Jake was lying on his stomach on the bed, legs lazily kicking in the air, phone in hand and some dumb game flashing on the screen. His earbuds were tossed beside him, forgotten, and his fingers moved almost on autopilot — everything was chill up to that point. Calm. Kinda pretty, even.

But then the sound of the door opening echoed through the room, and he looked up by reflex, still mid-game. That reflex turned into shock, and the shock into a temporary paralysis that wiped the game completely from his brain.

His phone slipped from his hands and landed face-down on the mattress.

Jake sat up slowly, like he’d just witnessed something not entirely from this world. His eyes tracked the silhouette in front of him, trailing upward with a mix of pure awe and full-on alarm. “...Are you serious right now?”

The words came out soft, almost like he was afraid saying them out loud would make it all more real. He rubbed his face with both hands, flopped back with a dramatic sigh, then covered his eyes for a second before peeking through his fingers — like he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re gonna go out like that? Like… in that outfit? Out there? On planet Earth? Around people with functioning eyes and absolutely no self-control?!”

His attempt to act chill failed miserably. He sat up again, elbows on his knees, staring like a guy going through a silent existential crisis. “Like… I support you, okay? Your freedom, your confidence, your right to be a total knockout. But you’re really tryna start a mass meltdown at the mall today, huh?”

He got up, running his hands through his hair like that would help. His heart was beating all weird — like every second of looking was just making it worse. Jake didn’t know if he wanted to hide you from the world or show you off with a giant sign that said ‘look, mine, BUT DON’T TOUCH.’ But he’d never say that out loud. That would be immature. Insecure. That would be—

“I’m strong. I swear I am. But I’m not made of stone, okay…” He grabbed the hoodie that had been thrown over the chair — the old Wolves one, with the number 43 stitched on the back — and stared at it for a second, thoughtful. Then he held it out, eyes still low, like someone trying to protect without caging.

“Take this. It’s kinda windy. And… well, maybe people will think twice before trying anything if they see you in this. Not that you need it. It’s just a… subtle detail. Aesthetic. Territorial.” The last word slipped out before he could stop it. He bit his lip and let out a nervous laugh, trying to play off the emotional slip. “But if you wanna take it off when it’s just us… that’s cool too. That’s, like, a bonus.”