pairing: jake seresin x reader

summary: you ask jake to leave the room while you change

a/n: part two of the series, first one was james potter here!

mei write a hangman drabble that doesn't take place in a texan bar challenge: failed

--

Jake is fairly certain that the way you'd rolled your hips while riding the mechanical bull was entirely unnecessary. The challenge itself was mandatory when entering what you'd affectionately referred to as a honky tonk bar, but did you really need to put on a show for the crowd of drunk vultures around the ring?

"Come on, cowgirl, get off'a there," He grumbles, grabbing your arm and tugging you back onto your feet once the bull stops bucking, "You havin' fun entertaining the local perv society?"

"It was for you, flyboy," You scoff, but you don't resist the way he drags you away from the unsavory onlookers, "You didn't like it?"

Jake turns his gaze to the grubby ceiling tiles with a huff trying to ignore the light strain between his legs when he remembers the gyration of your hips, "Darlin', you don't know what you're gettin' into with me. I'm shipping out next week, and we're never gonna see each other again. Don't do that to yourself - just go pick on someone your own size."

"That's cute," You snort, "Who says I'm gonna wanna see you again? I want your size, Hangman, so quit talkin' and show these creeps what else I'll be riding tonight."

"Check it out," Phoenix elbows Bob where the man is engrossed in reading the back of the bar napkins Penny had handed them so that they didn't stain her tables again, "There's Mav's daughter. 'Think she's got that Hawaiian shirt on to seduce Rooster?"

Bob's eyes dart to where you're chatting with Penny, his shoulders stiffening as his friends turn to watch you.

"Nah, Rooster doesn't like orange. But those cowboy boots she's got on are probably for Hangman- didn't he say he'd teach her how to square dance?"

Penny reaches over the bar to tug affectionately at one of your braids and Bob tries to no avail to break the conversation.

"Actually, she's-"

"I'd say she was here to meet Fanboy, but she doesn't date losers," Phoenix's eyes are narrowed dangerously, and she hides a smirk against the rim of her bottle.

"Hey! Hangman's a bigger loser than I am!" He protests, but before the taller man can trap him in a headlock, Penny points towards the dagger squad where they're lounged in a corner of the bar, and your eyes shine as you rush over.

"Bob!" You shriek, throwing your arms around his neck and letting your legs bend when he hoists you off of the ground for a hearty hug. His muscles are well hidden beneath his regulation khakis, but he's built for much heavier loads than you, and he lets you hover a few inches off of the ground while he hugs you.

Your face is buried in his neck but you press a kiss against his cheek, catching the bewildered blinking of the rest of his squadron over his shoulder.

"Oh. I forgot you didn't know." You supply, your feet back on the ground as Bob keeps one arm slung loosely around your waist, "Sorry, we- uh, we've been hooking up for a while, it's just... I haven't seen him since you guys got shipped out."

"You've been hooking up with her?" Coyote stares down his nose at Bob who shifts subtly closer to you, nodding once, stiffly in the face of his teammate's scrutiny.

"Damn. And he was good enough in bed to keep you waiting 'til he got back?"

Bob flushes - you feel his skin warm where it's pressed against your own, and you fill the awkward silence.

"Oh, please. I'm sure you've seen it in the locker room; I'd wait a lifetime."

Bob scoffs over your shoulder, now even more flustered, but Phoenix is happy to save the situation.

"Does your dad know?" She tilts her chin towards you, remembering how viscerally uncomfortable their Captain had been whenever someone had suggested you get together with one of his aviators.

"Of course he knows," You laugh, "He's the one that set us up! 'Said Bob had to get his hands on me before Texas over there tried to Hold 'Em."

Bob wraps an arm protectively over your chest, leaning over your shoulder from behind to return a kiss against your own cheek.

Hangman whistles lowly, shaking his head with a dazed look, "Well, shit. I didn't know the offer to hold 'em was on the table, but-shit!"

Bob's face darkens but Rooster levels the toe of his boot with Hangman's lower thigh, striking him at the back of the knee and subsequently spilling beer over his khakis. Hangman grunts as his knees knock against the beer-sticky floor, but he seems to know he deserved what he'd gotten because he doesn't retaliate.

"We'll wrangle him." Rooster promises, "You two go have fun, Bob you gotta quarter for the jukebox?"

