Chapter 7: The Snowbound Gamble
The coffee was actually respectable, and relatively good.He was just humble. Mia took a tentative sip from the chipped mug he handed her, expecting battery acid, and was met with a rich, dark roast that was perfectly drinkable.She raised an eyebrow at him over the rim.
“You liar. This is fine.”
Jake shrugged, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as he leaned back against his desk.“It’s from a can. I got lucky with the water ratio.”
They drank in a silence that was no longer panicked, but thick with a new, deliberate awareness. The frantic energy from the bathroom had mellowed into a steady, simmering hum. Mia could feel every point where the soft cotton of his t-shirt brushed her skin. He watched her, his hazel eyes soft but intent, tracking the movement of her hand as she set the mug down on his cluttered desk.He pulled his phone from his pocket, swiped, and let out a low whistle. “Wow.”
“What?”
“Campus-wide alert. All classes cancelled. City says stay off the roads, they can’t keep up with the drifts.” He looked out the frost-laced window at the relentless white.“We’re officially snowed in. For, like, the next day at least.”
The words hung in the warm, close air of the dorm room. Snowed in.The finality of it was a bolt of pure, undiluted possibility. Her heart gave a hard, single thump against her ribs. The world outside, with its expectations and routines and other people, had vanished.There was only this room.This bed.Him.
She let the reality settle, a slow, warm diffusion through her veins. Then she smiled, a genuine, effortless thing.“Well. I guess we’ll have to make the best of it.”
“Guess so,” he said, his voice a little rough.He cleared his throat.
He cleared his throat. “Makes you wonder what our coaches would say,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the two of them and the unmade bed. “Probably assume we spent the night doing suicides in the hallway.”
“Or something else entirely,” Mia said, the words leaving her lips before she could sensor them.The air between them seemed to crystallize. Jake stared at her, his coffee mug halted halfway to his mouth. A slow, understanding smile touched his eyes first, then his lips.It wasn’t his usual goofy grin. It was something quieter, more dangerous.“Right,” he said, his voice low. “Or something else.”
He pushed off from the desk, the moment breaking into action. “We should probably eat something that isn’t just caffeine and regret.” He moved to the pathetic mini-fridge humming in the corner and yanked it open. A sad interior light illuminated the contents: a half-empty gallon of water, a bottle of ketchup, three energy drinks, and in the freezer compartment, a stack of frozen boxes.
He pulled them out with a magician’s flourish.“Behold,” he announced. “A culinary time capsule.Frozen waffles. And frozen French toast sticks.”
Mia’s eyes widened with genuine delight.“No way.”
“Way.I stockpiled them freshman year. A guilty pleasure stash.”
“This is the best news I’ve had all morning,” she said, a laugh bubbling up.It felt good, normalizing the strange electricity in the room. “I haven’t had garbage breakfast carbs in years. Coach would have a stroke.”
“Mine would weep actual tears,” Jake agreed, ripping open a box. He dug out a beaten baking sheet from under his bed and arranged the frozen squares with ceremonial care.“This is a sacred act. A rebellion against egg white omelets and protein powder.”
The little oven door creaked open. The coils glowed orange as he slid the tray inside.The mundane ritual was a grounding wire. Mia watched his hands, those same hands, now deftly managing a timer. The scent of toasting sugar and cinnamon began to slowly permeate the room, mixing with the coffee and the lingering scent of his skin on her borrowed clothes.
She leaned a hip against the desk, crossing her arms. The pose pulled the thin t-shirt taut across her chest.She saw his gaze flicker downward for a half-second. His brief look was a physical thing, a hot brand of acknowledgment that she felt on her skin, before his eyes snapped back to the oven window.A tiny, fierce spark lit in her gut. It was bright, like a magnesium flare, and utterly unquenchable.“So,” she said, her voice casual. “We’ve got time.And terrible, wonderful food. What do people even do in these situations?”
He turned, leaning back against the counter, facing her. The space between them felt charged, like a game board after the first move has been made. “Well,” he said, a slow grin spreading. “We could always play a game.”
“What kind of game?” Mia asked, her tone light, even as her pulse thrummed in her wrists.
“The kind where you learn things,” he said, his eyes holding hers. The oven timer beeped, a shrill interruption. He didn’t move. “I had fun yesterday. Playing, you know, truth for truth. Even if we were drunk.”
The admission was a key turning in a lock. It wasn’t an apology or a question. It was a statement of fact, warm and inviting. He had fun. The memory of his sleepy hands, his warm weight against her, flashed between them, acknowledged now in the bright light of day.
