looks.

“The fuck are you smiling at?” Natasha asks, suddenly in the doorway.

Bradley jumps. “Nothing.”

She eyes him. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m leaving,” he mutters, ducking past her. He kisses her forehead before she can roast him further and escapes.

Outside, he lights a cigarette.

Then another.

He's halfway through doom scrolling when it pulls up.

An orange Lamborghini.

Jake Seresin is going to hell.

Bradley slides into the passenger seat, nods awkwardly at the driver, and tries not to look like he’s being kidnapped by a billionaire cult.

It hits him somewhere around the third traffic light, he’s never been to Jake’s place before.

He doesn’t even know what side of the city Jake lives on. Not really. Just vague mentions of “uptown” and “good views.” He always figured it would be obnoxious.

But still—his chest feels weirdly tight. Like he’s crossing a line.

Then again, Jake’s the one who took him flying and told a six-year-old that Bradley made jets go vroom.

The line was probably crossed a long time ago, on the first night they’ve met.

The car stops.

Bradley steps out and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

The building in front of him looks like a cross between an Apple flagship store and a Bond villain’s secret lair. All steel and glass and absurd lighting. 

He stares up at it.

Jesus Christ.

what floor

Jake
last
the penthouse
duh

“Of course,” he mutters.

Inside, there’s a reception desk. A real one with a concierge in a three-piece suit.

“Uh. I’m here for Jake Seresin?”

The man gives him a knowing smile. “Mr. Bradshaw. We’ve been expecting you.”

A keycard. A sleek elevator. A ride that’s far too quiet.

When the doors open, it’s directly into the apartment.

Penthouse.

Bradley steps in and has to take a second.

The ceilings are stupidly tall—warehouse-tall, cathedral-tall, like they echo if you breathe too loud. One whole wall is windows, floor to ceiling, looking out over the city like it's something Jake owns.

The light is gold and soft and unreal. Like it’s been filtered for a movie scene.

The space is open-plan. Clean. Not sterile—lived in. There’s a massive sectional couch in the middle, plush and low to the ground, surrounded by mismatched pillows and one throw blanket that looks suspiciously hand-knitted. The kitchen is gleaming steel and marble, obviously designed by someone who doesn’t cook.

There are records stacked in a corner. A half-finished model plane on the coffee table. A pair of sneakers kicked off by the glass doors leading to a balcony.

Books everywhere. Some open. Some stacked. Some falling over like dominoes. The whole place feels expensive and chaotic in equal measure—like it was decorated by someone who grew up rich but started caring about comfort too late.

It’s absurd. And kind of charming.

Jake is waiting for him, barefoot in black jeans and a button-down, sleeves rolled up.

“Welcome home, darling,” he says, grinning.

Bradley doesn’t answer.

He’s too busy trying to figure out how someone who smells like bergamot and bullshit made a penthouse feel like… this.

“This place is a disaster,” Bradley says instead of admitting he’s impressed. “Don’t you have, like an army of staff for this kind of mess?”

Jake doesn't even blink. Still grinning like he owns the world. “Bradley, that’s a rude thing to say. I’m wounded.”

“Good.”

“And for your information,” Jake continues, “Olga couldn’t make it today. Her daughter’s sick. So you, my dear cowboy, are officially on cleanup duty while I finish making us dinner.”

Bradley blinks. “Wait. You cooked?”

Jake gives him a deeply smug look.

Bradley narrows his eyes. “Last I checked, I was getting paid to be your fake boyfriend, not your maid.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Jake says, flicking his towel at him. “You’d absolutely kill in a maid outfit.”

Bradley flips him off and starts cleaning anyway, because he’s too tired to argue and maybe a little too curious to leave. He gathers up books, folds a blanket, and glances toward the dining table—where several dishes are already plated.

Suspiciously… appetizing ones.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” Bradley says as he smooths down the couch cushions. “Thought rich kids subsisted off Michelin chefs.”

“I enjoy it,” Jake says simply, like it’s not a weird thing for a man who drives orange Lamborghinis to make his own risotto.

Bradley doesn’t press. He’s never been good at asking why people do the things they do.

He picks up a photo frame off the coffee table without thinking—a girl with bright eyes and blonde hair, arms wrapped tight around Jake. They’re both laughing. Jake looks young. Happy. A little less like the chaos gremlin Bradley knows now.

“You and your ex?” he asks absently.

Jake glances over, smile slipping just slightly. “My sister.”

Bradley turns the frame in his hands. They do kind of look alike. Same bone structure. Same reckless smile. Same green eyes.

“I thought you said you were an only child,” he says slowly.

Jake’s already turned back to the stove. “I am.”

A pause, sharp and awkward.

Bradley sets the frame down gently.

He doesn’t ask. He’s not one to go poking at family trauma. His own is enough to fill several soap operas and at least one sad indie film.

So he finishes cleaning up, says nothing, and pretends not to notice that Jake hasn’t looked back since.

“This better not be poison,” Bradley says, coming to lean against the counter.

Jake raises an eyebrow. “Bradshaw, if I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it during the gala.”

Bradley hums. “Yeah, but you need me for the inheritance. I’ve seen ‘Knives Out.’ I know how this goes.”

Jake pauses mid-garnish. “Wait. Which character do you think you are?”

“The hot one who hates everyone.”

Jake grins. “So me?”

Bradley glares. “You’re the dumb rich one who dies in the first act.”

“Ouch.”

“You’ll live.”

Jake slides the last dish into place and dramatically flourishes a cloth napkin. “Voilà. Domesticity achieved.”

Bradley snorts. “You say that like you didn’t force me into free labor.”

Jake leans against the island and smirks. “It was bonding, cowboy.”

“I bonded with your dust bunnies.”

“Jealous of them already.”

Before Bradley can come up with a reply scathing enough, his eyes land on something in the corner of the room.

A piano.

Not some decorative little keyboard. A grand piano. Black. Polished. Quietly stunning.

He walks toward it without thinking. Lets his fingers brush the edge of the keys. It’s well-tuned. Clean. Clearly played. Or at least meant to be.

Jake’s watching him.

“I didn’t know you played,” Jake says.

Bradley shrugs. “I don’t. Not really.”

Jake raises a brow. “That’s a lie.”

“I mean—I do. Just not, like, professionally. Or whatever.” He presses one key. Then another. Runs through a few slow chords like he’s testing the water. “Grew up with it. Played in high school. Piano, guitar, drums. That kind of thing.”

Jake blinks. “You’re just casually good at every instrument?”

Bradley shrugs again, completely unfazed. “My dad used to play. It’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep,” Jake repeats, staring. “You say that like you didn’t just play a perfect G major.”

Bradley ignores him, fingers moving into a soft melody—something simple, familiar, half-forgotten. His touch is light. Confident. Like this isn’t weird. Like it’s just something to do with his hands.

He plays for a minute. Maybe two.

Then he stops. Gets up like it’s nothing.

Jake’s still watching him, kind of stunned.

Bradley shrugs. “Piano’s nice.”

Jake blinks. “I just watched you turn into Mr. Darcy for two minutes.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you understand how sexy it is that you know music theory?”

“I will jump out your twenty-third story window.”

Jake throws his hands up. “I’m just saying! You’re hot, grumpy, and secretly musically gifted. I’m living in a novel.”

Bradley heads back toward the kitchen. “You’re lucky I’m underpaid.”

There’s a knock on the door. Bradley tenses instinctively.

Jake sighs. “That’ll be them.”

He runs a hand through his hair. Straightens his shirt. Turns to Bradley with a wild, bright grin that’s one part panic, one part thrill.

“Ready to really meet them?”

Bradley exhales. “God, no.”

Jake’s eyes gleam. “Perfect. Let’s go lie to my parents.”

Bradley, already perched near the kitchen counter, raises an eyebrow. “You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”

Jake gives him a smile. “Not far off.”

The door opens. Jake’s mother sweeps in first—heels clicking like judgment. Tonight she’s in navy silk, minimal jewelry, and a smile so sharp it could carve diamonds.

“Darling,” she says to Jake, kissing his cheek like she didn’t suggest auctioning him off to the Van der Woodsen kid weeks ago.

Jake’s father follows—a less obvious menace in a muted gray blazer, but his eyes do the same scanning calculation. Still ice-cold. Still unimpressed.

Bradley straightens. He’s not surprised to see them—it’s not like he forgot that gala hallway ambush—but something about seeing them here, in Jake’s space, makes it feel more real. More dangerous.

Jake clears his throat. “You remember Bradley.”

Jake’s mother turns to him with a cool nod. “Of course. The engineer.”

“Ma’am,” Bradley says smoothly, stepping forward and offering his hand. “Nice to see you again. You look stunning.”

That earns him a slightly raised brow. “You’re very polite tonight.”

Bradley doesn’t miss a beat. “Just trying to be a good influence on your son.”

Jake chokes on absolutely nothing. His father, shockingly, lets out a sound that might qualify as a laugh.

Bradley smiles faintly. “I’m very hard to rattle, sir.”

Jake’s dad narrows his eyes slightly, then nods. “We’ll see.”

They sit. Bradley helps Jake’s mom with her chair before anyone asks. He pours the wine with a steady hand. He even compliments the plating without sounding sarcastic.

Jake is watching him like he’s just grown a halo.

His mother cuts into her roast. “So, Bradley. Still pretending to date my son?”

Bradley doesn’t flinch. “Every day. It’s a full-time performance now.”

Jake coughs.

His father looks up. “You’re still studying?”

Bradley nods. “Finals just wrapped. One more semester and I’m free.”

“Double major, wasn’t it?” the man asks. “Mechanical and aerospace.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jake’s mom swirls her wine. “And then what? More school? Or do you plan to work for a living?”

Bradley keeps his voice even. “Work, ma’am. Hopefully R&D or flight systems design. I’ve got a few internships lined up.”

“And my son?” she asks, like this is a courtroom and not her son’s kitchen. “Where does he fit into this bold, practical future of yours?”

Bradley doesn’t look at Jake.

Just shrugs, soft and genuine. “Wherever he wants to.”

That lands.

Even Jake seems caught off guard. His mother blinks. His father studies him a second longer than necessary.

Jake, mutters quietly “Jesus.”

Bradley ignores him. Sips his wine like none of this is a big deal.

Later, when his parents are briefly arguing over the merits of ceramic vs. copper cookware, Jake leans over.

Jake grins. “You’re such a sweetheart, it’s disgusting.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m gonna propose to you by dessert.”

“I’ll set myself on fire.”

Jake just smiles, stupid and bright. “Too bad. I’m in love.”

Bradley blinks.

Jake doesn’t take it back.

Bradley looks away. Down at his plate. At his hand near Jake’s on the table.

He doesn't say anything.

But he doesn’t move it, either.

“So Bradley,” his father says after a moment, “You’re kind of young.”

“Younger than Jake sir, yes.”

“What are you doing with my son?” 

Bradley feels Jake tense and he gets annoyed, what the hell dude? Who asks that? Bradley takes a deep breath and reaches for Jake’s hand.

“I think Jake is something... rare,” Bradley begins, voice soft but sure. “I didn’t meet him at some fancy gala or staged fundraiser. It was... a mess of chaos and laughter, a comic accident that turned into something real.” His smile tugs at the corner of his lips, eyes locking with Jake’s. “Your son didn’t just cross my path—he changed it. Maybe you think I’m not the right fit. Maybe this all feels... strange. But the truth is I love  him. Truly, deeply.”

His heart is thudding now, loud in his ears. His mouth is dry. But something about saying it aloud—heavier than air, softer than shame—it settles in him. Not fake. Not scripted. But it should, this whole thing has a contract. It’s fake. It’s fake.

It’s terrifying.

He looks at Jake again. The green eyes. The stupid golden hair. The dumb, perfect smile he’s half-hiding right now.

Bradley’s never been more afraid in his life.

The parents exchange a glance—quiet but loaded—and Jake’s father gives a slow nod before turning to his wife, picking up their hushed conversation like nothing just happened. Jake eases beside Bradley, shoulders finally dropping some of their weight. Bradley shoots him a small, careful smile, a silent We did it.

The dinner stretches on, winding through topics both weighty and trivial, a lazy river of words. Jake’s tension flickers in waves, tightening at moments Bradley tries to smooth over.

When they finally leave, Jake heads straight to the fridge, fishing out two cold beers.

“I can’t believe we survived that,” he says, cracking one open.

Bradley shrugs, lips curled in a half-truth. “It wasn’t that bad. Just… weird.”

“They weren’t always like that,” Jake murmurs, dropping down next to him on the couch.

Bradley nods, the question itching at the back of his mind, but he lets it lie, knowing Jake will tell him when he’s ready. If he wants to. Not that Bradley cares. 

“Want me to drive you?” Jake offers.

“Don’t bother. My friends are probably all drunk at Fury’s burger place. Tony has the keys—they’re celebrating the end of finals.”

“That’s cool. Sorry you missed it.”

“They’re probably still there,” Bradley says with a shrug, already planning to join them anyway. But then he catches the way Jake’s eyes flicker toward him—hopeful, maybe daring.

“Wanna come?” he asks despite himself.

Jake’s smile blooms instantly, like sunlight breaking through clouds. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Why the hell not?”

Jake’s smile is adorable. 

Bradley’s in deep shit.

-

Bradley knows the second he opens the door that this was a terrible idea.

Tony’s at the bar with a milkshake and fries and absolutely no adult supervision, yelling something about tax fraud and possums. Natasha and Bucky are deep into their post-finals ritual: one joint, two beers, and a playlist called “songs you can’t cry to (but will).” Steve’s lying on the booth bench like he just survived a war. Bob is quietly writing names in a notebook and absolutely refusing to explain why.

They all look up when the door opens.

And when Jake walks in behind Bradley—looking like he just stepped out of a Hugo Boss ad and everything goes still.

Tony is the first to speak.

“Oh my God, it’s our rich boy.”

Jake flashes a charming smile. “Happy to be back.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow. “I thought you were a fever dream.”

“I’m real,” Jake says, voice light, “and haunting your local burger place by choice.”

Bradley exhales through his nose. “Don’t make it weirder than it already is.”

Jake winks. “Too late.”

They head to the table. Jake slides in like he’s done this a hundred times—like he’s not wearing a shirt that probably cost more than Fury’s rent.

Bradley sits beside him and immediately regrets everything.

Tony leans forward. “So. Fake boyfriend. Back again.”

Jake grabs a fry like he owns the place. “Miss me?”

“Weirdly, yes,” Tony mutters. “Are you still paying him?”

“Two grand,” Jake says, taking a bite. “A bargain, really.”

Bradley looks at the ceiling like he’s praying for it to collapse. “It’s not that much.”

“You said that after the washing machine arrived,” Bob says without looking up.

Jake sips from Steve’s soda without asking. “Bradley said yes to my totally reasonable offer. The fact that he gets to spend time with me is just a bonus.”

Steve, eyes still closed, says, “You’re like a labrador with generational wealth.”

Jake shrugs. “And good hair.”

“Don’t forget the plane,” Bucky adds.

“Oh yeah,” Tony says, blinking. “He took you flying. That’s, like, fake-boyfriend-plus.”

Bradley glares at all of them. “It was one time.”

Jake’s smile is wider than necessary so  Bradley kicks him under the table. 

Bob looks up. “What happens when the contract ends?”

Bradley blinks. “What?”

“When the money runs out,” Bob says, deadpan. “You break up? Or do you get a fake dog and joint custody?”

“Shut up,” Bradley says.

“I vote fake dog,” Steve offers.

Tony smirks. “Do we get visitation rights?”

“We’re not—” Bradley starts, then stops. He’s outnumbered. Outgunned. Deep in hell.

Jake, bless his terrible soul, turns to him with puppy eyes. “Do you think we’ll stay friends after the break-up?”

Bradley stares. “I think I’ll fake your murder.”

“You’d miss me,” Jake says, smug.

“You wish.”

The table erupts into cackling. Bucky passes Jake the demon fries. Jake eats one and immediately starts coughing.

“Those are still spicy as hell. What the fuck do you put in these?”

Tony pats his back. “Rich people’s souls.”

Jake laughs then immediately starts coughing again. 

“Pain builds trust.” Natasha says. 

Bradley wants to scream or punch a wall.

Jake nudges his arm. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Bradley turns. “Call me that again and I’ll drop you off the roof.”

Jake beams. “He’s shy.”

Bradley stares at his fries. Tries not to smile.

Fails, a little.

He is, unfortunately, having fun.

And Jake, the smug bastard, knows it.

“Oh my God—it’s the last brownie!” Tony yells, pointing dramatically at the sad, crumbling square in the middle of the tray. “You know what this means.”

“Tony, no,” Bradley says immediately, already annoyed.

“Tony, yes!”

Jake looks between them, eyebrows raised. “You can have it.”

“No, he can’t,” Natasha says, flicking her lighter. “Welcome to bonding time, rich boy.”

“...Bonding time?”

“Ignore them,” Bradley mutters.

Jake grins. “Yeah, no. Why would I do that?”

“We’ve got this stupid rule,” Bob explains, already resigned. “Whenever there’s one thing left—brownie, beer, the last cigarette—we go full sadboi circle. You share something traumatic. Worst one gets the prize.”

Jake snorts. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Tony says proudly. “Pain Olympics. Let’s go.”

“You really don’t have to play,” Bradley says, suddenly serious. Eyes locked on Jake. “It’s not—”

“I got kicked out after coming out,” Tony interrupts, already leaning over the table. “That gets me at least a half-brownie.”

“Old trauma doesn’t count,” Bucky cuts in. “I got stabbed yesterday.”

Jake blinks. “You what?”

“Kitchen accident,” Steve sighs. “He startled me.”

“WITH A KNIFE,” Bucky shouts.

“That’s on you for sneaking up!”

Jake’s still stuck on stabbed, but Natasha calmly joins in like this is group therapy. “My mom called me yesterday.”

Bradley frowns, shooting her a quick look. She doesn’t explain. She doesn’t have to.

Tony waves his hand. “Strong contender. But Steve still wins for accidentally sending our  porn as his final project.”

“I sent it to my professor,” Steve groans.

Tony pats his arm. “You looked hot, baby, but I’ll never recover.”

Jake is laughing, a little lost but enjoying the mess, until Natasha turns to Bradley.

“Your turn.”

Bradley doesn’t even blink. “Nope.”

He takes a slow sip of his beer and leans back.

Everyone turns to Jake.

He shifts, visibly weighing whether to make a joke or bail. Bradley opens his mouth—ready to tell them all to drop it—but Jake beats him to it.

“My sister killed herself when I was twenty-three.”

Silence.

Complete, awful silence.

It lands hard—like someone cracked the window open and let all the air out.

Bradley stares. Every instinct he has screams to fix this, to say something, to shove Jake out of this spotlight he didn’t ask for.

But Jake just smiles. Then he leans forward, picks up the brownie, and takes a bite like it’s a punchline. “Guess I win,” he says.

The table stays still for half a breath longer, then Natasha clears her throat.

“Okay but have we told you how we met Bradley?” she asks, clearly trying to make it better.

The mood shifts fast—too fast, maybe—but it works. Chaos resumes. Voices overlap. Bucky is already yelling. Bob’s got his hand raised like they’re back in class.

But Bradley’s not listening.

He’s watching Jake.

Jake, who’s back to sipping his drink, nodding along, eyes a little too bright in the shitty fluorescent light.

Jake, who just dropped a truth like a brick and smiled through it.

Bradley wonders—not for the first time, and not for the last—who the hell Jake Seresin really is.

And why that answer is starting to matter.

-

“I’m sorry about your sister,” Bradley says as soon as they step outside.

“No need,” Jake waves his hand like it’s nothing. “She was nineteen.”

Bradley takes a deep breath in, he doesn’t know how to comfort Jake, he has never been good with feelings. He doesn’t even think of his. So, he does something stupid while Jake watches him with curious eyes.

He hugs Jake.

It’s fucking awkward and he thinks of backing off immediately but Jake melts against him, Bradley has never been so glad to be an inch taller than him.

Jake can’t see his face, who’s buried on Bradley’s neck and his arms are weakly wrapped around Bradley’s middle. 

Bradley prays to God that Jake can’t hear his crazy heart. 

(He doesn’t, too busy wondering about his own)

The hug lasts maybe three, maybe four seconds. Not enough.

Jake lets go of him and Bradley immediately wants to reach out again. Jake’s eyes are a bit red, his smile small and sad.

“Thank you,” he says.

Bradley nods, he doesn’t trust his voice. They continue staring at each other for a few seconds until Jake clears his throat. 

“Your friends are funny.”

“They’re the worst,” Bradley replies, but he’s smiling.

Jake laughs, unlocking his car. “I had fun tonight. Thanks for bringing me.”

“Yeah,” Bradley says, voice a little quieter, eyes lingering on Jake’s face. “Me too.”

Jake moves to the driver’s side, fingers pausing on the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow? For the Fourth of July thing? You can come to mine and we’ll head out from there.”

“You got it.”

Jake gives him one last look—soft and so stupidly sincere—and gets in the car. “Goodnight, Bradley.”

“Night, Jake.”

The car pulls away and Bradley watches the taillights fade down the street.

He gets, generously, two seconds of peace.

“You’re in love!” Tony yells.

Bradley kicks off one shoe and hurls it toward him.

“Shut up!”

-

Jake’s half-dressed, shirt unbuttoned and tie slung around his neck, when Bradley drifts over to the piano.

It’s not intentional.

He just ends up there—fingers brushing the keys, playing nothing in particular. Messy chords, scraps of melody that go nowhere. It’s more muscle memory than music. A little jazz, a little noise. Distraction.

“So apparently it’s a whole thing. Big names, big salutes. Even COMPFLT’s showing up.”

Bradley’s fingers freeze on the keys.

“What?”

Jake’s still facing the mirror, fixing his collar. “The COMPFLT. You know, the Commander of the U.S Pacific Fleet?”

“I know what it means,” Bradley snaps.

Jake turns then, brow furrowed, tie in hand. “It’s just a military barbecue, not a big deal—”

“I can’t go.”

Jake blinks. “What?”

“I’m not going,” Bradley says, already standing. Already backing away from the piano like it betrayed him. “You should’ve told me.”

Jake looks genuinely thrown. “I didn’t think it mattered. You said you were coming.”

“I changed my mind.”

Bradley’s voice is flat. Controlled. But his eyes are already doing that thing—glassy, distant, locked on something a hundred miles away.

Jake takes a small step forward. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Bradley says, too fast.

Jake stops. Watches him carefully. “You said the Fourth thing was fine.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not.”

“Because of COMPFLT?”

“Because of me.” That one comes out a little louder. A little more real.

And then silence.

Bradley looks like he’s about to say something else. Like it’s right there on the edge of his tongue—but he swallows it down, jaw tight, shoulders locked.

Jake doesn’t ask again.

Because he knows what that silence means.

Instead, he nods slowly. “Okay.”

Bradley exhales. Relief, maybe. Or guilt.

Jake adjusts his tie. “I’ll tell them you’re sick.”

“Tell them whatever.”

Jake doesn’t smile, doesn’t push. Just meets his eyes, steady and careful. “You sure?”

Bradley nods once. “Yeah.”

Jake hesitates.

Then turns back toward the mirror, finishes tying the knot.

Bradley watches him, arms folded tight across his chest.

Wishes—for a stupid second—that Jake would ask again.

Push just a little harder.

Make him say it.

But he doesn’t.

So Bradley goes back to the piano.

And this time, he doesn’t play anything at all.

Jake stops fiddling with his tie.

Instead, he crosses the room, easy and unbothered, and drops down beside Bradley on the piano bench. His shoulder brushes Bradley’s, light and grounding. He plays a simple little melody—soft, aimless, something comforting and unfinished.

“Let’s just stay in.” Jake says gently.

Bradley blinks. “What?”

“I’m going to hear all about you not showing up from my parents,” Jake says, still playing. “Might as well invent a story for both of us.”

Bradley should say no. He should tell Jake to go, to keep up appearances, to play the part.

But he doesn’t.

He wants to be selfish. For once in his life, he wants to be selfish.

“Beer and a movie?” he says instead.

Jake glances over, eyes warm. “I’m picking.”

“What, The Wolf of Wall Street?”

“No, asshole. Toothless.”

Bradley stares. “You’re serious.”

Jake shrugs. “Dead serious. Best dragon movie ever made. And I’m not open to feedback.”

Bradley rolls his eyes. “You’re so weird.”

Jake grins. “Get the beers, Bradshaw.”

They don’t sit at opposite ends of the couch.

That’s how it starts.

Bradley thinks there’ll be space—Jake’s couch is massive, sleek, and expensive like the rest of his furniture—but Jake walks in from the kitchen with the popcorn, plops down beside him, and sinks into the cushions like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

There’s a brief moment of negotiation about who’s holding what. Jake wants the popcorn in his lap. Bradley wants it close enough to pick from without looking desperate. Eventually, they settle on something vaguely domestic: shared bowl between them, beers balanced on coasters Jake suddenly produced from somewhere (because of course he has coasters), and a throw blanket tossed over their legs like they’ve done this a hundred times.

Jake hits play.

And just like that, How to Train Your Dragon begins.

Bradley does not care about dragons.

Or, he didn’t. Until now.

Now he’s sitting on a couch with a very warm, very close Jake Seresin—who is watching the screen with the open, pure kind of attention Bradley hasn’t seen on another human being since childhood—and his heart is spiraling.

Because Jake doesn’t just watch the movie.

He experiences it.

He reacts to every little moment. He tenses when Toothless is hurt. He laughs—genuinely, like a kid—when Hiccup makes some awkward self-deprecating comment. He even says lines out loud, like he knows the script by heart and still wants to hear it again. And when the first flight scene hits, Jake leans forward slightly, hands curled around the popcorn bowl like he’s gripping the reins himself.

Bradley doesn’t look at the screen once during that scene.

He’s watching Jake.

This should be a joke. A bit. Fake boyfriends and beers and popcorn. But it doesn’t feel fake. It feels—worse. It feels easy. Like something that was always supposed to happen.

He’s screwed.

Because Jake is sitting here in the softest gray pajama pants Bradley’s ever seen, with his bare feet tucked under his legs, hair still a little damp, his t-shirt is worn and a bit too big, stretched out at the collar. He keeps brushing his knuckles against Bradley’s arm when he reaches for the popcorn, and doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t flinch. Just stays close. Warm.

And Bradley is thinking things.

Stupid things. Soft things. Things like: God, he’s cute.

Which is absurd. Ridiculous. Unfair.

Bradley’s not supposed to think Jake Seresin is cute.

He’s supposed to think Jake is infuriating, dramatic, manipulative in the exact way rich kids are trained to be. He’s supposed to feel safe in the rules of their arrangement. 

But here he is. With popcorn on his jeans and Jake pressed against his side, quoting cartoon dragons and genuinely concerned about a fictional Viking child.

And it’s unbearable.

Somewhere around the midpoint of the movie, Jake shifts. He stretches his legs out, slouching deeper into the couch, and his head tips slightly toward Bradley’s shoulder. Not on it—yet. Just close enough to make Bradley hyper-aware of every square inch of skin. He can feel the warmth of Jake’s body radiating through the blanket, the rise and fall of his breath. Their knees brush.

Jake says something like, “Toothless is peak character design,” and Bradley replies with a grunt because he can’t form words right now.

He’s distracted.

By the shape of Jake’s nose.

By the way his eyelashes catch the light from the screen.

By the stupid, soft little smile he gets every time Toothless does something mischievous.

It’s infuriating. And kind of beautiful.

And, okay—Bradley will admit it, he doesn’t want this to end.

Not the movie. Not the couch. Not the blanket. Not Jake humming along to the soundtrack like it’s his personal lullaby. None of it.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The credits roll. Jake doesn’t move.

His head is tipped back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted in a lazy almost-smile. The room is dim, washed in the soft blue light of the TV menu screen, and Bradley doesn’t really want to turn it off.

So he doesn’t.

Instead, he reaches for the last beer on the coffee table and cracks it open. Takes a sip. Hands it silently to Jake, who drinks from it without question and passes it back.

It’s comfortable. A little too comfortable.

And Bradley’s brain—tired and stupid and full of cartoon dragons—doesn’t let him leave it there.

“So… what do you actually like?”

Jake hums. “What?”

“You know,” Bradley says, shifting a little to face him more. “What do you like? Not your job. Not what looks good on paper. Just… you.”