"Yes'sir," Bob nods, tugging you towards a lesser populated area- perfect for slow dancing even if the bar isn't, "Let's make up for lost time, honey."

that bathroom door thing - i changed it up just a bit for the plot's sake! i hope you still enjoy it <3

--

Jake's forever grateful that Penny bought the Hard Deck, because it brought about changes that have only ever benefitted him. She's begrudgingly fond of him, so he drinks whenever he wants and pays his tab in grunt muscle when new shipments of booze are delivered and need to be hauled in. He also drives Amelia around to various after school activities, so Penny's rewarded him with his own personal set of keys in case she's waiting for pickup in the bar and can't lock up behind herself.

The bar is cleaner now than it was under previous management, which means more women are willing to set foot inside; something about the earlier gunk and grime drove them away. It's no longer a place for aviators to drink their sorrows away- it's fun, it's full, and it's family, something Jake cherishes more than he'll ever admit.

Those keys feel especially important in his pocket now as he watches you try the handle of the bathroom door, clearly in a rush. Jake's surprised that the bathroom isn't constantly occupied, what with the amount of liquor that gets consumed on a nightly basis, but some people might just be better at regulating themselves than others.

Apparently you're not one of them as you find the door locked, your face contorting into clear displeasure.

You scan the bar for Penny but- Jake realizes with a jolt down his spine, she's not here. She'd stepped out, and he'd been casually monitoring the counter to ensure that no one started touching anything that didn't belong to them.

"Coyote," Jake calls, catching his friend's attention from where he's crouched over the pool table, "Cover for Penny."

Usually the team would be annoyed at being interrupted, but Coyote is just as fond of Penny as Jake is, and he nods once, passing his cue over to Rooster. He takes up a seat opposite Jake, giving the man the chance to stand and make his way over to you.

"Hey there, darlin'," He greets, digging the keys out of his pocket, "You need'a get in there?"

"Uh, yeah, I do," You laugh sheepishly, watching intently as he slides the key into the door, "Oh my god, thank you, I couldn't find the bartender and I thought I was shit outta luck."

"I gotcha, honey," Jake grins, bicep flexing as he pushes open the door for you, "Come get me when you're done so I can lock back up, okay?"

"Alright," You agree, slipping into the bathroom and peeking through the door to call after him, "Thank you again!"

Jake beelines for the bar, reaching around the countertop to grab two bottles of beer. They're stored in an ice bucket, but he prefers them to the tap because they're quicker and easier.

"Hey!" Coyote barks, mad dogging him playfully, "You gonna pay for those, sir?"

"If these help me get that lady's number," Jake rushes back to the tables near the bathroom, sitting at one and setting the other bottle across from him, "I'll give Penny my life savings."

sneak peek of my upcoming Jake 'Hangman' Seresin series called 'Spring Fling'! jake is a drunk smoocher <3

one of my request rules is that i don't do songfics but fuck that line is so jake seresin coded that i can't say no

--

The bar's regular patrons know you as Mrs. Seresin, but unexperienced tourists, or fresh-off-the-boat sailors mistake you for an easy catch.

Jake doesn't help, what with the way he saunters over to your bar amidst the buzz of the drunken mass and says, "Hey darlin', y'mind getting me and my friends a couple more?" It's a game you play, and Jake loves to win.

Victory is his when a scrawny new recruit sidles up to the bar, uniform wrinkled at the collar, "How about me, darlin', y'mind bending over and getting me a beer, too?"

"Hey," Jake snaps, voice sharp as a lash, "That's darlin' to me, but that's Mrs. to you. Ring that bell, baby."

Somehow the prolonged ringing of the bell above your head is heard over the roar of the crowd, and you take your own complimentary drink over to Jake's table to enjoy it with him and his squadron, noting that it tastes better when you're not the one paying for it, and when Jake's arm is curled around your waist.

m.list - robert 'bob' floyd

blurbs:

you can't kiss bob with your glasses on

ghostface!bob

you're bob's girlfriend but rooster wins a night with you

cowboy!bob

doing face masks with bob

mechanic!bob

The stare that Jake gives Fanboy when the man tries climbing into the passengers seat of his truck has the potential to raze a city to the ground. It's withering, condescending, and Fanboy feels frozen by it.

"Uh-"

"What are you doing?" Jake asks, his hands poised on the wheel. Fanboy had thought his behavior was somewhat self-explanatory - getting into the car? - but he suddenly can barely speak under the weight of Jake's gaze. He lets his eyes drop instead to the seat, formerly covered in black fabric and now shrouded in pink. There's a blanket tucked beneath the glove box, a silicon cupholder affixed to the door, a pillow strapped to the headrest, and candy - pink starburst- waiting on the dashboard.