“I wasn’t that drunk,” Mia said, pushing off the desk. She took a step closer, into his space near the oven. The smell of browning pastry was suddenly overwhelming. “And you weren’t that asleep. What you were was hammered.”
A slow smile touched his lips. “Semantics.” He finally turned, pulling the baking sheet out with a worn oven mitt. The waffles and toast sticks were perfectly golden. “So? Another round? Fewer historical secrets this time. More… current events.”
Her stomach did a slow, delicious flip. “We’d need more alcohol,” she stated, her voice steady. “The brandy’s gone. And I’m not playing that game stone-cold sober.”
“Noted,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He tossed a waffle onto a paper towel and handed it to her. It was burning hot. “Eat first. Then we’ll forage.”
They ate standing at the counter, the silence comfortable but buzzing. The processed sugar and carbs were a nostalgic, guilty pleasure. Mia closed her eyes as she bit into a syrup-less French toast stick, the simple, fake-cinnamon taste transporting her. “God, that’s terrible. I want ten more.”
“Told you,” Jake mumbled around a mouthful of waffle. He watched her, a crumb at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“Like you’re committing a felony and loving it.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s a good look.”
She felt a blush rise, not from shyness, but from the directness of his gaze. This wasn’t the Jake who teased her about her ponytail. This was the Jake whose hands had memorized her in the dark. She held his stare as she took another deliberate bite.
After they’d demolished the tray, he clapped his hands together. “Right. Libations.” He knelt and started rummaging in the back of his closet, pushing aside cleats and textbooks. “I might be a heathen, but I’m a prepared heathen for parent visits.”
He emerged with a dusty, green glass bottle. It wasn’t the cheap, fizzy stuff she expected. It was a proper bottle of champagne, the label elegant and French. “My dad brought this after the homecoming win. Said to save it for a ‘real occasion.’” He held it up, the liquid catching the grey window light. “I figured getting snowed in with my best friend counted.”
The significance of the gesture wasn’t lost on her. He’d saved it. For a moment like this. “What about juice?” she asked, her throat tight.
“One step ahead.” He moved to the mini-fridge and, from behind the gallon of water, produced a small, glass bottle of fresh-squeezed orange juice, the kind from the fancy grocery downtown. It was still cold, condensation beading on the side. “I don’t just live on energy drinks and regret.”
“You planned this,” she breathed, a laugh escaping her.
“I hoped,” he corrected softly, his eyes finding hers again. He set the bottles on the desk with a definitive clink. The sound was a starting pistol. “So. Mimosas. Then a game.”
Jake popped the champagne cork with a practiced twist, the sound a soft, contained explosion that made Mia jump. He poured the frothing gold liquid into two clean-ish mugs, then topped them with the cold orange juice. The bubbles climbed, effervescent and promising. He handed one to her, his fingers brushing hers.
As he did, he turned slightly to place the bottle back on the desk. Mia’s eyes, almost of their own volition, dipped. The worn grey cotton of his sweatpants hung loose, but as he shifted his weight, the fabric draped in a way that revealed a distinct, soft contour. It wasn't aggressive or staged. It was an honest, resting shape. A casual fold of material had caught, just so, creating a faint ripple that outlined the broad head of his soft cock against his thigh.
The sheer, unassuming presence of it hit her like a physical blow. It was soft. Not a performance. Not a reaction to her. Just a fact of him, existing in the space, and the mundane intimacy of that detail was more potent than any visible hardness could have been. The memory from the bathroom—the frantic texts to Lucy, the aching pressure against the quartz counter, the sheer want she hadn’t dared to touch—crashed back into her with dizzying force.
It felt like every nerve in her body suddenly Bluetooth-connected to her clit, a sharp, unanimous ping of recognition and intent.
He turned back, completely unaware of her appraisal, and raised his mug. "Cheers to being stranded." His smile was easy, open. "So, for this game. Do we want to establish a theme? Or just free-for-all?"
Mia took a long, slow sip to buy a second. The mimosa was crisp and bright, cutting through the sweet remnants of breakfast. She forced her gaze up to his eyes, letting the carbonation burn the back of her throat. "A theme," she said, her voice miraculously steady. "I think a theme is good."
"Okay. Your call."
She tilted her head, adopting a look of faux-serious consideration. “The theme,” she announced, tapping her mug, “is intelligence. For wingmaning. Or wing-womaning.”
