Chapter Text
Your dad insisted on celebrating your twenty-first birthday at the country house with family and close friends. Something about closeness and memories. You weren't opposed — after all, you had no other plans for the day.
You braced yourself for awkward congratulations from distant relatives, for the usual remarks about what a grown woman you've become and how they remember you being "this tall" just yesterday. What you hadn't prepared for was Jack — your father's best friend — attending the party too. The same Jack you'd harbored a massive crush on for… well, as long as you could remember. The thought of him being here made you equally nervous and exhilarated. Maybe tonight he'd finally see you not as his friend's daughter, but as a woman. Maybe this was your chance.
The dinner was a blur of polite laughter and clinking glasses — your father holding court, Jack Abbot playing the charming best friend. Everyone bought it. Everyone but you.
His eyes had been on you all evening, following your every move, lingering on all the right places. You knew the dress was the right call — red color, hugging your curves like a second skin. The cleavage, however, was a different story. You weren't one to flaunt your body, but this was your shot. And this dress offered a perfect view of the soft swell of your breasts — and most importantly, it made a bra impossible. That's why Abbot's wandering gaze brought you such a quiet thrill.
You'd felt his hand on your lower back as you passed him at the table — a fraction of a second too long, his fingers pressing just enough to leave an imprint. To anyone else, it seemed harmless, barely noticeable. But you noticed. The touches. The glances. The way he licked his lips every time his eyes landed on you while your father droned on about something mundane. The flicker of irritation when you laughed too hard at some guy your age's joke. You knew he was reacting to you — and you used it against him all night. He caught on soon enough, but didn't stop it. It was like a secret game between the two of you, no rules, no witnesses.
You tempted him with everything you had. You stopped by him and your father several times, pretending to ask what they were talking about. You lingered behind Abbot, pressing your body against his, your chin resting innocently on his shoulder. You felt him tense at the contact — knew he could feel your slightly peaked nipples through the thin fabric, feel the warmth of your body. When your father joked about something, you'd let your hands drop casually, brushing against Abbot's thighs, running your fingers along them, slipping them ever so slightly under his shirt near the waistband of his trousers. Each time, it drew a ragged breath from him. Your father, blissfully unaware, kept joking about everything under the sun.
Now you're on the terrace, the cool night air a welcome relief against your flushed skin. The city sprawls below, indifferent to the chaos inside your chest. Your birthday is winding down, and Jack still hasn't made a move — hasn't said a single word about the connection crackling between you. The tension is undeniable, but without his explicit interest, without him taking that step, you won't push. It's not in your nature. If he doesn't want you the way you want him, you won't force it.
Shame begins to creep in. God, you're such a fool for putting on a show tonight. Of course he reacted to you — he's a man, after all, a widowed one at that. He hasn't dated since his wife passed; you knew that. But that didn't make you special. Anyone could have been in your place tonight. It just happened to be your turn.
Suddenly, you hear the sliding door open. Then close. Footsteps — measured, deliberate. You'd recognize them anywhere.
You don't turn around.
"You shouldn't be out here."
Jack's voice is low, rough at the edges — the whiskey he's been nursing all night coloring his words. He stops a few feet behind you. Close enough that you catch his cologne — sandalwood and something darker. You breathe it in, trying to memorize it so you can revisit it in your dreams, nursing the fantasy of what could have been.
"You're right," you say, still facing the skyline. "I should probably go back in. Dad was looking for you, actually. Something about a golf trip—"
"Sweetheart, look at me."
It's not a request.
You turn slowly. He's leaning against the railing, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, glass dangling from his fingers. Candlelight spills through the glass doors, catching the silver in his temples, the sharp cut of his jaw. His eyes are fixed on you — dark, tired, hungry.
"You've been doing this all night," he says quietly. "Walking past me. Brushing my arm. Laughing too loud at my jokes."
"Maybe I was just being polite—"
"Don't." He steps closer. Then another. You're backed against the railing now, nowhere to go. His free hand hovers near your cheek — not touching, just... there. A threat. A promise. "Don't lie to me. Not tonight."
Your heart slams against your ribs.
"Jack—"
"If I touch you," he cuts in, voice dropping to barely a whisper, "I won't be able to stop. And your father is twenty feet away, pouring himself another scotch."
He meets your eyes. His are raw, unguarded — the mask slipping for just a moment.
"You need to walk away from me right now," he says. "Please."
But he doesn't move. And neither do you.
"What if I don't want to?" Your voice cracks with desperation. You have to know. You need to know.
Jack holds your gaze for what feels like an eternity. His hand finally cups your cheek, thumb stroking it gently. He sighs heavily before answering.
"We can't... Your father…And I... God, you're at least twenty years younger than me. You should be dating guys your own age, having fun, enjoying your youth—"
"I don't want guys my age. And I don't care about the age gap or your relationship with my dad. I've always wanted you — and only you. Surely you must've picked up on that by now. All I care about is what you think about this. And it's okay if you don't want me — really, I get it. A young, immature girl, your best friend's daughter, for fuck's sake — not exactly what you'd look for in a partner."