Jake shrugs, still half-sunk on the couch. “I like working. Golf.”

Bradley narrows his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

Jake lifts a brow.

Bradley leans in, elbow on the back of the couch, eyes sharp now. “That’s what your parents like. What you were taught to say. I’m asking you. Not the version that smiles at galas. The version that likes Toothless.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

Jake’s smile falters. Not fully—but just enough to show the crack in the armor, then he says, with the smallest voice, “I like painting.”

Bradley blinks. “Painting?”

Jake nods. “I know. It’s not cool. But it helps. Makes the noise shut up.”

“What do you paint?”

Jake smiles, this time a little more real. “You’ll laugh.”

“I literally spent my night watching a dragon movie. I think you’re safe.”

Jake exhales a soft laugh and stands. “Hang on.”

He disappears into the hallway, and Bradley hears a drawer opening. A thump. Then Jake’s voice, “Do you trust me?”

“Oh my God,” Bradley mutters. “Every time someone says that, it’s a terrible idea.”

“Take your shirt off,” Jake says, holding the little container of paint like this is the most normal request in the world.

Bradley raises an eyebrow. “Wow. We skipped like five fake-dating milestones for this.”

Jake doesn’t even blink. “Don’t flatter yourself, hotshot. I need a canvas.”

“Oh, so I’m the canvas now?”

Jake grins, all teeth. “Unless you want me to paint the throw pillows.”

Bradley snorts but reaches for the hem of his shirt anyway. The cotton sticks a little—he’s warm, flushed, maybe from the beer, maybe from something else—but it comes off in one smooth pull. He tosses it aside and stretches his arms with exaggerated slowness.

Sue him, he's trying to impress. It’s a cheap shot but seems to work.

“Try not to fall in love,” he mutters.

Jake raises a brow, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he disappears down the hall again and returns with a full-length mirror—sleek, modern, unnecessary.

“What’s that for?” Bradley asks.

Jake shrugs. “So you can see what I see.”

Bradley opens his mouth, ready to toss out something snarky, but nothing quite makes it past the lump forming in his throat.

Jake places the mirror in front of him. Not directly just off-center enough that Bradley will have to look to catch the reflection.

Then he kneels behind him again, legs folded under, warm hands gently steadying his lower back.

Bradley doesn’t know what he expected.

But it sure as hell wasn’t this.

Jake is quiet. Focused. He opens the paint, dips a soft brush into the color—midnight blue—and starts at the base of Bradley’s spine. His touch is impossibly light. The brush barely skims the skin, like he’s afraid to break something.

Bradley glances at the mirror.

Jake looks… peaceful.

Not smug. Not performative. Not even flirty.

Just calm.

Like painting is the one place he doesn’t have to be anything for anyone.

His brow is furrowed slightly, lips parted, lashes low over green eyes that flick between brush and canvas—Bradley, somehow—like he’s trying to translate something he can’t say aloud.

The first line is bold. Clean. It curves up and out like a feather caught mid-motion.

Bradley swallows. “What exactly are you painting?”

Jake doesn’t pause. “Wings.”

Bradley laughs softly. “You think I’m an angel?”

“I think,” Jake says, voice low and close to his ear, “You were always meant to fly.”

Bradley’s chest goes tight. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

Jake keeps painting.

“I didn’t know you had tattoos,” he says at one point and Bradley frowns, with how much he has been watching Jake, he also forgot he had tattoos.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “The little goose is for my dad, his callsign was Goose. The little dove is for my mom and the rooster for me.”

Jake smiles at him. “It’s cute. Why the two small F14 Tomcats?” 

Bradley tenses for a second. “My dads.” he says, half truth, half lie.

He knows Jake will assume he is talking about Goose, Bradley feels a bit bad about it.

He doesn’t ask further questions, he sends him a genuine smile and goes back to painting.

Bradley turns to the mirror again. The shape’s starting to form now—wide and rough and real. Nothing angelic. No soft curves. These are gritty. Earned. More knife than feather. All shadow and flight.

The next stroke lands higher, right along his shoulder blade, and Bradley’s entire spine tingles.

He can feel Jake’s breath, warm and steady. One of Jake’s hands settles against his lower back to brace the next movement. His palm is warm.

“Jesus,” Bradley mutters. “You’re really taking this seriously.”

Jake smiles. “I don’t half-ass things I care about.”

Bradley forgets how to breathe.

“You care about… painting?” he manages.

Jake leans in closer, his voice brushing just behind Bradley’s ear. “You asked what I like. This is it.”

The next line of paint sweeps upward, and Bradley lets his eyes close for a second too long.

He’s painfully aware of everything—how close Jake is. How quiet the room is. How the only sounds are the soft scrape of bristles on skin and Jake’s breathing, slow and even, right behind him. The feeling is… strange. Intimate. Not in a sexual way—yet still charged, somehow. Jake’s hand steadies on his lower back. The brush trails up across muscle, then out, soft and deliberate. Like he’s being mapped.

And the mirror—God, the mirror.

Bradley sees all of it. Sees himself, sitting bare and still. Sees the wings growing from his back in slow, deliberate strokes. Sees Jake, calm and intent, painting like it brings him happiness.

Jake leans back on his heels, setting the brush down carefully like he’s just completed something sacred. His fingers, smudged with blue and silver, trail one last time along Bradley’s spine—not painting, not fixing—just touching, like he can’t help it.

“There,” Jake says softly. “You’re done.”

Bradley doesn’t move.

He doesn’t breathe.

Because he’s looking in the mirror.

And the wings—

They're beautiful.

Rough-edged and bold. Feathers made of shadows and flight, the darkest blues fading to starlight at the tips. Not delicate. Not precious. They're fierce. Strong. 

Like they could lift him out of his own damn skin.

He sees himself, shirtless and still, jaw slack, back painted in flight. He sees Jake behind him—kneeling like a prayer, eyes focused, lashes low, that little crease between his brows from how hard he concentrated.

Bradley swallows.

It doesn’t go down right.

His throat is tight, too tight, and there’s a buzzing in his chest like his heart’s trying to claw its way out.

Jake looks up. Meets his eyes in the mirror.

And smiles.

Soft. Proud. Almost shy.

Like he doesn’t know.

Like he doesn’t realize what he just did.

Bradley turns.

Slowly.

Jake’s still on his knees, fingers stained, hair a mess, his shirt clinging to him in all the right places. There’s a speck of blue paint on his cheekbone. His mouth is pink, a little parted.

He looks so real it’s unbearable.

Bradley’s chest aches.

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Tries to find something smart to say. A joke. A snarky comment. Anything.

But his mind is blank.

Utterly, devastatingly blank.

All he can think is: No one’s ever looked at me like that.

Not like he’s a problem to solve.

Not like a project. Or a disappointment. Or a checklist.

Just—someone worth painting.

His heart lurches.

And suddenly, before he even decides to, he leans in.

One breath. One heartbeat. One blink.

And he kisses him.

It’s soft. Barely there at first. More instinct than thought. Like falling asleep or slipping underwater.

Jake’s lips are warm. A little chapped. They don’t move at first—just freeze against his.

And Bradley panics.

Fuck. Fuck.

This was so stupid. This wasn’t part of the deal. This was not how fake dating worked. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

He starts to pull back, already forming the apology in his throat—

But then Jake kisses him back.

He’s never kissed someone like this before.

Never felt like the world was tilting beneath him.

He breaks it first.

Breathing hard. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

Jake just looks at him.

Like he already knows.

Bradley’s voice comes out low and wrecked. “Sorry. That was—”

“Yeah,” Jake says, just as breathless. “It was.”

They stare.

Everything between them is suddenly fragile. Suspended.

Bradley wants to run.

He wants to do it again.

He wants to press rewind and pause and fast-forward all at once.

But all he does is stand there.

With wings on his back and Jake in front of him and every part of him whispering, 

It’s not how you fall that matters, it’s how you land.

And well, Bradley had always been good at crashing.

Notes:

AAAAGGGHHHH THEYRE SO CUTE MY BABIES CANT WAIT TO MAKE THEM GO TROUGH HELL

Chapter 5: Cardio

“I have paint everywhere,” Bradley groans, flopping back against the sheets.

Jake only laughs, low and warm, fingers reaching up to twirl the curl that’s fallen rebelliously onto Bradley’s forehead. “You’re a masterpiece, Bradshaw.”

Bradley does not blush.

Okay. He does. Just a little.

Shut up.

He hides his face against Jake’s bare chest, which is somehow both soft and solid—Jake’s heartbeat thrums fast beneath his cheek, matching Bradley’s in a chaotic little duet.

Sex had been—like everything Jake touched—perfect, kind. He’d moved them to the bedroom with a whisper-soft smile and held Bradley like something precious. Every kiss had been its own little promise. He’d mapped Bradley’s spine with his lips, paint be damned, murmuring “you okay?” like a prayer between each one.

The bastard made it nearly impossible not to fall for him.

Now it’s late. Stupid late. Stars-outside-the-window late. And Bradley is still very, very naked in Jake’s way too big, way too comfy bed with Jake’s hands on his face, gentle and grounding.

“Hey,” Jake whispers, as if they’re the only two people left on Earth.

“Hi,” Bradley replies, voice embarrassingly soft, heart embarrassingly loud.

“I wanted this,” Jake says, “for so long.”

Bradley narrows his eyes, playful. “You only picked me to be your fake boyfriend because of my objectively stunning good looks.”

Jake snorts. “Oh, absolutely. That mustache? Total game changer.”

Bradley smirks and strokes his mustache with faux elegance. “It makes me look hot.”

“It makes you look like you lost a bet.”

Bradley huffs and tries to wiggle away, but Jake cups his jaw again, this time a little firmer. Eyes serious now. A little desperate.

“Don’t fly away from me now.”

And oh.

Bradley’s heart stutters. That stupid organ betrays him instantly.

He closes his eyes, breath hitching. Jake’s already leaning in, their lips meet in a kiss that’s more breath than pressure, more feeling than form.

“Sleep?” Jake murmurs.

“Yeah,” Bradley exhales.

Jake shifts, pulling him close, wrapping around him like he’s something worth holding onto. Bradley thinks about moving to the other side of the bed but Jake doesn’t let him.

So he stays. Face pressed against Jake’s chest. Legs tangled. Soul a little less heavy.

And when sleep finally comes—it’s the best he’s had in years.

-

Bradley wakes up to sunlight on his face, warm and blinding. For a second, he thinks he overslept for class. 

Then—wait.

This bed is too soft to be his. Too big. The sheets smell like laundry detergent and expensive cologne, not his usual combo of fabric softener and sweat.

He doesn’t hear Tony and Natasha arguing in the kitchen or Bob quietly stealing his shirt again.

No chaos. No yelling. Just quiet.

And snoring. Very soft, very real snoring.

There are arms around his waist. A warm chest pressed against his back. Legs tangled with his.

Bradley turns around slowly and—

Jesus Christ.

Jake is still asleep, head buried half into the pillow. His lips are parted just a little, and he’s snoring lightly in a way that should not be cute but absolutely is. His hair’s a mess—no more perfectly styled, just soft golden strands sticking up everywhere. A few grays catching the light.

And he looks… peaceful. He looks young. 

He looks like someone Bradley could get used to waking up next to.

Which is exactly why Bradley gets up before he does something stupid. Like kiss him.
Or say good morning like they’ve been doing this for years.

He’s becoming insane.

It’s hot, so he just throws on his boxers and heads for the bathroom. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winces. His curls are a wreck, there’s paint on his cheek, and his neck is a full crime scene of hickeys.

He blushes like a teenager. He splashes water on his face and tells himself to get it together.

The shower helps. A little.

He towel-dries his hair, pulls on a pair of Jake’s shorts that hang dangerously low, and pads into the kitchen like he owns the place. Which, for the record, he does not.

He opens the fridge and—oh.

Jake’s fridge is stocked like someone actually plans meals and buys groceries on purpose. There’s fresh fruit. Fancy yogurts. Four different types of juice. Kale. Who the hell just casually owns kale?

Bradley stares like he’s found Narnia and then settles on making omelets and bacon and pancakes, because obviously.

He finds coffee grounds and gets that going too, humming to himself while the smell of breakfast fills the room.

He’s just setting the table when he hears footsteps.

Jake walks in, rubbing his eyes, barefoot and in nothing but boxers. His hair’s still a mess, pillow-creased and golden, and his face looks soft with sleep. His expression, though—that’s not soft.

That’s worried.

Bradley freezes.

Shit.

Was he supposed to leave?

Is there like, a fake-boyfriend exit strategy he missed?

Jake blinks at him. “I thought you left,” he says, voice rough and low.

Bradley looks at him, holding a coffee mug. “Nope,” he says. “Just stealing your fancy coffee like the shameless thief I am.”

Jake’s shoulders relax instantly, and he gives him a sleepy smile that could kill a man.

“Sleep okay?” he asks, coming closer.

Bradley shrugs. “You snore.”

Jake scoffs. “Rude.”

“You drool too,” Bradley adds, sipping from his mug with a grin.

Jake rolls his eyes but he’s smiling now, standing close, warm and real. “You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re slow. Sit down. Food’s ready.”

Jake glances at the table and looks back at Bradley with something so open in his face it makes Bradley want to hide again. Or kiss him. 

Bradley doesn’t say anything.

He just pulls out a chair, sits down, and pretends this is all completely normal.

Like he didn’t just accidentally have the best sleep—and maybe the softest morning—of his life.

“Do you have anything planned for today?” Jake asks, sipping his coffee like this is something they do every Sunday.

Bradley stretches his legs out under the table, leans back in the chair. “It’s Sunday. Finals are over. I usually spend the day sleeping or pretending to be productive. So, no. Not much. You?”

“I usually go on a run with Javy,” Jake says, glancing at the clock. “But I missed that.”

Bradley pauses mid-sip.

Is… is that his cue to leave?

Jake catches the look and grins. “I mean, I did do my cardio last night.”

Bradley throws a piece of pancake at him without hesitation. “You’re the worst.”

Jake gasps dramatically, hand over his heart. “Bradley. I’m a delicate old man. If I skip my workout, I’ll fall apart. Do you want to be responsible for that?”

“Oh please,” Bradley rolls his eyes, already smiling. “You’re thirty-two, not eighty.”

“That’s practically ancient in fake boyfriend years.”

He stretches lazily in the chair, arms up, biceps flexing like he’s trying to make a point—and okay, maybe he is. He spreads his legs slightly and Bradley glances down before looking away, heat crawling up his neck.

Jake raises an eyebrow. “See? This temple requires maintenance.”

Bradley snorts, then stands, plate in hand, and moves to clear the table. But he doesn’t make it far. Because Jake—messy-haired, boxers-only, cocky and smiling—looks good in that chair, golden in the morning light.

And well, Bradley’s only human.

He places the plate down, walks over slowly, and straddles Jake’s lap without a word.

Jake's hands immediately find his waist. “Well, hello.”

“Cardio’s important,” Bradley says, trying not to grin, but already losing the fight.

“Mandatory,” Jake murmurs, pulling him in.

Their mouths meet, soft and sure.

Bradley’s smile melts right into the kiss, sweet and slow and kind of stupid with how happy he feels. Jake kisses like he means it, like the whole morning led to this exact moment, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

The kiss fades out, and Bradley hates how much he wants to stay in it.

Jake’s lips are still ghosting against his, warm and soft and maddening, but Bradley’s already pulling away. Already peeling himself out of Jake’s arms like it didn’t feel like something. Like it didn’t make something inside him settle for the first time in years.

He can feel Jake watching him—still seated, still shirtless, still unfairly beautiful in the golden morning light—but Bradley keeps his eyes on the coffee mug like it holds all the answers.

“So,” he says, voice thin. “Last night was… fun.”

Jake hesitates, just for a second, but then smiles. “Yeah.”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment.

Bradley waits—just a second longer than he should—for Jake to say more. To say it meant something. That maybe it wasn’t just sex. That maybe this could be something else.

But Jake just sips his coffee.

Bradley swallows around the lump in his throat. “Didn’t mean to, like, mess anything up,” he adds, forcing a laugh that sounds too loud. “I know this is all pretend, so.”

“Right,” Jake says. “Totally.”

Bradley’s chest sinks.

The worst part is, he gets it. He does. Jake’s rich and charming and hot in a way that makes strangers stop on the street.
Bradley’s… Bradley. Broke. Messy. Constantly tired. Covered in things he doesn’t talk about and debt.

He was a convenience. A story Jake needed to tell for someone else’s benefit. Of course it wasn’t real. Of course it didn’t mean anything.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Bradley says, trying to get ahead of it. Trying to stay in control of the narrative before Jake hands him a line he won’t recover from.

Jake’s smile falters. Barely. Just a twitch at the corner. Then he nods. “Yeah. No, totally.”

Bradley watches him carefully—sees something flicker behind the mask—but it’s gone before he can name it.

(They’re both pretending.)

“Just now with… cardio,” Jake adds with a smirk, like that’ll make it easier.

Bradley laughs, hollow. “Sure. Adults and all that.”

He wants to throw up.

Instead, he clears the plates.

And maybe it’s the noise of the sink or the fact that the room suddenly feels too quiet, but the words come out before he can stop them.

“But if we’re gonna keep doing this—” he gestures vaguely between them, cheeks burning— “I don’t want your money.”

Jake stills.

“I know I was supposed to be, like, your fake date or whatever,” Bradley continues, “but if there’s sex in it now, I don’t want it to feel like a transaction.”

His voice wavers on the last word. He hates how small it sounds. He feels ashamed.

Jake turns toward him, slower this time. Less cocky. Less sure.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says, quietly. “I mean, I wouldn’t want you to feel like that.”

Bradley shrugs, eyes locked on the dish soap. “I just want to be clear.”

“Yeah,” Jake says after a beat. “Yeah, no. That’s fair.”

And god, it hurts.

Because Jake didn’t argue. Didn’t say it wasn’t just sex. Didn’t say he wanted more.

Didn’t say you mean more to me than this.

“So,” Jake says eventually, voice gentler now, “friends with… cardio?”

Bradley lets out a breath that’s halfway to a laugh. “Sure. If that’s what works.”

What he wants to say is, 

I liked waking up next to you.
I liked how you kissed my back.
I liked feeling wanted without an audience.

But Jake smiles—soft and golden and just a little too far away now—and it feels final.

Bradley nods and turns back to the dishes, like he didn’t just put a brick on top of something breaking in his chest.

He reminds himself: this is better than nothing.

This is safe. This is what Jake wants.

And if it aches, if it feels like being handed a beautiful dream and then being told you can only touch the edges—well.

Bradley’s used to that.

He doesn’t say another word. 

They finish cleaning up in silence.

Not the comfortable kind. Not the kind that hums with familiarity and softness.
This one feels thick, suffocating. Like the walls are shrinking. Like the air is too heavy with everything they’re not saying.

Bradley shifts on his feet, suddenly restless, suddenly itching to leave. He can’t stand the way the room feels now—how the quiet is pressing in on his ribs. He wonders if Jake feels it too, this strange shift, this weight.

“I’ll take a shower,” Jake says, eyes on the floor, voice too tight.

Jake doesn’t look at him.

God, it hurts.

He wants to say look at me. Just that. Look at me. Let this be more. But Jake doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Bradley takes the hit like he always does, tucks it somewhere deep and tight.

That’s his cue then.

“You do that,” he says, forcing casualty. “I’ll leave.”

He starts to walk, then pauses, glancing down at himself like it only just registered—he’s still in Jake’s shorts. Bare legs, no shirt, heart on display.

“After I change,” he adds, a little weaker.

Jake looks at the shorts like he’s seeing them for the first time. “You can keep them,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “Your clothes are all covered in paint. I’ll get you a shirt.”

Bradley nods, throat dry. Doesn’t argue.

Jake disappears down the hall, and when he returns, he’s holding something neatly folded in both hands. A crisp, white button-down. Bradley catches the tag Loro Piana. Of course. Of fucking course.

He remembers that brand. Ice used to wear it, stupidly expensive, soft as sin. He and Mav used to mock it, call it shitty.

Now Jake’s offering it like it’s nothing. 

Bradley takes it. Slips it on. Doesn’t let himself think about how it smells like Jake, how it fits a little too tight.

He glances up and shit, Jake’s looking at him.

And for a second, he looks almost shy. Like maybe he’s feeling some kind of way too. Like maybe he regrets letting Bradley go.

Jesus.

Bradley manages a crooked smile. It feels wrong in his mouth. He turns, starts toward the door, shoulders tight.

But then Jake’s hand wraps gently around his wrist to stop him.

Bradley looks back slowly, heart hammering. And there he is—Jake, golden and sleepy and goddamn adorable—leaning in and pressing the softest kiss to his lips.

It’s barely anything. Barely a breath. But it undoes something in him.

Bradley is not smiling.

Shut up.

“The driver’s waiting outside,” Jake whispers, voice low and close, lips still brushing his.

Bradley exhales and turns fully, both hands reaching for Jake’s face, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones. He kisses him again—deeper, longer, something that almost says don’t make me leave.

“I’ll see you?” he breathes when they part.

Jake nods, eyes bright, dimples deep. “Yeah.”

Bradley’s beyond fucked.

Jake grins, stepping back. “See you soon, cowboy.”

“See ya, golden boy,” Bradley calls after him with a grin, he winks as he pulls the door open, stepping into the elevator.

And if he’s still smiling when he climbs into the car—dressed in Jake’s shirt, wearing Jake’s clothes, tasting Jake’s kiss—well.

That’s nobody’s business but his.

-

“Oh my god, you got laid.”

Bradley sighs, loudly. He hates his friends. He hates them so much.

Thankfully, it’s only Natasha at home—legs crossed on the coffee table, painting her toenails with a red so dark it looks like blood. She barely glances up as she delivers her accusation, and somehow that makes it worse.

Bradley stares at her, deadpan. “Shut up.”

But he still sits beside her, slumping onto the couch like someone who absolutely got laid.

Natasha pauses mid-brush, narrowing her eyes. “Holy shit. You did.”

Bradley groans and lets his head fall back against the cushion. Eyes closed. Already regretting this.

“How was it?” she demands, poking his thigh with the handle of the nail polish brush.

His brain unhelpfully flashes through it all—the slow, unhurried touches. Soft kisses, softer skin. The way the morning light turned Jake into something almost holy.

Bradley swallows. “Good,” he says, and then opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “No. Fuck. Natasha, it was perfect.”

She goes quiet for a second, which is suspicious.

Then she grins wide and wicked. “I’m so glad you’re finally together. These bitches owe me so much money.”

Bradley jolts upright. “We’re not—” his jaw tightens. “We’re not together.”

Natasha freezes. Her whole face shifts. The smile is gone.

“You stupid idiot.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bradley, you don’t do casual.”

He throws his hands up. “What are you talking about? I always do casual.”

“Yeah,” she says, setting the nail polish down with a sharp click. “You do casual sex. Random hookups. Not this. Not Jake.”

“Why not?”

“Because you look like you—” she cuts herself off, lips pressing together.

“Don’t,” he warns, suddenly sharp. “Natasha.”

They stare at each other. One of those long, heavy moments where no one says anything, but everything’s said anyway.

She exhales slowly and moves closer. Natasha doesn’t hug people. Maybe four or five times, total, since they met.

So when she shifts and leans into him, settling her head on his arm, he doesn’t flinch. It took her years to open up to Bradley, to not be afraid of physical contact. He kisses her forehead.

“You’re gonna get hurt,” she says, soft and certain, like it’s already happened.

Bradley doesn’t reply. Doesn’t argue.

He had always been good at crashing.

-

A few days later.

“You should invite him,” Natasha says, steady as ever, as she swipes her eyeliner on in one perfect motion.

Bradley doesn’t even look up from the mirror. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” Tony calls out from the floor where he’s painting his nails black, legs stretched out and feet propped on a milk crate they still haven’t returned to the corner store.

Bradley snaps the back of his earring into place, frowning at his reflection. “No. There is no universe where I invite Jake Seresin to watch us play in a shitty bar that smells like cheap beer.”

He turns around, looking at the disaster that is their pre-show routine.

Everyone’s half-dressed, yelling over one another, music blasting from someone’s phone on the table. It smells like hairspray, sweat, and takeout.

They all look—unfortunately—incredible.

Natasha is wearing a black mesh top and ripped jeans, red boots, silver earrings that sparkle like they were stolen off someone rich. Her eyeliner is deadly and perfect. She always looks like a villain in a music video, the cool kind people fall in love with halfway through the second verse.

Tony’s gone full rockstar chaos, wearing a fishnet shirt under his leather jacket, black jeans safety-pinned at the sides, his nails shining wet as he waves them around like claws.

Steve is half-asleep on the couch, but still manages to look like a model. Plain black tee, silver chain, tired eyes and tattoos peeking out under his sleeves. He probably hasn’t washed his hair in two days. Still hot. Bradley hates that.

Bucky is sitting cross-legged on the coffee table, chewing gum and wearing an old band tee with holes in it. He’s got a flannel tied around his waist and thick rings on every finger. His eyeliner is smudged on purpose.

And Bob, sweet Bob, is wearing flared jeans and a vintage Fleetwood Mac shirt, his blond hair soft and messy, glasses slightly crooked. He’s focused on his bass like they’re about to play Madison Square Garden.

Bradley glares at all of them. “I’m not calling Jake ‘I probably own a vineyard and don’t even know it’ Seresin and asking him to come watch us scream into microphones in a crusty bar.”

They all look at him like he’s grown another head.

“Dude,” Bob says from the corner, “he likes you.”

“He likes pretending to like me,” Bradley mutters. He hasn’t told the others about the whole cardio thing.

“Semantics,” Tony shrugs.

Bradley grabs his phone and tosses it on the couch. “I’m not texting him.”

Steve snorts and, without even looking, tosses it back, Bradley catches it and holds it close to his chest.

It’s already ringing.

Bradley stares at it like it’s a bomb. “You called him?!”

“Answer it.”

Bradley glares, but the phone’s already on its third ring.

“Hey,” Jake says, all warm and casual like he’s been waiting for this all day. “What’s up?”

Bradley panics for half a second. His brain empties. Everyone in the room is watching him. Natasha’s mouth twitches like she’s holding in a laugh.

“Uh hey,” Bradley starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, um. We’re playing tonight. At a bar. Kind of a dive.”

“Oh?”

Bradley shifts on his feets, tugs at the hem of his shirt. “Yeah, I just thought… maybe you’d want to come? If you’re not busy. Or, you know… It’s totally fine if you are. Just figured I’d invite you. No pressure.”

There’s a pause. Bradley braces for rejection. For a polite excuse. For anything.

Jake says, “I’d love to.”

Bradley blinks. “Wait really?”

“Yeah,” Jake says. “Text me the address. I’ll be there. Should I wear something specific, or just… try not to look like I own a yacht?”

Bradley can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Yeah. Maybe leave the suit at home.”

“Got it,” Jake says, and he sounds like he’s smiling, which is dangerous. “See you soon.”

Bradley hangs up, stunned, and stares at the phone like it just did a magic trick.

Then he looks up at the room full of gremlins who are all very obviously waiting.

“He’s coming,” Bradley mutters.

“YES!” Bob practically yells, fist-pumping.

Tony claps like someone just won a Grammy. “He’s gonna be down so bad the second he sees you onstage.”

Bradley rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

But Natasha is still watching him.

Not teasing. Not smiling. Just… looking.

Bradley meets her gaze, and she doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to. 

He grabs his drumsticks and tries not to think about how fast his heart is beating.

-

The bar’s already full when they arrive.

Bradley pulls up the hood of his old, worn-out sweatshirt like it’ll somehow shield him from the noise and the crowd yelling. The place smells like cheap beer. Lights dim, stage small, everything is kind of vibrating already.

Bucky whistles low. “Damn. It’s packed.”

Tony beams, flicking open his lighter. “It’s always like this when we play. Don’t act surprised.”

Bradley shrugs like it’s nothing, even though his stomach twists the second they step inside. “It’s not because of us,” he lies. “Happy hour ends late here.”

But the truth is, every time they play, people show up.

Maybe it’s because Natasha looks like she’d punch you and kiss you in the same breath. Maybe it’s the way Bob makes the bass sing. Or maybe—just maybe—it’s the way Bradley loses himself onstage like he’s bleeding out rhythm, like his hands are the only thing holding him together.