Jake’s eyebrows shot up. He barked a laugh. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious.” She took another sip, the bubbles sharp on her tongue. “We’re both tragically single, right? Stuck in this room. Might as well be useful. I’ve got friends. You’ve got friends. We could play matchmaker.”
“Matchmaker,” he repeated, a slow smile spreading. He leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms. The gesture pulled his t-shirt tight across his shoulders. “Okay. I’m listening. This is just intel sharing? For the greater good?”
“Exactly. Pure altruism.” Mia nodded, her expression mock-solemn. “So I can effectively set you up, and you can return the favor.”
"Alright, altruism it is," Jake said, raising his mug in a mock toast. He took a long pull of his mimosa, the orange juice cutting the sharp fizz of the champagne. "But I'm calling bullshit."
Mia's eyebrows lifted. "Excuse me?"
"You don't want to set me up. You want to know what I'm into." He set the mug down, his eyes never leaving hers. The challenge was there, bare and playful. "And you want me to ask you the same."
She felt the heat rush up her throat, but she didn't look away. "Maybe. But the theme sounds better than 'let's mutually interrogate each other about our sexual histories over cheap mimosas.'"
"Fair point." He grinned, that slow, dangerous grin that was becoming her favorite, "And what do we get if we win?"
Mia bit her lip, the sharp sting a welcome anchor. She made herself hold his gaze, the question lingering between them like a dare. "Winner?" she said, her voice light, almost teasing. "There isn't going to be a winner. This is reconnaissance. Intelligence gathering for the war effort." She lifted her mug, a sardonic salute. "We're both working for the same team. The team of making sure our friends don't end up with duds."
Jake's grin widened, but he said nothing, just waited. The quiet hum of the dorm fridge filled the space.
"Alright," Mia said, setting her mug down on the desk with a soft clink. She crossed her legs, the motion deliberate, the cotton of her borrowed sweatpants whispering against itself. "I'll start soft. A gimme." She tilted her head, letting her hair fall across one eye. "What do you want in a relationship? Like, if you were actually looking. Which you're not, obviously. We're just gathering data."
The question hung, innocuous on the surface. A softball, lobbed to establish the rhythm of the game. But her pulse was in her throat, because she realized she genuinely wanted to know the answer. Not for Lucy or any hypothetical friend. For herself.
Jake took a slow sip of his mimosa, letting the silence stretch. He studied her over the rim of the mug, his hazel eyes warm but unreadable. When he finally set it down, he ran a hand through his messy hair, a nervous tell she'd seen a thousand times, but now it felt charged.
Jake's hand dropped from his hair, and he let out a slow breath. "What I want," he said, the words measured, "is someone who's just as alive as I am. Like, not afraid to be loud. To be messy. To laugh at something stupid and mean it." He shrugged, a faint, self-deprecating smile tugging at his mouth. "I've dated girls who were too cool for everything. Who'd rather look bored than risk looking excited. And I just…" He shook his head. "That energy thing you've got? Where you can't sit still, where you're always bouncing into something? That's what I want. Someone who makes a room feel full just by being in it."
Mia's breath caught. The compliment was so direct, so unguarded, it landed like a physical touch. She opened her mouth, ready to deflect with a joke about him being a golden retriever, but the words died in her throat. Because he was looking at her like she was the answer to his question.
"That's… specific," she managed, her voice softer than she intended.
Jake's gaze didn't waver. "Is it? I've known you for fifteen years. I feel like I should have a PhD in Mia by now." He paused, swirling the last of his mimosa. "But we've never had conversations like this. Not really. We talk about the team, about Lucy's drama, about which dining hall has the least terrible pizza. We never talk about..."
He gestured vaguely, the mug tilting in his hand. "About what we actually want. What we think about when we're alone. The stuff that actually matters."
Mia's throat tightened. The truth of it settled between them, heavy and undeniable. She'd spent years trading jokes with him, deflecting with humor, keeping him at a comfortable distance. And he'd let her. They'd built their friendship on the safe, solid ground of never going deeper.
"Maybe we were scared," she said quietly, surprising herself with the honesty.
Jake's eyebrows lifted. "Scared of what?"
"I don't know." She looked down at her mug, tracing the chipped rim with her thumb. "That if we went there, we'd find out something that would change things. And then we couldn't go back to the way it was."
The words hung in the air, more revealing than she'd intended. She felt his eyes on her, a physical weight of attention that made her skin prickle with heat.
"And now?" His voice was low, careful.