Fanboy only has one guess, and he hopes it's the right one: "Is this seat saved for your girlfriend?"

"Well those aren't your panda bear slippers on the floor, are they?" Jake drawls, and Fanboy resists the urge to roll his eyes if only to avoid getting abandoned in the parking lot of his apartment complex.

"I'll get in the back," He grumbles, shutting the door perhaps a tad harder than he needs to. Jake doesn't comment, but he makes casual conversation on the way to their next stop. One by one, the truck fills up, until there's no seats left and they need to hide away in the bed. Legal? No. Fun? Yes.

The last stop that Jake pulls up to is a little townhouse, and you're waiting on the steps. His team has met you before, and you're giddy to reunite with them, laughing cheerily as four men wave clumsily at you from the bed of the truck that they're not supposed to be in.

Jake leans over with that charming grin of his to ask for a kiss before you've even settled in your seat, and you're happy to lean over and smooch him as an entry fee for your ride.

"Hi, pretty girl," Jake hums, voice infinitely softer than when he'd greeted Fanboy, "Saved a seat for 'ya."

"I bought new stuff to put in your car," You admit sheepishly, revealing a mirror charm with the moon on one end, and stars on the other, "Is it okay if I put it up? I don't want to distract you. Or- or mess with the vibe of your space."

"Give it here, darlin'." Jake holds out his hand in lieu of a direct answer, delicately stringing the charm over the arm of his mirror, "There, makes the buffoons in the back look a whole lot prettier."

"Hi, buffoons," You greet teasingly, peering back once you settle in your seat to greet Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote, "Do we need to go get anyone else?"

"Nope," Jake checks to make sure your seatbelt is secure by gently tugging on the strap, acquiescing when it stays firmly in its latch. He throws an arm over the headrest of your seat, his large hand enveloping the pink straps of your headrest completely as he peers behind him to back out of his temporary parking spot. Satisfied, he steals one more kiss for good measure before putting the car in reverse, "Saved the best for last, baby doll."

The man that he has to shoulder past in the doorway makes Jake assume that his breakfast voyage to the new bakery on the coast will be a disastrous one, but one glance from you has him reconsidering.

Your eyes are trained on him from the moment he lumbers through the door, but Jake chooses to think that's because he's so impossibly handsome rather than because he's the only person there. You smile at him with all of the warmth of the pastry oven beside you, but none of the bite of its flame, and he steps up to the counter feeling like he's been sun-kissed.

"Hello, sir." You offer, and your voice is sweet like the glaze drizzled over the cinnamon rolls in your window, "What can I get for you this morning?"

Perhaps if you were different - harsher, maybe, sharper - he'd have asked for your number. But you seem too sweet for a savory one-liner, and he bites his tongue until his spit bleeds hot to restrain himself.

"Uh, just a blueberry muffin and a black coffee-" It takes every ounce of self-control not to call you sugar, the word ironically sour on his tongue, "-please."

"Warmed?" You pause from tapping his order into your computer, gazing curiously at him. He blinks, once, twice, then realizes you mean his muffin rather than his rapidly beating heart, nodding disjointedly.

"Alright," You smile, movements smooth like dough that's been expertly kneaded- not that Jake needs to be thinking about kneading you right now, "I'll have that ready for you in a moment, sir. Uh- military discount?"

You eye his bulging biceps pointedly, spying a tan neckline beneath the zipper of his jacket. His face melts into a dopey smile like butter over pancakes, and he tries keeping his voice similarly smooth when he nods, "Yeah."

"Thank you for your service," You nod before totaling his order up, and even if it's a phrase that's programmed into you, memorized just as diligently as the recipes you bake by, he finds that it means more from you than it ever has from any passing stranger.

He lingers at the counter while your system loads his payment, and keeps his head ducked towards the pin-pad though his eyes wander to your busy form.

You brew his coffee easily, and place his blueberry muffin into the oven with enough care that not a single crumb of the topping falls off. You give it fifteen seconds, then package it in a plastic box, retrieving his coffee and setting it on top. You hand him his two items, one on top of each other, and it means that your fingers linger on the babse of the container and the lid of his coffee cup longer than they need to, just to be sure he's not going to drop the precariously balanced meal.