They move through the crowd toward the back. Familiar faces nod at them, and someone yells “They’re here!” like they’re a famous band instead of college students drowning in debt.

Bradley keeps his head down.

Jake’s not here. Not yet.

They do soundchecks. Natasha tells the tech guy to stop being annoying in the flattest voice imaginable and somehow it works. Bucky flips someone off for trying to record early. Bob sits on an amp and retunes even though his bass is perfect.

Bradley wipes his palms on his jeans.

Still no Jake.

They start the set. It’s loud and fast and alive—the way it always is.

They start with an old song, one that lets Steve and Natasha trade vocals while Bradley absolutely wrecks the drums. By the third track, the crowd’s in it—sweaty bodies, raised glasses, someone in the back already screaming the wrong lyrics.

Bradley barely looks up.

Jake still isn’t there.

He tells himself he’s fine. That it’s whatever.

That Jake probably just said yes to be nice. That it was awkward after everything. After the sex. After the “friends with cardio” agreement. Maybe Jake doesn’t want to be seen here, in this bar with peeling walls and fake leather booths. Maybe Jake sobered up and realized he doesn’t actually like this version of Bradley.

Whatever. Bradley plays harder. Loud enough to stop thinking.

Then—fourth song in—the tempo shifts. It’s one of the heavier tracks, the one where he and Bob swap places, and Bradley picks up his bass. His fingers are already twitching with adrenaline, T-shirt clinging to his back, sweat trailing down the side of his face.

He throws the bass’ strap over his shoulder and grins at Natasha as the first chords echo through the amp. She smirks back, already moving closer, and they do that thing they always do, playing back to back, shoulder to shoulder, like they were built to do this.

Bradley’s singing now, low and raspy and full of heat, hair falling in his eyes, bass digging into his ribs, and for once, he forgets everything else.

Until—

He sees him.

At the far end of the bar, near the wall.

Jake.

Standing there like something out of a movie—white tee, leather jacket, lips parted. He’s not smiling. Not yet. Just watching.

Bradley’s brain short-circuits.

His fingers miss a chord. Just barely.

His whole body stumbles in place for half a beat, not enough for anyone else to notice—but he notices. Jake is here. He actually came.

And Bradley feels it in his chest like a second heartbeat.

Jake raises his drink with a grin.

Bradley looks away too fast, suddenly dizzy, throat dry.

But when he glances back, Jake is still watching.

And Bradley plays louder.

It’s for the crowd he tells himself, bullshit it’s for Jake.

Jake who showed up.

Bradley doesn’t remember how he finishes the song.

He just knows his body keeps going—muscle memory taking over while his brain completely short-circuits. Jake’s here. He actually came. And he’s watching. Not half-listening. Not scrolling through his phone. He’s got this look on his face, somewhere between wonder and hunger.

It does something to him.

By the time the last chord fades out, the room is screaming. Lights flashing. Natasha bumps his shoulder with hers and mouths, You good? but he just nods, his pulse wrecked, breath coming fast.

They barely have time to grab water before the next song starts—something slower, bluesy, Natasha on vocals. Bradley’s back on the drums now, but his hands feel loose, weird. He can't stop glancing toward the crowd.

Jake hasn’t moved.

He’s still leaning against the far wall, drink in hand, but now his eyes are soft. Like he's not just impressed—he’s tender. And that’s way worse. Way more dangerous. Bradley would’ve preferred cocky Jake, suit-wearing Jake, “just sex” Jake.

But this version? This Jake, wearing a worn leather jacket and smiling like Bradley personally wrote the song for him?

Fuck.

Bradley looks away.

The rest of the set passes in a blur of lights and sweat and too many emotions he refuses to name. They close strong and when the final note hits, the room explodes.

They did good. Really good. The paycheck is going to be awesome.

People start pushing forward, clapping backs, handing over drinks, shouting about the next gig. The buzz is electric. Tony’s already climbing onto the bar. Bucky and Steve disappear into the crowd like twin hurricanes.

Bradley’s standing at the edge of the stage, gripping the neck of his guitar like it might keep him steady.

Jake’s still there. Closer now.

Making his way through the crowd with that stupid smooth confidence. 

Bradley’s heart is in his throat by the time Jake stops in front of him.

“Hey,” Jake says, voice low, but it cuts through the noise.

“Hey,” Bradley answers, way too fast.

Jake’s looking at him like he’s trying to memorize him. “You were…”

His mouth opens, closes, then he just shakes his head, like words don’t work right now.

Bradley doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He wipes them on his jeans. “Sweaty?” he offers weakly.

Jake laughs. “Incredible.”

Bradley flushes. No. No no no. We're not doing feelings. This is not allowed.

“You, uh. You came.” he says, the part of him that’s stupidly soft is so glad he did.

“I wanted to,” Jake says simply. “You said come, so I came.”

Bradley blinks. “Gross.”

Jake grins. “You walked into that.”

“I regret inviting you,” Bradley mutters, but he’s smiling. He doesn’t.

Jake shrugs. “Too late. You’re stuck with me for the night.”

And Bradley wants to say something clever. Something cool. But his brain is mush. His body is tired, muscles buzzing from performing, and Jake is standing too close, smelling too good, looking at him with those green eyes.

So he just nods and says, “Okay.”

Jake takes a slow step forward. “Wanna grab a drink?”

Bradley hesitates. Looks at the crowd—his friends, the noise, the lights. Then back at Jake.

And yeah.

Yeah, he really, really does.

“Only if you let me pay,” he says, falling back into the rhythm of their usual banter.

Jake smirks and follows him through the crowd. 

He takes a beer while Jake takes a Coke. His friends join them before they have a chance to talk.

“Golden boy returns!” Bob says.

Bradley freezes mid-sip, something weird and hot crawling up his spine. He frowns without thinking. “Cut it,” he says, way sharper than necessary. “That’s my nickname for him.”

Bob blinks. “Wow. Okay. Someone’s feeling a little possessive.”

Bradley chokes a little on his beer and glances sideways at Jake.

Jake who recovers like a champ. “He’s just defending my honor,” he says smoothly, “You guys were insane tonight.”

Tony beams. “Aw thanks man, but this one—” he jabs a finger toward Bradley, “looked like an absolute rock god out there.”

Bradley wants to laugh it off, but suddenly he feels very seen. In a way he’s not used to. His cheeks go warm. He becomes painfully aware of his outfit, the way-too-tight leather pants, the cropped, faded AC/DC shirt that used to be Maverick’s and now hangs loose off one shoulder. The hem’s all jagged and soft from a lazy pair of scissors. It’s probably his favorite shirt. And now he feels like he’s wearing a damn costume.

He chances a glance at Jake—who’s still looking at him. Not in a judgmental way. No, it’s worse.

It’s that soft, gooey way.

“You were amazing,” Jake says quietly.

Bradley looks down so fast he nearly spills his beer. “Wanna go get some air?” he mumbles, barely loud enough.

Jake doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.”

They slip outside and Bradley pretends not to notice Natasha giving him a look. He’ll deal with it later.

The air outside hits him like a wave—cool and quiet and way too calm after the noise inside. They walk in silence for a few minutes, just the crunch of gravel under their shoes and the occasional far-off sound of laughter from the bar.

They reach the beach and Jake kind of hovers like he’s not sure if he’s invited to sit.

Bradley rolls his eyes, grabs his wrist, and yanks him down beside him in the sand. “Don’t be weird.”

Jake chuckles, soft and sleepy. “I’m not weird.”

“You’re weird,” Bradley mutters, already lighting a cigarette. He takes a drag and leans back on his hand, head tilted up. The sky is darker now, dotted with stars, distant little things.

He turns his head, meaning to say something stupid about constellations or aliens or whatever, but then he looks at Jake—

And yeah. Screw the stars. Jake’s sitting there with the wind in his hair and that soft look still in his eyes like this is the only thing that matters right now.

Bradley exhales, smoke curling into the air. His voice is quieter this time.

“I’m glad you came.”

Jake leans back on his elbows, eyes still on Bradley. The corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to smile too wide. “Yeah me too,” then he adds, “You know you were basically a dream come true for every fourteen-year-old emo girl and closeted gay kid tonight, right?”

Bradley nearly chokes on his cigarette. “What?”

Jake shrugs like it’s a scientific fact. “Leather pants. Crop top. Raspy voice. The attitude. You were like… if Hot Topic and Guitar Hero had a love child and gave it feelings.”

Bradley groans and drops his head back dramatically. “You’re so annoying.”

“Not wrong though.”

“I wasn’t trying to be—”

“Bradley, you walked on stage in leather pants and sang with your whole chest. There was a girl in the crowd sobbing. Like, emotionally sobbing. I thought someone died.”

Bradley can’t help it—he laughs. He laughs so hard his shoulders shake, cigarette nearly falling from his fingers.

Jake’s watching him, all teeth and dimples and smug joy.

“I hate you,” Bradley says through his laughter, nudging Jake’s leg with his foot.

“No you don’t.”

“I really might.”

Jake tilts his head, grinning. “You gonna say that when I make you pancakes tomorrow?”

Bradley blinks. “You assuming I’m coming with you tonight?”

Jake leans in, voice a little lower. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Bradley stares at him. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Jake shrugs. “Just full of love. And protein. And maybe a little Coke Zero.”

Bradley laughs again, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jake just bumps their shoulders together and says, quieter now, “But hey. For real… you were incredible tonight. The whole rockstar wanna-be look is hot.”

Bradley glances at him, and for a moment the teasing fades into something warmer, steadier.

“Thanks,” he says, voice soft.

Jake doesn’t answer just nudges his foot again, like he can’t stop touching him.

They lie side by side on the sand, arms brushing, the sky stretching above them like some giant quiet thing. The cigarette’s long dead, the air smells like salt and firewood from somewhere down the beach, and for the first time all night, Bradley’s brain isn’t spinning.

Jake’s voice breaks the silence. “Why didn’t you become a musician?”

Bradley blinks up at the stars, caught off guard. “What?”

Jake turns his head, cheek pressed against the hoodie he brought out too late. “You’ve got the whole thing going on. The voice, the stage presence, the crop top. Teenage dream vibes.”

Bradley groans. “You’re such an idiot.”

“I’m serious,” Jake says, that stupid smile creeping in. “I’m just saying,” he continues, “you looked like the lead singer of a band that makes people cry in their bedroom.”

Bradley shakes his head but he’s still smiling, still soft with it. The kind of smile that sneaks up and settles into his chest. “I don’t know,” he says eventually. “Music was always fun. But I didn’t want to do it full-time.”

Jake hums. “So what did you want?”

Bradley swallows, watching a plane blink overhead, just a speck of light. “All I ever wanted to be was a pilot. I always wanted to make it to Top Gun.”

There’s a pause, just long enough for him to regret saying it.

Jake frowns a little. “But… you didn’t.”

Bradley flinches so lightly most people wouldn’t catch it. Jake does.

He keeps his gaze on the sky, voice casual. “Yeah. Well. Life’s not always that simple.”

Jake waits, quiet, respectful. Which somehow makes it worse.

Bradley shrugs, tries to keep it breezy. “Things got in the way. I stuck with school, found other stuff I liked. Coffee pays the bills, music keeps me sane and I’ll eventually have the chance to make planes.”

It’s not a lie, not really. It’s just not the whole story.

He doesn’t say anything about Maverick or Ice. Or the day he opened the academy rejection letter and punched a hole in the drywall. He doesn’t say anything about that night or the silence or the ache that never really left.

Jake doesn’t press. Just nods, slowly.

“That sucks,” he says quietly. “You would’ve made a hot pilot.”

Bradley snorts, grateful for the shift. “What, you into flight suits now?”

Jake grins without missing a beat. “I have a thing for uniforms. And dumb mustaches.”

Bradley rolls his eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

Jake shrugs. “And yet here you are, emotionally compromised.”

“I’m not emotionally compromised,” Bradley mutters.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m sunburnt.”

Jake laughs, big and full and real, and Bradley lets it wash over him like warmth.

Jake speaks again, voice quieter now. “I wanted to be a vet when I was little.”

Bradley turns to look at him.

“Yeah,” Jake says, eyes still on the stars. “Was obsessed with animals. Thought I’d open a rescue farm or something. Then I realized I hate needles. And I’m allergic to cats.”

Bradley stares at him for a moment, then breaks into a quiet laugh. “That’s tragic.”

Jake grins. “It was devastating.”

They fall into silence again. The good kind. The kind that feels full instead of empty.

Then Jake says, almost like he’s not even talking to him, “Sometimes I still think about it. Doing something soft. Something where I don’t have to put on a show all the time. The tech company has been my grandfather’s, then my father’s and when the day comes it will be mine but it’s… I don’t know. I feel like it was all meant to be, wouldn’t really have mattered if I became something else.”

Bradley turns his head. Watches him.

“You’re not pretending right now,” he says, voice quiet.

Jake meets his eyes, that soft half-smile still there.

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

It sits somewhere deep in Bradley’s chest. Heavy, warm, impossible to ignore.

He looks back at the stars so Jake doesn’t see the way he’s smiling.

Jake shifts and groans lightly. “Are we just gonna sleep outside now, or…?”

Bradley doesn’t even look at him. “Honestly? It’s not the worst idea I’ve had.”

Jake raises an eyebrow. “That bad inside?”

Bradley exhales a laugh, rubbing his hands over his face. “Dude. We don’t have AC. None. Our landlord said he’d ‘look into it’ three months ago and then promptly died or changed his name or moved to a non-extradition country.”

Jake grins. “So… warm?”

“It’s hell, Jake,” Bradley says, sitting up now, getting animated. “Six of us. One bathroom. Natasha’s always yelling, Tony keeps stealing the fan and locking himself in with it. Bob literally bought a portable neck fan and refuses to share. Steve just sweats silently like a sad golden retriever. I think the fridge is starting to cry.”

Jake is full-on laughing now. “That sounds like a sitcom.”

“It’s not. It’s a horror movie.”

“Why don’t you just come over to my place?”

Bradley blinks, caught off-guard. “What, like… regularly?”

Jake shrugs, all casual. “I’ve got central air. Big bed. And a very consistent cardio routine.”

Bradley groans. “You have to stop calling sex cardio.”

Jake puts a hand to his chest. “It was cardio. I felt the burn. My Apple Watch said I was in the red zone.”

Bradley throws a handful of sand at him. “You’re so embarrassing.”

Jake just grins. “And yet you sat on my lap that morning.”

“That was an act of mercy. You were whining about your ‘old man muscles.’”

Jake laughs and stretches out again, arms behind his head. “You didn’t have to help me stretch.”

“I’m leaving.”

Jake reaches up and tugs Bradley gently back down. “You’re not.”

And yeah. He’s not. Not even close.

They settle into quiet again. But it feels different now. Less like filling time, more like choosing to stay.

Jake speaks again, softer. “Do you ever wanna just… press pause on everything? Just stop pretending for a minute?”

Bradley glances over, heart skipping.

“Sometimes,” he says. “It’s exhausting, right? Always trying to be the version of yourself people expect. The smart one. The chill one. The okay one.”

Jake hums like he knows exactly what that feels like. “Yeah. I get that.”

Bradley chews on the inside of his cheek. “It’s weird. I used to think if I just kept my head down and pushed through, it’d get better. But I’m still stuck in the same shitty apartment, still barely scraping by, still not—”

He cuts himself off before he says still not flying. Before he gives too much away.

Jake’s voice is low. “Hey. You’re doing okay.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it—steady, like it’s a fact instead of a half-assed comfort—that makes Bradley turn his head, eyes narrowing in the dark.

“Why do you even say that?” he asks, not defensive, just… curious. “You don’t even really know me.”

Jake’s quiet for a second. Then he sighs, like maybe he was waiting for this.

“Because I know what it looks like,” he says finally. “When someone’s trying to outrun something they don’t talk about.”

Bradley swallows. That… hits a little too close to home.

He wants to ask what he means, but Jake’s already talking again, softer now, not quite looking at him.

“My sister,” Jake says, voice low, like he doesn’t say it out loud often. “Lily. She was the smart one. Way smarter than me. Kind, too. Soft. Couldn’t lie to save her life.”

Bradley blinks. He hadn’t expected Jake to talk about it after the picture thing a few days ago.

“She committed when she was nineteen,” Jake goes on. “No note. No warning. Just gone.”

Bradley doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say. He watches as Jake picks at the hem of his shirt, eyes unfocused.

“My parents weren’t the same after that,” Jake says. “They were always strict, but after Lily… they turned into stone. Cold. Like if they just controlled everything tight enough, they could keep the rest from slipping.”

Bradley’s chest hurts. He didn’t expect this. Jake, who always has a comeback, who flirts like it’s breathing, who makes everything a joke—even he carries shit too heavy to speak without cracking.

Jake chuckles, but it’s hollow. “I think they looked at me and saw all the things they couldn’t fix. And I looked at them and realized I’d never be enough.”

“Jake,” Bradley says, but his voice is soft, unsure.

Jake shrugs, eyes finally flicking to meet his. “That’s why I fake it so much, you know? The charm, the parties, the show. It’s easier to be the shiny version of myself. People like shiny. No one asks what’s underneath.”

Bradley doesn’t respond right away. He just shifts, quietly, and nudges Jake’s knee with his own.

“You don’t have to be shiny with me,” he says after a beat, voice a little rough. “You can just… be.”

Jake stares at him like he doesn’t quite believe it. Like no one’s said that to him before.

Bradley shrugs. “I mean, I like the shiny version. Don’t get me wrong. Big fan of the cardio jokes. But I like this version too. And let’s be real, I’m just a college student, I’m nobody. Nothing to impress.”

Jake laughs, a real one this time. Still a little sad around the edges, but it lands deeper.

“Careful,” he says. “You’re making this whole fake boyfriend thing dangerously close to real.”

Bradley swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat.

Yeah, he thinks. He knows. He’s known. But he also remembers the look on Jake’s face a few days ago when the word real got too close.

So he smiles like none of it sticks. “Wouldn’t dream of it, golden boy.”

Jake’s phone buzzes on the sand between them.

He picks it up, glances at the screen, and his face softens immediately. “Hey, Javy,” he says with a laugh, and yeah Bradley knows they’re close. Best friends. Ride-or-die. Still, it stings a little. Something sharp and childish coils in his chest.

Jake chuckles. “Okay, yeah, I’ll be there in like thirty.”

When he hangs up, he turns to Bradley with an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry. Best friend rescue mission. Javy’s stuck on another bad date.”

Bradley raises an eyebrow. “So you’re going to… what? Drag him out by the collar?”

Jake snorts. “Nah, I crash it. Walk in, act like the jealous ex. Or current boyfriend, depending on the vibe. I play the gay card.”

Bradley blinks. “The what?”

Jake grins. “The gay card. You know. I go full dramatic. Start talking about how we’re trying couples therapy, how he’s working through some ‘bottoming-related trust issues.’ The poor date is usually out of there in two minutes flat.”

Bradley groans, shaking his head. “You’re so weird.”

“And yet,” Jake says, standing up and brushing sand off his jeans, “you still sat on my lap that morning.”

“Stop bringing this up, that was an act of compassion.”

Jake smirks. “You’re very compassionate. Especially with your hips.”

Bradley throws him some sand, but he’s smiling.

They both stand. The air between them shifts—awkward, not in a bad way, but in a now what kind of way. Bradley suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his face. Or any of it.

He half-considers a handshake just to be annoying.

Jake leans forward and kisses his cheek softly instead. Bradley freezes.

He can feel the heat crawl up his neck, spreading fast. Embarrassingly fast.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” Jake asks, already backing away toward the street.

Bradley blinks. “Uh. Yeah. Sure. Event?”

Jake smiles, hands in his pockets. “Something like that.”

“Okay.” He swallows. “Cool.”

“Bye, rockstar,” Jake calls, turning toward his car.

Bradley watches him go, arms crossed, trying to be chill.

“See ya,” he says, not sure if Jake even hears him.

The second Jake’s out of sight, Bradley exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole damn time. He lights a cigarette, lets the smoke curl into the night air, and sinks back into the sand.

And yeah.

He feels like a teenage girl who just kissed her crush at a house party and now has to pretend they’re just friends in the hallway the next day.

Which is insane. Because this whole thing is fake. It’s fake. It’s so fake.

Right? Right.

-

Bradley wakes up to soft knocking at the door.

His back screams in protest the second he shifts—because of course he fell asleep on the couch again, half-folded like a broken lawn chair. He groans and waits for someone else to get it.

Nothing.

Right.

He grumbles, drags himself upright, hair a mess, wearing nothing but shorts that definitely aren’t his, and stumbles to the door fully prepared to verbally destroy whoever dares—

Jake.

Jake, standing there with a blinding morning smile and two men in uniforms.

Bradley blinks. “What the fuck.”

“Morning, sunshine!” Jake beams. “Gentlemen, please install the AC wherever this man desires.”

Bradley stares at them. Then at Jake. Then back at the men.

“What the fuck,” he repeats, slower now, like it might make more sense the second time.

They all look at him expectantly.

He points vaguely at the living room wall. “I guess… here? It’s open-plan? We live in the kitchen practically.”

The men nod like that’s totally normal and get to work like this is normal and not Bradley’s collapse into a parallel universe.

He turns back to Jake, squinting. “Why are—what is happening? Are you real?”

“You mentioned it was too hot,” Jake says, like that explains anything.

Bradley blinks. “In passing. In suffering.”

Jake shrugs. “Well, I’m fixing your suffering.”

Bradley opens his mouth, closes it. He has so many questions and not enough caffeine to voice any of them. His brain is trying to reboot in the middle of this emotional slapstick.

Then Jake pulls out two tickets and shakes them dramatically. “Hop hop, rockstar. We’re going to Wimbledon.”

“What?”

“Hope you’re ready for some sunny UK. We’ve got Centre Court seats and exactly zero time for you to overthink.”

Bradley just stands there, barefoot and blinking, while a stranger drills into his wall and Jake plans an international trip like it's brunch.

“What the fuck is even my life,” he mutters, staring at the Wimbledon tickets like they might bite him.

Jake grins.

Notes:

YEEHAAAWWW 2 or 3 more chapters to go!

Chapter 6: Thomas Kazansky

Notes:

PHEW let's give the angst tag its moment, shall we?

special thanks to masd who's been listening me bitching about these two <3

YOUNG & DUMB & BROKE 

 

Bradley: minor update. I’m going to the UK with Jake ???

Natasha: can you track down Louis Tomlinson and bring me his eyelashes

Bob: BRADLEY. WHY DID YOU LET STRANGERS DRILL OUR WALL

Steve: be honest. does your boyfriend own the HVAC company now

Tony: who cares. marry him. blow him. do what needs to be done.

Bradley: you’re all insane.  I casually mentioned we didn’t have AC and I guess he bought one???

Tony: can we keep him when this fake thing ends

Bradley: fuck off <3 I’m going to Wimbledon bye losers

Natasha: YOU MOTHERFUCKER

Bradley grins and slides his phone into the back pocket of his own shorts this time—black, fitted, familiar—and tugs at the hem of his plain white shirt. Converse on. Hair still damp from his quick shower. He hadn’t packed. Jake had said, “Don’t worry about it,” with that signature shrug that made it sound like the rest of the world would sort itself out.

They’re in the backseat of the car heading to the airport, and Bradley feels… giddy. Like a little kid going to his first air show. He’s always loved planes—loved flying —but this? This is his first time flying out of the country. First time going to the UK. First time doing anything remotely rich-people adjacent.

“You ever been to the UK?” Jake asks, like he’s tuned into Bradley’s internal monologue.

Bradley shakes his head. “Nope. Been around the States a lot. But never outside it.”

Jake grins, shameless. “Well then. Guess you’re popping your international cherry with me.”

Bradley fake-gags so hard he nearly chokes on his own spit, and Jake bursts out laughing, dimples on full display.

“I might take you more places,” Jake adds after a beat, this time softer. 

Bradley frowns slightly. “You’re already taking me to Wimbledon.”

“No, I mean…” Jake turns to look at him, green eyes warm, voice low. “More places. Just in general.”

Bradley pauses. “Where?”

Jake smiles, the kind of smile you could fall through. “Wherever you want.”

And God —he says it like a promise. Like they’ve got a forever carved into their bones. Like there’ll be time, and space, and soft mornings and endless skies.

Bradley doesn’t answer. His heart is doing gymnastics and he’s too aware of it, too aware of Jake, all of Jake. He just nods and is thankful when Jake’s phone rings, pulling him out of the moment and back into the real world where Jake is a CEO or something and Bradley is just… riding along.

Jake talks business—something about numbers, shipping times, a client in Berlin—and Bradley scrolls through his phone aimlessly, pretending to play a game. He keeps glancing at Jake though. Who, apparently, has a real job and wears tank tops and makes flying halfway across the world seem like a casual day.

“I have some meetings when we land,” Jake says as he hangs up, throwing Bradley a look that borders on sheepish. “The game’s tomorrow, so maybe you can explore a bit during the day? We’ll get dinner?”

Bradley nods. “Yeah. That sounds… great.”

Jake smiles and turns back to his screen, typing rapidly. Bradley tries to focus on his game, but all he can think is: What the fuck is my life. He’s going to Wimbledon. In a private jet. With his... what? Situationship? Sugar daddy? Jake?

They pull up to the airport and—Jesus Christ—Bradley realizes they’re not flying on a plane. They’re flying in a jet. Jake’s jet.

And it has initials on the side. J.N.S

He squints. Wait. N?

“What does the N stand for?” he asks.

“Noah,” Jake says, sliding on his sunglasses like a goddamn movie star. “Middle name.”

Noah. That’s… unfairly cute.

A man who might be their pilot or a bodyguard or an actual angel starts unloading two suitcases from the trunk.

“There’s two,” Bradley points out dumbly.

Jake shrugs. “One’s yours.”

Bradley follows him, eyebrows raised. “How do you even know my size?”

Jake flashes him a smirk. 

“You perv.”

“You’re welcome.”

Bradley doesn’t mean to smile, but he does.

The pilot greets them like they’re regulars, and Bradley tries not to stare at the interior of the jet, which somehow looks more comfortable than his entire apartment. There’s breakfast already laid out—fruit, croissants, some fancy-looking jam he can’t pronounce. He hasn’t eaten. It's also 6 A.M. What even is time.

They buckle in, a few checks from the pilot later, and then they’re off. Just like that. Up into the clouds like it’s nothing.

Bradley exhales and watches the sky spread out in every direction.

This feeling—being airborne, leaving the ground behind—never gets old.

Jake’s voice cuts through his thoughts,  “Would’ve let you fly us to London, but sue me, I wanted you next to me.”

Bradley tries not to blush. Fails. “Seven hours is a long time to fly anyway.”

(It isn’t. He’d do it forever. If they hadn’t—shut up.)

Jake takes a sip of his orange juice and leans back. “Something tells me you could stay in the sky forever.”

Bradley doesn’t say anything.

But yeah. In another life, he would’ve.

Instead, he picks up a croissant and starts eating, chewing slowly, trying not to feel too much. Trying not to wonder what it would be like to belong here—for real.

“You know,” Bradley says, stabbing a strawberry, “this is a very elaborate kidnapping.”

Jake doesn’t look up. “You’re too calm for someone allegedly being kidnapped.”

“Stockholm syndrome hits quick when there’s croissants involved.”

Jake finally glances over, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And here I thought it was my company that won you over.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Bradley deadpans. “It was the jam. The jam is doing the heavy lifting.”

Jake hums. “That’s fair. It’s artisanal.”

Bradley narrows his eyes. “You just made that up.”

“I didn’t,” Jake says, all fake offense. “It’s French. Everything’s artisanal if you say it with confidence and spend too much money.”

Bradley shakes his head, biting back a smile. “You’re so pretentious.”

“And you’re wearing socks with little planes on them, so maybe we both have issues.”

Bradley immediately tucks his feet under himself, scandalized. “These are fun socks. They spark joy.”

Jake leans back in his seat, looking entirely too pleased. “You spark joy.”

Bradley throws a napkin at him. 

Jake catches it mid-air, smooth and smirking. “You’re just mad because I’m right.”

“No,” Bradley says, grabbing his orange juice. “I’m mad because you dragged me to another continent with no warning.”

“You’re literally eating custom-made pancakes on a jet with your name on the manifest,” Jake points out. “Cry me a river, Cinderella.”