Mia looked up. The question sat between them, naked and waiting. She could deflect. She could laugh it off, pivot to another topic, retreat to the safe ground they'd spent years cultivating. But something in her had shifted overnight, some tectonic plate that had been grinding for years finally giving way.
"Now I'm starting to think," she said slowly, "that maybe the way it was, wasn't as good as I thought it was."
Jake didn't move. Didn't blink. The only sound was the hum of the fridge and the muffled howl of the wind outside. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. Not the goofy grin, not the dangerous one. Something softer. Something vulnerable.
"Me too," he said.
The admission cracked something open in the room. Mia felt it in her chest, a loosening of a knot she hadn't known she'd been carrying. She took a breath, then another, and the air tasted different. Charged. Possible.
"So," he said, the smile turning wry. "Since we're apparently doing this now. Being honest. Your turn to ask a question?"
Mia’s pulse kicked up a notch. She took a slow sip of her mimosa, letting the fizz settle on her tongue before she spoke.
"Okay. A data point, then." She set the mug down, her fingers lingering on the rim. "When you actually find that person. The one who makes the room feel full. What's your style?"
Jake’s brow furrowed slightly. "Style?"
"Like..." She waved her hand vaguely, a studied casualness. "Are you a jackrabbit? All speed and enthusiasm, finishing the race in record time? Or are you more... methodical? Slow and sensual, dragging it out until they're practically begging for it?"
The question dropped into the silence like a stone. It was crude, deliberately so, but wrapped in a layer of "for a friend" detachment that made it deniable. She watched his face, waiting for the reaction.
Jake blinked. Then, to her surprise, he laughed. Not a nervous laugh, but a genuine, warm one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck, a flush creeping up his ears.
"Damn, Mia. You don't ease into the deep end, do you?"
She shrugged, a smile tugging at her lips. "I'm a diver. Always have been. The data's no good if it's shallow."
He shook his head, still smiling, and took a long pull of his mimosa, buying time. When he set the mug down, his gaze was steady, sincere. The golden retriever earnestness that had always been his default, now somehow devastating.
"Slow," he said finally. "Definitely slow. I'm not..." He paused, searching for the words. "I'm not about the finish line. I'm about the whole race. Every part of it. The way someone breathes when they're just starting to lose control. The little sounds they make before they're even aware they're making them. I want to know what makes them tick, what makes them arch their back, what makes their fingers curl into the sheets. I want to take my time and figure all of it out."
Mia’s mouth went dry. He was describing something so specific, so intimate, it felt less like a general preference and more like a recipe. A recipe she desperately wanted to be the ingredient for.
"And I'm..." He hesitated, the vulnerability flashing again. "I'm confident. Not in a cocky way, but in a... I know what I'm doing way. When I want something, I take it. But I take it slow. I make sure it's good for both of us."
He met her eyes, and the weight of his gaze was almost unbearable. "Does that answer your question?"
Mia swallowed. "Yeah," she managed. "That's... a very thorough data point."
He grinned, that goofy, warm grin that made her heart squeeze. "Anything for the cause."
She picked up her mug, but her hand was trembling slightly. She couldn't tell if it was the champagne or the image his words had painted—the slow, deliberate way he'd take someone apart, cataloging every sound they made until they were raw and open beneath him.
The air between them was thick with it now. The "for a friend" framing was a tissue-thin veil they were both holding onto, neither quite ready to tear it away. But the question burned in both their minds: who was the friend, really?
Jake set his mug down with a deliberate click, the sound cutting through the electric silence. He pushed off the desk, taking a half-step closer, not quite into her space but near enough that she could smell the champagne on his breath, clean and faintly sweet.
"My turn," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "For a friend."
Mia's heart stuttered, but she kept her expression smooth. "The data collection continues."
"Right." He tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "So this friend of mine, the one I'm gathering intel for... he wants to know what kind of sex you wish you were having. Not the kind you've had, or the kind you settle for. The kind you actually think about when you're alone at night. When you're not performing for anyone. What does that look like?"
The question landed with surgical precision. Mia could feel it in her chest, a deep, resonant ache that had nothing to do with the champagne. He wasn't asking about positions or technique. He was asking about the shape of her private interior, the place she'd never let anyone see.
She looked down at her mug, watching the last dregs of mimosa swirl. "Untethered from orgasm."
Jake blinked. "What?"