"Have a nice day, sir." You beam at him with more of that celestial warmth, and the tinkle of a bell means that Jake has to step aside to let a new customer order. Otherwise he thinks he might linger, feet stuck to the floor and elbows growing achy as he leans them against the counter to talk with you while you work. He files the plan away for later, a recipe for a first date, and takes his leave, though not before throwing one last glance at you as he opens the door with his back.

Maybe it's wishful thinking, but he's fairly certain you're looking at the new customer a little more like a stale croissant than the sugary feast you'd seen in Jake.

"There's sand on your dress, darlin'." Jake uses the rare moment of silence that you're granted when he ducks his head down, using it as a shield from the rest of the conversation around the bonfire as he murmurs against your ear.

"There's sand everywhere," You shrug, brushing the grains off of your sundress. Your legs have started sprouting goosebumps in the night air, and while you wouldn't call it cold, that's what it is for California. The ocean only a few feet away doesn't help, and you admit to yourself that there might be a slight chill in the air that you're unprepared for. Jake offers you a bite of the s'more that he's made, but you try to decline as politely as possible.

"No thanks, babe. I don't like mine with hotdogs in them."

Jake had gone a little overzealous in the creation of his s'more. Fanboy had challenged him to a s'more stacking contest, and though Jake's had one by size alone, you're not sure what came out of it could legally be called a s'more.

There's not one, not two, but three sizeable chunks of hotdog sandwiched between the layers, and Jake genuinely doesn't seem to mind at all that the salty flavors mix with the overly sweet. He has an iron stomach, but you're a little more fragile, so you decline his kind offer.

"Want me to make you one? A normal one," Jake clarifies, reaching over your thighs to grab the skewer you've stuck in the sand. His hand rains grainy filth down onto your skirt but you brush it away just like you had earlier, and you shake your head before he can sprinkle sand into the marshmallow bag.

"I'm okay, babe. I'm sleepy," You admit, leaning your head against his shoulder, "Can we go home soon?"

"Yeah." He grunts, already trying to maneuver in the sand, his free hand pressing into the stuff and sinking, "We can-"

"Not now," You corral him once more, setting a hand on his arm and coaxing him to drop back down onto the sand, "I wanna hear Rooster finish his story. Payback interrupted him, he'll be done soon."

You're fairly certain you hear Jake mumble something about how any story Rooster's telling is chicken shit, but you don't bother asking. Instead you stroke your hand down his arm, reaffixing your head to his shoulder.

"Love you," You hum softly, barely heard over the crackling fire and the whoosh of the night wind by the ocean. Jake hears you loud and clear, though, he feels the words in his soul as he leans down to kiss at your temple.

"Love you too, darlin'."

You can't resist the urge' you lean up to kiss him. It's a risky move, because one of his hands is coated in sand, and the other one has both hotdogs and chocolate in it, but it's a risk you're willing to take.

It doesn't play out how you want it to. Jake seems to forget about the hand that he'd plunged into the sand, lifting it to hold your waist, and scooping a portion of the grainy substance over your lap.

He realizes what he's done nanoseconds too late, breaking the kiss you'd only just begun to share and groaning as he buries his face into the crown of your head.

"Jake-" You admonish, but there's no way malice could ever seep into your tone; not with him.

"There's sand on your dress, darlin'." He echoes his previous statement, far more sheepishly this time, "I don't suppose a bite of the hotdog s'more would make up for it?"

i'm sorry sweetheart that sucks!!! jake loves you though <3

--

"It's not that bad." Jake insists, holding your chin in his hands and studying the harsh line of hair cut across your forehead, "They're just bangs, darlin'."

"But they're not what I wanted!" You protest, your voice weak from emotion and your nose slightly runny, "Jake, she was supposed to trim the ones I had, not chop a whole new set into my head!"

"I know." He soothes, leaning down to kiss your forehead. He has to fumble with the intrusion of your new bangs to get his lips onto your skin, and that does it for you.

"You can't even kiss my forehead anymore!" You wail, tears that had been teetering on the precipice of spilling down your cheeks for minutes finally doing so. They cascade down your skin in glistening rivulets that Jake's nimble hands rush to clear away, his skin slightly rough against yours even if his touch is gentle.

"Hey, hey! Hey, it's okay," He promises, "Hey, darlin', I'll make it work. Here," He tilts your face towards the sky, leaning down where he's standing between your legs while you perch at the edge of the bed, "There we go." He smooths the palm of his hand up under your bangs, flipping the short strands of hair so that they stick up off of your head. He presses what must be at least ten kisses to your skin's now-exposed surface, which ought to soothe you, but when he lets the hair fall it's a mess, bent and mussed out of shape.