From inside the house, music drifts through the glass.
Loving you is like holding smoke
The dries, the choke
I can’t stop wanting you
And all these things that you do
"You're like smoke too, Jack," you say, turning your back to him again. "I can see you, smell you — but I can't hold you. I guess it was never supposed to happen between us."
You hear him behind you — a hand raking through his hair, then a low groan.
"I'm not a smoke, sweetheart." His voice is closer now. A step. Then another. He's right behind you, your back pressing against his chest. You hear the plea in his voice, hot against your ear. "I'm a fire. I'll burn you badly, babygirl. I'll hurt you. You'd never speak to me after this. You'd never forgive me. And your father wouldn't either."
"You won't." You shake your head. "Even if you did, it wouldn't be on purpose. You're not like that, Jack. You have a kind heart."
His nose grazes your cheek. You hear him inhale deeply, tasting your scent.
"My God, sweetheart," he breathes. "You're going to be the death of me."
He turns you around, and his lips crash into yours.
You gasp in surprise, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. You moan at the sudden sensation. It's your first kiss — you don't know what you're doing, especially not with your hot older crush — but you try to match his pace. It's messy, frantic, his lips moving like he's been holding back for years and finally let the dam break. Like he's starved, and you're his favourite dish.
The kiss breaks, but his forehead stays pressed against yours. Both of you are breathing heavily, the cool night air doing nothing to calm the heat between you.
"Jesus," he whispers, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."
"Then why didn't you?" Your voice comes out smaller than you intended. "All these years, Jack. I've been throwing myself at you since I was—"
"Don't." His jaw tightens. "Don't remind me how long I've been fighting this. I've watched you grow up, watched you become this..." He gestures vaguely at you, frustration bleeding into his words. "This woman I can't stop thinking about. Do you know what that does to a man?"
You shake your head, unable to form words.
"It makes him feel like a monster." His hand cups your face again, gentler this time. "Every time your father talked about you, every time you visited, every time you smiled at me—I had to remind myself that you were off-limits. That you deserved someone who wasn't carrying this much baggage. Someone who wasn't old enough to be your—"
"Stop." You press your fingers to his lips. "I don't care about any of that. I never have."
He captures your hand, kissing your palm. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.
"You're dangerous," he murmurs against your skin. "You know that? Walking around in that dress, looking at me like I'm the only man in the room. Touching me under the table like you had no idea what you were doing."
"I knew exactly what I was doing." A small, defiant smile tugs at your lips. "I wanted you to notice me."
"Baby, I've been noticing you since you walked through that door." His eyes rake over you again, and this time there's no pretense of subtlety. "The way that dress clings to you... I nearly lost my mind when you pressed yourself against me earlier. Your father was talking about his new boat, and all I could think about was what you'd feel like underneath me."
A shiver runs through you, and not from the cold.
"Jack..." You bite your lip, suddenly shy despite everything.
"Say my name again." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Like that. Breathless. Like you want me."
"I want you, Jack" you say without hesitation. "I've always wanted you."
Something in his expression shifts—the last of his resistance crumbling. He pulls you into him, one hand splaying across your lower back, the other tangling in your hair. This kiss is slower, more deliberate. He takes his time, learning the shape of your mouth, the way you respond to him.
You grip his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans against your lips.
"Fuck," he breathes, breaking away. "We need to stop."
"Then why aren't you stopping?"
He laughs, a low, wrecked sound. "Because apparently I have no self-control when it comes to you."
From inside the house, you hear your father's booming laugh followed by the clink of glasses. The sound is jarring, a reminder of the world waiting just beyond the glass doors.
Jack's expression darkens. He takes a step back, running a hand through his hair.
"We can't do this here," he says, more to himself than to you. "Your father is right there. Everyone is right there."
"I know." The disappointment in your voice is impossible to hide.
"Hey." He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. "I'm not saying no. I'm saying not yet. Not like this."
You search his face, looking for any sign of hesitation. You find none.
"Then when?"
His thumb strokes your jaw, his eyes never leaving yours. "Tonight. After everyone leaves. After your father goes to bed." He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "I'll find you. I promise."
"Promise?" Your voice wavers.
He pulls back, holding your gaze. "On my life."
The music from inside shifts to something slower, more intimate. Through the glass, you can see your father gesturing animatedly at some distant relative, completely oblivious to what's been happening just feet away.
Jack straightens his tie, smooths his hair. He looks at you one last time, and the hunger in his eyes makes your knees weak.
"Go back inside," he says softly. "Act normal. Smile. Let them sing you happy birthday." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "And when the night is over, when everyone is asleep..."
He leans in, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your lips. Soft. Tender. A promise of what's to come.
"Then I'm all yours."
He pulls away, and the absence of his warmth is immediate. He walks past you, toward the sliding door, pausing with his hand on the handle.
"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he says over his shoulder, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "The best part is yet to come."
He disappears inside, and you're left on the terrace, heart racing, a smile you can't suppress spreading across your face.
The night isn't over.
It's only just beginning.