"That's what it looks like." She lifted her gaze, letting the truth spill out, quiet and steady. "Not the kind where you're both chasing that finish line, even though that's fun and I love that too. But the kind where the goal isn't getting off. The goal is making the other person forget their own name. Where you're so focused on what they're feeling that your own pleasure is just... a side effect."
She paused, surprised by her own vulnerability, but the words kept coming. "It's like being in a cathedral. You're not there for the climax. You're there for the space, the hush, getting to know every inch of something holy. Each touch is a prayer. Every sound they make is a response. Like you're the only two people in the universe, and the only thing that matters is how you're making them feel."
The room felt impossibly still. The wind had died outside, or maybe she just couldn't hear it anymore. Her chest was tight, her palms damp against the warm ceramic of the mug.
"I don't think I've ever had that," she said, the words barely above a whisper. "I've had people who were good at sex. People who knew how to hit the right buttons. But I've never had someone who was entirely consumed by me. Who wanted nothing more than to give me pleasure with their whole body and mind and soul, without expecting anything back. And I've never gotten to be that person for someone else. Like, wholly. Without worrying about what they were thinking or if I was doing it right."
She swallowed, the silence after her confession a physical pressure. "I want that. I want to be so lost in someone that I forget there's a world outside the room. And I want them to be just as lost in me."
She didn't look at him. She couldn't. The admission had stripped her bare in a way that having no panties under his t-shirt hadn't.
Jake didn't speak. For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound was the low hum of the mini-fridge and the distant, muffled howl of the wind. She felt his gaze on her, burning, but she couldn't meet it.
When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, scraped raw. "You're describing something real, Mia. Not a fantasy."
She laughed, a fragile, broken sound. "How would you know?"
"Because I've felt it." He paused, and she heard him shift his weight. "Not often. But once. That thing where you're not tracking the time or worrying about your own finish. Where you're just so deep in someone that you lose the outline of yourself. It's real."
Her eyes snapped to his. The air between them was alive, a taut wire about to snap.
"Did you love her?" The question was out before she could stop it, sharp and dangerous.
"In the moment? Yes." He held her gaze, unflinching. "Even if it didn't last. For those hours, I would have done anything. Burned down the world if she'd asked."
Mia's breath caught. The weight of his words pressed against her, heavy and intoxicating. She imagined what that would feel like. Not just being desired, but being the entire focus of someone's universe. Being enough to make them forget themselves.
"That's what I want," she repeated, her voice barely audible. "Even if it doesn't last. Just once."
The words hung between them, a raw, pulsing thing. Mia felt her heartbeat in her throat, in her temples, in the hollow of her chest. She'd never said that out loud. Not to Lucy, not to anyone.
The silence stretched, a held breath. Jake's jaw worked, like he was chewing on the words she'd just handed him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and she watched something flicker across his face—a hunger, barely leashed.
"That's not a big ask," he said finally, his voice low. "Wanting to be seen like that. Wanting someone to be all in."
"It feels big," she whispered, a tear filling her eyes.
"It shouldn't have to be," he repeated, softer now, almost to himself.
Mia's gaze drifted down, a reflex, a gravitational pull she couldn't stop. And there it was. The soft grey cotton of his sweatpants had become a tent, a clear, unmistakable rise that hadn't been there moments ago. The outline was distinct, the thick curve of him pressing against the fabric, half-hard and growing. Her eyes snagged on it, the sight of it a live wire straight to her core.
His cock was big. Even through the fleece, she could see the length of it, the way it curved along his thigh. The little Tasmanian devil in her brain started thrashing, screaming at her to seize the moment, to close the distance, to reach out and touch. But the moment was too big for her conscious mind. She stayed frozen, her breath shallow, her body a statue of want.
"Your turn," she managed, her voice a little hoarse. She forced her gaze back up to his face, found his eyes already on her, dark and watchful. He'd noticed her looking. Of course he had. "For a friend."
Jake's lips quirked, a ghost of a smile. "Shoot."
"Consent," she said, the word dropping like a stone. "What does it look like for you? Like, in the moment. When things are getting heated. Do you ask, or is it just... assumed?"
He let out a low breath, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. The gesture was almost shy, but his eyes never left hers. "Verbal consent," he said, his voice dropping into something rougher. "That's what I love most. I can work with the body language type, the nods and the gasps and the way someone presses into you. I've done that. It's good. But there's something about the moment where a woman's so far gone she stops being polite. When she claws at your shirt, not asking, not hinting, but demanding. She wants to be fucked so badly she can't even form a full sentence. She just grabs you and pulls."