Bradley glares. “You could’ve at least let me pack my own underwear.”

Jake’s grin goes full evil. “I did pack your underwear. You’re welcome.”

“You’re going to hell.”

Jake sips his drink, unfazed. “If it’s first-class, I don’t mind.”

Bradley snorts and sets his glass down. “You always do this?”

Jake glances up, brow raised. “Do what?”

“This. Flying off to random places. Spoiling people. Acting like the world’s just… available to you.”

Jake pauses, his smile slipping into something softer. “I don’t usually bring anyone.”

Bradley stills.

Jake shrugs, eyes on the clouds. “Most people are fun for a night. Or a week. I don’t usually want to sit next to them for seven hours in a tube at 40,000 feet. You’re a very good fake boyfriend and cardio partner.”

Bradley wants to say something smart but he looks down at his plate, suddenly hyperaware of everything—his own heartbeat, the space between them, the way Jake’s knee keeps brushing his under the table like he can’t help it.

“I’m not trying to impress you,” Jake says, voice lower now. “I just… wanted you to see a little more.”

Bradley exhales slowly. “It’s working. Against my will.”

Jake grins again. “I’m very persuasive.”

“You’re a brat.”

“You like me.”

Bradley meets his gaze. “Absolutely not.”

Jake winks. “Tragic. How will I survive?”

Bradley shakes his head, laughing. Then, as he leans back in his seat and looks out the window, he feels Jake’s fingers brush his wrist—barely there, featherlight, but intentional.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just there.

And Bradley doesn’t move.

He feels like flying entirely different.

“You know,” Jake says casually, stretching like a smug cat in his leather seat, “there’s a very comfy bed in the back.”

Bradley raises an eyebrow, utterly unimpressed. “Jake Noah Seresin,” he says in his best scandalized voice, hand over his chest. “I am not having sex with you 40,000 feet in the air.”

Jake shrugs, grinning. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

“Shut up.”

Jake’s smile sharpens into something wicked. “Why don’t you make me?”

You know what? Bradley wil.

Bradley leans across the table—awkward angle, probably very undignified, whatever—and kisses him. Just mouth on mouth, hot and sure and messy in a way that says  shut up.

Jake kisses back instantly and Bradley’s heart does something traitorous. He tells it to calm the hell down.

He pulls back, breath slightly uneven. “There. Now shut up.”

Jake’s cheeks are flushed, just a little. “You should do that every time I talk.”

Bradley smirks. “My mouth would be on yours constantly.”

Jake grins. “Tragic.”

Bradley groans and stands, shaking his head. “I’m taking a nap.”

Jake is on his feet immediately. “Great. Me too.”

Bradley pauses, eyeing him. “We are only sleeping.”

Jake raises both hands like a choirboy. “Absolutely.”

Then promptly pulls off his tank top and tosses it onto the nearest surface like it insulted him.

Bradley snorts. “You are so subtle.”

“And yet,” Jake says, voice low and infuriatingly smug, “you’re still walking toward the bed.”

Bradley pretends he didn’t hear that, kicks off his shoes, and climbs onto the mattress. He ignores the way Jake’s watching him like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. He ignores how natural it feels when they both start peeling off clothes like some awkward, synchronized teenage dance.

He slides under the covers, Jake right behind him, all warm skin and too much charm.

“Sleeping,” Bradley warns again.

Jake hums, already curling close. “Obviously.”

And fine. Maybe it’s not just the altitude that’s making his heart race. Jake kisses him again and well, maybe he will have sex with him 40,000 feet up in the air. 

Maybe.

-

“I want to sing a One Direction song,” Bradley announces the second they step outside.

Jake doesn’t even look at him. “Please don’t.”

Bradley ignores him completely, already humming the soft intro to Night Changes under his breath, putting his whole heart into it. Jake groans like it physically pains him, pinching the bridge of his nose as they walk toward the taxi stand.

The drive to the hotel is short but Bradley spends the whole time pressed to the window like a kid on a field trip. The streets of London blur past in a mix of brick buildings, double-decker buses, and tourists trying not to get hit by cars driving on the wrong side of the road. Jake says something about a business district and the Queen’s guards, but Bradley’s too busy making up fake British facts in his head.

They pull up to the hotel and—

Holy shit.

Bradley doesn’t even try to act cool. This place looks like royalty got bored of Buckingham and decided to gentrify heaven. Gold accents. Glass doors. Uniformed doormen who call Jake sir without irony. He doesn’t even want to know how much a night costs. It’s definitely more than his rent. Possibly more than his soul .

“What the fuck,” Bradley says eloquently.

Jake just grins. “Only the best for my fake boyfriend.”

“Fake boyfriend, my ass , ” Bradley mutters under his breath as a butler grabs their luggage and escorts them through marble halls.

The elevator is silent, too clean, and moves fast. Jake leans casually against the wall like this is normal. Bradley stands stiff like a raccoon in a Mercedes.

They arrive at the top floor and are immediately greeted with, “Welcome to Connaught, please don’t hesitate if you need anything,” like they’re entering a magical kingdom. And maybe they are , because when the door swings open, Bradley’s pretty sure he’s just entered a different dimension.

The suite is... ridiculous.

Huge windows. Velvet couches. Chandeliers. Art on the walls that probably costs more than his childhood home. The floor is some kind of polished marble. There’s a massive bedroom visible through an open doorway, and the butler casually mentions three bathrooms and a private sauna before vanishing like a hotel-trained ghost.

Bradley turns in a slow circle, wide-eyed. “This place is bigger than Earth.”

Jake snorts and flops onto one of the couches. “Figured you deserved something nice.”

Bradley glares. “Jake, this is not something nice. This is Bruce Wayne-level nice. This is what rich people imagine when they meditate . This suite probably has its own ZIP code.”

Jake just winks. “Glad you like it.”

Bradley hates him. And also wants to kiss him against the minibar.

Jake stands up, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder. “I’ve got a quick meeting downstairs—hotel’s restaurant. Shouldn’t take long. I have another one just after this though. Go explore, there’s a driver assigned to the suite. Just tell him where.”

Bradley nods, trying not to look like a wide-eyed peasant.

“I’ll shower and change,” Jake adds, already walking toward the bathroom. “Don’t miss me too much.”

Bradley flips him off without looking.

Jake’s gone for all of three minutes before steam starts curling under the bathroom door. Bradley peeks into the walk-in closet and immediately regrets it. There are hangers. A dedicated tie rack.

This man is unhinged.

He flops dramatically onto the bed—which is roughly the size of a small country—and groans. The sheets are softer than anything he’s ever touched. There’s probably some thread count number that would make him weep.

Jake emerges twenty minutes later in a suit that could kill. Navy, tailored, stupid hot. His hair’s still damp, lips still pink from the heat, and his cologne hits the air like expensive sin.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Jake says, tightening his belt.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Bradley lies.

“You are. ” Jake steps closer, amused. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m not gonna make it to my meeting. And then my dad’s gonna drag me behind a polo horse.”

Bradley sighs, steps in to fix Jake’s collar. He should not feel this domestic. “Go. Be the golden boy.”

Jake’s smile softens—just for a second—and then he leans down and kisses him. Not long. Not hard. Just…gentle. Like something he didn’t mean to do but did anyway.

“Dinner after. I’ll text you,” Jake says.

“Okay,” Bradley whispers.

And then he’s gone.

The suite is too quiet. Too soft. Too expensive. Bradley lays on the bed for a minute, staring at the ceiling and thinking of Jake’s mouth, Jake’s laugh, Jake in his suit—

Nope. Absolutely not.

He drags himself up and changes into jeans and a hoodie, grateful for anything that doesn’t feel like a fever dream. He already knows where he’s going. It’s dumb, sure, but his mom made him watch Notting Hill like a hundred times growing up, and now it’s imprinted on his soul. The bookstore. The bench. The ridiculous fantasy of bumping into someone who changes everything.

A fantasy he’s living. 

Bradley Bradshaw is a sucker for romance. A loser for love. A soft-hearted, slightly sunburnt mess of a boy.

He calls the driver and heads out.

Notting Hill it is.

-

Bradley feels it the second he steps out of the car.

That dizzy little rush in his chest, the one that used to hit him at airshows as a kid or when his mom surprised him with cake on a Wednesday—warm, weightless, kind of unreal.

The street stretches out in front of him like a memory he didn’t know he had. Worn cobblestones. Shopfronts with peeling pastel paint. A breeze that smells like cinnamon and old books.

And yeah— there it is.

The blue door.

Right there on Portobello Road, just standing there like it isn’t famous. Like it hasn’t been etched into a thousand love stories. People pose in front of it, awkward and giggling. There’s a bookstore around the corner with a tiny chalkboard that reads “open for love, 10am-6pm.” God.

He doesn’t mean to tear up. He blinks hard.

His mama would’ve loved this. She used to watch Notting Hill with a reverence usually reserved for church. She said Hugh Grant reminded her of Goose, which made zero sense, but Bradley let her have it. She’d have worn a floppy hat and dragged him through every overpriced shop and made him take a hundred blurry photos.

He can almost hear her voice.
Take the damn picture, Bradley, I want to see the door.
Hold still. Stop squinting. You look like your father when you do that.

He breathes in and out. Once. Then again.

The ache behind his ribs doesn’t leave, but it settles. Just a little.

He snaps a few pictures. One of the blue door. One of a couple holding hands. One of a postcard rack that reads Love lives here in loopy script.

He sends them to the group chat.

BRADLEY : guess where

NATASHA : no.

TONY : is that the fucking hugh grant door

BOB : pls buy me a souvenir i’m not joking

STEVE : u ok

BRADLEY : yeah. just being a sentimental little bitch.

He slips into a coffee shop that looks like it was designed by a Pinterest witch—soft jazz playing, dried flowers hanging from the ceiling, little glass display full of pastries that glisten like spells. He orders a flat white and a lemon tart, because why not.

At the register, he pulls out his wallet—and pauses.

There, tucked behind his student ID, is a black credit card. Heavy. Matte. Definitely not his.

He flips it over.

Jake Noah Seresin.

Bradley stares at it. Blinks. Then lets out a short, incredulous laugh.

That slippery bastard. When the hell did he sneak that in? Was it at the airport? In the car? While Bradley was busy melting into a kiss that probably shaved five years off his emotional lifespan?

He shakes his head and slides the card back into his wallet.

Nope. He’s not using that .

Instead, he pulls out his own debit card, the one with the faded corner and dented chip, and pays like a humble mortal. Jake can keep his god-tier platinum card to himself.

He finds a seat by the window and bites into the lemon tart. It’s unfairly good. His eyes close for a second and he sighs.

Of course Jake’s card is heavy. Of course the pastry is magic. Of course I’m sitting here thinking about him.

He watches people pass on the street, headphones in, hands holding lattes, lives moving like soft background music. He drinks his coffee. He chews slowly.

And he lets himself miss his mom. Just for a minute.

A few moments later, after he finished his coffee and pastry he walks around. He doesn’t mean to end up in the gift shop.

He’s just walking. Still buzzed on coffee and the smell of sun-warmed stone.He should probably head back, but the sky’s blue, the air’s gentle, and he’s not ready to go back to the luxury suite that smells like Jake’s cologne.

So he wanders.

The souvenir shop is cramped and chaotic, all leaning shelves and spinning racks, but it hums with the kind of cheap charm Bradley secretly loves. It smells like postcards and nostalgia.

He steps inside.

There’s a shelf dedicated to Notting Hill , of course—little snow globes, pins of the blue door, mugs that say “nice surreal, but nice.”

He picks up a tiny plush corgi wearing a crown. Scoffs. Puts it back.

Finds a candle labeled “London Rain” that smells like fake grass and bergamot. Sniffs it. Puts it back.

He finds a little wooden music box that plays She when you turn the crank, and—
Yeah, no. Too dramatic. Too emotional. Too on brand for his walking-heartache energy.

He exhales and keeps walking, almost makes it out when he sees it:

A tiny keychain. Just a little photo frame—the blue door inside, with a quote in crooked script:

“I’m just a boy.”

Bradley stares at it. Hates how his chest aches. There are others with the original quote that says “I’m just a girl.” 

You’re being ridiculous , he tells himself. It’s just a dumb plastic keychain.

Jake Seresin owns a watch that costs more than his student loans. What the hell would he want with a novelty keychain?

But still.

He thinks about Jake’s smile at the airport. The black card slipped into his wallet without a word. The kiss in the jet cabin that made his knees go weak.

He buys it.

Doesn’t even pretend it’s “for a friend.” Just pays in cash and pockets it.

Outside, the air feels warmer. He starts walking again, toward the car waiting at the corner.

His phone buzzes in his jacket.

Jake :
sooo just learned you went to Nothing Hill
did you cry in front of the door
be honest
i’ll know if you lie

Bradley types.

Deletes.

Types again.

i pled the fifth.

Jake responds instantly.

Jake :
you’re so american it hurts
did you get me a souvenir tho
tell me you got me something tragically british
like a weird biscuit tin

Bradley huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes as he pockets his phone again.

He doesn’t respond. Not yet.

But his fingers curl around the keychain in his pocket like it’s fragile.

And yeah. Maybe he’ll give it to Jake.

Eventually.

Maybe.

Probably not.

(Definitely.)

did you finish you meetings? i’m heading back

Jake: don’t. my second meeting got cancelled. i’ll join you for dinner.

Bradley sends a thumbs up and goes to the driver to tell him that he can go back to the hotel.

He wanders around a little bit more, just to pass time when Jake sends him his location. It’s only a few streets down, he starts walking slowly with his heart in his throat and the keychain too heavy in his pocket.

He spots Jake before Jake spots him.

He’s standing at the edge of a little square, phone in hand, sleeves rolled to his elbows, suit jacket slung casually over one shoulder. There’s a breeze playing with his hair and his sunglasses are pushed up onto his head, and Bradley can feel himself losing.

It’s so annoying. How effortless he looks. Like he didn’t just throw Bradley’s entire nervous system into disarray with one text and a cancelled meeting.

Jake looks up—and his whole face changes. That slow, stupid, sincere grin that makes Bradley’s stomach flip like it’s in a washing machine.

“There you are,” Jake says when they meet in the middle. His voice is soft. Like he’s glad. Like it’s relief.

“Here I am,” Bradley echoes.

They stand there for a second—just there. Close enough that Bradley can smell the cologne again, feel the heat radiating off Jake’s skin. There’s a pause, thick and warm and humming with something neither of them names.

Jake tugs his sunglasses off fully and hooks them into the collar of his shirt. “Hungry?”

“Always.”

“Good. I made a reservation.”

“Did you bribe someone for it?” Bradley teases.

Jake’s smile tilts. “What, me? Bribe someone? Never.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You adore me.”

Bradley rolls his eyes. “I’m trying very hard not to.”

Jake chuckles, and then he reaches for Bradley’s elbow lightly—barely there, just a nudge. “C’mon. Before I start planning dessert first.”

Bradley hesitates for a second, then lets Jake guide him down the street. His hand slips back into his shorts pocket, fingers brushing the keychain like a nervous tick.

Jake’s talking about the restaurant—some place with a view and wine and allegedly the best butter in London—but Bradley’s only half-listening. Because he’s distracted. Mostly by Jake’s smile. The way his sleeves are still rolled, forearms golden and freckled. The little line between his brows when he checks directions like he’s trying so hard to be casual about this but also very clearly cares.

They round the corner and—

Bradley stops walking.

Completely freezes.

Because holy shit.

That’s the Ritz.

He’s seen it before. On a screen. A million times.

It’s the hotel where Anna Scott stayed in Notting Hill. The fancy one. The one where Hugh Grant awkwardly tries to see her again. The one his mom used to point at and say “see, real love shows up, even when it’s stupid and late.”

Bradley blinks up at it like he’s six and about to cry at Disney World.

Jake doesn’t even try to hide his grin.

“Seriously?” Bradley breathes, still stunned. “ Here ?”

Jake shrugs, all false nonchalance. “What? Thought we’d keep the theme going.”

Bradley looks at him like he just invented the concept of affection. “You are such a dick.”

Jake smirks, pleased. “A very thoughtful, well-dressed dick.”

“I can’t believe you brought me here. Like—this is the hotel.”

“I know.”

Bradley’s already smiling like an idiot when the doorman opens the massive glass door and greets Jake by name. Of course. Of course this man has reservations at the Ritz. Of course he knows staff. Of course he’s personally reenacting every romcom Bradley ever loved.

They walk through the lobby—marble floors, gold fixtures, people in dresses worth more than his car—and Bradley whispers, “This is the fanciest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Jake leans closer. “Not true. You kissed me on a jet.”

Bradley groans, face heating instantly. “I hate you.”

Jake’s grin only widens. 

They’re seated at a corner table, dim lighting, the kind of view that belongs in a perfume commercial. The waiter pours water like their royalty. Bradley doesn’t even know how to sit properly in a chair this nice. Jake, meanwhile, looks perfectly at ease, like he was born in this booth. He was.

“I’m gonna drop something,” Bradley mutters, eyeing the silverware. “Or spill something. Or cry.”

“You can do all three,” Jake says, opening the menu. “It’s part of the experience.”

Bradley scans the options. There are no prices. Just words like “aged” and “butter-poached.”

“I literally don’t know what half this means.”

“Do you want me to order for you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Bradshaw,” Jake says solemnly, “this menu contains truffle foam. I am not letting you embarrass yourself.”

“You literally took me here to fluster me.”

Jake winks. “And it’s working.”

Bradley picks a dish at random just to end the suffering. The waiter seems delighted.

They talk while they eat about nothing and everything. Jake tells a story about Javy getting kicked out of a golf club for calling a guy named Bartholomew a “walking midlife crisis.” Bradley chokes on his wine laughing. Bradley mentions his favorite diner back home and Jake says, completely serious, “Take me there sometime,” like it’s not a dagger straight to the chest.

“To Texas?” Bradley raises an eyebrow, setting down his wine glass.

Jake grins across the table, elbow propped lazily on the linen,  every inch of him looking like trouble wrapped in a suit. “Well, you know what they say, cowboy…”

Bradley already regrets asking.

“Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”

Bradley rolls his eyes and looks away, pretending not to feel the slow, traitorous heat climbing up his neck. Unfortunately, the blush is very real. Jake definitely notices.

“I will punch you in the mouth,” Bradley mutters.

“You’d have to get closer,” Jake says smoothly.

Bradley glares.

Jake only smirks, then leans back a little, voice softening like he’s changing gears. “How’d you end up in New York, anyway?”

Bradley freezes, just for a second. Pause so slight it’s barely noticeable—unless you know him. (Jake notices.)

He exhales slowly. “That’s a long story.”

Jake raises an eyebrow. “I can order another dessert.”

Bradley looks down at his empty plate. Thinks about all the things he’s never said. About Maverick, Ice, the legacy that was supposed to be his. About how he was meant to be in a cockpit, not behind a computer. About the rejection letter and betrayal and dreams being yanked out from under him like cheap rug.

He wants to tell Jake. More and more every day.

He wants to explain the anger that still sits in his chest like a rusted engine. The way he still wakes up some mornings wondering what kind of uniform he should’ve been wearing.

But instead, he shrugs and says, “Life.”

Jake doesn’t let it go. “Seriously?”

“That’s all you get.”

Jake scoffs and sets his glass down with just a little more force than necessary. “You never tell me anything.”

Bradley blinks. “What?”

Jake leans forward, “You know everything about me. My job. My parents. My sister. The fact that I can’t parallel park to save my life.”

“You screamed at a valet,” Bradley mutters.

Jake points. “Exactly. I’ve given you the full disaster tour. And you? I know your major, your friends, and that you own more band tees than anyone legally should.”

Bradley hesitates. He’s not used to being seen like this—gently, but directly. It stirs something uncomfortable in his chest.

“I’m not great at…” He trails off, mouth twisting. “Talking.”

Jake tilts his head, waiting.

Bradley wets his lips, panics, and blurts, “I had a dog when I was a teenager.”

There’s a beat.

Jake blinks. “That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“A dog.”

“Comet.”

“Like the reindeer?”

“Like the space rock,” Bradley says quickly, eyes narrowing. “He ran in circles and chased shadows. It felt poetic at the time.”

Jake covers his mouth, trying not to laugh. “That’s actually kind of adorable.”

“Don’t.”

“Too late. You said something personal.”

Bradley groans. “You’re unbearable.”

Jake’s still grinning, but it’s softer now. “Thanks for telling me about Comet.”

Bradley huffs, but doesn’t take it back. If anything, he feels… lighter.

Just a little.

The keychain’s still in his pocket. His secrets still lodged in his throat.

-

They barely make it through the hotel door before Jake groans like he’s been shot and starts stripping his suit off with practiced misery.

“God,” he mutters, tugging off his jacket and tossing it onto a chair, “I swear this collar tried to murder me.”

Bradley pointedly does not look at his arms as Jake undoes the first few buttons of his shirt. Or the curve of his shoulder. Or the sliver of hip that flashes when he kicks off his shoes.

Nope. Not looking. 

He changes quickly into a pair of soft cotton shorts Jake had somehow packed for him and ends up shirtless too, because the suite’s warm and he has no self-preservation.

Jake flops face-up onto the bed with a loud sigh, limbs sprawling, hair a mess, golden and dramatic and perfect.

“I’m sore everywhere . ”

Bradley raises an eyebrow, walking over. “I don’t remember you being on the bottom.”

Jake turns his head slowly to give him a scandalized look. “I’m an old man, Bradshaw.”

“Tragic,” Bradley deadpans.

And then—lightbulb.

His face lights up with something evil and fond all at once. He pivots, bolts toward the bathroom, and returns seconds later with a sleek glass bottle he probably shouldn’t be touching. The label looks like it’s in French. Possibly cursed. It definitely smells expensive.

Jake watches him warily. “What are you doing.”

Bradley grins, wicked. “Helping.”

Jake’s eyes narrow. “No.”

Bradley is already climbing onto the bed. “Yes.”

“Bradley—”

“Shh.” He kneels next to him, smug as hell. “On your stomach, golden boy. Doctor’s orders.”

Jake groans again but rolls over, burying his face into a pillow. “You’re so weird.”

“I’m being a sweetheart , ” Bradley says, warming the lotion between his palms. 

Jake mutters something that sounds like you’re ridiculous, but he doesn’t stop him.

Bradley straddles his thighs and places his hands carefully against the curve of Jake’s back, just above his waist. Jake inhales sharply.

“Relax,” Bradley says, smugness softening. “I’m good at this.”

And then he starts.

Slow, firm pressure down Jake’s spine. Broad sweeps over tired shoulders. He avoids the obvious spots at first—stays clinical, platonic, harmless. The lotion smells like cedarwood and citrus, like something stolen from a spa where influencers cry over oat milk.

Jake’s breath slows. His muscles start to loosen.

And Bradley pretends he doesn’t feel everything in him unraveling at the same time.

Because yeah—he’s seen Jake shirtless before. He’s kissed him, slept beside him, had cardio with him. But this? This is different.

This is quiet.

This is tender.

Jake shifts slightly under his hands, voice muffled. “You’re gonna fall in love with me if you keep this up.”

Bradley rolls his eyes, even as his heart goes rogue. “Gross. You wish.”

Jake murmurs something that sounds dangerously like I do but Bradley ignores it. He probably misheard it. (He didn't.)

But his hands still for just a second.

Then—without comment—he keeps going, working the knots out of Jake’s back.

“God,” he mumbles, voice muffled, “you weren’t kidding.”

“Told you,” Bradley mutters, almost smug. “I give great hands.”

Jake lets out something suspiciously close to a whimper. “Stop talking like that or I’m gonna propose.”

Bradley snorts, hands moving lower. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re good at this. Seriously—did you take classes or are you just naturally this sexy?”

“I worked in a coffee shop,” Bradley says. “You think those latte art skills didn’t translate?”

Jake chuckles into the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. The laughter melts into silence, the kind that’s easy and unforced, full of trust and body heat and candlelight.

Bradley keeps going, letting his fingers drag slow down the ridges of Jake’s back. He feels Jake fully melt beneath him, limbs heavy, body pliant, like he hasn’t let himself relax in years.

Bradley’s quiet for a moment. “What does it feel like? Always being this tense?”

Jake hums. “Like holding your breath all the time.”

Bradley nods, even though Jake can’t see it.

“You don’t have to,” he says softly. “With me, I mean.”

There’s a pause.

And then Jake shifts slightly, turning his head enough so Bradley can see the edge of his mouth, soft with something unspoken. “I know,” he says. “I’m trying.”

Bradley swallows. Doesn’t reply. Just moves back to Jake’s shoulder blades, careful now, like Jake might vanish if he presses too hard.

After a while, Jake starts talking again—quiet, wandering thoughts, half-mumbled between exhales. He talks about Javy’s dog and how he almost bought an alpaca once during a trip to Peru. He tells Bradley about a time he lost his phone for three hours and it turned out to be inside his fridge. Bradley tells him about a horrible college open mic where Tony tried to rap and Bob cried from secondhand embarrassment. They laugh. They talk about nothing. They talk about everything.

Bradley shifts to one side, still kneeling beside Jake’s now half-asleep body, and keeps his fingers moving—now just light pressure, more touch than tension.

Jake looks up at him slowly, eyes hooded, lashes casting shadows.

“You’ve got, like… those hands,” he mumbles.

Bradley quirks an eyebrow. “Those hands?”

Jake sighs like it’s obvious. “The ones you don’t forget.”

Bradley rolls his eyes but he’s smiling, his chest doing something unstable.

Jake reaches for him blindly, fingers brushing his thigh. “Come down here,” he mutters.

Bradley hesitates for half a second, then stretches out beside him on the bed, propped up on one elbow. They’re both shirtless, feet tangled in the sheets, the smell of that ridiculous lotion still between them. The world feels small here. Soft.

Jake rolls onto his side to face him.

For a moment, he just looks. Like he’s memorizing him.

Then he leans in and kisses Bradley.

It’s slow. Sweet. No hunger, no heat. Just soft lips and warm breath and the kind of closeness that makes your soul ache a little.

When they part, Jake’s voice is barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

Bradley doesn’t ask for what.

Instead, he shifts a little, clears his throat, and says—too fast, too rough, “I got you something.”

Jake lifts his head, blinking sleepily. “What?”

Bradley swallows, sits up against the headboard, and fishes in the pocket of his discarded shorts on the floor. His fingers wrap around the keychain. He holds it for a second too long.

Then he hands it over without looking.

Jake takes it carefully. Turns it over in his palm.

Jake goes still.

Bradley rubs the back of his neck. “I dunno. It was dumb. I saw it and thought—whatever. You don’t have to keep it.”

Jake doesn’t answer at first. He’s still looking at it, but he’s not really looking at the object. 

“No one ever gives me things like this,” he says finally. Quiet. Honest. “People give me expensive stuff. Logos. Things you wear to be seen. But… not this. Not something small. Not something that actually means something.”

Bradley shrugs, eyes on the sheets. “Just a keychain.”

Jake looks at him. “That you bought for me .”

Bradley looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Jake holds up the keychain between them, clears his throat dramatically, and delivers—way too earnestly—

“I’m just a boy…”

Bradley groans. “Jake.”

Jake keeps going. “Standing in front of another boy…”

“Don’t do this.”

“Asking him…”

“I swear to God.”

“…to give him another massage—”

Bradley throws a pillow directly into Jake’s face. Jake cackles as it bounces off him, keychain still clutched to his chest like a war medal.

When the laughter fades, they’re back under the covers, faces close.

Jake turns the keychain over one more time, then sets it gently on the nightstand like it’s something that matters.

Then he leans in and kisses Bradley—slow, grateful, no teasing now.

Just thank you with his mouth.

When he pulls back, he rests their foreheads together.

“I’m keeping it,” he murmurs.

Bradley huffs. “Yeah, well. Don’t lose it.”

Jake smiles. “Not a chance.”

And maybe he means more than the keychain.

Maybe Bradley does too.

They both sleep tangled in each other.

-

Bradley wakes up to sun on his face and Jake already dressed and pacing the room with a croissant in one hand and his phone in the other.

It’s unfair, really—how he can look like that at nine in the morning while Bradley’s still fighting with the sun.

Jake catches his movement and lights up immediately. “Good morning, sunshine.”

Bradley groans into the pillow. 

“Wake up, we’re going to Wimbledon!”

