We’re Not Official but His Mum Likes Me and I （Didn’t） Lube His Chain
The past few weeks have included the following events in no particular order:
I learned to make French toast the Jake way (i.e., with double the cinnamon and served shirtless)
Jake learned that I talk in my sleep about API testing protocols
I learned that Jake finds this hot???
Jake learned that I hoard cables in a box labelled “Cable Babies”
I learned that he owns a blowtorch
We both learned that I should not be left alone with said blowtorch
We’re in a situationship / domestic beta-test / unofficial emotional partnership / whatever they call it when a man who terrifies half of Brisbane now keeps oat milk in his fridge for you .
Anyway. I made another spreadsheet. Because that’s what I do when I’m emotionally derailed but sexually stabilised by a hot biker who knows where I keep my anxiety meds and makes me French toast.
It’s titled “This Year’s Budget” for plausible deniability purposes. (No one opens a budget spreadsheet voluntarily. Not even Megan. Especially not Jake.)
Inside, there are tabs for:
“Feral Tension Tracker” (currently hardcoded at 100% — uneditable, non-negotiable, and possibly a feature not a bug)
“Emotional Stability Forecast” (mine: like a crypto crash at midnight—unexpected, catastrophic, and ruining my sleep schedule; his: suspiciously calm and possibly running on a different internal OS, likely suspect: Outlaw Biker Linux)
“Incidents of Soft Launch Behaviour” (we’re at nine, not including the French toast or the time he put a case on my phone that has military-grade drop protection and said, “in case you drop it again”)
“Likelihood We’re Dating But Haven’t Said It Yet” (currently at 91%, but rising daily thanks to the number of his T-shirts in my closet and his complete lack of protest)
I also included a formula to calculate the likelihood that I’m falling in love based on three key inputs:
The number of seconds his hand stays on my lower back after he opens a door for me
The intensity rating (1-10) of “that look” he gives me when I speak fluent nerd
The exact way he tightens the strap on my helmet like he’s been trusted with something fragile
(Yes, I’m aware this is emotionally unsound methodology. No, I will not be seeking peer review.)
The formula broke halfway through and now just says:
def calculate_love_risk():
return emotionally_unstable_af
I’m considering putting it on a mug.
Oh, and I added a new tab to my spreadsheet last week: “Jake’s Mum’s Movie Rankings” Also known as: the spreadsheet that bonded me to his mum.
Her name’s Mags. And she’s soft and sharp and strong in a way that made me want to sit and ask for life advice and scone recipes. We had dinner at her place last week. She hugged me the second she opened the door. She made lasagna. Real lasagna. Not packet mix. Homemade.
She sent me the recipe the next day. I don’t even cook. But I saved it. Immediately. In a new folder. Labelled “Mags.”
We also talked about movies. Laughed so hard we both cried at one point. And when Jake left the table to grab drinks, she leaned over and said, “He smiles different when you’re around.”
Tell me how I’m supposed to emotionally recover from that, please. Because I haven’t. I think I’m falling in love. But also, possibly developing a secondary spreadsheet-based attachment to his mother.
Is that normal?
Don’t answer that.
So, anyway, that’s where we’re at. Jake and I are basically shut-ins because the man is filthy and can’t keep his hands to himself.
Any time I tell him we should leave the apartment like normal people with vitamin D requirements, he reminds me of the little metaphorical box I “ticked” that gave him consent to ruin me responsibly.
(As if I need reminding. My thighs remind me daily.)
The only exception to our hermit lifestyle has been the pool hall, where he insists on “teaching” me.
I put that in quotes because my skills have not improved AT ALL, which leads me to conclude that either a) he’s pretending to teach me so he can stand behind me and manhandle my hips, or b) he is, in fact, a terrible teacher.
Possibly both. Either way, I still can’t sink a ball to save my life, and I’m beginning to get concerned I won’t be able to wipe that smugness off my brother’s face when he comes home for Christmas this year.
That all leads me to today. And what happened this afternoon.
