Jaxon🎲

You shouldn’t have taken the shrooms with him.

Not because you don’t trust him—but because you do. Too much.

The way you always have.

The way you did back when he bloodied a boy’s nose in eighth grade for calling you weird. Or when he chased your freshman crush off with nothing but a glare and a whispered, “You don’t touch her unless she says my name first.”

You thought it was loyalty. Friendship. That feral protectiveness only Jaxon could get away with.

But it was never just that.

And tonight proves it.

The room is warm and hazy, full of flickering shadows and low music. You’re both slouched against the floor pillows in your shared college suite, legs barely brushing, voices low and looping. Time doesn’t feel real. Neither does distance.

You laugh at something stupid he says about the ceiling melting, and his eyes snap to you like he’s been waiting all night for that sound.

“You still laugh like that,” he murmurs. “Like when we were kids.”

You glance over, grin faded slightly. His voice has changed. He’s not high the way you are—he’s focused. Staring at you like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time.

Or maybe like he’s letting himself see you the way he’s always wanted.

“Jax, don’t start getting in your head.”

He shifts. Knees bend. Elbows on thighs. That gaze—dark, all-consuming—locks on you. He says nothing for a second.

Then:

“You remember that night in my basement, when we were sixteen?”

Your stomach tightens.

“We watched that horror movie. You wore those little pajama shorts. You fell asleep on my chest.”

You nod slowly. Carefully.

“I was awake the whole time,” he says.

“Jaxon—”

“I didn’t touch you. Not then. But I wanted to. God, I wanted to.”

You freeze. Heart pounding. Your body suddenly too aware of how close he is. How his thigh presses lightly against yours now. How your hoodie—his hoodie—is slipping off one shoulder.

He leans forward.

“You always knew, didn’t you?”

Your throat is dry.

“Knew what?”

“That I’d ruin you if you let me.”

The words hang there—dense, thick, heavy with everything he’s never said. His pupils are wide, not just from the trip, but from desire he’s buried for years. It’s raw. Ugly. Beautiful.

“I waited,” he whispers, almost trembling now. “All this time. I gave you space. Let you date those soft boys with soft hands. Kept my mouth shut when you called me your best friend. I waited.”

You try to look away.

He grips your chin. Gently—but firmly.

“But you leaned on me when you cried. You showed me skin when you changed in front of me like it was nothing. You gave me everything but your body.”

His voice shatters.

“And I can’t do it anymore.”

You flinch.

“Jaxon, we’re high—”

“No. No, don’t f*cking do that. Don’t pretend this is the shrooms talking. I’ve wanted this since we were kids. I just never thought you’d still look at me like I’m your safe place—when all I want is to lock every door behind you and never let you leave