HEARTFIRST (Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader)

3.

"I'm a guest, I have to be on my best behavior. Wouldn't want to stand in anyone's way of rising up through the ranks. Wouldn't want to be a distraction." The word tastes bitter as you say it, but it's too late to take it back. His face contorts, twisting up with hurt. You know it's a low blow.

He sucks his teeth and nods, feeling the sting of your words. You watch him think over his next move, the deafening silence threatening to overtake the sound of the waves crashing on the shore nearby. His eyes glint under the moon, the low light turning them from deep brown to a sparkling amber. He sighs.

"I can catch up with everyone tomorrow. Let me drive you back."

"I don't know, do you think she can make it any further?" you tease, referring to his truck. He laughs softly and you're surprised he hasn't reeled back from you yet. Maybe he'd been wishing for a moment like this, too. Despite the awkward start, it feels natural – normal – to banter with him again.

"Come on, she still runs like a dream. Get in and you'll see." He pulls his keys from his pocket, jangling them in the space between you. The tinkling metal sounds almost hopeful.

You want to say no, but he's here – in front of you – something you never thought would happen, only hoped. So you don't. You follow the pull of your heart, ignoring your mind yelling at you: no, no, no.

The drive back to base is mostly quiet, neither one of you sure of what you want to say. It feels nice though, the silent familiarity. You watch him from the passenger seat, being careful to keep him in your periphery, not wanting to turn yourself to him and expose your desire to just drink him in unabashedly. His right hand rests firmly on the stick shift, while the left has a loose grip on the steering wheel, his fingers drumming a makeshift beat against the sunbaked leather. You remember when his hand used to rest on your thigh instead, his thumb tracing small circles over your skin. You hum at the memory, catching his attention, his eyes slipping from the road to you for half a second.

The summer night breeze blows through the windows, blowing your hair in all directions, that evening chill settling into you.

"You cold?" Bradley asks.

You shake your head, teeth chattering.

"Well that'll give you away," he taunts. He shifts in his seat, reaching behind himself in search of something. A few seconds later he turns up with a sweatshirt and holds it out to you. "Here." He sets the bundle of fabric in your lap.

"Really, I'm fine," you insist. "We're almost back, I can wait and borrow Natasha's."

"Just put on the damn sweatshirt," he sighs.

You roll your eyes and slip the fabric over your head, the sweatshirt pooling around you, the sleeves dangling past your fingertips. You snuggle into the soft cotton blend, the familiar woodsy scent of his cologne mixed with the spice of his deodorant wafts around you, delighting your senses.

"Better?"

"Mhmm," you hum, breathing him in.

"Don't get any ideas about stealing it, I really like this one," he glances at you, "almost as much as the one I know you still have."

"That jacket may or may not have been burned in a beach bonfire a couple of months ago."

"Shit, I was hoping I could get that one back."

"Too little, too late Bradshaw."

He groans, the truck lurching to a stop as he pulls up in front of the building. He shifts the gear into park and cuts the engine, leaning back, his head hanging lazily as he turns to face you. His eyes light up at the image of you in his sweatshirt, damn, he missed that view.

You start to take the jacket off, slipping your arms out of the sleeves, but he stops you, placing a hand on your bicep.

"What? You want this one back, don't you?" you mock, looking up at him.

"Just, keep warm for now."

"Okay," you say slowly, studying his face for an explanation. You come up short, unsure of what he's really thinking. "Thanks."

There's a beat of silence before you unlock the passenger side door and push it open, reaching back to unbuckle yourself, stepping out of the truck in one swift motion. Rooster just watches you, his head hanging low, his lips parted as if he wants to say something, but he doesn't.

"Well, goodnight." You shut the door and smile, turning on your heel towards the building.

"Hey, wait," he shouts out the open window. You spin around, meeting his gaze, your chest lifting, that all-too-familiar feeling of hope fluttering in your stomach. "It's good to see you, thanks for letting me drive you back."

"Thanks for the ride, Bradshaw." You return his smile. "And the sweatshirt," you taunt, pulling at the fabric. He shakes his head. You spin back around and wave him off, the sound of his laugh muffled as his engine roars back to life.