Mia's mouth went dry. The image he painted was visceral, a scene playing out behind her eyes with them as the actors.
"To have someone want to take me so badly they can't be polite about it?" He shook his head slowly, a reverence in his voice. "That's the hottest thing I can imagine. That's the moment where I know it's real. When the careful social masks come off and it's just... raw."
The words landed in her gut like a physical impact. She felt her nipples pebble beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt, a tightening so acute it was almost painful. She watched his gaze flick down to her chest, catching the movement, the visible proof of her body's betrayal. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He wanted to reach out. She could see it in the way his hands flexed at his sides, in the tension that rippled through his shoulders. But he held himself still, a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
The silence stretched, elastic and unbearable. Jake's eyes lingered on her chest, tracing the hard peaks of her nipples through the thin cotton like he was memorizing them. His hands stayed at his sides, but she saw his fingers curl, knuckles whitening with the effort of restraint.
Mia felt the air leave her lungs in a slow, shaky stream. Her nipples ached, hypersensitive to the weight of his attention. She watched his throat work as he swallowed, watched his jaw unclench and tighten again. He was a man holding himself back, and the knowledge sent a hot, liquid pulse through her core.
She broke first. She had to. The tension was a rubber band pulled too tight, and she needed a release valve before she did something reckless like close the distance and find out if his mouth tasted like champagne and desperation.
"Do you have anything harder than champagne?" The words came out rougher than she intended, a little breathless.
Jake blinked, the spell breaking. His gaze snapped up to hers, a flicker of confusion before understanding dawned. "Harder?"
"Liquor." She forced a casual shrug, though her heart was slamming against her ribs. "I'm not saying the mimosas aren't doing the job, but if we're going to play another round of truth or dare, I want something with a little more... kick."
He held her gaze for a long beat, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. Then he let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "You're something else, you know that?"
"Yep, yep I am." The grin she flashed was all bravado, a shield she'd worn for years, but it cracked at the edges now, the seams showing.
Jake shook his head, that low whistle of amusement escaping him, and pushed himself up from the floor. He'd settled cross-legged at some point during their talk; she hadn't even noticed when. The motion of rising was fluid, athletic, a quiet demonstration of the power coiled in his frame.
The shift of fabric caught him off guard. A warm, heavy weight pressed against the inside of his thigh, and Jake felt his blood surge south as he registered the unmistakable shape of his own cock, thick and half-swollen behind the fleece of his sweatpants.
He froze, mid-step. When the hell had that happened?
His mind raked back over the last few minutes—over the sound of her voice describing a cathedral, describing being consumed, describing wanting to be lost in someone so completely that the world outside the room ceased to exist. His body, it seemed, had been listening far more attentively than his brain. It wasn't a flagpole, wasn't a demand. It was just... there. A quiet, physical fact. A hell of a lot of it, heavy and soft, curved against his thigh.
His first instinct was to grab something. A pillow. A hoodie. Anything to cover up the evidence. He'd spent fifteen years being Jake, the safe best friend, the goofy quarterback who never made things weird. This was the exact kind of weird he'd sworn to avoid. He could feel the blush creeping up the back of his neck.
But then he glanced at her.
Mia was still sitting cross-legged on the floor, her mug cradled in her hands. But her eyes weren't on his face. They were lower, fixed on the very spot he was trying to pretend wasn't happening. She'd seen it. Of course she'd seen it. She'd been watching him with that same intensity all morning, and he'd been too wrapped up in the sound of her voice to notice the weight of her gaze.
Jake's pulse hammered. He could turn away, adjust himself, make a joke to break the tension. Fifteen years of friendship said do it. Protect the thing you built.
But something else moved in him, something quieter and more reckless. She'd spent the night grinding against him. She'd guided his hands to her tits and pressed her pussy against him through the dark. Maybe she'd been asleep. Maybe he had been. But their bodies had already crossed this line, and pretending it didn't exist felt like a betrayal of the moment they were sitting in now.
He didn't grab a pillow. He didn't turn away.
"Whiskey," he said, his voice a little rougher than he intended. He moved to the desk, the motion unhurried, letting the fabric shift over the half-swollen shape of him. Not flaunting it. Not hiding it. Just letting it be there, a physical fact between them. "Guys on the team got it for my birthday last year. Good stuff. Haven't had occasion to open it."
The bottle clinked against the desk as he set it down. He turned back to face her, letting her see him, letting her see all of it. The message in his eyes was simple: I know you saw. I know you're looking. I'm not hiding it.