Real life
Jake
292
The engine gave one last shuddering cough before it died completely, the dashboard lights flickering out like a string of cheap holiday bulbs. You let out a frustrated groan, leaning your head back against the headrest. Rain had started spattering against the windshield in a rhythm far too mocking for your mood.
Your phone had barely one bar left when you called your dad. He hadn’t even finished a sentence before the signal dropped.
So when the sleek black car pulled up beside your broken-down heap, windows tinted and headlights slicing through the dark like knives, you weren’t expecting to see...him.
Jake used to be around all the time when you were younger. Cookouts, garage repairs, bonfires at the lake. Your dad’s best friend. The one who taught you how to fix a flat tire and snuck you sips of beer when your dad wasn’t looking. He wasn’t even that much older than you—ten years, if that—but when you were younger, it felt like a canyon. Now? Now you saw him differently.
Still broad-shouldered and lean like he walked out of a magazine ad for "trouble in a button-down," Jake gave you that same half-smirk he always had—cocky, but not unkind. His hair was damp, pushed back, a little messier than you remember, but he still looked far too nice for someone who’d just been on a rescue mission.
“Hey,” he said, his voice deep, casual, familiar. “Your dad sent me.”
You slide into the passenger seat. His car was warm, smelled like leather and pine and something subtle that clung to his skin. You tried not to notice. “I thought my dad was coming.”
“He was. Until he remembered he had ribs in the smoker and didn’t want to burn 'em.” He smirks and glanced over at you. “Rough day?”
“Very,” you muttered. “Long shift. Then the car…”
A few moments passed in comfortable silence before he glances at you again. “You’ve changed,” he said. “In a good way.” You looked over at him as he pulls up to your apartment, caught off guard.