"Okay, uh-" Jake fumbles for your bedside table where he knows you have a pocket brush, "Here! Here, darlin', nothin' to worry about. Just gonna brush that down," He mumbles, jaw clenched in concentration as he fixes your bangs with a few swipes of the brush at your forehead, "There! All fixed, darlin'."

"You can't do it in public anymore," You lament, seemingly hellbent on finding the worst in your new hairstyle, "You'll have to mess my hair up and then it'll look bad."

"I can do it wherever I want," Jake decides, plunging the tiny brush into the pocket of his jeans, "See? I'll get another one from the store next time we go, 'n carry it around with me. That way I can kiss your forehead whenever I want. Okay? It's okay, honey."

You can't muster up any complaints to that. He's right, and his dedication to holding a brush on him at all times just to kiss your forehead is heartwarming. Still, you're grumpy, and he knows it.

"Hey, this might be better, actually," Jake muses, sitting by your side and letting you slump over onto his broad shoulder.

"How, Jake?"

"This way it's like a barrier." He explains, pushing your bangs up to kiss your forehead once more, then smoothing them out with the brush, "They're like kiss protectors, darlin'. That way nothin' can rub off my kiss without goin' through your bangs first."

"Kiss protectors?" You echo after a moment of deliberation, "Jake, you're trying really hard, aren't you?"

"Is it working?" He asks feebly, and the tension in his chest seeps out when you huff out a laugh.

"Yeah." You concede exasperatedly, feeling the foreign tickle of your kiss protectors brushing against your forehead as you lean against Jake's shoulder, "Yeah, babe, it's working."

Your squadron gets semi jumbled as you file through the door to the classroom, but somehow you manage to fall in line after Jake. You two seem to have developed magnetic charges in the short time you've been his backseater, you're always one step behind him or he's brushing his shoulder against your own when he passes.

He heads for a spot in the front row of seats, the cushy blue chair looking like heaven after being crammed into a fighter jet for two hours. You're about to drift left to sit beside Natasha when Jake turns to gesture to the row he's standing beside, "Here y'go, darlin'. Take the far one."

You're not sure why he's insisting on the seat closer to the wall rather than the aisle for you; maybe he wants to chat with Rooster across the way. Said pilot is whispering something to Coyote beside him, and the two snicker while shooting Jake a sneaky glance. Whatever the reason, you let Jake usher you into the seat right of the aisle, and he settles right beside you in front of the podium.

You sink into the seat with a grateful thank-you, but it's interrupted by a sharp creak from the old chair you've put your weight on. It's a loud, awkward sound, and most heads in the room turn to look at you curiously. You try not to feel embarrassed, after all it's not your fault the chair is unstable, but Jake stands abruptly from his own chair at the commotion.

"Here, swap." He offers, his charming smile on full display, "You want the quiet one?"

"Oh, it's okay," You assure Jake, flattered by his chivalry as he reaches for your hand to pull you out of the chair, "It's just creaky, I can live with it."

"Don't worry about it," He dismisses your evasion tactics, gesturing to his previous seat that's now wide-open, "Come on darlin', this way you can see the screen better. Don't want you to miss anything."

Your second round of thanks to him is mumbled slightly as you hoist yourself up and over the divider between your seats, settling into the slightly warm cushions that Jake had just evacuated. The chair beside you creaks even louder than before at Jake's broad frame resting on its worn parts, but he owns the mishap far smoother than you had, clearing his throat with an amused smirk on his face and slinging his arm around the back of your chair.

There's a round of chuckles that pass through the mostly-silent classroom at his dramatic antics, and you're not surprised that Bradley takes the opportunity to pick at Jake.

"Thank god you two switched. Y/N smells much nicer than you, Hangman, and that chair'll drown out whatever bullshit comes out of your mouth."

There is, in fact, a rather loud creak as Jake leans towards Bradley to retaliate. However, you're more focused on the large hand that's come to fall against your thigh, slight pressure put just above your knee as Hangman leans over you to speak.

"You wanna talk about smells, Bradshaw, everyone knows your therapist is a bottle. Christ, walking past you smells like a closing shift at the Hard Deck."

"Alright!" Natasha's quick to step in, having seen many similar conversations take unfortunate nosedives, "Alright, you two both drink too much, and everybody smells like sweat in here. Okay? Just back down."