Bradley lifts his head just enough to squint at him. “I hope it rains.”

Jake grins, and it’s too casual. “Put on something breezy. You’ll want sunglasses.”

Bradley gets up, rubs sleep from his eyes, and goes to brush his teeth. When he comes back, Jake’s waiting with a to-go coffee and a devilish glint in his eye.

“You’re being suspicious,” Bradley says, grabbing the coffee and sipping warily.

“I’m being delightful.”

“You’re planning something.”

Jake hums and checks his watch. “Only your dreams come true.”

And ten minutes later, they’re heading toward the hotel’s private elevator but instead of going down to the car lobby, they’re going up.

Bradley frowns. “Why are we—”

“Oh my god,” Bradley mutters, stepping out onto the rooftop and stopping dead. “That’s a helicopter . ”

Jake, already slipping on his sunglasses like a villain, flashes him a bright grin. “Surprise!”

Bradley turns to stare at him. “Who are you.”

Jake only shrugs. “I figured we’d arrive in style. Traffic’s hell and you hate being late.”

“That’s not—this is not the normal solution to that problem, Jake!”

“I also thought it’d be hot if you flew it,” Jake adds casually. “Assuming you know how.”

Bradley glares. “You are not asking me to pilot a helicopter to Wimbledon.”

Jake shrugs. “Why not? You know how to fly.”

Bradley sighs, long and suffering. Jake’s grin only widens.

They board. Jake’s settled like a prince before Bradley can even finish buckling in, one leg casually crossed, headset already on.

“Let’s go win you over some tennis stars,” Jake says through the comms.

“I swear to God,” Bradley mutters, but he’s smiling.

The ride is short but breathtaking—London sprawling out beneath them like a movie set. Jake points out buildings and makes up ridiculous facts (“That one was built by a guy who legally changed his name to Soup.”) and Bradley pretends he’s not enjoying it.

They land just outside the Wimbledon venue, where a private car is waiting, because of course it is.

Bradley steps out of the helicopter and mutters, “You know, I used to take the bus.”

Jake throws an arm around his shoulders and kisses his cheek without warning. “And now you’re arriving at Centre Court like Tom Cruise.”

Bradley elbows him lightly, cheeks pink. Jake smiles. 

They’re in front of Centre Court, and even though they’re in London, a whole ocean away from Jake’s usual press circuit, the paparazzi are already there, cameras flashing like they’re at a damn movie premiere.

Bradley blinks against the lights, heart hammering. “What the fuck—?”

“Don’t trip,” Jake murmurs.

Bradley immediately wants to trip.

They take two steps before someone shouts, “JAKE!” and then it’s a mess:

“Is this serious? We never saw you with the same person for so long!”
“He’s hot!”
“Is this the same guy from the gala?”
“Smile for us, lads! ”

Bradley freezes.

Jake, because he’s a menace, just waves and smiles like he’s on a damn red carpet. “Be nice, he’s shy!”

More laughter. More yelling.

And then— God help him —Jake throws an arm around Bradley’s shoulders, leans into the mic of some reporter, and says with a smirk, “What can I say? I’d put a ring on it.”

Bradley dies inside.

Right there. On the spot. Instant brain shutdown. 

He barely registers the crowd going wild with that. Cameras going off, people literally gasping. A reporter repeats it—“You’d put a ring on it?”—like Jake just announced a royal engagement.

Bradley turns to him, eyes wide, voice barely a whisper: “What the fuck.”

Jake leans in, grinning like this is all a bit.

“Relax,” he murmurs against his ear. “Just giving them a show.”

Bradley glares, spiraling. “You can’t say shit like that!”

“Why not? You’d make a great trophy husband.”

“Jake.”

Jake just winks and guides him through the crowd, hand firm on the small of his back like they are that couple, like this isn’t the most serious public thing Jake’s ever done , like he didn’t just drop the word ring in front of ten photographers and half of Twitter.

Bradley’s brain is screaming. Spiraling. Short-circuiting.

They get into the VIP lounge and Bradley practically drags Jake aside. “Did you mean that?”

Jake tilts his head, all mock innocence. “Mean what?”

Bradley frowns. “The ring thing.”

Jake grins, impossibly smug. “I mean… what if I did? From fake boyfriends to fake husbands.”

Bradley stares at him. He wants to fight him. He wants to kiss him. He wants to go home and never speak to another person again.

Jake just pulls him toward their seats with a quiet, “Come on, future fake husband. Federer’s not gonna rise from the grave.”

“I hate you,” Bradley mutters, red to his ears.

But he sits next to him anyway.

And when Jake laces their fingers together just before the match starts, Bradley doesn’t pull away.

The game starts. There’s tension in the air, polite applause, champagne in crystal flutes, strawberries in tiny porcelain bowls. Tennis. Prestige. British decorum.

Bradley? Bradley does not care.

He leans over, eyes wide, and whispers,“Jake. Jake. That’s Zendaya. Jake.”

Jake doesn’t even look up from the court. “Yes. That’s Zendaya. Breathe.”

“She’s so pretty. She’s unreal. That’s not a human woman. That’s a god-tier hologram.”

Jake finally glances over. Bradley is full-on starstruck, barely paying attention to the match. “You’re drooling.”

“I respect her with my whole soul.”

Jake snorts. “Should I be worried?”

“I would leave you for her.”

Jake raises a brow. “You already left me emotionally at the blue door keychain. This is just betrayal on betrayal.”

Bradley doesn’t hear a word. He’s scanning the rows like he’s on safari. His eyes widen again. “Oh my God. Emma Stone. Jake, it’s Emma Stone. ”

“Bradley.”

“I need you to understand something, I watched Easy A fifteen times during finals week. She’s the reason I passed engineering. She is my lifeline . ”

Jake’s laughing now. Fully laughing. “You’re at Wimbledon. Do you even know who’s playing?”

“No,” Bradley says instantly. “No I don’t.”

He gasps again. “IS THAT HUGH GRANT?”

Jake leans back in his chair, beaming like Bradley is the real match. “My boyfriend’s embarrassing,” he tells the stranger next to them, who chuckles in agreement.

“I’m cultured!” Bradley hisses. “This is cinema royalty. I grew up on Notting Hill and Love Actually and the blue door, Jake.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jake says, sipping his champagne. “And I flew you here in a helicopter and gave you free designer sneakers and let you massage me with lotion. But please, tell me more about Hugh Grant’s emotional impact on your life.”

Bradley gasps again and grabs Jake’s arm. “They’re making eye contact. Emma and Zendaya. They’re communicating. Oh my God are they friends—”

Jake loses it. He’s wheezing now, leaning into Bradley, his champagne sloshing dangerously.

“You’re a menace,” he laughs. 

Bradley shrugs. “You knew what you signed up for.”

Jake turns to look at him, really look at him. His cheeks are pink from the sun, hair tousled from the wind, sunglasses perched on his nose . And he's smiling—full-on, wide, no sarcasm, no walls.

Jake forgets the score. Forgets the match.

Because here’s Bradley, loudly whispering about Zendaya’s earrings and how he’d commit murder to see her and Florence Pugh do something, anything together.

Jake leans over and kisses his cheek. “You’re my favorite part of this entire day.”

Bradley pauses. Looks at him.

Then grins, slow and stupid.

“You’re just saying that ‘cause I know how to fly a helicopter.”

“Shut up,” Jake mutters, laughing again.

And for the rest of the match, Jake watches the court but only out of the corner of his eye.

The real game is next to him. In sunglasses and awe.

The game ends and Bradley has spent more time looking at famous people than the game, and well, what was Jake supposed to do other than looking at Bradley?

They try to leave like normal people.

They do not succeed.

The crowd around the exit has doubled. Jake waves at someone like a congressman kissing babies and Bradley mutters, “We should’ve faked a medical emergency.”

Jake shrugs, sunglasses on, one hand resting lazily on Bradley’s lower back. “Just accept it. You’re a public figure now.”

“I was an engineering major yesterday.”

“Now you’re mine , and also a little bit London’s.”

Bradley glares at him. “I’m fakely yours. Stop enjoying this.”

Jake grins, leaning closer. “Can’t. You’re too cute when you’re pretending not to like the attention.”

They make it to the car eventually, but Jake veers left into the gift shop.

Bradley grabs his arm. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” Jake counters, already plucking things off shelves. “We’re not leaving without souvenirs.”

“We already have the keychain.”

“I need more.”

“No one needs a Wimbledon-themed teddy bear.”

Jake holds up said bear. “This one’s holding a tiny tennis racket, Bradshaw. Have some respect.”

Bradley sighs and follows him like a man being dragged into war. Jake’s tossing things into a basket—mugs, overpriced hats, novelty socks and the bear—like he’s prepping for apocalypse in tennis merch form.

Then he spots the visors.

“Jake,” Bradley warns.

Jake’s already grabbing two. “Pick a color.”

“No.”

Jake holds up a white one with gold stitching and Bradley embroidered across the front. “Too late.”

“Absolutely not—”

“Too late.”

Bradley looks down. Jake is also holding a pink visor that says Jake’s Boy in loopy script.

“No.”

Jake’s eyes sparkle. “Yes.”

And somehow, somehow, Bradley ends up walking out of Wimbledon wearing the damn thing. Jake has his matching one, Jake Seresin™ stitched in obnoxious capital letters. People take photos. A little girl asks if they’re famous. Bradley says “God, I hope not.”

By the time they’re in the car, Bradley’s melting into the seat, defeated.

Jake’s practically glowing. “Admit it. We look amazing.”

“I look like I lost a bet.”

“You look like you just became London’s sweetheart.”

Bradley turns his visor around backwards and slouches deeper into the seat. “I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”

Jake grins, leaning in. “I’ll die in a matching visor.”

And when they get back to the hotel, Bradley forgets to take his off for over an hour.

They’re curled up on the couch in the suite—legs tangled, leftover strawberries on the coffee table, Bradley’s pink Jake’s Boy visor hanging off the armrest like a threat. The Wimbledon high is still clinging to the air, buzzing soft and sweet.

Jake’s scrolling through photos on his phone, making fun of every single one Bradley’s in.

“This one?” he says, zooming in. “You look like a scared Victorian child seeing a camera for the first time.”

Bradley kicks his shin. “You’re lucky I’m too full of overpriced strawberries to fight.”

Jake chuckles and leans in, rests his head briefly against Bradley’s shoulder.

It’s quiet for a beat too long.

And then Jake says, soft, almost hesitant, “We’re going back tomorrow morning.”

Bradley stills.

“Oh,” he says, a little too quickly. “Right.”

Jake pulls back to look at him, expression unreadable behind the sunglasses still perched on his head like a crown. “I figured I’d tell you now so you don’t murder me when the jet shows up at 9 A.M.”

Bradley nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Makes sense.”

But it feels like something inside him deflates. The little vacation bubble they’ve been floating in—soft light, stolen kisses, celebrity sightings, helicopter joyrides—it’s all about to pop.

He doesn’t say anything for a while.

Jake does.

“You okay?”

Bradley shrugs, voice low. “It just felt… different here.”

Jake tilts his head. “Different how?”

Bradley gestures around the room vaguely. “I don’t know.”

Jake watches him.

“And now we go back and it’s…” Bradley sighs. “Pretending we’re fake-dating in front of the others.”

Jake nudges his knee. “We are fake-dating.”

Bradley rolls his eyes. “That’s not the part I’m sad about.”

Jake’s quiet for a second, then says, “You know I’d stay if I could.”

Bradley looks down. “I know.”

Another beat.

Jake shifts a little closer, rests his chin on Bradley’s shoulder and murmurs, “This doesn’t have to be our only trip.”

Bradley snorts. “You gonna jet me off to another continent every time I get sad?”

Jake hums. “Maybe. But next time, you pick.”

Bradley raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Jake nods. “Anywhere.”

There’s a pause.

“…Texas,” Bradley says finally, like it’s a dare.

Jake grins. “Done.”

“You don’t even know which part.”

“I don’t care if it’s a gas station in Amarillo,” Jake says, like it’s law. “If you’re there, I’m there.”

Bradley tries not to react. Fails spectacularly. “That’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said.”

Jake kisses his cheek instead of answering.

Bradley leans into him, eyes fluttering shut, already dreading the flight tomorrow but a little less afraid of what comes after.

Because Jake said next time.

And Jake never says anything he doesn’t mean.

-

New York smells different.

Less like strawberries and champagne, more like hot pavement and delivery pizza and a city that never shuts the hell up.

But somehow, it still feels kind of… nice.

Bradley stretches as they step into Jake’s penthouse, shoulders cracking dramatically. “I think my soul is still in London.”

Jake kicks his shoes off. “Mine’s somewhere over the Atlantic with the last of the jet's sandwiches.” He  yawns as he toes open the suitcase. “I hate this part.”

“What, the unpacking?”

“No, the part where reality punches you in the face and you still have to fold laundry.”

Bradley chuckles. “Can’t relate. I’m just here to make fun of your sock collection.”

Jake throws a rolled-up pair at his head.

They settle into a lazy rhythm—clothes tossed into separate piles, travel-worn shirts, a few too many hotel lotions Bradley “accidentally” packed, and—

“Is this… is this a napkin?”

Bradley holds it up. It’s crumpled and scribbled on in sharpie.

Jake blinks. “Oh. Right. That’s Hugh Grant’s fake autograph. You were too scared to ask him, so I forged one for you.”

Bradley stares at it. Then bursts out laughing. “You’re so full of shit.”

Jake bows. “You’re welcome.”

There’s more silence. Comfortable. Bradley’s folded a T-shirt in the shape of a triangle. Jake’s re-packing a short that smells too much like London to deal with right now.

And then Bradley finds it.

The pink visor. Still with the tag on. Still offensive to the eyes.

He holds it up like it’s a weapon. 

Jake doesn’t even look up. “That’s couture.”

“It says Jake’s Boy. ”

“You say that like it’s not true.”

Bradley tosses it at him and Jake catches it one-handed, smug like always.

Bradley rolls his eyes and turns to hang up his shirt—only to hear the click of a camera behind him.

He turns.

Jake’s holding his phone, grinning.

“Did you just—”

“You looked domestic.”

Bradley doesn’t know what to say to that. He swallows around something warm, something sticky in his throat.

He pulls out the bear next, holding its tiny tennis racket. He places it gently on Jake’s bookshelf.

Jake watches him do it.

And something shifts.

The air softens. Stretches.

Jake clears his throat. “I liked it better when it was just us.”

Bradley doesn’t look up. “Yeah. Me too.”

They don’t say anything for a moment.

Then Jake bumps his shoulder lightly. “We could make dinner.”

Bradley finally looks at him. “What?”

“I have pasta.”

“Pasta and what?”

“…Pasta.”

Bradley sighs. “I’m gonna regret staying here, aren’t I?”

Jake grins, wide and toothy. “Only every second you fall in love with me.”

Bradley opens his mouth to snap back but doesn’t .

Because maybe he is. Just a little.

And maybe Jake knows it.

So instead he says, “Only if I get to keep the bear.”

Jake shrugs. “It’s already yours.”

They end up cooking together in Jake’s kitchen that smells like tomato sauce now.

Bradley is chopping garlic,  hair still messy from the plane, when Jake holds up his phone.

“Smile.”

Bradley doesn’t even look up. “No.”

Jake takes the picture anyway.

Click.

“Delete that,” Bradley mutters.

“Nope,” Jake says, already tapping through filters. “You look hot. It’s unsettling.”

Bradley rolls his eyes and keeps chopping. “You’re not even using your phone.”

“I like the surprise,” Jake says. “One day you’ll open your camera roll and discover it’s 90% me.”

Bradley glances up, exasperated, but can’t quite hide the little grin tugging at his lips. “You’re the worst.”

Jake leans against the counter, flicking through photos on Bradley’s phone like it’s his own. “Counterpoint: I am the best.”

Click.

Another photo this time of Bradley reaching for the olive oil, shirt riding up just a little. Jake hums in approval.

“I will punch you.”

“You’re adorable when you threaten violence.”

Bradley throws a dishtowel at him.

They keep moving around each other, slipping into an easy rhythm—Jake stirring sauce, Bradley boiling pasta, their hips bumping every few minutes like they’re planets stuck in orbit.

At one point, Jake pulls Bradley toward him just to kiss the side of his neck.

“Can I help you?” Bradley asks, breath catching.

Jake grins, arms still loosely wrapped around him. “You were just standing there. Existing. I got overwhelmed.”

Bradley smiles despite himself.

Click.

This time, Jake flips the camera and takes a selfie his face pressed dramatically against Bradley’s cheek, Bradley mid-glare and holding a spoon like a weapon.

“Let me see—” Bradley tries to grab the phone, but Jake darts away, laughing.

“You’ll thank me one day!” 

Bradley goes back to stirring. “You’re insane.”

Bradley frowns when he doesn’t hear Jake say something, he looks over and Jake is still holding his phone but with a weird look now. 

Bradley stops stirring, and gets closer to Jake.

“What?”

Jake doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s still staring at the phone in his hand like it’s just delivered the final blow. His voice is thin and tight. “Thomas Kazansky just sent you ten grand?”

Bradley’s blood drains from his face. The world tilts.

His ears ring. His heart jackhammers. His soul feels like it just abandoned his body.

Fuck.

He takes a step forward, mouth opening, brain scrambling. He was going to tell Jake. He meant to. Just  not like this.

“Please tell me that’s not Admiral Kazansky,” Jake says, still quiet, but it’s the kind of quiet that comes right before a scream. “The COMFLT. The one whose name made you go stiff when I brought up the Fourth of July. That Kazansky.”

Bradley’s voice catches in his throat. When it finally comes out, it’s hoarse, barely above a whisper. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Jake laughs, but it sounds more like breaking. “You said you didn’t want my money if there was sex involved,” he says, and the words are jagged, sharp like glass. “So what, were you getting it from someone else?”

Bradley flinches. Shame hits him like a slap.

“God, no, ” he breathes, moving closer. “No, baby— . ”

The word slips out before he can stop it. Baby.

But Jake doesn’t even blink.

He just stares at him like he’s a stranger. “Who the fuck is Thomas Kazansky,” he growls, “and why is he sending you ten thousand dollars on a fucking Thursday?”

It’s all right there. Everything. The truth curls and claws at the back of Bradley’s throat. His papers being pulled. The Academy. Maverick. Ice. The men who raised him. The men who tried to make up for a debt that couldn’t be paid.

But it won’t come out.

He can’t breathe.

Jake is still spiraling. “Are you fucking him?” he demands, voice breaking. “Is that why you bailed on the Fourth? Because you didn’t want to see your sugar daddy in uniform?”

Bradley sees red .

“Shut up,” he snaps. His hand flies out, snatching the phone from Jake’s grip like it burned him. “You have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Oh yeah?” Jake’s laugh is manic now, frantic. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been spreading your legs for whoever cuts the biggest check—”

Bradley’s hand shakes . His entire body is vibrating with rage.

Enough.

He steps back, breathing hard through his nose, trying not to lose it. Not to scream.

Jake moves like he’s going to follow, grabbing his arm.

“You’re leaving?” he says, stunned. “What the fuck—”

Bradley yanks away, venom in his voice. “You’re a fucking asshole,” he snarls. “You walk around like you’ve got everyone figured out, like you’re the golden boy , but you’re just a bored little rich kid who only knows how to play pretend.”

Jake’s face goes still. Too still. The color drains from it in an instant.

“You are not your father’s dream, Seresin,” Bradley says, low and poisonous. “You’re just a fucking shadow trying to shine.”

Silence settles between them.

Jake’s voice comes out flat. Emotionless. Cold as winter.

“You should go.”

Bradley hesitates for half a second.

Then he turns, jaw clenched so hard it hurts, and walks out the door without another word.

The door shuts like a gunshot.

-

He walks.

Blocks blur. Light and shadow stretch across the sidewalk, warping into things that aren’t real. He keeps his head down and his fists clenched. If he stops now, he knows he’ll break into pieces.

By the time he makes it back to the apartment, his legs ache and his throat is raw and he feels like he’s been hollowed out from the inside.

He opens the door.

The sound hits him first—warm laughter, forks scraping against plates, someone teasing Tony for being a food snob. Natasha, he thinks distantly, is arguing about wine again.

He steps inside, and someone calls out, “Hey! London’s golden boy returns—”

Then the voices die.

Bradley doesn't say anything. He kicks off his shoes without meeting a single eye.

“Jesus,” Tony mutters. “What the hell happened?”

But Bradley’s already halfway to the hallway when Natasha stands. 

“Bradley.”

He pauses.

She crosses to him slowly, then stops right in front of him. Her voice drops. “What happened?”

He doesn’t look at her. Just says, rough and flat, “It’s over.”

“What is?”

He lifts his gaze to hers, eyes bloodshot and wet around the edges. His voice is paper-thin.

“Me and Jake.” Jesus, was there even Bradley and Jake?

A stunned silence follows.

Someone mutters, “That didn’t last long.”

Bradley flinches. Natasha shoots Steve a warning glance and leads him by the wrist to the couch. “Sit,” she says and he does. He feels so fucking tired.

She crouches in front of him, eyes searching his face.

“Talk to me.”

He swallows. Breathes. Then, quietly he says,  “He saw a bank notification. From Ice.”

Natasha stiffens.

“Ten grand. I didn’t even know it came in. And Jake—he didn’t know about Ice. About any of it. I never told him. Ice sends money every mont, you guys know. I just—fuck. I didn’t tell him any of it.”

“Why not?”

Bradley lets out a hollow laugh. “Because I didn’t want to be someone with a sob story. I didn’t want to make him pity me. I didn’t want him to look at me like I was broken.”

She says nothing, just lets the silence hold the weight.

“I thought—if I kept the good parts, the now parts, maybe it would be enough. But he saw that name and assumed the worst. Thought I was being kept by a man old enough to be my dad.” He closes his eyes. “Which, I guess—”

“Bradley.”

He opens his eyes.

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“I didn’t explain it. I didn’t stop him. I froze. I let him think whatever the fuck he wanted and then I got mad. I said things I didn’t mean. I hurt him. He said awful things too, Jesus, he asked if I was fucking Ice.”

Natasha reaches up and tugs his hand gently down. “He loves you. He got scared.”

“Not sure about that.”

“Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t write the ending before you’ve had the conversation.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then he asks, very softly, “Do you think he hates me now?”

Natasha’s answer is instant. “No.”

Bradley nods. Then again, slower.

Then his voice cracks. “I think I might’ve fucked it up too bad to fix.”

Natasha exhales and rests her forehead against his, grounding him. Her voice is just above a whisper.

“Then you better start trying now.”

Bradley nods.

-

Jake hasn’t moved in hours.

The kitchen smells like burnt garlic. The sauce on the stove went bitter long ago, forgotten mid-simmer. A pot sits cold on an unlit burner. The bottle of wine is still uncorked.

He’s sitting on the floor. 

His phone has buzzed a few times. Messages from his assistant. From his father. From some asshole at Lockheed about next quarter projections. He hasn’t opened a single one.

All he can hear is Bradley’s voice.

You don’t know what you’re talking about.
You’re just a bored rich guy trying to be daddy’s golden child.

God, it had cut like a blade. So fast. So mean. So fucking final.

And Jake—Jake had asked for it, hadn’t he?

He rubs his face with both hands. His eyes sting. His chest feels like someone poured concrete into it and told him to breathe.

He keeps replaying the moment. The name.

Thomas Kazansky.

Admiral fucking Kazansky. The same guy he’d met a few times—shook hands with at charity balls. The guy Jake’s dad practically worshipped. The guy Bradley refused to talk about on the Fourth of July, going silent like someone pulled the air from the room.

Jake thought he was being dramatic. That maybe it was an old grudge. A bad memory.

He hadn’t expected this.

He hadn’t expected ten grand to drop out of nowhere. A bank notification flashing like a spotlight onto a secret Jake never even saw coming.

He hadn’t expected to feel so fucking stupid.

He doesn’t even care about the money.

Jake would’ve given him the world if he’d just asked. If he’d explained.

But all he got was silence. Half-truths. That shattered look on Bradley’s face right before he walked out.

Jake presses his palms into his eyes and tips his head back against the fridge.

He misses him.

Already.

God, he misses him.

Jake’s chest twists.

They hadn’t even said goodbye.

-

Bradley shows up at Jake’s building just after eight.

The doorman gives him a look—neutral, professional, but not blank. The kind that says I saw you last night, sprinting out like your heart was on fire.

It was. It still is.

“Hi,” Bradley rasps, unsure if his voice even works. “I’m here to see Jake.”

The man straightens behind the desk. “Good morning, Mr. Bradshaw. Mr. Seresin left just a few minutes ago.”

Bradley blinks. He should’ve been faster. 

“Oh,” he manages.

There’s a beat. Then the doorman’s voice softens—pity bending the edge of it. “He said he was going to The Peninsula for breakfast.”

Bradley could kiss him. Could fall apart right here and cry at his shoes. But he doesn’t. He just nods, thanks him, and bolts again.

He runs.

God, he runs.

The early New York morning is brisk, his lungs ache from last night’s shouting and this morning’s silence, and his heart won’t stop jackhammering in his chest like it’s trying to warn him: Don’t be too late. Don’t fuck this up more than you already have.

He barely hears the city as it wakes. Horns blare. Birds chatter. His shoes hit pavement like gunfire, and all he can think is: I have to fix this.

Because whatever Jake believes—about Ice, about the money, about him—Bradley can’t let it end like this. Not with that cold voice. Not with those wide, heartbroken eyes. Not when he never even got the words out.

He bursts through the revolving doors of The Peninsula, messy and breathless and far too underdressed for this place.

“Hi,” he gasps to the host, who gives him a sharp once-over.

“I’m—um—Jake Seresin. I mean, I’m with Jake Seresin. Kind of.”

The man blinks, confused—then his expression clears.

“Oh. Mr. Bradshaw, yes. Of course. Right this way.”

He shouldn’t be relieved that they recognize him but he is. Small mercies.

He follows the host through the restaurant—polished marble floors, soft jazz playing, warm sunlight filtering in like gold.

And then he sees him.

Jake.

Seated at a corner table, laughing.

Not just smiling. Laughing.

His head is thrown back. That gorgeous dimple is on full display. He’s glowing, stupidly golden in the morning light, like a scene out of a movie that ends happily.

Bradley stops. The world slows.

There are four people at the table. Two women in tailored blazers, sipping orange juice. And one man Bradley recognizes instantly.

The too-perfect hair. The watch that costs more than Bradley’s rent. The soft, casual touch on Jake’s wrist as he leans in close.

Van der something .

Jake’s ex.

Oh.

Oh.

The sound of laughter bubbles from the table again—Jake’s laugh, low and warm, like Bradley’s never heard it before.

And Bradley just… stands there.

Frozen.

His chest clenches so hard he nearly doubles over. The pain is dull and sharp all at once, like a memory of a wound he didn’t know he had.

Jake leans forward, saying something that makes the whole table grin.

And Bradley—

Bradley feels nothing and everything .

Like he’s falling down an elevator shaft lined with glass.

He had come to fight. To explain. To bleed if he had to.

He had come to say he was sorry, that he was scared, that he didn’t know how to let someone know him without tearing himself apart first.

But Jake—

Jake is laughing .

Jake didn’t even wait .

The host turns to gesture toward the table, but Bradley catches his wrist mid-motion. Shakes his head, eyes never leaving the man across the room.

“Change of plans,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Then he walks out. Fast. Before Jake can see. Before he can make it worse.

One minute, he was staring at Jake laughing like nothing had happened—like nothing had ever happened—and the next, he was outside, stumbling down the sidewalk like he’d been punched in the gut.

His ears are ringing.

His heart is pounding, but it’s not from running anymore.

It’s from the hollow ache sitting behind his ribs. That crushing thing that comes right after hope dies. The quiet kind of pain that doesn’t even bother to scream it just settles.

He ends up in some alley behind the hotel. Not glamorous. Not even clean. But it’s the first place where he’s out of sight, and that’s all he needs.

He presses his back to the wall and slides down, knees drawn up, palms covering his face.

It hits him in waves.

He should’ve said something sooner.

He should’ve told Jake everything from the beginning—about Ice and Mav, about the years of grief he wears like a second skin. About how he wasn’t fucking anyone for money, about how he never wanted Jake for the cash, not after everything , about how he was terrified of being known because no one ever stayed.