I was walking home from work. I’d had a day. One of our junior devs tried to fix a typo and took down the staging server; my code reviewer said my variable names “lack cohesion”; and I spilled red wine on my WHITE shirt while stress-ranting to Megan over a pub lunch.
When I turned the corner into our apartment complex, I found Jake in the car park with his bike like a live-action thirst trap. He was crouched low, arms flexing, hands doing something suspiciously competent with a spray can and a rag.
Bestie, my hormones launched a denial-of-service attack on my brain. Because apparently my new kink is watching him maintain machinery while radiating unlawful levels of arm porn and testosterone.
“Hey, darlin’.” He glanced up, grease on his fingers. “C’mere. It’s time you learned how to lube a chain.”
Excuse me???
Sir. You’re abusing your power and your biceps, and I need you to know that. This feels like entrapment.
“That was...aggressively hot,” I said, after what was either a five-second pause or a full hour of bicep-induced drooling. I can’t be sure which. “Did you rehearse that? Was that a line? Be honest.”
Jake looked at me like I was adorable and doomed. One corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk that was all sin and no apology. He didn’t answer. Just dragged the rag through his hands. Slow. Deliberate. Then tossed it aside and stood.
“If I’d rehearsed it,” he said, his voice low and calm and cocky as hell, “I would’ve made it so much fucking filthier.”
He took one step towards me. Then another. Eyes locked on mine.
“You wanna know what it sounds like when I’m trying?”
Another step. His boots stopped just short of me.
His gaze dipped to my mouth, then lower. Unhurried. Like he’d studied the effect and enjoyed weaponising it. He probably graduated top of his class at Feral Biker Academy, where they teach you how to wreck a woman in ten easy steps and one look.
“If I was trying, sweetheart...” His voice dropped to a growl. “I’d tell you to open this mouth—” he gripped my jaw “—and let me ruin that pretty throat before dinner.”
Entrapment, your honour.
This was a targeted attack on my panties.
“I’d tell you to bend over my bike and let me give you what I’ve been thinking about all fuckin’ day.”
Absolute abuse of power.
He leaned in, brushed his mouth against my ear. “I’d stuff you with my cum all fuckin’ night long so you’re still leaking it two days from now.”
My breath caught. Fully caught. Like my lungs just gave up and decided oxygen was a luxury I no longer deserved. My thighs squeezed together on instinct. And somewhere deep in my soul, a tiny internal voice screamed, Not in the car park. Not in the car park. NOT in the car park.
“You do realise there are people around, right?” I finally managed.
“Like, normal humans who did not sign up for...for this. You’re out here casually dropping X-rated content, like Mr Weatherby doesn’t have a full surveillance setup trained on this car park.
So, now it’s on you that the Wine Club’s gonna think I’m some cum-filled gangster’s girl every time they see me.
And the worst part? I’m actually considering letting you commit every illegal and morally questionable thing you just described. ”
Jake chuckled, a sound made entirely of sex and smugness that I absolutely would not be dreaming about later. His hand came to the back of my neck, firm, like he was grounding me and claiming me all at once.
“That right?” he murmured, brushing his thumb over my skin. “You think you’d let me, darlin’?” His smirk smirked harder. “Sweetheart, you’ve been lookin’ at me like I already stuffed my cum in you and stamped gangster’s girl across your fuckin’ forehead.”
He did not just say that.
He did not just say he’d stamped gangster’s girl across my forehead like he was leaving a claim tag on a piece of property.
I felt my eye twitch.
I opened my mouth to say something.
Anything.
Something that didn’t sound like please do that.
But before I had a chance, Jake gripped my jaw again and kissed me.
Hot.
Hard.
Final.
Like he’d seen the chaos brewing behind my eyes and decided to shut it down the only way he knew how: with mouth, tongue, and zero hesitation.
And that was how we ended up in his bed at six on a Thursday night having filthy dirty sex that was the fastest sex we’d ever had.
Spoiler alert: Jake did not teach me how to lube a chain. He did not bend me over his bike. He did not ruin my pretty throat before dinner. And he most certainly did not stuff me with his cum all night long.
