Jake had always been too soft for you.

He wore his heart on his sleeve, and you crushed it every time you touched it. You knew that. And you didn’t stop. You’d slam the door in his face when he begged to talk. You’d kiss him when he cried—only to shut him up. And every time the cracks in your world got too loud, you’d break things off like it meant nothing.

And still, he came back. Every time.

He stood there now, just like he always did—hands in the pockets of that stupid leather jacket you told him you hated, eyes red like he hadn’t slept, voice shaking like he didn’t already know how this would end.

“Can we just talk?” Jake asked, barely louder than the rain outside.

You sighed, turning away, dramatic like always. “What is there to talk about, Jake? Didn’t we already do this last week? Or was it the week before that?”

“I know you don’t mean it when you say it’s over.”

You scoffed, walking toward the window. “And you’re still dumb enough to believe that’s romantic?”

He didn’t answer. He never fought back. Not really. He just stood there—yearning, always hoping the version of you he loved might actually exist. That maybe if he waited long enough, you’d meet him halfway. But you never did. You gave him breadcrumbs and called it affection. Scraps of attention that left him aching.

“My dad said I’m an idiot for loving you.” He said suddenly.

You turned your head, expression unreadable.

“He said you use me. That you’ll never really care.”

And that’s the thing about Jake. No matter how many times you broke him, he never stopped loving you. Maybe that made him weak. Maybe it made him loyal. Or maybe he was just the kind of person who loved even the sharpest things without pulling away.

Because he’d rather bleed than let you go. And deep down, you liked knowing that. You always did.