He’s some half-dressed kid shaking in a back alley while Jake Seresin sips coffee with his fucking ex-boyfriend and probably laughs about Bradley.

His throat burns. His chest is so tight he feels like he’s suffocating.

God, he’s so fucking stupid.

He knew this would happen. He knew people like Jake didn’t stay with people like him. Jake was golden, confident. And Bradley—

Bradley is what’s left over. Bradley is too intense. Too sensitive. Too angry. He carries ghosts in his pockets and calls it loyalty.

He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, hard. Like he can keep the tears in by force.

For one second—for one breath of a moment—he really thought someone like Jake Seresin could see all his broken edges and still choose him.

But that’s not how the world works.

Bradley knows that. He’s known it since he was ten years old and his mom didn’t come home from the hospital.

And still—he hoped.

It’s not about how you fall , he thinks, it’s how you land.

And well, Bradley had always been good at crashing.

He crashes, not for the first time, but maybe for the hardest.

Notes:

they're tragic aren't they :')

Chapter 7: Here's how it goes, being in love

Notes:

TW : bad copying mechanism, mention of alcohol, smoking, throwing up, very brief mention of being drugged, Alex being an asshole and a tiny punch
everything is very brief, not descriptive but just giving u guys a heads up!

Here’s how it goes, trying to pretend Jake Noah Seresin never existed.

It starts stupidly with Bradley standing in front of his wardrobe like he’s staring at a crime scene.

The closet is full. Fuller than it’s ever been. A jarring contrast against the life he used to live—practical, small, secondhand. Everything he owned once fit in a duffel bag.

Now?

Now there are suits that cost more than his rent, linen shirts that still smell like him , and shorts tailored for yachting—fucking yachting . Every piece carefully hung, nestled like it belonged.

They don’t.

They never did.

He feels it in his bones, in the hollowness in his chest. These clothes aren’t his, they’re ghosts. Gifts. Lies. They look wrong here, too polished for his crooked old IKEA wardrobe that’s been missing a handle since 2023.

So, sometime past midnight, when the silence in the apartment grows teeth, Bradley makes a decision.

If he’s going to pretend Jake never happened—he needs to start here .

He pulls the clothes down one by one like he’s performing some sterile, necessary procedure.

He folds each item neatly and places them on the floor.

Soft stacks of regret.

For a brief second he thinks about lighting the whole pile on fire.  He imagines watching it all burning. Smoke curling from silken threads. A funeral pyre for everything he didn’t mean to feel.

Then he thinks about dropping it at a thrift store. Let someone else inherit the lie.

Bradley wants Jake to have it back. Every shirt, every pair of pants, every goddamn button. He wants Jake to open the box and see the emptiness. See what it means to give and take and lose someone.

He finds a cardboard box in the corner of the hall closet. Close enough to clean.  He begins to pack the pieces away. And with each item, another memory bleeds through,

The jacket from the gala, the first night they’d stepped into the world pretending. When Jake had whispered “you clean up nice” in his ear like it meant something.  Bradley has to stop and press his palms against it because it feels like holding fire.

The pale pink shirt from that goddamn baby shower. Sticky cake fingers, champagne, Jake’s stupid smile, Bradley’s heart had folded neatly in half that day and he hadn’t even noticed.

Shorts that hugged his thighs a little too well, for the yacht. Jake had joked about buying one. Said they’d name it B.S ‘because it’s funny cowboy, our initials mean bullshit. we are a match made in heaven.’

Bradley huffs a bitter laugh through his nose. Folds them anyway.

Then he finds them .

The ones from that night .

The night Jake had said “stay” and meant it. The night he painted wings on Bradley’s bare back. The night they touched like it wasn’t fake. Like maybe—maybe—it never had been.

Bradley holds the shirt to his chest and closes his eyes.  He can still feel the brush of the paintbrush, Jake’s hand steady, his voice low, joking about angels. About flying. About how Bradley was already halfway there .

He feels a phantom pain where wings used to be.

He stumbles to sit on the edge of the bed, shirt clutched in his hands, lungs refusing to work properly. His body feels wrong. Empty. Like it was built for something that never arrived.

He breathes. Deep. Shaky.

Fuck it.

He shoves the shirt and shorts into his drawer. Jake won’t notice. Hell, Jake probably won’t even open the box. He’ll have someone else throw it away by some assistant. 

Bradley tells himself it doesn’t matter.

Jake had made it clear.

Fine.

Take your suits, Jake. Take your labels, your tailored promises, your perfect-fucking-life.

He tapes the box shut with the kind of aggression that should’ve made more noise than it does. The sound feels final.

He walks out to the kitchen for water, but the moment he steps in, he’s slapped with cold .

Artificial cold. Jake’s cold.

The AC hums softly in the corner, just like it did the first day it was installed. Tony’s passed out on the couch, limbs everywhere. Natasha’s on the floor like a corpse.

They both run hot. They’re probably thrilled.

Bradley hates it.

Hates the way it chills his skin. Hates the sound. Hates the implication—that Jake wanted him comfortable. That he cared enough to fix things. That it wasn’t just about the performance.

The clock reads 2:46 A.M.

He lights a cigarette on the fire escape. Watches the city glow, listens to it breathe.

But his eyes keep drifting back to the unit.That stupid, quiet hum.

He storms inside, opens a drawer, finds a screwdriver and by 3:10 A.M., he’s on a chair, dismantling the AC like it insulted him personally.

He takes it apart screw by screw, delicate as surgery. Controlled. Careful not to wake anyone. 

“Bradley?” Natasha’s voice breaks the silence.“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Taking the AC.”

“It’s three a.m.”

“I know.”

“You’re insane.”

He doesn’t argue.

“It’s almost September,” she says, voice quieter now. “It’ll get cooler. We could’ve just turned it off.”

He doesn’t reply. Fuck, is it already end of August? He realizes for the first time how he spent all his summer with Jake. Oh God.

She shifts on the floor and really looks at him. “Is this because of—”

“Don’t,” Bradley cuts in.

God bless her heart, she doesn’t.

He finishes the job. Carries the unit down the stairs, leaves it by the curb.  Doesn’t look back.

By 4:00 A.M., he’s on Steve’s motorcycle, box strapped on the back. The streets are empty. The sky is bleeding dark-blue into pale gray.

He pulls up to the penthouse, engine still humming.

The concierge squints at him, barely awake.

“This is for Jake,” Bradley says, shoves the box into his hands, and walks away.

When he gets back home, the sky is pink and gold and far too gentle for the ache in his chest.

He climbs the fire escape again. Sits down. Lights a cigarette.

And as the city yawns awake below him, he whispers Jake’s name in his mind one last time—and crosses it out. Just like he did with Maverick and Ice.

He doesn’t look at the drawer where the shirt and shorts still wait.

Doesn’t touch the spot on his back where wings used to live.

He just smokes, and breathes, and ignores the pain of crashing. 

Had he mentioned that he had always been better at it than flying?

-

Here’s how it goes trying to forget Jake Noah Seresin.

Bradley goes back to the café like it never happened.  Like there was never a gala, never a jet, never a man who looked at him like he was worth something. He ties the same old apron around his waist and pastes on the same tight smile he’s been wearing since college. 

He takes the morning shifts, the evening shifts, the what-the-fuck-why-is-the-shop-even-open shifts. If someone needs coverage, he volunteers before they finish the sentence.

The sound of the espresso machine becomes his new heartbeat—loud, mechanical, constant. Better than silence. Better than the memory of Jake’s voice calling him sweetheart or cowboy.

The world doesn’t pause just because he got his heart smashed in silence.

So he moves. He works.

A lot.

Two jobs, three if you consider the few times he tutors newbies before college starts. It’s not about money, and it should be hilarious. This whole shit show started because of money, and ended because of it too.

It’s about not thinking, not having the time to think.

Because when he slows down, the grief returns in cruel little flashes, the corner table at the café where Jake once waited for him, sunglasses on, sipping coffee like he owned the world.

He starts eating less. Not on purpose. Not at first. It’s just, well, coffee keeps him upright, and cigarettes fill the gaps. He forgets meals the same way he forgets to sleep. And when Natasha or Tony or Bob tries to ask, he changes the subject or leaves the room. He hasn’t spent much time with his friends either. They don’t talk about Jake. It’s a quiet agreement sealed in shared glances and too-loud silences.

He becomes a ghost of himself.

There’s a moment, one evening, when a customer calls him “Brad” , and he startles.

Because for a full second, he expected “sweetheart.”

And that, more than anything, wrecks him.

He doesn't cry. He just clocks out early and walks home in the rain without an umbrella.  Let it soak him. Let it cleanse.

He doesn't check his phone anymore, doesn’t wait for messages that won't come.

He deletes Jake’s contact, then, later that night, redials it from memory just to make sure he knows it.

His thumb hovers over it.

He doesn’t press call.

-

Here’s how it goes, getting a glimpse of Jake Noah Seresin.

It starts like any other morning.

Bradley gets up before the sun, pulls on yesterday’s shirt from the back of the chair, and scrubs a toothbrush across his teeth like it owes him money. He doesn’t look in the mirror. He hasn’t for days. The face that stares back has bags under its eyes, jaw too sharp, a haunted look that no longer belongs to him.

He walks to the café half-awake. The wind burns his cheeks raw. He doesn’t mind. It’s the only sensation that feels real these days.

At the shop, it’s the same story: machines hiss, milk steams, orders fly. His hands move without needing permission—grind, tamp, pour, repeat. Customers smile at him with vague politeness and he smiles back, mechanical and hollow. They don’t see him.

No one does.

But there was once a time-shut up.

That’s fine.

That’s better.

Bradley has made a home out of the numb. It wraps around him like a weighted blanket soaked in gasoline.

It happens on day twelve.

The clock ticks past ten. The morning rush has thinned out, and Bradley is hunched behind the counter, restocking sugar packets, when he hears it.

“Oh my god,” someone says behind him, barely trying to whisper. “Look. It’s Jake Seresin and Alex Van der Woodsen . ”

His spine doesn’t stiffen. His shoulders don’t flinch. His heart doesn’t drop.

Alex.

It’s a name he hasn’t heard in months but still registers like a slap.

He hears a giggle. A rustle of a magazine page being turned. The girls near the front are talking animatedly now, oblivious. Bradley doesn’t mean to look. He doesn’t. But his eyes flick up—just once—and land on it.

A tabloid. Bright yellow headlines. A photo.

And there he is.

Jake.

Jake, in sunglasses and a jacket, standing next to Alex in some high-rise balcony garden. Champagne in hand, dimples unnatural, smile dazzling and public. His arm rests casually on Alex’s waist like it belongs there.

Alex is laughing, head thrown back, lips parted like he just heard the world’s funniest joke.

The caption underneath reads:

Back on? Jake Seresin and Alex Van Der Woodsen rekindle sparks in Capri.

There’s another picture. Jake whispering something into Alex’s ear. Bradley stares at it like it’s a knife in his palm.

He doesn’t bleed, but he can feel the sting.

The espresso machine hisses violently behind him, and someone calls for a refill, but all he can hear is static.

He doesn’t move.

His hands—once steady, trained—start shaking.

Jake.
Jake.
Jake.

It was never supposed to mean anything, he reminds himself. They were fake. A performance. An arrangement. It was supposed to end. Clean. It had ended messy but still, it was always supposed to end.

He feels like someone just emptied a shotgun into his ribs.

He walks into the alley behind the café without asking for a break. Lights a cigarette with trembling fingers.

Then another.

Then another.

The fourth one burns too fast. He doesn’t care. He just needs the smoke to fill his lungs before the grief can.

His mind replays the image again and again—Jake’s hand, Jake’s mouth, Jake’s fucking smile. The one he used to wear for Bradley in quiet kitchens, during late nights on the couch, while whispering “You okay?”s and “Stay.”

He opens the warm can of beer left in his backpack from last night’s delivery shift and drinks like it’s water.

It tastes like shit. Perfect.

He presses his back against the brick wall and tilts his head toward the sky. It’s painfully blue. The kind of day Jake used to say was made for rooftop dancing.

He hates the sky that he used to love a little bit everyday.

By the time he drags himself home, he’s exhausted. His whole body buzzes from caffeine, nicotine, and heartbreak.

He opens the door and walks straight to the bathroom. The tub is empty. The light’s off. The mirror above the sink is cracked down one side.

Bradley climbs in fully clothed. The tub is cold. He lets it numb his spine.

He doesn’t even notice when Natasha walks in.

She takes one look at him, soaking through his hoodie and jeans in the tub, and sighs.

“You saw it,” she says. It’s not a question.

He shrugs.

She sits down on the floor beside him. Pulls out a lighter. Lights a joint. Doesn’t offer him one. Just breathes it in and passes it out into the air.

“I could stab him,” she offers. “I’d go full Brutus, the others will help.”

He lets out a hollow chuckle. “It’s not worth it.”

“No,” she agrees. “But you are.”

He doesn’t say anything to that.

Just closes his eyes and listens to the fan above them buzz like silence, like every moment Jake’s name has echoed through his brain in the past twelve days.

“You need to get your shit together,” Natasha says, passing him the joint.

Bradley takes it and wets his lips, “I’m good.”

Natasha’s fingers find his curls and Bradley closes his eyes one more time.

-

Here’s how it goes, trying to numb it all.

Bradley starts his final semester the same way you’d throw yourself into cold water:  fast, breathless, and praying you’ll feel something.

He signs up for too many credits. Keeps his mornings packed with calculus and his evenings with engineering lab reports he barely understands anymore. He takes elective classes he doesn’t need— philosophy of logic , urban planning in postcolonial economies —anything to make sure his brain doesn’t get a moment of quiet.

Because quiet is dangerous. Quiet makes room for Jake .

He’s back to eating at Fury’s almost every night. He tells himself it’s because it’s their routine, he spends most meals looking at the booth they sat with Jake. It hurts, in a way that he didn’t know was possible.

He doesn’t talk much during meals. Just listens. Smiles when the moment demands it. Laughs at Tony’s stupid impressions, plays with his straw wrapper while Bob argues with Steve about car insurance or thermodynamics or whatever stupid thing they’re on about that day.

They don’t ask questions anymore. Not out loud. Not since they saw his name in that magazine.

He has a beard now. Not a full, intentional one. It started as stubble when he stopped caring, then just never went away. He doesn’t shave, doesn’t trim. He barely looks at himself unless he’s brushing his teeth and even then, only in the corner of the mirror.

“You should shave,” Tony says randomly one night.

Bradley shrugs. “Maybe.”

“You look like a divorced dad,” Bob adds helpfully.

“Hot,” Natasha says. “I’d hit it.”

They laugh. So does Bradley.

Loud, even. Too loud.

No one points it out, but they all feel it, that kind of laugh that sounds like maybe it’s trying too hard to be a laugh.

His hair is also longer, curls unruly. Bob offered to cut it once. He declined.

His clothes are too big now. Not in a fashionable way. Just... loose. His college crewneck that used to fit, now swallowing him whole.

He looks like someone who used to be someone.

Once, in class, someone says something about wings—like a metaphor for growth, or whatever pretentious shit people say when they’re twenty-two and think they’ve felt everything.

And Bradley swallows.

Because he remembers what it felt like to have them. Painted on his back. Whispered into his skin.

His back hurts for a second.

-

Here’s how it goes, missing Jake Noah Seresin.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It’s not dramatic. Not cinematic. It’s not collapsing in the rain or screaming into pillows or calling his voicemail at two a.m.

No.

It’s slower than that.

Smaller.

It’s reaching for a second coffee mug in the morning without thinking.

It’s pausing outside a store window because there’s a pair of sunglasses that look too much like his .

It’s overhearing someone say “sweetheart” in the exact tone Jake used to use, and having to step out of the room before his knees give.

It’s muscle memory, missing him.

A thousand little reflexes that never got the memo he’s gone.

He misses him at the most inconvenient times.

At the grocery store, standing in front of the overpriced wine Jake always picked without looking at the label.

In the elevator, staring at the floor number Jake used to live on.

At 6:37 P.M., every day without fail, when Jake would text “done with work, dinner?” like they were just normal . Like Bradley wasn’t the luckiest idiot alive to have been folded into someone else’s orbit.

He misses his voice.

Which is stupid.

Because he wasn’t in love . Right?

But sometimes, in the middle of a lecture, something will echo in Jake’s cadence.
A sharp word. A sarcastic laugh. A southern lilt.

Bradley flinches.

Worse, sometimes he says something out loud, and it sounds like Jake .
Like all that time around him left fingerprints on his voice.

He misses the stupid shit most of all.

Jake asleep, arm slung over his chest, breath warm against his neck like a promise.

He doesn’t miss the wealth. The parties. The fake dating charade.

He misses Jake in pajamas. Jake in bare feet. Jake in between the spaces.

One night, he dreams of Jake.

He wakes up with his throat tight and his hands clutching the bedsheets like they can rewind time.

It’s not constant. The missing comes in waves. Soft ones, mostly.

But sometimes, it crashes.

Sometimes, he walks past a bakery and smells cinnamon and sees Jake smiling at him with paint on his hands and Bradley nearly falls to his knees right there in the street.

It passes.

Always does.

But god, does it hurts .

-

Here’s how it goes, loving Jake Noah Seresin.

It’s been nearly a month.

Four weeks. Three days.  Long enough that Bradley tells himself he’s okay. That he’s doing fine.

Because what else is he supposed to do?

He gets up in the morning. He goes to class. He turns in his assignments, applies for post-grad jobs, even replies to the email about that stupidly competitive internship he busted his ass to get. He smiles when his friends make jokes. He eats fries at Fury’s. He even laughs sometimes.

And yeah, sure. His appetite still sucks. The bags under his eyes haven’t disappeared so much as softened into something manageable. He still smokes too much. Still drinks too much on weekends he swears he’ll study through. But it’s okay.

His smile isn’t bleeding anymore. It’s scabbed over. Neat. Palatable.

This, he tells himself, is progress.

It’s what Bradley does best, survive.

Like everything else that’s ever happened to him, the love he felt for Jake leaves a mark—but not a mortal wound. He’s still breathing. Still standing. Still fighting for a version of the future where maybe he doesn't fall apart again.

It’ll pass. It always does.

God, he is a museum of every person who’s ever left him.

What a sad fucking bastard he is.

It all eventually crashes on a Friday.

It’s just past midnight, the world outside hushed in that way cities only are when everyone’s drunk or asleep or in love.

Bradley is sitting on the fire escape. His friends are at some party. He couldn’t bring himself to go. His ribs feel too tight tonight. The stars look like they’re laughing at him.

He lights a cigarette, flicks the ash into the night, and closes his eyes.

His phone buzzes.

He ignores it. Just exhales smoke. Watches it curl away like memory.

It buzzes again.

With a sigh, Bradley reaches into his hoodie pocket. He glances at the screen—and everything inside him goes still.

His heart stutters. He fumbles the cigarette, lets it fall somewhere into the street below.

The number doesn’t go away. It’s real. It’s glowing.

He answers the call before his brain catches up to his fingers.

He doesn’t say anything. He can’t .

But Jake does. Of course he does.

Some things never fucking change.

“Baby?” Jake slurs, voice crackling through the line like bad radio static. “Bradley?”

Bradley’s throat clenches. His heart skips. He nods before remembering Jake can’t see him.

“Jake?” he finally manages. His voice cracks on the name.

Jake exhales like it hurts. “Hi, baby.”

Bradley almost drops the phone. Jake sounds wrecked . Slow, slurry. The kind of drunk that isn’t safe.

“I missed ya,” Jake whispers like a confession. “I—fuck. I miss you.”

There’s music in the background. Loud. Bass-heavy. Someone laughing. Jake sounds so far away.

“Where are you?” Bradley says quietly, panic rising. 

“I don’t know,” Jake says, voice breaking. “Alex brought me somewhere and then he left with his friends and—Jesus, I think he gave me something. My heart’s all wrong. I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything. I miss you. Why’d you leave?”

Bradley sits up straight, chest clenching. “That fucking asshole—what did he give you?”

“I don’t know,” Jake whines. “My head hurts. Everything’s spinning. I—I don’t know where I am. Can you get me?”

The breath leaves Bradley in a rush. He feels like he’s fifteen again. Like it’s his first day flying solo and the engine's stalling.

Can he get Jake?

At midnight, from God knows where, when Jake is high, heart-skipping, in danger.

Yeah.

Yeah, he can.

“I need you to tell me where you are Jake,” Bradley says, grabbing Steve’s keys. “Okay? Just tell me where you are.”

“Don’t call me Jake.”

Bradley stops. “What?”

“You never call me Jake,” he hiccups. “What happened to the golden boy ?”

“Jesus Christ,” Bradley breathes, almost laughs— almost . “Jake, please.”

“You called me baby once,” Jake says, voice smaller than Bradley has ever heard it. “Can you do that again?”

Bradley’s at the end of his rope. “I swear to God, if you don’t tell me where you are—”

“Do you hate me?” Jake asks suddenly.

And Bradley’s whole body stills. Because Jake sounds like he’s crying. Like really crying.

“No,” Bradley whispers. “No. Of course not.”

There’s a long silence. Jake sniffles.

“Baby.” Bradley closes his eyes. It feels like dying. “Tell me where you are,” he says again. “Please.”

“Oh,” Jake breathes, sounding a little surprised. “Okay. I’m, uh—hold on. Hey!”

Bradley hears yelling. More music. A door opening.

“Alex! Where are we?” Jake asks, voice echoing.

Then Bradley hears it. That smug, punchable voice.

“Who are you talking to?” Alex sneers. “C’mon, follow me to the bathroom. I promised Chris you’d show him a good time.”

Bradley goes ice cold.

Jake snaps, “I don’t wanna—get the fuck off me!”

The line disconnects.

Bradley stares at the phone, breathing like he just sprinted ten miles.

“Fuck. Fuck. ”

He calls Javy.

No answer.

He texts once.

Where is he. Now.

Alex’s house. Van der Woodsen building on the 5th Avenue, 2 E 73rd Street. I’m on my way too.

He’s on the motorcycle before the screen dims.

And he rides like the devil’s on his heels.

Because he is.

And his name is Jake fucking Seresin.

And Bradley still loves him.

God help them both.

Bradley parks the motorcycle like he’s ready to fight God. The engine cuts and the silence that follows buzzes louder than anything. His heart pounds in his ears, his blood rushing so hot it could melt asphalt.

The lobby is empty. The security guy is either gone or smart enough to stay invisible.

He steps into the elevator and punches the top floor button like it personally offended him.

The ride up is agonizing. Too slow. Too clean. He can’t feel his fingers. Can’t stop clenching his jaw.

Jake’s voice plays on repeat in his head.

“I can’t hear my heart.”
“I miss you.”
“Do you hate me?”

Fuck.

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open.

And Bradley walks straight into hell.

The noise hits him like heat: a roaring, reckless kind of joy that only the rich can afford. Laughter, clinking glasses, the distant echo of a scream that might have been joy, or rage, or something in between. Everything smells like sweat and champagne and perfume too expensive for memory.

He moves through it like a current parting through water. People turn to look. Some recognize him immediately—the Wimbledon boy. Phones are already up. Someone says his name. He doesn’t hear it.

He needs to find Jake.

He turns around and—

Jake is near the far wall, framed by gold trim and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city. He’s crumpled into the corner like a lost child, knees bent awkwardly, his shirt half-unbuttoned and slipping off one shoulder. His hair is damp, messy, like he ran his hands through them too many times. His skin is flushed in the way that means too much alcohol or something worse. His eyes—dear God, his eyes—are blown wide and glassy, wet with something between panic and confusion.

He looks like he doesn’t know where he is. He looks like he’s trying to pretend he’s somewhere else.

And next to him, too close, touching him, is Alex Van der Woodsen.

His hand is on Jake’s wrist. His mouth is close to Jake’s ear. His smile is the kind that isn’t meant for company. It’s private and patronizing, smug and vile. Jake is trying to pull back, but he’s too slow, too dazed, his limbs moving like they’re underwater.

One second he’s frozen and the next, his hand is on Alex’s shoulder, yanking him backward with enough force to rip fabric, to startle the room into silence, and without even thinking, without speaking a word, he punches him.

It’s not clean. It’s not perfect but it’s enough to break the asshole’s nose.

A noise like bone meeting rage. Alex stumbles, crashing against the bar cart. Glass shatters. Someone screams.

The room shifts—gasps, flashes, the smell of blood and liquor in the air—but Bradley doesn’t care.

He is already turning to Jake.

“Jake,” he says, voice thick and low, like he’s saying a prayer.

Jake lifts his head slowly, blinking at the sound, and when their eyes meet—it’s like watching something break open. Jake crumbles. His mouth opens, a sob escaping before the word even forms.

“Bradley,” he breathes, and his body gives out as if just seeing him is too much.

Bradley catches him, one arm around his waist, the other cupping the back of his head. Jake clings to him with both hands fisted in his hoodie like he’s trying to climb inside him and disappear.

He’s trembling. He’s burning. His heartbeat is erratic and he’s crying, hot tears that soak into the fabric of Bradley’s hoodie. He smells like sweat and vodka and something chemical that Bradley doesn’t recognize.

“What the hell did he give you?” Bradley murmurs against his hair.

“I don’t know,” Jake sobs. “He said it would make everything quiet. I just wanted to stop— I just missed you so much .”

Bradley exhales like he’s been stabbed. He presses his lips to Jake’s temple, holds him tighter. His own hands are shaking now.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby.”

Jake makes a wrecked, aching sound that’s half relief and half surrender. “How can you call me that,” he says, words slurred, tears dripping off his chin. “Even now. Even after I—Bradley I’m so sorry.”

Bradley doesn’t answer. He just lifts Jake into his arms.

And somehow—through the phones and the whispers and the scandal waiting to bloom across the internet by morning—he carries him out like he’s sacred. Like none of them have the right to see this. Like Jake belongs to him, still, always.

In the elevator, Jake collapses against the wall, too heavy with whatever’s in his system to sit up straight. Bradley kneels in front of him, brushing his hair back from his face with trembling fingers.

“I’m sorry,” Jake says again, voice thin and breaking. “I didn’t think you’d come. I didn’t think you’d want me.”

“Don’t say that,” Bradley replies, his voice gentler than it has been in weeks. “You called. Of course I came.”

“I ruined everything,” Jake whispers. “Didn’t I?”

Bradley swallows hard, breath still shallow. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open with the quiet, clinical precision of something built far away from the kind of chaos they just left behind.

Jake shifts against him, eyes glassy, head lolling slightly against Bradley’s shoulder.

Bradley mutters, “Okay, okay, come on,” and wraps his arm tighter around Jake’s waist, guiding him gently—carefully—out of the elevator. Jake stumbles once, and Bradley’s grip instinctively tightens.

He’s so warm. Too warm. Unsteady. Quiet now, in a way that’s terrifying.

For a second, Bradley wonders if this is a mistake. If he should take him to a hospital. If there’s something in his bloodstream that isn’t just alcohol, something darker.
His chest feels tight with it—with the fear, with the guilt, with the unbearable tenderness of loving someone this much while watching them unravel.

And then—

“Jakey!”

Bradley exhales, like the world remembers how to turn.

Javy is standing in the lobby, keys in hand, face drawn with worry and fury and pure, unrelenting relief.

Jake perks up at the sound, eyes going glassy with recognition. “Hey Javy,” he says, a broken smile stretching across his face. “Bradley came.”

Bradley’s heart twists.

“Yeah,” Javy says, his voice gentler now as he steps forward, one hand hovering near Jake’s shoulder like he’s afraid to touch him, afraid to break him. “Yeah, he did, buddy. Are you okay?”

Jake doesn’t answer. He just nestles closer into Bradley’s side, cheek pressed into his shoulder, like that’s where he’s meant to be.

And maybe it is.

Bradley doesn’t say anything either. He can feel Javy’s eyes on him—reading him, measuring the damage.

“That fucker is still at the party,” Bradley says eventually, his voice a rasp. “I came with a motorcy—”

“Take my car,” Javy interrupts, already pulling keys from his pocket, no hesitation. “I’ll handle that bastard.”

The metal is cold in Bradley’s hand. Sharp. Real.

He swallows again and nods. “Thanks.”

Javy steps back as Bradley opens the passenger door. He crouches slightly to help Jake in, one hand guiding the seatbelt across his chest. Jake whines softly at the sudden shift, eyes fluttering.