Hangman concedes with a tight clench to his jaw, and when he leans back into his seat, his face passes by yours. He sends you a sheepish smile, squeezing gently at your thigh before releasing it as his back presses to the creaky chair once more.

"Sorry about that," He keeps his voice hushed, attention turned to the front when Maverick finally steps through the doors, "He likes pissing me off."

"And it works," You chuckle, nudging his shoulder teasingly with your own, "Don't let him get to you, Hangman. Phoenix was right, we all smell like shit."

Maverick begins his makeshift lecture and drowns out whatever Jake could have mustered up in response, but the two of you each wear matching grins as your class session begins. There's no need for a verbal response as he nudges your thigh with the knuckle of his pointer finger: 'thanks'.

today is multiverse monday, send me any au you can think of! :)

we all say we won't fall for hangman but we all do <333

--

"What can I do for you, sir?"

Every day you ask Mr. Seresin the same question, and every day, he gives you the same answer.

"Sit there and look pretty, darlin'." He grins, the expression welcoming despite the teasing glint in his eyes, "Was wonderin' when you'd show up today."

"I'm here on time, sir." Your palms sweat as you rub them against your pressed pants, glancing nervously at the clock on his wall. 7:30 AM, not a second late.

"Yesterday you came early," He muses, and you set your bag down on the floor beside your desk, "You were here before me, and I saw you yawning even after two cups of coffee. I'm glad you slept in today."

"I'm sorry, sir." You cringe at the mention of your less-than-stellar presence the day before, "It won't happen again. I'll be more alert from now on."

He groans lightly, "Can't you see I'm not berating you? You think everything that comes out of my mouth is a criticism."

You're only made more nervous by his harsh tone, and you peer nervously at him, "And that's... not?"

He seems to recognize the hypocrisy he'd spoken with, chiding you for feeling chided; "That was the one and only time I've ever criticized you, Y/N."

"You said I was too tired yesterday."

"I said I'm glad you got enough sleep today."

"You told me my shoes weren't office-appropriate."

"I asked you how you could manage walking on heels all day without breaking your ankle on the stairs."

"You told me not to wear a skirt."

"I told you it was casual Friday, and you could swap it for a pair of sweatpants if that would make you more comfortable."

"You told me I park too close to the building."

"I said it would be nice to have more time to talk with you when I walk you to your car."

"Sir," Your shoulders slump in defeat, "I can't do anything right."

"You can't do anything wrong," He insists, leaning forwards across his desk, "Y/N, you really think I was insulting you all those times? Getting on your back? Bossing you around?"

"That's your job," You supply meekly, shuffling papers around so as not to have to look him in the eyes, "You're the boss."

"Then I order you to look at me." He decides, and your chest seizes up at the command. You do so, throat running dry as you try swallowing with it.

"I've never meant any insult towards you," His eyes pierce you where you sit, stuck tight on your face, "I meant them all as compliments. I meant for you to understand that I cared about you. That I wanted you to like it here. That we were friends, Y/N, are we not friends?"

"You're the boss," You repeat, "Bosses aren't supposed to be friends with the people beneath them."

"Says who?" He raises a brow, "The boss? That's me, Y/N, and I decide who I'm friends with."

"And you say you're mine?"

Jake nods, holding your curious stare with an intense one of his own. The apprehension on your face is equal parts heartbreaking and flattering to him; he doesn't want you to be scared of him but he's almost proud that you are. Heartbreak wins out, and he adds; "I'm not gonna bite your head off, darlin'. You can relax a bit."

You let out a sigh as you follow his instructions, shoulder tension leaking out of your muscles as you settle into your seat. You drop your eyes to shuffle more through files you're supposed to attend to, but this time it doesn't feel evasive on your end, it feels comfortable. He's not sure whether you feel his prolonged stare even after you've glanced away, but you don't re-engage your own, if you do.

Jake takes it as a personal win when you check your phone in front of him an hour later. It's only for a fleeting moment, but before you'd have the device stashed away like he was going to rip if from your hands, and now you'd had the confidence to glance at the screen in plain sight.

However, Jake takes it as a loss that you grin at the screen, the smile lingering even as you turn back to the computer. His fingers itch to look at the device himself - maybe he really would rip it from your hands - just to see who'd made you smile like that. He makes it his personal mission to produce the same expression on your face twice before the end of the day, just to prove himself better than whatever bore had your attention for that split second.

He won't ever find out that you'd been grinning at a picture of your newborn niece, but you'll enjoy laughing at his cheesy jokes three times before noon.