Greta Van Fleet // Oneshots

Lucky // Jake Kiszka

Warnings: none; get ready for your heart to burst. 

Requested by a lovely anon on tumblr <3 Thank you.

---

Everybody told me love was blind

then I saw your face and you blew my mind;

finally, you and me are the lucky ones this time. 

—

Jake sighed as he looked at you from across the table. "I can't get over how a few months ago I wanted to learn your name," he said, resting his chin in his hand and smiling at you. "And now you're having breakfast with me in my sweater."

"I can't believe you didn't try to learn my name sooner," you replied, smiling back. "Don't you know who you are?"

"I know I'm a guy who gets nervous around pretty girls."

You winked. "Which makes you even cuter."

He got up and went around to you, sliding his hands down your chest, resting his head on your shoulder. "And my girl can make an amazing breakfast," he said huskily."I'm pretty fucking lucky."

You held his hand against yourself, over his own sweater. "You are," you agreed. "But I'm lucky too, considering you let me borrow your clothes all the time."

He chuckled. "You steal them," he whispered in your ear.

"That's a big accusation, Jake," you warned with a smirk, turning to try and look at him but you only caught a peripheral view of his brow and nose. "I'm not sure I appreciate it."

He stood up straight and laced his fingers through your hair, pulling it back toward him and ran his fingers through all of it repeatedly, untangling little knots and smoothing it all out. "I like seeing you in that sweater," he said as his knuckles brushed the nape of your neck. "It feels so–domestic."

"You don't seem like the type who'd wanna be domestic," you noted, smiling to yourself.

Jake moved in front of you and sat on your lap, his legs laying off to the side, and laid his arm over your shoulder to grip the back of the chair and keep himself situated. "Maybe. All I know is that I like you in that sweater," he said and dipped his head back, smiling at you, his hair falling back, threatening to touch the floor.

You pulled him back up by the collar of his t-shirt. "You're such a goof," you said and kissed his cheek.

He grinned and kissed your nose, then peered over at your mug on the table. "You're out of coffee, babe. I'll get you some more."

You sighed and leaned back in the chair, clasping your hands behind your head, as you watched him in the kitchen. "I like being taken care of," you said. "I like seeing you in the kitchen."

Jake turned back to you, smirking. "Domestic enough for you?"

"Well, the only thing that would make it better is you in a cute little maid outfit," you said with a wink.

"Oh, I'll get right on that," he replied with a laugh.

He was pouring out his own coffee after yours when you got up and surveyed the kitchen, completely obliterated by dirty pans on the stove, eggshells in a wet bowl on the edge of the sink, flour littering the counter, an egg-coated spatula and all the dirty dishes and silverware you two had gone through during your feast.

"I forgot all about the best part of domestic life," you said, dumping the eggshells into the garbage. "Cleaning up."

"Four hands are better than two," Jake quipped. "We'll get this done in no time."

Even in silence you felt totally comfortable with him. You couldn't believe that a few months ago he was some intimidating fox that caught your eye in the grocery store of all places and how, on your fourth date, he'd confessed that he'd asked around, even employees at the store, for weeks just trying to learn your name. Finally he got it when you ran into him again–on purpose, he had told you–and he'd gone up to you, flustered and blushing, and asked if you knew where the cat food was. Not that he had a cat–he later told you he thought it would make him more attractive to you, as if his whole demeanor hadn't been enough to reel you in.

You were drying the last freshly washed fork and putting it back in its drawer when Jake turned to you. He leaned back against the counter, wiping his hands on a dish rag, and asked, "Have I told you that I love you?"

You paused, the drawer only halfway shut. You stayed frozen for a moment, unable to comprehend his words, but you managed to shut the drawer completely and look back at him, your face growing hot. "What?"

"I love you, Y/N," Jake told you, far more confidently than he was the first time he spoke to you, and that was just about cat food.

"You love me?" you repeated, fighting the urge to splash cold water on your face.

He moved to you, placing his hands on your arms, moving one up to the side of your face. "I love you," he said again, sliding his fingers through your hair. "So much."

You wrapped your arms around him, resting your head in the crook of his neck. "I love you too, Jake," you said softly, turning your head to nuzzle your face against his neck. His usual smoky, slightly woodsy scent was masked by the scent of coffee and flour. "You're my favorite."

"You felt so special to me from the beginning," Jake said quietly, reaching up to thread his fingers through your hair, cradling your head, and wrapping his other arm around you tighter. "I'm really fucking lucky."