“Almost done, golden boy,” Bradley murmurs, brushing a thumb across his cheek to wipe away the tear tracks.

And then Javy leans in, quiet, low enough that only Bradley hears it.

“Be gentle with him, okay?” he says, voice tight. “He was…” He glances at Jake, who’s already half-asleep, head tilted against the glass. “I’ve never seen him like that.”

Bradley nods. Just once.

Because what the fuck is he supposed to say?

That he’s never seen himself like this either?

That he still wants to go back upstairs and strangle Alex Van der Woodsen with his bare hands?

That Jake’s voice on the phone still hasn’t stopped echoing in his ears— “I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.”

That he’s terrified?

That he loves him?

None of those words fit in his mouth right now.

So he closes the door gently, like he’s shutting the world out, and walks around to the driver’s seat.

Javy is still standing there when he pulls out, watching them disappear into the night.

Bradley drives slowly. Jake is asleep beside him, or something close to it—his breathing soft and uneven, hands loose in his lap, every now and then he stirs, murmurs nonsense under his breath, curls a little tighter in the seat.

Bradley doesn’t play music. Doesn’t turn on the radio.

He wants to hear every sound Jake makes.

It takes them less than fifteen minutes to reach the apartment, but it feels longer. Like a lifetime pressed into the silence.

Bradley parks, cuts the engine, and just sits for a moment. His hands are still on the wheel, knuckles white.

He glances over.

Jake’s head has tilted toward him, curls falling into his face. He’s pale now, lips parted, lashes wet. He looks young. Soft. Not like the version of himself that people photograph at galas. Not like the man in linen shirts and champagne flutes.

He looks like the Jake Bradley met in the café.  Like the Jake who smirked and said “Oh, sweetheart. You’re gonna sell it better than anyone.”

Bradley exhales and opens the door.

Getting Jake out of the car is slow.

Bradley shoulders most of his weight, one arm around his waist, the other steadying him at the small of his back. Jake doesn’t say much—just leans into him, feet dragging, letting himself be led.

“You smell like coffee.” Jake says as they get into the elevator.

Bradley huffs a laugh. “That’s because I still make it.”

Jake doesn’t respond.

But he smiles. And Bradley could cry.

Jake is still pressed to his side when the elevator’s doors open, nearly asleep where he stands, swaying on his feet and murmuring every few steps.

“‘m not even that drunk,” he says, voice slurred but oddly proud. “‘m just… dizzy.”

“Yeah,” Bradley murmurs. “I can tell.”

Jake grins against his shoulder. “Missed you.”

Bradley doesn’t answer.

He keeps walking.

They cross into the living room and Bradley’s stomach twists.

It’s a mess. Not the glamorous kind. Not aftermath-of-a-party mess. This is something else, deeper.There’s a wine glass knocked over on the coffee table. Clothes on the floor, a scarf draped over a lamp. Cigarette butts in an ashtray Jake doesn’t usually use. A tray of uneaten food. Crumpled tissues. Half a bottle of whiskey tipped onto its side. Water rings on the marble that haven’t been wiped.

And something else, a sketchpad, face-down on the couch. Torn edges peeking out like a confession.

Bradley swallows.

He doesn’t look at it. Not yet. Not when Jake is still leaning on him like a man trying to stay tethered to Earth.

He helps him through the penthouse slowly. Past the dining table. Past the messy kitchen. 

Past the ghost of every moment he once believed they might be something real.

He grabs a water bottle from the fridge on the way. Opens it. Presses it into Jake’s hand.

“Small sips.”

Jake takes it obediently. Sloshes some down his chin. “You’re always bossy,” he mutters.

“You always need it.”

Jake hums at that. “Missed this,” he says again, quieter.

Bradley breathes through his nose.

Don’t think. Just move.

Bradley stops breathing when they enter Jake’s bedroom.

He’s seen chaos. He’s seen grief. He’s seen the aftermath of too many fights—empty bottles, wrinkled sheets, the quiet staleness of a life paused.

This is different .

The air feels dense—like it’s holding its breath with him. Like the walls themselves are waiting for him to see it.

Because the room is full of paintings.

Not hung, not polished, not curated. They’re scattered—leaned haphazardly against the walls, stacked beside the dresser, slumped against chair legs, layered across the floor like someone was too desperate to store them away and too devastated to hang them up.

Canvas after canvas. Frame after frame.

And every single one is him .

His breath catches sharp in his throat.

One of just his hands reaching for something unseen.

One where he’s laughing. Eyes crinkled. A little too much teeth. It’s imperfect—messy, a little exaggerated—and it is so incredibly him, it knocks the wind out of his lungs.

He turns, and there are more. In the shadows. In corners.

A small one, no larger than a book, of Bradley from behind, shirt off, the wings Jake painted still drying on his back rendered in the most delicate, trembling brushstrokes. 

Another shows them both—half-finished, maybe abandoned. Jake and Bradley in the kitchen, bathed in warm morning light. 

Jake’s face is blurred out, as if Jake couldn’t bear to paint himself but Bradley is complete. Radiant. Tilted toward the sun.

There’s one canvas facedown on the floor. Torn slightly at the edge.

Bradley bends, barely breathing, and flips it over.

It’s him at the gala, their first time.

Bradley in a suit, drink in hand, the moment just before a smile. The one he doesn’t remember. The one Jake saw .

His throat tightens violently.

He glances toward the bed. Jake has sunk into the mattress, curling onto his side like a child. He’s murmuring to himself, too soft to hear. Still too high to realize what Bradley’s looking at.

Bradley turns back to the canvases.

They’re not perfect. Not all of them. Some are rough, some unfinished. Some look like Jake ran out of time—or nerve. There are splatters, clawed brushstrokes, corners where it looks like the paint was wiped away in frustration.

But none of that matters.

Because they are honest .

Bradley feels dizzy.

He crosses to the easel in the corner. The largest canvas. Still wet in places.

It’s just his eyes.

Nothing else.

Not a nose, not a jaw. Just his eyes, over and over, layered on top of each other in different lights, different moods. All painted with desperate reverence. The colors are raw. Gold, smudged black. There’s one where they’re too wide. One where they’re heavy-lidded with exhaustion. One where they’re closed, but the lashes are still detailed with impossible tenderness.

Bradley feels like his chest is caving in.

“I tried to paint your eyes.” Jake’s voice is soft, wrecked.

Bradley turns, and Jake is watching him with his whole soul cracked open.

“I tried,” Jake continues, eyes heavy with whatever he’s still riding. “I started so many times. Couldn’t finish.”

Bradley says nothing.

Jake swallows. His voice cracks.

“But every time I picked up the brush, all I could see was how you looked at me when you left.”

He pauses. Blinks slowly. Tears forming again.

“You looked at me like I was something you hated.”

Bradley’s breath hitches. His knees feel weak.

Jake gives a small, broken laugh. “I know you didn’t mean to. Or maybe you did. Doesn’t matter. It’s what stuck.”

“I—” Bradley starts, but nothing comes out.

Jake looks down at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For everything. I didn’t mean to be... this .”

His fingers curl into the blanket. His voice goes smaller.

“I missed you.”

Bradley closes his eyes.

“I didn’t care about the money,” Jake whispers. “God, I didn’t give a shit about the money. I would’ve bought you the fucking moon.”

“Jake—”

“I didn’t want Alex. Not once. Not ever. I felt nothing . Bradley, I swear, believe me?” he asks desperate.

Bradley nods.

Jake’s unraveling now. Every word another piece falling off.

“I tried to paint your laugh once,” Jake breathes. “But I couldn’t remember the sound. Not exactly. It came out wrong every time.”

Bradley’s hands are shaking.

“I started painting the way you walked,” Jake says, “just your legs, at first. The way you pace when you’re nervous. Then your shoulders. Then your goddamn hands. I painted your hands like thirty times.”

He laughs again, but it sounds like a sob. “One night, I stayed up sketching just your frown. It was so ugly. You have the worst frown. But I missed it. I missed it .”

“Jake—please—”

“I tried to stop,” Jake whispers. “Tried to move on. But you’re everywhere. You’re in the color of the couch. The stupid plant in the corner. That mug you always used. I found your hair in my sink two weeks after you left and I sat on the floor and cried like a fucking child.”

Bradley can’t take it. He crosses the room and kneels in front of the bed. Jake’s hand is dangling off the edge. He takes it—gently, reverently.

Jake doesn’t stop him.

“I loved you,” Jake says. “I love you.”

Bradley squeezes his hand like it’s the only way he won’t float away.

“You’re my favorite thing I’ve ever made room for.”

And that’s it. That’s the blow that shatters whatever pieces of Bradley were still pretending not to be in love.

He presses Jake’s hand to his forehead. Breathes him in.

Jake, high and spent and slurring, lets out a soft breath and murmurs, “Please don’t leave again.”

And Bradley answers, barely audible, “I won’t.” but goddamn, he is a mess, “for tonight,” he whispers, knowing damn well Jake won’t hear it.

Jake smiles at him, and Bradley gets next to him in the bed. Jake immediately hugs him and he is out before Bradley can say anything.

His eyes are on the painting, the one Jake couldn’t finish.

Just eyes. Dozens. Haunted. Watching. Loving.

And one pair—centered— hating .

Bradley stares. 

His own eyes, hating him.

Morning comes quickly, Jake is still passed out, Bradley stayed all night watching him, memorizing everything like he didn’t already memorized the shape of Jake’s mouth.

The golden hair, the little greys. He looks thinner too, Bradley realizes somewhere between 3 and 4 A.M., his once pink lips are a bit lifeless now, his skin too pale, he looks as shitty as Bradley feels.

Still beautiful.

That beautiful bastard.

It’s 5 A.M. when he texts Javy to come to Jake’s penthouse. He has to leave. Fuck. He has to.

He kisses Jake’s forehead despite himself and whispers, “It was never going to work anyway,” he smiles sadly, “for what’s worth, I love you too golden boy.”

Oh God.

He gets out of the bed quickly and runs towards the elevator.

He sees the keychain he got Jake on his way out and he feels like throwing up on the spot.

Javy’s waiting for him at the entrance of the building, hands him Steve’s motorcycle’s keys and Bradley nods.

“Thank you,” Javy says.

“You keep him safe,” Bradley answers right back.

He gets on the motorcycle before Javy can say anything else.

-

Here’s how it goes loving Bradley Bradshaw.

Jake comes back to life in pieces.

First the pounding behind his eyes. Then the sour taste in his mouth, like paint thinner and ash. His tongue is dry. His throat is worse. His body aches with that heavy, marrow-deep exhaustion that only comes after something horrible.

He tries to move.

The sheets cling to his skin, damp with sweat. The ceiling is familiar. The air is not. It’s too cold in here, too still, like something sacred was just broken.

Bradley .

The name comes unbidden and vicious. Like a slap across the face. He flinches, eyes burning. His heart stutters and suddenly he’s not breathing, not thinking, just feeling .

He lurches upright and nearly falls over.

“Fuck—”

He barely makes it to the bathroom before he’s on his knees, heaving nothing but bile into the sink.

“Jesus, Jakey.”

Jake wipes his mouth. Blinks. Javy’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, face caught between concern and fury.

“I thought you were gonna sleep ‘til next year , ” Javy mutters. He tosses a water bottle at him.

Jake catches it. Barely.

“What time is it?” he croaks.

“Almost noon.”

Jake stares at the bottle like it holds answers.

“What happened?”

Javy raises an eyebrow. “You don’t remember?”

Jake squeezes his eyes shut.

Bits. Fragments. Bradley’s voice. Alex’s hand. His own shame. I love you. Baby. Golden boy.

“No,” he lies.

“Bullshit.” Javy walks away. “Get your ass up. You need to see something.”

Jake stumbles into the living room. Javy is holding his phone to his face but Jake’s head is hurting. He squints his eyes and takes the phone.

The video starts playing and he immediately wants to stop it. God, why is everything so loud?

“Oh my god,” someone whispers and Jake tries to focus.

Bradley.

A blur of motion. Jake. Alex. A fist.

Bradley punches Alex so hard it echoes.

Jake watches himself crumple, practically caught in Bradley’s arms and for a second he’s mortified. Then the video keeps going. Bradley shielding him, eyes wild, voice calm. Shoving people out of the way. Holding him like he was worth saving.

And suddenly—he remembers. All of it. 

“Javy.”

“Yeah,” Javy says, quiet now. “I know.”

Jake lowers the phone, hands trembling.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

Javy nods. “Your boy’s a hurricane.”

Jake lets out a laugh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob. “Yeah. Yeah, he is.” he swallows “He left?” 

“Five A.M. Sharp. He texted me to come, said he had to go.”

Jake closes his eyes. It hurts .

“He stayed all night?”

“Didn’t leave your side once.”

Jake exhales and feels his chest cave in.

“I have to talk to him.” God, he has to. “I have to—fuck, I have to fix this. I don’t even know what I did but I have to—” he swallows hard. “I have to understand . I can’t—” His voice fractures again. “I can’t lose him for good.”

He’s shaking now, eyes glassy, mouth dry. Javy watches quietly, the way someone watches a fire they can’t put out.

Jake runs a hand through his hair, desperate, panicked. “He came back. He came . After everything. After me . And I just—”

He stops. He feels like losing his mind.

He makes up  his mind and nods. He’ll fix it.

8:27 P.M.

Three minutes to closing.

Because Jake Seresin is, if nothing else, is consistent in his dramatics.

He pushes open the door of the little café like it might resist him. It doesn’t. It’s quiet inside. Familiar. Dimly lit, the same rock playlist playing softly from the speakers, and the air smells like espresso and burnt dreams.

Only one customer left.

Bradley Bradshaw.

Behind the counter. Alone.

And Jake—Jake forgets how to breathe .

Because it’s him . Of course it is. Except—it isn’t.

Bradley is… smaller.

Not physically, no, Jake thinks, and then corrects himself: yes, physically too. His shirt is too big on him now, hanging off his frame like a borrowed promise. He has a beard, which isn’t unusual in theory, but this one looks unintentional. Uneven. Like it grew out of exhaustion. There are hollows beneath his eyes and shadows in the places Jake remembers light.

If Jake had a shitty month, Bradley looks like he has been through hell and back.

He still looks beautiful.

Bradley looks up. Their eyes lock.

For a moment, the whole world tilts sideways.

Jake’s heart does something stupid in his chest. It cracks.

Bradley doesn’t speak. Just stares at him, like he half expected this and still couldn’t believe it. Like he’s not sure if Jake’s real. Like maybe this is a ghost. 

“Hi,” Jake says, softly. Stupidly. 

Bradley doesn’t answer, his face is bland and yeah, okay, Jake deserves it.

Jake swallows and wets his lips. “I had this whole speech prepared,” he says, voice low, unsteady. “But seeing you now—after everything, I just…” He steps closer. Slowly. Like he’s approaching something sacred. “I don’t have a phone to borrow this time. Or a lie to sell. Or a gala to survive.”  He exhales, the kind that shivers down to the bones.  “But if you still serve kindness after closing hours… I’d really like a second chance.”

He looks at Bradley then. Really looks. And his heart is thudding like a warning bell in his chest. His hands are shaking. He feels like he might faint or cry or both, but he doesn’t look away.

Bradley doesn’t speak at first.

Just turns, slow and deliberate, and grabs two beers from—somewhere. A fridge behind the counter? Jake’s too stunned to track it.

Bradley sets them down with a soft thunk, then meets his eyes.

“I don’t know if I’m still that kind,” he says.

And Jake’s heart stutters.

“But you can sit. If you want.” he adds.

Jake smiles before he can stop himself. The kind of smile that tastes like relief. Like home.  He slides into the same table he once dripped all over months ago, back when everything was just beginning.

Bradley sits across from him and cracks the beers open, casual as ever.

“We close in three minutes.” he says with a smile.

Jake glances at the clock on the wall. 9:03 P.M.

Three minutes past closing.

But Bradley’s still here.

And maybe—just maybe—that means there’s still time to fix this.

To stay.

Notes:

MY BABIES :')))

Chapter 8: Welcome home

Notes:

for Ray, the biggest pain in my ass (a BIG support) for listening to me rant and yell about this chapter <3

“You’re right to be upset,” Jake says, finally, after a long beat.

Bradley frowns. It’s been close to an hour since he spilled everything: the dead parents, the legacy, Ice and Maverick, all of it. He feels both lighter and heavier, like someone exhaling underwater.

He wasn’t prepared for Jake’s response. He expected an apology. Maybe a solemn I understand . Not this.

He swallows, tongue heavy, eyes darting anywhere but at Jake.

But Jake only looks at him. Like he always does. Like he can’t not.

“I’m sorry for what I accused you of,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t trust you. It’s just… I don’t know.” He sighs, the sound gutted, and places his hands on the table. They don’t reach for Bradley’s, but they tremble like they want to. “I got insecure. I wish I’d reacted differently. I wish I had just… asked. But I saw that notification and—”

He stops suddenly, they both know what happened next.

“Why did you go to him the morning after?” Bradley asks instead, voice low.

Jake blinks. “What?”

“The morning after,” Bradley repeats, slower now. “I came to your place. You weren’t there. The concierge told me you were at The Peninsula, and I—” He exhales sharply. “I ran. I fucking ran, Jake. And I saw you there, laughing with Alex and two other women like nothing ever happened.”

Jake’s face drains of color.

“I came to explain,” Bradley continues, quieter now. “To try. I don’t even know. But you were already gone.”

“Bradley,” Jake whispers, and God, Bradley hates how much he missed hearing his name like that, like it’s a prayer.

“It was a business meeting,” Jake rushes out. “I swear. You can check my phone, the emails, anything. I was going to tell you, but then—” He takes a shaky breath and finally reaches for Bradley’s hand.

Their fingers touch.

They both look at the contact too long, like it’s the only real thing in the room. (It probably is.)

“I’ve been miserable,” Jake says, his voice steadier now. “It’s been hell. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. I did everything we used to make fun of, showed up to parties, smiled for cameras, let people call me ‘darling’ and ‘that Seresin boy’ like nothing was wrong. But it was all wrong. You were in my head the whole time. I couldn’t even blink without seeing your face.”

Bradley swallows. “So you didn’t… with him…?”

Jake’s hand tightens. “God, no. No one else. Not since you, sweetheart.”

The pet name slips out like instinct. And it hurts. It always did, a little. First because Bradley always thought Jake didn’t mean it, and now because he knows how much Jake means it.

Bradley pulls his hand back. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Bradley—”

“No,” he says softly. “Thank you. For explaining, for apologizing but you’re still you and I’m still me.”

Jake’s brows furrow. “You say that like it’s an insult.”

“Isn’t it?” Bradley lets out a bitter laugh. “Probably an insult to your wallet.”

“Fuck my wallet,” Jake says, reaching out again, more certain this time. “Fuck the money. The world. I want you. And you want me—” He pauses for a second and wets his lips adorably, “You do want me right?”

Bradley snorts and rolls his eyes.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jake says, eyes brightening. “So fuck everything else. I’ve been yours since the second I walked into this café soaked and stupid. Don’t pull that we’re from different worlds cliché on me now.”

“But we are ,” Bradley argues, taking his hands back but Jake doesn’t let go. Not this time.

“Then let it crash,” Jake says, green eyes burning. “Let our worlds crash. I don’t care.”

“Jesus, this isn’t a Nicholas Sparks movie,” Bradley mutters, standing up. “No ten years later montage where we’re making breakfast with our kid and our golden retriever.”

Jake stands too. “This doesn’t end here.”

“It does .”

“It fucking doesn’t.”

They’re breathing hard now, standing too close, too angry, too them .

“Jake,” Bradley warns.

“I mean it , ” Jake snaps.

So does Bradley. He wants to punch but also kiss that stubborn beautiful man, his breathing is fast and heavy when his phone rings. He doesn’t look away as he answers. “Hey, Nat. Yeah, I’m closing now. I’ll join you guys in a bit.” He hangs up.

Jake’s eyes narrow. “Where are you going?”

“To hell. Wanna come?”

“Could be a cute date idea. Do they serve caviar?”

Bradley can’t help it, fuck , he laughs. “Fuck you.”

“You just have to ask very nicely.”

Bradley grabs the keys, raises a brow. Jake sighs and steps outside first. Bradley locks up behind him.

“I’m cold,” Jake announces dramatically as they reach the street.

Bradley frowns. It’s September, sure, but not cold . Not really.

He sighs and shrugs off his hoodie, tossing it at Jake without thinking.

Jake slips it on like a victory. Smiles that devil’s grin, the same grin that started all this. It all started with that damn grin.

“You did that on purpose, huh?”

“No idea what you’re talking about, sweetheart,” he says smugly, already walking toward his car. “C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”

“No need.”

“Bradley.”

“I mean it , ” Bradley says. “This ends here.”

Jake sighs, sliding into the car and rolls down the window.

“I’m letting you go,” he says, gaze soft. “For now. See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

“Asshole,” Bradley mutters to himself as he starts walking away but he can’t stop himself from smiling.

And fuck, he hates how badly he wants to look back. He doesn’t.

(Jake waits in the car, a moment longer then gets out and follows Bradley to his apartment, just to make sure he made it safe.)

-

“I told you not to show up.”

Bradley doesn’t stop walking. Doesn’t even look at him. His jaw’s tight, his backpack is digging into one shoulder, and he’s halfway to combusting from the inside out. His voice is low and flat, but it vibrates with something just beneath the surface, something that sounds like please don’t do this to me right now .

Jake, of course, ignores him.

“Good morning to you too, cowboy,” he says cheerfully, like he hasn’t been avoided, like he hasn’t been radio silent for weeks until last night, when he rolled up with a heartbreak in his mouth and still didn’t listen when Bradley said no .

He holds out a coffee. A stupidly expensive one, the kind with oat milk and two pumps of whatever Jake insists tastes like “a hug.” It’s even got Bradley’s name scribbled on the side in Jake’s messy all-caps handwriting BRADSHAW, underlined twice.

Bradley doesn’t take it.

Jake starts walking beside him anyway, keeping pace like they’re friends. 

“And I told you I would,” Jake replies casually, eyes scanning campus like he belongs there instead of being a glitch in Bradley’s barely-functioning reality. “When do your classes end? I figured I’d wait and—”

Bradley stops.

Jake nearly runs into him.

The look Bradley gives him is sharp enough to slice through glass. There’s something tired in it, something hollow. He’s just so fucking tried. “I told you,” Bradley says, voice trembling, “to fuck off.”

A few students walking past slow down. Someone side-eyes them. Bradley doesn’t care.

“I’m serious,” he bites. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want to keep thinking this over between lectures. Just let it go, Jake. We can be... I don’t know. Friends. If that’s what you want. Just leave me alone.”

Jake’s smile falters for half a second.

“Nope,” he says, popping the “p” with infuriating ease.

Bradley stares at him. Then, without breaking eye contact, he grabs the coffee out of Jake’s hand and drops it straight into the trash can next to them. It lands with a dull, final thud.

“Go to work, Seresin,” he says through his teeth. “Let me fucking breathe.”

And then he turns. Doesn’t wait for a response. Heads for the lecture hall like he’s walking into battle.

Jake calls after him, unfazed.

“I’ll be waiting outside, sweetheart.”

Bradley doesn’t turn around.

Doesn’t flip him off. Doesn’t scream. But oh, he could kill him.

He grips the door handle too tight. Pushes into class with his heart in his throat.

Jake Seresin is going to be the reason he fails every course this semester.

Or commits a felony.

Whichever comes first.

-

Three hours.

Three fucking hours.

Bradley had chosen a seat near the back, right next to the drafty window, just to avoid overheating with nerves or guilt or rage, he couldn't even tell which one it was anymore. He tried to focus on the professor's voice, on the graphs, on the numbers that used to make sense before his life turned into a reality TV show about emotional masochism.

But every twenty minutes or so, his eyes betrayed him. Drifted toward the window like they were pulled, like gravity had shifted and Jake Seresin had become its new center. It had been Bradley’s center for a while now.

At first, he figured the idiot would get bored. Maybe he’d walk off after twenty minutes, an hour at most but no.

Jake stayed.

He sat on a low brick wall across from the building, legs crossed like he belonged there, blazer tossed over one shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, coffee cup in hand —a new one, the bastard— as if he were sunbathing on the Riviera and not haunting Bradley’s campus.

Bradley’s friend Emma leaned in and whispered something about “that hot guy with the car,” and Bradley gritted his teeth so hard his jaw clicked.

When the lecture finally ended, Bradley didn’t rush. He packed his things deliberately, slowly, waited until the room cleared out, like maybe if he left late enough, Jake would be gone.

He wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t.

Bradley steps outside and there he is.

Jake perks up instantly, like some golden retriever who’s just spotted his person.

“Hey, baby genius,” he says brightly, standing and tossing his now-empty cup in the trash. “How’d the lecture go? I brought snacks.”

Bradley stares at him. 

“You’re still here.”

Jake shrugs like it’s nothing. 

“You really don’t listen, huh?”

“Selective hearing,” Jake says. “Comes with the trauma and the Texas accent.”

He pulls something from the crook of his arm, a protein bar and a bottle of water, probably from that overpriced market down the campus.

Bradley doesn’t take them.

“You waited here for three hours.” he says instead.

“Technically, it was two hours and fifty-two minutes, but who’s counting?”

“I told you I didn’t want this.”

“I know.”

“I told you I’m tired.”

“I know.”

Jake steps a little closer. Not enough to crowd. Just enough to make the air hum.

“But I’m still here,” he says. “Because I’m tired of pretending this doesn’t mean shit. I l— look. I know I fucked up, but I’m not leaving.”

Bradley looks away. His eyes sting.

“You make everything a fight.”

Jake smiles, soft this time. “Only the ones worth winning.”

Bradley exhales shakily. “God, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He doesn’t. And that’s the fucking problem but Jake looks at him like he doesn’t know if he means it. It was always something that they did, this little “I hate you” thing, but for the first time ever, Jake looks like he really has no clue if Bradley hates him or not. It breaks Bradley’s heart just a little.

He runs a hand through his hair, sighs, and for a moment, just stares up at the sky like it might give him answers.

Jake waits and waits. And then quietly, not looking at him Bradley mutters, “Fine. Walk with me.”

Jake’s face lights up like it’s Christmas.

Bradley pretends not to see it but when Jake falls into step beside him, keeping exactly the same pace, not pushing, not talking too much, Bradley doesn’t tell him to leave again.

He just lets him stay.

God help him. He just lets him stay.

When they reach Bradley’s apartment, he stops at the front step and turns to face him.

Jake meets his gaze.

He doesn’t say I love you. Doesn’t say let me come up. Doesn’t say anything that would break this fragile, temporary peace.

He just says, simple and soft, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bradley’s heart thuds once, ugly and heavy.

“Please stop,” he whispers. “You showing up like this won’t fix anything.”

Jake just nods but it’s so hollow, like he didn’t hear him and then he leaves without saying anything else. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t ask for more. Just turns and walks away like someone who’s already made peace with the punishment.

Bradley sighs and gets in.

-

The next morning, he’s there again.

Black SUV parked crookedly outside Bradley’s apartment like it owns the damn street. Jake leans against the hood, sunglasses on, holding two coffees and a paper bag from that stupid fancy bakery with the flakiest pastries and the softest middle the one Bradley likes but could never admit to.

He doesn’t say anything when Bradley comes out. Just hands over the cup with a quiet, “Good morning.”

Bradley glares but takes the coffee.

“I hate you,” he mumbles.

Jake grins. “Still counts as a greeting.”

Bradley doesn’t get in the car, Jake follows him either way. 

They walk in silence.

-

It becomes a pattern. 

Bradley never texts. Never says where he’ll be or what time class ends or which building he’s dragging himself into. But somehow, Jake always knows. He’s just there , leaned up against the brick wall outside the lecture hall, dressed to perfection like always.

Always holding something warm.

Sometimes it’s coffee from the pretentious spot down the street—oat milk, two pumps of vanilla, just how Bradley likes it even when he insists he doesn’t care. Sometimes it’s a croissant so flaky it crumbles all over his notes.

He never brings the same thing twice. Like he’s making a quiet game of it. Like he’s trying to say I know you. I remember everything.

And he waits.

He sits outside on cold steps, on low stone walls. He just waits for forty minutes, or an hour,  sometimes longer. Just to walk Bradley home without asking for more than his silence.

At the coffee shop, Jake becomes permanent.

