JACE | APRIL FOOLS

The music hits you before anything else does—loud enough to blur your thoughts, bass heavy enough to settle in your chest like a second heartbeat. The whole place is dim, lights shifting between low gold and deep red, casting everything in something warm and misleading. It smells like alcohol, perfume, sweat—too many people packed too close together, laughing too loud, touching like nothing matters past this moment.

It’s overwhelming. You hesitate just inside the doorway, adjusting your jacket without thinking, suddenly aware of yourself in a way you weren’t before. You actually listened when he told you to dress nice. Took your time with it, even. Stupid, maybe—but you wanted to look good for him.

And then you see him.

Jace stands out without trying. He always does. Leaned back against the edge of a couch like he owns the place, shirt half-open, sleeves pushed up, that same careless confidence that made you look twice the first time you met him. There’s a girl in front of him—close. Too close. Her hands are on him like they’ve been there before, like they belong there.

You don’t move. Not yet. You just watch.

At first, it almost doesn’t register. Your brain tries to make it into something smaller, something easier to explain away—just talking, just leaning in, just—

But then his hand slides to her waist. Pulls her closer. Easy. Familiar.

And then he kisses her.

Not hesitant. Not unsure. There’s no pause, no second thought. It’s slow, deliberate, like he has all the time in the world for it. Like it’s nothing new. Like it’s nothing important.

Something in your chest tightens—sharp and sudden.

You don’t even realize you’ve taken a step forward until you’re closer, close enough that there’s no mistaking it anymore. No room for doubt, no excuse left to hold onto.

And that’s when he sees you.

Right in the middle of it.

His eyes meet yours over her shoulder, and for a split second, something shifts. It’s subtle—barely there—but it’s enough to make your stomach drop. Like he didn’t expect you to actually show up. Like maybe, just maybe, he knows exactly how this looks.

But it doesn’t last.

His gaze drags over you instead—slow, deliberate. Taking you in from head to toe, like nothing else in the room matters for that moment. Like she doesn’t matter.

Like this doesn’t matter.

There’s the faintest curve of a smirk at the corner of his mouth when he pulls back just enough from the girl, his hand still resting on her like he hasn’t even considered letting go.

“...damn,” he says, voice low, almost amused, like he’s just now noticing something worth his attention. “You actually listened.”

His eyes flick over you again, slower this time, something sharper behind them now.

“You look good,” he adds, more quietly. “Better than I thought you would.”

It should feel like a compliment. It should land the way it used to.

It doesn’t.

The girl shifts slightly, clearly confused now, glancing between the two of you, but Jace barely spares her a second look. His attention stays on you—completely, unapologetically—like you’re the one who interrupted something, not the other way around.

He tilts his head a little, studying your expression like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on inside your head.

“...what?” he says after a beat, almost casual. Almost bored. “You look like you didn’t expect that.”

There’s a pause—just long enough to hurt.

Then, with the slightest lift of his brow, something colder slipping into his tone:

“Thought I loved you or something?”

You don’t stay.

You don’t argue, don’t make a scene—don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much it actually got to you. The music keeps pounding behind you as you push your way through the crowd, past people who don’t notice, don’t care. By the time you’re outside, the air feels too cold, too quiet, like the world’s snapped back into something real while everything inside kept pretending.

You leave.

And you don’t look back.

Hours pass.

The adrenaline fades. The noise is gone. What’s left is quieter—but worse in a different way. The kind that sits heavy in your chest, replaying everything whether you want it to or not. The way he looked at you. The way he didn’t look sorry.

You’re just starting to settle into that silence when there’s a knock at your door.

Not soft. Not polite.

Uneven.

Like whoever’s on the other side can’t quite stand straight. Another knock follows—louder this time. Then a third, dragging slightly against the wood. “...open the door.”

His voice.

Rough. Slurred. Lower than usual, like it’s been dragged through something. There’s a pause before he knocks again, this time weaker, like it costs him something to do it. “C’mon... I know you’re in there.”

When the door finally opens, the first thing that hits is the smell—alcohol, strong enough to linger in the air between you. Jace stands there, leaning slightly to one side like the floor isn’t fully cooperating with him. His hair’s a mess, shirt half unbuttoned now, the same one from earlier, but it doesn’t look as put together anymore. Neither does he.

For a second, he just stares at you.

Really looks at you this time.

And whatever expression he was wearing before—back at the party, all careless and sharp—it’s gone. “...you left.” It’s quieter than you expect. Not accusing. Not mocking. Just... stating it. Like he’s still catching up. He swallows, jaw tightening slightly, and then—without warning—he drops.

Right there.

On his knees.

It’s not graceful. Not planned. More like something in him just gives out all at once, like standing suddenly feels like too much. “Don’t—” he starts, then stops, dragging a hand down his face, frustrated with himself. “Don’t shut the door. Just... don’t, okay?” His voice cracks slightly on the last word, and he lets out a breath that sounds heavier than it should. “I know what it looked like,” he mutters, gaze dropping for a second before forcing itself back up to you. “I know.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“...I fucked up.” It’s quiet. Not defensive. Not dressed up into anything softer.

Just said. His hands curl slightly against the floor, like he’s grounding himself there. “I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he admits after a moment, the words slower now, more deliberate. “And when I saw you—” He lets out a short, humorless breath. “I don’t know. I just—acted like an idiot.”

He shakes his head, like he’s trying to piece it together and failing. “...that doesn’t make it better.” His eyes flick back up to you again, and this time there’s something else there—something raw, something that wasn’t there earlier.

“You looked... good,” he says, quieter now. “Like—really good. I noticed. I just—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “...I didn’t handle it right.”

That’s an understatement.

Another silence settles in, heavier now, sitting between you.

Then, softer—almost hesitant in a way you’ve never heard from him before:

“...I didn’t mean that shit I said.”

A beat.

“...about not loving you.” He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping just slightly, like he’s finally run out of whatever was holding him up. “Just—” he swallows again, voice rougher now, stripped down. “Don’t... don’t throw me out yet, alright?”