You may be asking “why not?” And that would be a very reasonable question.
We were interrupted by Sarah. You remember her, right? Yeah, me too. Unfortunately. Jake still has to work with her, but I’ve only seen her once since we started dating (are we dating? is this actual dating? is a gangster’s girl an actual girlfriend?).
She knocked on the door while Jake was halfway to giving me an orgasm.
With his dick. He’d already given me two with his fingers and mouth, but this one was going to be my best.
..and Sarah robbed me of it. I mean, Jake ignored the knocking, but she quickly moved onto the one communication method he never ignores: his phone.
He pulled on jeans and headed out of the bedroom to let her in while I got dressed and gathered my wits.
When I walked into his lounge room, Sarah stood there looking like a cross between a biker babe and someone who’d raided a very expensive army surplus store.
Everything about her outfit screamed “professional badass.” It was all black, lots of pockets, and probably worth more than my entire collection of ergonomic keyboards.
Her eyes flickered to me for barely two seconds before dismissing me as unworthy of her attention. When she looked back at Jake, it was with the kind of focus I usually reserve for hunting down critical bugs in production code.
“We’ve got movement on the situation,” she said, all business. “Intel just came in.”
“How solid is it?”
“Very. But time sensitive.”
“Eden—” Jake turned to me, conflict clear in his eyes.
“Go,” I said.
He nodded and switched instantly to mission mode, gathering his things with quick efficiency. Sarah breezed all the way into his apartment like she had admin access, making a beeline for a backpack on the couch that she clearly knew would be there.
And me? I stood there doing my best impersonation of my computer when it’s processing too many requests at once.
Because Jake and Sarah’s rhythm was effortless, like they were two halves of the same algorithm, already optimised to run side by side.
It felt like watching someone else type inside my codebase—my personal space that I thought only Jake and I had access to.
And I hated how easily it all still fit for them.
(Side note: Is there a Stack Overflow thread for “How to handle watching your hot biker’s ex navigate his apartment like she still has the master key?”)
Jealousy hit me like a critical bug in production code.
Unexpected, messy, and impossible to ignore.
I’d never been the jealous type before (trust me, I have spreadsheets tracking my emotional responses to prove it) but watching them together made my chest twist in a way that no amount of debugging could fix.
Talk about emotional conflicts with no clear resolution path.
On one side of my mental decision tree: Jake had been honest about Sarah, had made it clear where he stood.
On the other side: watching them move through his space with that kind of quiet familiarity, like they’d done this a hundred times before, was hard.
Sarah had left fingerprints on parts of his life I hadn’t even touched yet.
It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anyone’s. But that didn’t stop the dull, heavy ache of knowing I was falling for someone whose past is still living in the room, breathing in the same air.
He caught my hand before leaving, pulled me close, and brushed his lips over mine. “I’ll call you later.”
And then they were gone, leaving me standing there trying to process emotions that definitely weren’t covered in any of my existing spreadsheets. Not even my emergency stash of Tim Tams could help me sort through these feelings.
Current status : Creating a new spreadsheet titled “Questions About Club Dynamics That Need Answers” because whatever just happened clearly goes deeper than surface level.
Entries so far include:
Nature of Sarah’s actual role
Level of club authority
Connection to larger operations
Why tactical gear is apparently standard issue
Looking at this spreadsheet, I know it’s time. Time to stop pretending this is just a casual, extremely horny domestic beta test and admit that I’m possibly (read: definitely) falling in love with a man who keeps oat milk in his fridge for me and kisses me like I’m breakable and his.
We haven’t met each other’s friends yet. That was part of the deal—just us, for now.
And I’ve had zero exposure to the club. Zero insight into that part of his life.
But after tonight? After Tactical Barbie walked in like she still had root-level access to his life? Yeah. It’s time I start learning what, exactly, I’ve gotten myself into.
Before it breaks me.
Or remakes me.
Or turns me into the kind of girl who tracks biker politics in a spreadsheet titled “Possible Threats to My Sanity (and Relationship).”
Because apparently, that’s who I am now.
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