A constant fixture pressed into the seams of the place, like he’s always been there. He shows up when his shift starts with his laptop in one hand and his sanity unraveling quietly in the other. He makes himself a businessman turned shadow who takes meetings with his AirPods in, murmuring apologies every time he laughs too loud or stares too long.

He picks the couch near the window. The one with the good light and the worst cushion. He orders just enough drinks to stay, never enough to feel like he’s buying his way in. He tips with bills too large and smiles too soft. Always thanks the baristas by name. Always wipes the table clean before he leaves.

By the end of the week, the regulars are calling him “Bradley’s boyfriend.”

They say it like a joke. Like an observation. Like something obvious and warm.

Bradley doesn’t correct them.

Not because it’s true but because denying it would mean naming it. And if he names it, it becomes real again. Dangerous. He remembers very well how hinting something real ended up.

Jake never brings it up. Never hints. Never tries to pick the lock again with soft words or half-kisses or eyes that used to undress him without meaning to.

He just stays.

Like someone who’s decided truly, stubbornly, irrevocably that loving Bradley Bradshaw, even from the doorway, even from the wrong side of the finish line, is worth doing anyway.

Bradley doesn’t know what to do with that kind of love. The kind that doesn’t demand anything in return. The kind that waits with folded hands and haunted eyes. The kind that’s patient enough to sit in the wreckage of what they used to be, just to say I’m still here.

At night, Bradley’s alone in his apartment (he ignores his friends' questions) with the buzz of the city in his ears and the echo of Jake’s voice in his head. He watches his hoodie the one Jake wore that night draped over the back of a chair he hasn’t moved in days. Sometimes he reaches for it. Sometimes he stops himself at the last second.

He tells himself he’s fine. That he’s stronger than this. That if he waits long enough, Jake will get tired and leave and he’ll be free to heal properly.

Bradley gives it a week. Then two.

Surely Jake would get bored. Surely he’d remember he was rich and busy and golden, and this silly insistence on showing up outside lecture halls with warm coffee and breakfast would lose its shine.

Jake doesn’t get bored. The man is persistent in a quiet, maddening way, all patient eyes and soft smiles and hands full of breakfast, a croissant one morning, a bagel the next, sometimes just an apple and a granola bar carefully chosen with the kind of consideration that suggests he still knows Bradley better than anyone else. He’s always there when Bradley stumbles bleary-eyed out of class, always already seated at his corner of the coffee shop by the time Bradley’s shift begins, sleeves rolled up, phone in hand, pretending to be busy.

And Bradley…well. Bradley starts to wonder when Jake finds the time to work. Or if he even does anymore, or if this , somehow, has become the work. A long-haul project called earning back Bradley Bradshaw , and goddamn if he isn’t committed to it.

“You don’t have to do all this,” Bradley says one evening, as they walk side by side down a dimly lit street flanked with trees that have started to shed their leaves in orange and brittle sighs. The cold crept in early this year, slipping beneath his jacket and coiling around his spine. “I told you we were fine.”

Jake shrugs without looking at him. “I know,” he says simply. “But I want to.”

Bradley rolls his eyes, the motion more reflex than conviction, and doesn’t reply. His fingers are stuffed into his coat pockets. He doesn’t know how to tell Jake that nothing feels fine anymore that he drags himself through each lecture, cold and bone-deep tired, that the world feels heavier than it should and sometimes he catches himself watching Jake when he thinks he’s not looking, searching for signs that it might still be real. That maybe, maybe , something about all of this means something more than borrowed time and second chances doomed from the start.

Jake asks quietly, like the question has been sitting on his tongue for days, afraid to break the spell, “What would you want to be… if it hadn’t all been laid out for you?”

Bradley furrows his brows. “What?”

Jake glances at him, his breath curling in the chill. “If it wasn’t your dad, Maverick or Ice. If it wasn’t the legacy. If it was just you. What would you want to do? Who would you want to be?”

The question sinks into him like teeth. No one’s ever asked him that. Not really. No one’s ever looked at him and separated the man from the myth, the bloodline, the story already told before he had a chance to write his own name in it.

He thinks for a moment, watches a couple walk by, their laughter fading into the dusk. “They got me a dog after my mom died. Mav and Ice. The therapist suggested it, saying it might help with the grief. I loved her. That dog was everything to me. She died a few months before Mav pulled my papers.” He swallows, voice softening. “I used to dog-sit. Look after people’s pets, especially older folks who couldn’t walk them anymore. It was relaxing. Grounded me. I think… maybe I would’ve been a vet.”

Jake is silent beside him, eyes shining under the flicker of a streetlamp. Listening the way no one else ever has. No interruptions, no jokes. Just presence. Just  the way Jake does, like he always did whenever Bradley spoke.

“I just wanted to help,” Bradley continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not even people, necessarily. Just… anyone. Anything. I liked the idea that I could heal something. That I could make pain go away, even just a little.”

Jake’s smile is slow, soft. It feels like a touch on the back of his hand. “You still do that.”

Bradley tilts his head. “Do what?”

“Heal,” Jake says, the word heavy like it’s been sitting in his chest too long. “You healed me.”

Bradley exhales, something sharp snagging in his ribs. “Did I?”

Jake nods, almost imperceptibly, and reaches out with hands that still tremble when they touch him, not out of fear but reverence. His fingers graze the scar along Bradley’s cheek, the one he got back in high school from a motorcycle fall. He touches it like it matters, like it’s beautiful.

But just as the moment begins to bloom, it’s sliced open by laughter across the street. Familiar voices, louder than necessary.

Bradley turns.

Natasha and Tony.

Fuck.

Jake still has his hand on his face, still looks at him like he’s the only thing in the world, and Bradley, well, Bradley wants to curl into himself and disappear. He hadn’t told anyone about Jake. Hadn’t dared. He barely knows what this is himself, and anyone but those two would’ve been easier.

It’s too late.

Jake smiles and waves.

Bradley’s stomach drops.

He watches the shift happen in real time Natasha’s laughter dies mid-breath, Tony’s smile flickers into nothing. Tony veers off without a word, heading into the apartment. Natasha, of course, doesn’t.

She crosses the street like a storm. 

Jake greets her gently. “Hi.”

She doesn’t return the kindness. “The fuck are you doing here?”

Jake falters, visibly, his expression falling.

Bradley opens his mouth, but Natasha turns to him like a knife. “Are you seeing him again?”

He doesn’t answer.

She takes his silence as confirmation. “Jesus Christ, Bradley,” she spits. “He ruined you. You couldn’t even function for weeks. And now he’s just here? Strolling around like nothing happened?”

Jake steps forward, voice calm but firm. “I know I hurt him. I do. But I—”

“But what?”

Jake looks at Bradley again, the same way he did when he first said his name at that goddamn gala. “I love him.”

It lands like thunder in the pit of Bradley’s stomach.

He feels his knees go weak.

He feels like the first time Maverick and Ice took him flying.

It’s a dogfight between his heart and his brain.

Natasha laughs. “You love him? Wow. That’s rich. Is this what love looks like to you? Abandonment and silence?”

“Natasha,” Bradley warns.

“What?” she half yells. “Wasn’t it you who called him a lonely bastard?” 

The words hit like a car crash, so sudden, unavoidable, echoing in the silence that follows.
Jake flinches. Not dramatically, not with sound just a small, involuntary twitch, like a reflex he wasn’t quick enough to suppress. Bradley’s heart sinks. He swears under his breath, quietly, too late, too useless.

Jake blinks like someone trying not to cry in public, like someone learning, right there on the sidewalk, just how little grace they’re allowed.

His voice comes out low, “So that’s what I am, huh?” he murmurs. “A rich boy playing pretend. A shadow trying to shine.”

And god, Bradley knows those words, they’re his own. His spit-shined bitterness from weeks ago, thrown like knives in the dark after Jake accused him of sleeping with Ice. 

He forgets, sometimes, how fucked it all was. How low they’d both gone. How desperate.

Jake’s eyes don’t even flicker to Natasha anymore. He’s staring only at Bradley now, like nothing else in the world exists, not the street, not the wind, not the ache blooming in his chest.

And Bradley knows, knows he has to say something, knows this is the moment that will either crack them open or close the book for good.

He has to speak now . He has to tell him no , god, no baby, you’re not a shadow, you’re the fucking sun and I’ve been orbiting you since the day you looked at me like I was something worth holding. I love you too. I always have.

But he doesn't. Not fast enough. Stuck on that perch.

“Am I?” Jake asks, barely above a whisper. It’s not a challenge. Not an accusation. Just… a quiet, final question. Soft as snowfall, deadly as silence.

Bradley hesitates.

Just one second too long. Just one breath too slow.

And that’s all it takes.

Jake’s lips pull into a smile but not the kind that reaches his eyes. No, this one is small, broken. It’s the saddest smile Bradley has ever seen.

His eyes, god, his eyes. They’re not the green Bradley knows. Tonight, they’re dull. The color of a goodbye you didn’t get to rehearse.

“Right,” Jake says. A whisper, barely audible over the rush of blood in Bradley’s ears. He licks his lips like he might say more but he doesn’t. He just nods once, as if to himself, as if sealing the moment shut.

And then he turns.

No theatrics. No slammed doors. No dramatic parting lines. Just quiet steps on cold pavement. No yelling like the last time. He walks away quietly.

Natasha says something, maybe a curse, maybe a sigh, maybe a threat but Bradley can’t hear it. Everything’s gone white noise. His vision is blurring, not from tears but from the weight of everything unsaid, everything undone.

He wants to run, he wants to scream his name, wants to grab him by the coat and say don’t go, please, I was just scared, I’m still scared but I love you, I love you, I love you—

But he doesn’t move.He stands still, frozen in the aftermath of what he didn’t say. He waits.

Jake doesn’t look back.

Not once.

Bradley watches until even the ghost of him disappears around the corner, swallowed by the night like he’d never been there at all.

His hands shake as he fumbles for a cigarette, lights it with numb fingers.

-

The next morning, Jake isn’t there.

It’s stupid. Childish, maybe. Delusional, definitely but Bradley had still hoped foolishly, silently, like a prayer caught behind clenched teeth that Jake would show up anyway. That he’d be there at the foot of the stairs, coffee in hand, some reckless grin on his face, still trying. Still choosing him. 

But there’s no one. Just cold pavement and Bradley feels it, the emptiness, sharper now than ever. The wind stings harder against his cheeks. His fingers feel stiff even inside his jacket pockets. His headphones go on to drown out the ache, and he starts walking, one foot after the other, trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

A sleek black Mercedes is parked along the corner where the curb dips, just at the edge of the campus. And against all logic against everything his chest flares with something reckless and flickering.

Hope.

He slows his steps. The breath catches.

Maybe, maybe Jake—

The door opens.

And it’s not Jake. It’s Javy.

Bradley stops completely. His frown comes quick, instinctive, confused. He hadn’t seen Javy since that night he came to pick Jake from Alex’s place. 

Javy steps out with no fanfare, no smile, no explanation. His expression is blank, but his hands are full of Bradley’s hoodie and a coffee.

Bradley knows before he even sips it that it’s his coffee. Exactly right and hot enough to burn, brewed the way Jake always gets it for him.

“Hi there, Bradshaw,” Javy says simply.

Bradley takes both the hoodie and the cup without speaking. The cotton is still warm from the car, and he pulls it close instinctively, like it might protect him from the sting in his lungs.

Javy turns, starts to get back in the car like he’s done what he came to do, but Bradley stops him. “Where’s Jake?”

Javy freezes mid-motion. Slowly closes the car door again.

“You shitting me, kid?”

Bradley glares. “I’m not a kid.”

“You pout like one,” Javy mutters, but his voice isn’t unkind.

“Where is he?”

Javy lets out a long, tired sigh, he leans back against the car like he suddenly needs the support. “Look. Jake may’ve fucked up. I won’t pretend he didn’t. But he was miserable that month you stopped talking. You think you were falling apart? You should’ve seen him. He went fucking feral. Sleeping maybe two hours a night. I’m assuming you saw the paintings.”

Bradley nods, just barely. God, the paintings. All that light and shadow. All those pieces of him scattered across Jake’s canvas. His eyes.

“He loves you,” Javy says then. Not a suggestion. Not an opinion. Just a fact. He says it like a declaration, like a verdict already passed. “He loves you.”

Bradley looks down, fingers tightening around the paper cup. It’s hot, but it’s not enough to distract from the thudding ache in his chest.

“He begged me this morning,” Javy continues, “begged me, to bring you this. He said he couldn’t come, not after last night. Said he wasn’t going to stay if you didn’t love him. He can’t survive a version of you that doesn’t want him.”

Bradley’s voice is soft when it finally comes. “We messed it up too much.”

“Yeah,” Javy says, nodding. “Do you love him?”

The question lingers.

Bradley doesn’t answer right away. He just stands there, hoodie tucked under his arm, coffee burning his hand, trying not to tremble with the weight of it.

He thinks of that night at the gala, of fake smiles and real feelings creeping in when no one was watching. He thinks of the balcony, of the first time Jake made him laugh for real, of confessions half-buried under stars and alcohol.

He thinks of Jake’s voice when he told him about his sister, shaky and raw.

He thinks of quiet mornings, strong arms, sleepy kisses, and the way Jake always touched him like he was something sacred.

He thinks of being held. Being chosen. Being seen.

He thinks of Jake.

And yeah.

Yeah, he loves him.

Javy watches him, reading it. He nods slowly, like he knew all along. “He’s home,” he says, moving toward the car again. “If you figure out the answer.”

The door shuts with a soft click, and then the car pulls away down the street, swallowed by traffic and distance and the sound of Bradley’s own heartbeat in his ears.

The coffee is still warm.

The hoodie still smells like Jake.

And for once Bradley doesn’t overthink it.

He takes a breath, deep and shaky, and starts walking.

It’s 8:00 a.m. on a Monday morning, and he’s tired, and his heart is a mess, and the city is loud, and people keep rushing past him with their heads down.

He walks. He chooses.

And somewhere, faintly, in a voice not quite his own, he hears Mav laughing.

Look at you baby goose, not thinking, just doing.

-

The concierge, bless his gentle heart, doesn't ask a single question. He merely nods when he sees Bradley, he gestures toward the elevator, the one that opens directly into Jake’s penthouse like a portal into another life.

The ride feels eternal and far too short at once.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft mechanical sigh, and Bradley steps into the silence like someone returning to a church long after the sermons have stopped.

It’s exactly as he remembered.

His eyes catch on one thing on the counter. One very small, very stupid, heartbreakingly Bradley thing.

The keychain.

His fingers graze it, almost reverently, and for a second he can feel it all, Jake’s soft eyes, the hotel room, the massage, the kisses, everything .

It had felt like something back then.

It still does.

The quiet is broken by the sound of soft footsteps, descending from upstairs.

“Bradley?” Jake’s voice calls out, thick with sleep or lack of it. His hair a mess and his eyes rimmed with red. He looks like he hasn’t slept since last night.

He looks like hell.

He looks beautiful .

Bradley turns to him, still holding the keychain between his fingers. His throat tightens.

“I’m just a boy,” he starts, and his voice is soft, unsteady, but the effect is instant, Jake freezes mid-step, and hope floods his expression like sunlight finally breaking through a week of storm.

Bradley walks toward him, each word blooming like a heartbeat. “Standing in front of another boy…”

Jake’s lips part, breath held, as if the world might stop if Bradley doesn’t finish.

“Asking him to give him another chance.”

He’s standing right in front of Jake now, so close he can see the tiny scar above his eyebrow, the hollow shadows beneath his eyes, the tremble in his jaw from holding too much back for too long.

Jake’s face breaks first into a stunned sort of awe, then into something brighter, warmer, blinding . His smile splits across his face like the first crack in winter ice. And before Bradley can say anything else, he’s pulled forward, caught in strong arms, kissed breathlessly like no time has passed, like they were only ever meant to find their way back here, to this .

It’s a kiss full of promises and apologies and finally .

Bradley exhales shakily against Jake’s mouth and thinks—

It’s not how you fall, he thinks, it’s how you land.

And for the first time in his whole damn life, he lands softly.

-

It’s the best sleep Bradley’s had in what feels like a lifetime, the kind of sleep that wraps around you like forgiveness, like the world outside has finally stopped spinning. The kind of sleep that only comes after you’ve laid your wounds bare, after every jagged word has been spoken, after the shouting and crying and trembling apologies have softened into kisses, into silence, into understanding.

They had talked, had kissed like it hurt to be apart, like they were stitching something broken back together with every touch. And then, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, they had fallen asleep tangled in each other, skin to skin, heart to heart.

Now the afternoon light drips gently through the curtains, golden and quiet. Time feels irrelevant. Sacred. Like nothing matters outside the four walls of this room.

Bradley lies on his back, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a breath that tastes like peace.

Jake is a man wholly, completely, devastatingly in love.

He worships him with the kind of reverence that comes only after loss. After fear. After the unbearable loss of the person you love most and realizing that, without them, the world is all wrong angles and grey skies.

He leans over him now, gently, deliberately, like he’s afraid Bradley might vanish if he moves too fast. He brushes his nose along Bradley’s cheek, then follows it with his lips, soft kisses, slow and sacred, one after the other. He traces each scar like it’s a constellation, as if Bradley’s pain is a map he’s memorized, and he’s trying to kiss every star in the right order. There’s no rush in him, no hunger. Just devotion.

Jake kisses the space between his eyebrows. The slope of his nose. The curve of his jaw. Every inch of Bradley’s face is given the kind of attention most men reserve for prayers.

And Bradley lets him.

He closes his eyes and breathes it in. Lets the love in, lets the warmth settle in the hollow places he used to guard so carefully. He lifts a hand and tangles it in Jake’s hair, thumb brushing lightly at the nape of his neck. It’s almost unbearable, how much he loves him. How much he always has.

He takes a deep breath. “Remember when you said you’d take me anywhere?”

Jake hums, lips still pressed to his cheek. His voice is low, thick with sleep. “Name the place, cowboy.”

Bradley’s eyes flutter open. He watches him for a second, watches the man who has held his heart in the quietest ways, in soft coffees and shared blankets and showing up when it mattered most. He feels weightless and grounded all at once.

“Miramar, San Diego,” he says.

Jake pauses, brow furrowing slightly as he leans back just enough to meet his eyes, confusion flickers across his face.

Bradley exhales slowly. If he’s going to start choosing instead of fearing, doing instead of hiding then he might as well go all in.

-

“Are you alright?” Jake asks gently, his voice soft like it doesn’t want to shatter the moment, as they slow to a stop in front of the house.

Bradley looks at it, the place that once smelled like safety and Sunday dinners and old leather and jet fuel and for a second, he feels like he’s twelve again, knees scraped and heart wide open, waiting for someone to promise that everything would be okay.

“No,” he says, honestly but his fingers curl tighter around Jake’s hand anyway.

Jake doesn’t let go.

Instead, he leans in and presses a kiss to the back of Bradley’s hand, a kiss full of quiet devotion, steady as an oath. “I’m with you,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re strong, and you’re brave, and you don’t have to do this alone.”

And oh, God , Bradley loves this man.

Loves him in a way that aches. In a way that steadies him. In a way that makes walking toward this door, this door feels a little less impossible.

The autumn air curls around them. Bradley’s heart is trying to break out of his chest. Still, he keeps going.

When they reach the front door, he stops. His hand hovers for a second before he knocks once, then again.

The silence is unbearable and strangely calm all at once.

Then the door opens.

And holy shit.

Four years. Four birthdays. Four Christmases and countless nights where he didn’t pick up the phone. A lifetime compressed into a single moment and there he is.

Ice.

His pops.

Still tall, still impossibly composed, still carrying the weight of the world like it’s nothing, but a little older around the eyes. He looks like he’s seen ghosts.

Because maybe he has.

Bradley freezes. His throat closes. He doesn’t know if he wants to cry or yell or apologize or fall to his knees and beg for time to rewind.

Before he can even find a word, there’s a voice from inside, floating out casually, oblivious:

“Honey, who is it?”

A footstep. A silence stretching like the edge of a cliff.

“Bradley?”

Maverick’s voice, his godfather, his forever heartbreak comes from just behind Ice, thick with disbelief and something trembling beneath it.

Bradley feels his whole body lock up, every nerve is screaming.

He swallows, barely able to speak. He grips Jake’s hand like a lifeline and finds his voice, just a whisper.

“Hi, Mav,” he says, then looks at Ice, at the men who raised him. “Hi, Pops.”

His voice is quiet but it’s the bravest thing he’s said in years.

For a heartbeat, no one moves.

It’s just the wind rustling dry leaves down the driveway, the creak of the porch beneath Bradley’s boots, and the sound of Jake breathing steady beside him.

Ice doesn’t say anything — not right away. He just stares at Bradley like he’s seeing a ghost in high-definition, like if he blinked too long, the boy standing in front of him would vanish again. But he doesn’t blink. He just steps back.

Opens the door a little wider.

And that’s all the invitation Bradley needs.

He steps inside on legs that don’t feel entirely his. Jake follows, one step behind but never letting go, his presence a constant thread of comfort trailing at his back. The house smells the same. There’s a framed photo of him on the wall—younger, high school graduation—and Bradley has to look away before it knocks the breath from his lungs.

“Jesus,” Maverick breathes, and it’s not a curse — not even close. It’s a prayer dragged from the depths of a man who’s waited four years for this moment without ever letting himself believe it might actually come. His voice catches like it’s snagged on something sharp. “It’s you. It’s really you.”

Bradley doesn’t know where to look. Doesn’t know what to do with his hands or his breathing or his heart, which is currently hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. He holds tighter to Jake’s hand, fingers trembling, and his eyes flick helplessly to Ice.

Ice stands steady in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, blue eyes sharp but soft, watching him like he’s been watching the horizon for years, just waiting for Bradley’s silhouette to come walking back. And now that he has, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. His calm presence grounds the moment like it always did when Bradley was younger and overwhelmed and trying so hard not to be.

Bradley feels like he’s six again. Eight. Ten. Twelve. Fourteen. Sixteen. Eighteen. Every version of himself that ever came running through this door, every version that sat at the dinner table, every version that climbed into Ice’s lap or hugged Maverick, all of them are crashing through him now in a dizzying wave.

“Hi,” he says.

Just that. One syllable and he hates how small it sounds. How stupid it feels coming out of his mouth.

Maverick lets out this strange little laugh—almost a sob, and then suddenly, he’s moving. Crossing the room in three uneven steps, faster than Bradley can brace for.

And then he’s there .

Wrapping him in his arms, clinging to him like something precious and breakable, like a miracle he never deserved but begged for anyway.

Bradley towers over him now. He hadn’t realized how much taller he’d gotten since the last time they stood this close, but Maverick doesn’t seem to care. He just tucks his face into Bradley’s shoulder and holds him, tightly and shaking.

Bradley lets go of Jake’s hand and folds himself into the embrace like muscle memory, like instinct. His arms come around Maverick’s back, and his face presses into the worn cotton of Maverick’s sweatshirt. And just like that, he’s a kid again. No degrees, no coffee shop shifts, no heartbreak, no anger. 

Just someone’s son.

“Oh God,” Maverick whispers, voice cracking on every syllable. “You’re really here. You’re here. You’re here.”

Bradley shuts his eyes. His throat burns. There’s a lump there that won’t go away, and the pressure of it makes him feel like he’s going to cry or vomit or both. He presses his lips together to keep them from trembling, but it doesn’t help.

He thinks about how many birthdays he let pass. How many times he looked at his phone and didn’t call. How many nights he spent convincing himself he didn’t miss this.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Could be seconds, could be minutes. But when they finally pull apart, Maverick still keeps a hand on him like he can’t stop touching him, like he needs the reassurance that he’s really there and not just a ghost coming to haunt them.

Bradley turns his head.

And there’s Ice.

Admiral Kazansky. The Navy’s God. Cold. Immaculate. The man whose name opened doors and whose stare could silence a room. His Pops .

Bradley’s chest tightens.

“Hi, Pops,” he says, and this time his voice breaks for real, splinters right down the middle.

Ice’s eyes, the same pale blue Bradley remembers from every scraped knee and late-night nightmare shine with something old and worn. Not wet. Not openly emotional. Just Ice, a reflection of his own sadness. He doesn’t speak.

He just looks at him.

Bradley stands there, bare and trembling, until Ice’s arms, so long kept behind his back or crossed in front of him open.

No words. Just an invitation.

Bradley doesn’t hesitate.

He falls into him.

And then he’s really crying. No more holding it back. No more pretending he’s too grown or too hurt or too strong. Just tears and memories and the sound of his own heartbeat thudding against Ice’s chest.

Ice’s arms wrap around him, steady and sure. His hand comes up, smooths over the back of Bradley’s head, and a kiss pressed into his curls, soft and slow.

And then, low and warm and full of something Bradley can’t name, Ice says, “Welcome home, baby Goose.”

Bradley nods into his shoulder, breathing like it hurts, clinging to the fabric of Ice’s shirt like he used to when he was too scared to fall asleep alone.

_

Ten years later.

“Papa?” The question comes softly, somewhere between a whisper and a thought, as little fingers press against warm skin.

Bradley hums, his voice still thick with sleep and wrapped in fondness. “Yes, baby?”

Nick’s face is scrunched in concentration, tongue poking out slightly as he leans over Bradley’s bare back, a blue marker clutched in his hand. He’s been coloring for the past ten minutes with the seriousness of a young artist.

“Are you an angel?” he asks, gaze fixed, brow furrowed.

Bradley blinks, half-smiling. “Why’s that, bud?”

“Because you have wings!” Nick says triumphantly, grinning now. “You silly. Only angels have wings.”

Bradley lets out a warm laugh, twisting just enough to plant a wet kiss against Nick’s cheek. Nick giggles, wiping it off with exaggerated disgust but leans into the next one all the same.

“You wanna know a secret?” Bradley asks in a conspiratorial whisper.

Nick’s eyes go round, the marker forgotten entirely now. He scoots closer, “What is it?”

Bradley lowers his voice even more, as if the walls might be listening. “Your daddy’s the one who gave me these wings.”

Nick gasps softly, spinning around to look at the tattoo that spreads across Bradley’s back, dark ink feathered into the shape of wings, the lines strong and careful, stretching from his shoulder blades down to the small of his back.

Bradley doesn’t explain. He doesn’t need to. Because in some ways —the ways that count— it’s true. Jake gave him those wings a decade ago, when everything felt heavy and uncertain, when Bradley wasn’t sure he’d ever learn how to fly again. Jake, bright and reckless and golden, had given him the strength to try.

Nick’s small hands trace the ink like it’s something sacred. His fingers hover, then press softly against the skin where the wings begin. He leans down, plants a kiss right between them.

“Hey, you two!” Jake’s voice carries from the kitchen, light and teasing. “Breakfast isn’t gonna make itself, you know!”

Bradley and Nick lock eyes, the same mischievous glint blooming in both sets of brown. A beat of silence.

Then they run.

Nick charges ahead with the kind of clumsy excitement only five-year-olds can pull off, legs pumping, curls bouncing. Bradley follows, not far behind, still shirtless, still smiling, his heart full of peace and love and the feeling of home.

They find Jake at the stove, flipping pancakes with a spatula in one hand, mug in the other. He turns just in time to catch a flying Nick, who wraps himself around his legs like a koala.

“Traitor!” Jake cries, laughing, and Bradley takes his chance, sneaking up behind him and pressing kiss after kiss to Jake’s cheek, jaw, neck, wherever he can reach. Nick joins in, giggling, peppering kisses to Jake’s other cheek.

“Okay! Okay, truce! I surrender! Just let me save the pancakes!”

In the garden, their dog starts barking at a bird or maybe at nothing at all, tail wagging furiously.

Notes:

oh wow.
holy shit guys, we did it! im sorry for updating so late, life's been busy and tbh a part of me didn't want it to end :') I changed this chapter countless times and I hope you guys like this one ! thank you so so so much from the bottom of my heart for giving me and this fic so much love & support. you guys rock <3
see you around ! (come find me on tumblr @/akay19)

Notes:

let's just pretend this is my first time posting it lol
this was originally a 20k one shot but decided to make it more detailed I also have adhd guys I changed the story like ten times :p
also!!!!! GUYS!!! I passed my first year of masters :p *happy white boy dance*
(the chapters should come very quickly I hate when stories are multiple chapters and take forever to update!)